Homofront Returns [MT/Greater Dienstad/WIP/Closed]

[Dienstadi Homofront]

OOC: I have been granted permission from the original proprietor of the Homofront roleplay series—New Aeyariss/Cuscy—to carry on the roleplay series for and among the region of Greater Dienstad. In addition—as was the case for the original Homofront—this is not an attempt at trolling. Everyone from Greater Dienstad is welcome to post here to carry on or start their own storyline of Homofront incursions, or captures of Homofront members or cells within their respective nations.

*Pshhhkkkkkkrrrr​kakingkakingkakingtsh​chchchchchchchcch​*ding*ding*ding*

HOMOFRONT GENERAL "Agent 111" aka "Lemon Pledge": You have reached your end, O heteronormative theocratic homophobes. The mandatory mother-and-father units to raise a child; the Patriarchate of Izhevsk, Saransk, Cheboksary, Yoshkar-Ola, and all Volzh'; the internalised homophobia of closet homosexuals in the legislature proposing the suppression of LGBTQ+ youth's rights, voices, and existence—this ends now! That, or you are all to be put to the sword. NOW.

*turns on the radio for all Povolzhyi to listen to as broadcast over their now-hijacked television sets to the tune of Britney Spears's "Circus"*

There's only two types of straight folks in the world:
Ones that discriminate, and ones that stood watch.
But homos, they're a put-up-a-fight type of folk.
Hate economy, first class for them! Oh-oh...
They're double rainbows, they bring the storm! (the storm!)
They're rape victims, in the dorm! But they put up a fi-i-ight!

[hook]

They feel heteronormativity's sting!
Watch as they turn on their erstwhile tormentors!
They're like a freak in the heart of the rhing!
They are ready, the backdoor to enter!

[chorus]

Feel the sting your tormented become tormentors! (uh-huh!)
When you taste the pain then you're gonna just plead like a pretender! (uh-uh!)
Don't stand there or lie there, join us, found a Homofront cell!
Everybody rise up, paint the world red with the black blood of our oppressors! (uh-huh!)

*song continues to play in the background as the footage shifts from the rainbow flag with crossed Kalashnikov rifles to rainbow-masked men and women and everything in between putting historic buildings throughout the Povolzhye Khaganate to the torch*

Your Lady of Kazan is not Ours,
Your Patriarch demands she bows,
Your legislature advocates our suppression,
Your government turns a blind eye to our passion,
Your b*tch-of-a-Khatan is a homophobic, transphobic, heteronomative, internalised-misogynistic bigotress!
So we shall save her for last, after her everything she loves and lords over has been taken away from her, before her eyes...

*footage shifts to a triad of a man and two trans-women by his side speaking from a podium while a rainbow flag with crossed Kalashnikov rifles hangs on a wall behind them*

HOMOFRONT GENERAL "Agent 11" aka "Chipperella": Let it be known that—lesbian, gay, bisexual, pre-and-inter-and-post-transition transgender, genderqueer, non-binary, intersex, asexual, pansexual, two-spirit, genderfluid, drag queens, drag kings, and aromantics—our brothers, sisters, and everything in between is called upon to lead the sexual and gender revolution throughout this green-and-blue earth, to take down the great homophobic institutes: the Church, the Synagogue, the Mosque, the government, the patriarchy, the backwards backwoods of backwaters that deny the existence of LGBTQIA+ peoples as equals—if not greater—than the heteronormatives!

HOMOFRONT ADJUTANT GENERAL "Agent 69" aka "Stripperella": Agent 11 has said his piece, what say you, Commander?

HOMOFRONT COMMANDER "Agent 000" aka "Conchita Wurst": It is done. Let all heteronormative, homophobic, theocratic, Abrahamic, and transphobic nations be warned: you live on borrowed time. Live each day as if they were your last, for you know not which one it shall be.

Undisclosed Location // Povolzhye Khaganate // 20:20 UTC±XYZ

Despite the extended daylight hours—as afforded by the summer months—it was getting dark quickly throughout the Povolzhye Khaganate. But this did not bother the Povolzhyi Homofront cell one bit as—having dealt serious explosive damage to the under-construction Ar-Ramin Mosque and set fire to part of the Povolzhyi Islamic University's branch in Ufa, all in a day's work to stick it to the homophobic man throughout one of the most populous and visited cities in the entire Khaganate. Despite its population and frequent visitations, the security situation in Ufa was considerably less tight—and more open to corruption—than in the largest city, Kazan, despite the former's newfound status as the Khaganate's capital. Thus, Povolzhyi Homofront cell was able to take shelter in its makeshift Base of Operations—a series of lead-lined and concrete-lined rooms situated in the basement of a run-down motel, long-abandoned by its former owner, an elderly man who was forcibly taken to a sanatorium after he began spouting cryptic sentences about homosexuals running amok—and the Homofront High Command was discussing its plans going forward, in the most secure room in the building; lined with both lead and concrete:

"Brothers, sisters, brosters, and everything in between!" roused Commander Conchita Wurst, speaking to the assembled High Command sitting at a low-set, aged, and well-worn wooden table: Adjutant General Stripperella, First General Chipperella, General Lemon Pledge, Lieutenant-General Spin-N-Meet, and Major-General Beefy Man.

"For too long, us homosexuals, transgender people, non-binary, genderfluid, genderqueer, and other sexual and gender minorities have been oppressed by the Abrahamic Patriarchates, Imanates, Sanhedrins, and Papacies; and by their enforced heteronormativity, against the norms and laws of the natural world. For: at least 260 species of animal have been noted exhibiting homosexual behaviour but only one species of animal ever, so far as we know, has exhibited homophobic behaviour — and that's the human being. Do you realise how atrocious a belief system must be, in order to persecute against nature's will? And as for transgender people, we have the clownfish, who can happily change sex, which transgender people like me can only dream of, in this world.

[...]

"The winds of progress had begun under Commandante Bera, the previous leader of Greater Dienstad's extended Homofront cells. I was one of his many lovers, but sadly, he was slain when the compound we were sheltering in for our last stand against the heteronormies was fire-bombed. On his makeshift deathbed on a pile of rubble, he bequeathed me the leadership of Dienstadi Homofront, then he breathed his last... and then Commandante Bera was no more. A great man who loved people of all genders and sexes, his legacy shall live on."

Conchita wiped away an errant tear flowing down her cheek and towards her beard—which turned into a huge flow of tears and wave of sobbing—while the rest of the High Command bowed their heads for a moment's silence to Commandante Bera. Once Conchita had regained her composure, she continued, raising a clenched fist into the air:

"But Dienstadi Homofront is not dead, I tell you. We are still alive and—though scattered—we have achieved a great victory today in Ufa: a few hundred "k" worth of damage to the construction efforts put towards Ar-Ramin Mosque, and thirteen Islamic Law students killed in Povolzhyi Islamic University, all in a day's work! Our training procedures down in the Ural Mountains have trained very capable recruits, as can be seen from today, and I say unto you all: congratulations, and keep up the good work! For that is one small step for a human, but one huge step for humankind... all in the name of progress! We may now have deep roots in the Povolzhye Khaganate, but the roots elsewhere... not so much. So we must try harder to infiltrate their nations, and I think our resident plastic surgeon and beautician, Enorma Ray, has the solution to more... easy transitioning into foreign societies."

Having finished her speech, Conchita bowed and the High Command clapped, roaring in approval; the lead and concrete sound and signal-proofing meant that they did not have to worry about anyone overhearing them. Then she asked her command: "I mean, how are the rest of our cells throughout Greater Dienstad going, anyway? I haven't heard from the cells in the Timocratic Republic, or the Scandinvans, lately."

[Povolzhye Khaganate]

VOX POVOLZHYI | Breaking News

Good evening, and welcome to Vox Povolzhyi with Sara Sadíqova.

UFA — A suspected domestic terrorist cell or two has committed two separate attacks here in Ufa, Bashkortostan; the first one was a detonation at the Ar-Rahim Mosque's construction site at 02:00 in the morning—just before morning prayers—and the second one was an arson attack during the evening Islamic Law classes at the Ufa branch of Povolzhyi Islamic University at approximately 19:00, where thirteen students were killed and dozens more injured. This is all not to mention that the Rawil Gaynetdin Islamic Law School building will be closed for repairs and potential reconstruction for the foreseeable future. On the scene of the latest attack—where firefighters are still putting out the blaze as of right now—is Rustam Saideshev. Rustam, what can you tell us about the situation overall?

"Well, Sara, this is still developing story, so not much can be said at the moment; the police only just began sealing off the roads leading in and out of the Ar-Rahim Mosque construction side in the midst of the morning rush-hour, which means the suspects most likely got away between the detonation and the sealing off of the roads. But what can be said is this: the remnants of nails, shrapnel, fishing weights, and at least two pressure cookers—which appear to be imported—were all found at the scene along with the remnants of a burner phone, which has been so badly damaged that there is literally no way to salvage its data, let alone who its owner was. Locals did, however, reported black-clad figures wearing multi-coloured balaclavas fleeing the scene in the wake of the explosion, though understandably—with all the smoke and dust from the explosion—it would have been hard to see them. Meanwhile, local laundromats and dry cleaners in the area are being questioned as to whether they have seen or been given any dusty articles of clothing. One local described being woken up in the morning with the suspects—whose identities remain unknown as of yet—shouting stuff against the Abrahamic faiths that make up the two nuclear Khanates of this Khaganate, as well as praising homosexuals and transsexuals as natural. The local was, understandably, very disturbed by this display, and couldn't sleep between then and morning prayer time."

And has anyone said anything about the university attack as of yet, and have the police commenced investigations yet?

"Well, Sara, there actually is a lead: see, one male student who was caught lighting up in the university's no-smoking area—behind a bush near the Rawil Gaynetdin Islamic Law School building—is being questioned by police. Not because they think he did it—I mean, they checked his backpack and found nothing except a small book of paper matches, and half a pack of MaxBoro Gold cigarettes—but because he might have seen what led to the Islamic Law School building being burned down. Now, he is very distressed that he managed to narrowly miss out on being caught in the blaze, and has been taken to hospital for emotional shock, so the police are going to likely handle him with kid gloves, going forward. It is understood that the Islamic Law School building housed a kitchen for its cafeteria—given how far away it's situated a few blocks away from the main campus, as a relatively new building—and so unauthorised or, God forbid, authorised and abused entry to the kitchen may have been the likely cause of the blaze. Apart from the thirteen students who have died in the blaze—or otherwise succumbed to their injuries—there are thirty-two (32) students who have been taken to hospital for injuries sustained during the blaze. Of the seven who are in a critical condition, two are in an induced coma in a last-ditch attempt to save their lives, and the other five are conscious, but fighting for their lives. There are fifteen students in a serious condition, and the remainder are in a stable condition; in fact, three of them are due to come home in the morning after their burns have been cleaned. In addition, a passersby reported seeing a few black-clad figures in multi-coloured balaclavas fleeing the scene once the blaze was in full-force."

I understand it must be very traumatic, to go to university, and then to be subject to not an accidental fire, but a deliberately-lit fire for what appears to be their religious beliefs or association. Terrorism is already a serious problem in this world, but to target not only places of worship and sanctuary, but also young people in the prime of their life, is absolutely heartbreaking, and those who do so are beyond depraved. Our thoughts and prayers are with the victims of the blaze, their families, and their other loved ones.

In living memory, there has not been such a serious loss of life on home soil, and now that there has, there has been a resultant tightening of security throughout Ufa, the rest of Bashkortostan, and also every major city, town, and strategic point in the entire Khaganate. The Khatan has made an emergency speech, which t has been recorded and broadcast here, for posterity's sake:

"People of Ufa and the Povolzhye Khaganate, we come here to pay our respects to the thirteen young men and women who have, sadly, perished in this needless loss of human life. These thirteen young men and women were full of life, and went to university to learn about the applications of their Islamic faith's legal structure—so as to better serve the people of Bashkortostan, and the Khanate as a whole—only to have perished in a damned blaze set by a morally-depraved terrorist organisation whose name, motives, and lackeys we have yet to know. We are all the same people—Muslims, Christians, Jews, Tengrists, Pagans, Turkic, Finno-Ugric, Slavic, Caucasian, male, female, foreign, native, young, and old—and we strive to be an open and accepting place for all peoples to live. Even homosexuals and transsexuals, and though they should best remain in the closet where young children are not readily lead astray by them, they should not be needlessly harmed. However, not everyone seems to know this, and so I hereby announce a preliminary three-day State of Emergency from this time of 22:00 on the 27th of May, until 22:00 on the 30th of May.

[...]

"Let it be said to the terrorists who have committed these depraved acts: name yourselves, name your motives, name what you seek to achieve, and name that which you demand—or begone from this blessed land of Tengri's, of God's, of Yahweh', of Allah's, of Kugurak's, of Tura's, of Mastorava's, of In-Mumy's. For once the hand of mercy and friendship has been extended—only to be spurned—the fist of war shall take its place. This is Emeşbikä İsänbät, Khanım of Bashkortostan, and Khatan of the Povolzhye Khaganate—signing off. Goodnight, for I shall be praying to you, my people, before I must retire."

An amazing, moving, and even hopeful speech by our Khatan, who is wise beyond her twenty years; long may she reign. For anyone who has been affected by the tragedy, the Samaritans branch working in Povolzhye can be reached at any hour of the day, seven days of the week, at: 12-77-77

Thank you for listening to the late-night segment of Vox Povolzhyi. We hope you have a good night.

[Yohannes]

---

On that night, two Luftwaffe technicians were inspecting special coatings for the ZM-7L; the aircraft that would be used to strike deep at the organisation that had for so long struck fear into the hearts of the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender populace.

The term for all the things that made the ZM-7L the “stealth” bomber was low observability technology, or ‘LO.’ ‘LO’ combined appearance, radar cross section, and acoustic, electromagnetic and infrared signatures. Although ‘stealth’ aircraft seemed to be an invention of the seventies, there were many documented undertakings for ‘stealth’ as early as the First and Second World Wars. In fact, ‘stealth’ was not an American invention, nor was it a Soviet invention.

It was Nazi Germany’s.

The German heavy bomber “Linke-Hofmann R.I” had parts of its main body constructed from cellulose acetate to produce transparent cellon. Although the aircraft announced its presence too late in the war to be judged based on its performance, it did represent some forward thinking in the area of low-observability technology. If that was not enough, in the closing year of the Second World War George Patton’s Third Army discovered an unfinished Horten Ho 229 bomber. Assimilating a number of forward thinking technology, it had a radar absorbent painting; buried its jet engines in the main body along exhaust path; and was a flying wing design, which gave it smaller radar cross section. These features would all be incorporated more than sixty years later into the ZM-7L, far away in the continent of Yohannes.

Another more well known LO bomber that was designed in the Second World War was the Royal Air Force’s “Mosquito”, which aided Britain in its bombing raids at night in the skies of German controlled Europe. To make it cheap, it was made of balsa wood. Whilst this was viewed as a step back from the all metal bombers already proliferating at the time, the wooden construction of the Mosquito reflected less radar energy than aluminium, and gave it smaller radar signature. Combined with its small size and the decentralised approach of British bombing at the time, this made the Mosquito hard to detect: its losses were a fraction of the much larger all-metal American Flying Fortress.

Two other attempts to escape detection by the enemy were by flying extremely high. Designed by then Lockheed Aircraft Company’s Advanced Development Programmes, the U-2 single-jet engine reconnaissance aircraft flew high above eighteen kilometres. Another was the “Blackbird” strategic reconnaissance aircraft, which could reach the edge of space two times faster than the speed of sound. Both designs incorporated radar absorbent coverings and radical designs to reduce their radar cross sections.

By the seventies, another invention by Lockheed, the “Quiet Star”, was purposely built to ignore radar detection. The guerrilla tactics used by Communist Vietnam in the Second Indochina War relied on sound to identify incoming American aircraft. Although vulnerable to radar, a huge muffler meant the Quiet Star could scout the area undetected above the jungles of North Vietnam for hours; giving essential information to friendly soldiers and identify the enemy’s supply routes.

Like small stepping stones, these designs represented a small step in the direction of a specialised area in low observability discovery. One by one, these aircraft allowed the release of the Gulf War’s “Stealth Fighter” and Kosovo’s “Stealth Bomber” by the Americans; and ultimately the realisation of the Long Range Striker programme by the the nineteen countries.

In the history of Yohannesian aeronautical engineering, there had never been an aircraft design more dangerous and well-built. Able to fly anywhere in the world undetected to attack bigoted terrorist organisations and religious extremist regimes, the Long Range Striker could arrive to meet its prey down below and release its precision munitions; to then fly away knowing that the bombs would most likely hit their prey, and that it could return back home safely.

It was designed to destroy the bases of repulsive, politically incorrect, LGBT misrepresenting and traitorous terrorist organisations that tried to slander the good name of peaceful LGBT rights movement and open minded social liberalism. The two technicians called it:

“The Homofront Bomber.”

___________________

The following morning it was raining. Parliament Square in the heart of continental Yohannes was filled with business-suited fat middle-aged men, all wet, sidestepping one another to take cover. One reached the protected grounds of Parliament House, where the nineteen countries’ politicians debated fiercely with one another day by day. Another reached the Luftwaffe School of Aeronautical Theory. On that particular day and in one particular classroom in that school, a group of first year secondary students were attending a free lecture led by one of the nation’s most respected aeronautical engineers: Eve Braun, the daughter-in-law of the legendary father of Yohannesian strategic bombing, Generalfeldmarschall Walden Wever.

“Why should we risk sending the stealth bomber deep into the heart of debauchery? How can we be sure that they will not be shot down... only for the enemy to study their technology?” The student seated closest to her asked.

“Saint Maxtopia forbid... the thought of having them sending these studied technology down to right leaning fascist states made me squirm already”, his friend added.

Eve was impressed. These students were unafraid of asking questions.

“Let me explain by going back to the basic. The easiest way to detect the enemy is by using radar.”

“Standing for ‘RAdio, Detection, And Range’, the technology was developed at the height of the Second World War as a way to fight back against the Nazi Luftwaffe’s aircraft at night. These early British radars proved quite good in defending the Kingdom of England from German nighttime bombing raids.”

“How does that work, Miss Braun?”

“Actually, Adolf, the theory was simple — a radar transmitter sends out radar waves, which bounce off things and are then thrown up in all directions. Some of the spread out energy is reflected back to the radar site. This reflected energy is then collected by a receiving antenna.”

“Well, how about now, Miss Braun?”

“Well, most twenty-first century radar dishes combine two antennae which alternate between transmitting and receiving. The things out there which reflect radar are called ‘targets.’ By betraying information such as the intensity of the reflection and its angle into a computer, the radar can then plot the location of these targets.”

“Wow, so it’s just like the online video game NationStates then?”

“Dear me Heinrich... no. There’s no rule-set to follow. A radar sadly cannot differentiate its targets; that is, it cannot distinguish them. This is why it is only extremely successful at detecting aircraft when there is nothing else around to reflect the wave.”

“Well, so can we shoot down Bigtopian bombers by using these radar now?” The mischievous looking girl to his left interrupted.

“Again, it’s hard to say. Although less detectable aircraft were used effectively in the Second World Wa —”

“Like the Mosquito?”

“Yes, Henry. Yes, the Royal Air Force Mosquitos. Although the Mosquito and others like it were proven effective during the war, there was still no scientifically sure way of determining a bomber’s radar cross section. Yes, the Americans built spy aircraft such as the U-2 after the war; but even they were not proper stealth-like strike aircraft.”

“So... the Americans were not the inventor?”

“Well, no.”

“Was it Hitler’s Nazi Germany?” Kayla interjected.

“No.”

“But Miss Braun, you did say it was Nazi Germany though!”

“Yes... during the interwar years. Not after it.”

“Hah! So it was us then!” Adolf said.

“No... the fact that we stole the technology from the United States Air Force’s original B-2 programme clearly meant the nineteen countries were not the original inventor...”

The class was quiet.

“It was Soviet Russia.”

The class was quiet.

“Get the [****] out of here”, said the big boy at the back.

“Chad! No cursing. Please! One point off for Krillindor”

“Was it that scientist guy... Stalin’s... Invention?”

“No Adolf. For one, he was not a scientist; he was a dictator. Two, he was a brutal man.”

“His name was Petr Ufimtsev.”

“Who the [****] is that? Never heard that name before”

“Chad. No. Two points off Krillindor.”

The class was silent.

“He was a very much unknown physicist who developed the early formula of stealth.”

“As in, he was a mathematician that could make giant bombers?”

“Well, no. Girls and guys, can we please stop interrupting here? Thank you. He wrote about the way that people can compute the deflection angles of radar waves.”

“This is too complicated; why are we going back this far? It’s not even related with the ZM-7L at all — I give up!” Chad stood. He made his way to the door. He opened the door, hesitating, and then slammed it hard.

The class was quiet.

“Well... he got some anger management problem alright?” Kayla interrupted the silence.

“Kayla. Remember, Chad is your classmate. No backhand swipe, please.”

“Yes... Miss Braun.”

“Though you are right about one thing... if only he waited just a bit more. He would’ve learnt why.”

___________________

“... joint direct attack munition excursions. Present. Radionavigation system jamming scenario. Present. Unconstrained weapon system effectiveness. Present. Mission level analysis. Check.” The sky was clear and the tarmac was prepared. The pilot, seated to the right, was waiting for just this exact call from his commander:

On that morning, the bomber was ready. It would undergo a series of engine and pre-flight evaluations. Every minute of the flight would be crucial: with almost one hour’s worth of logistical and maintenance related work on the ground required for every minute of flight time, they could not afford to commit any mistake. The mission analysis of the previous hours alone had determined the effectiveness of each weapon to be delivered from the Petr Ufimtsev against her five possible target types in this mission.

“Robert, on the same page here?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

At 10:07, Robert shove the throttle on and then released the brakes. As the Petr Ufimtsev started its run, a pair of Archeron M.Cs 82 ‘Falmentyr’ fighters that were originally procured from Anemos Major seven years ago could be seen above the sky. They would not accompany the Petr Ufimtsev deep into the heart of debauchery, however, for in this particular mission she could finish the job alone.

Around thirty seconds after, the bomber rose. She rose faster and faster. Her technical maintenance crew cheered after her. Armed with her assortment of weapons, and especially, her crown jewel the nine-hundred-kilogramme joint direct attack munition weapons, both Robert and Claudia could not wait to fulfill her intended mission for the next twenty-four hours. She was, after all:

“The Homofront Bomber.”

[Yohannes]

---

The screen was dark.

And it suddenly came alive.

There was a shady looking figure. A man or a woman — it was hard to identify their gender for they were masked. The shady looking figure wore a wife beater’s top and a pair of extremely stretched, aluminium coloured pants: mum yoga style. It was so tight that one could see something bulging underneath. It was big.

“Greetings.”

“Bigtopia Akbar.”

“We are Homofront in Yohannes. Our vision: a rainbow utopia. Our mission: enforced pairing.”

“Between men and men.”

Well, that made it easier to identify the shady looking figure’s gender alright.

“You may be wondering: how did we hijack the whole thing. How are we on your television screen now?”

...

“Well that’s what suspension of disbelief is for.”

The shady looking masked man gave the mic to another masked figure who was standing next to him the whole time. This time, it seemed like it was a she — one could see the lush of carrot hair protruding out of the mask. And her arms full of attractive freckles. Ain’t no way a man would be that feminine.

The man walked away from the screen. Replacing him was a taller masked figure. Supposedly a man, judging from the rugged exterior: big muscles and big guns, and something even bigger bulging beneath his stretched yoga mum style aluminium pants.

He forcefully took the mic from the ginger haired lady. One could see the big word “TIGER 121” tattooed on his left arm.

“Greetings my nigguh.”

“Y’all may notice there’s a huge screen on the back. Y’all see what we want. Now.”

The screen was switched on. One could see a group of Jihadis and rainbow masked naked soldiers jumping from a trench. They were carrying the Anemonian AR3R1 — presumably, somehow stolen from some old dilapidated Wehrmacht warehouse somewhere — and moving fast. They moved faster and faster and faster. And then the screen went black. Pitch black like the colour of the skin of the TIGER 121 tattooed man.

“Y’all nigguhs out there know what these niggas on screen are motherfucking running for?”

“Bigoted motherfuckin crackin Bigtopians.”

The screen turned on suddenly. Now one could see the AR3R1 armed men crowding around something.

Or rather.

Someone.

The person was masked too, but one could clearly see that whoever the person was, she or he was not amongst them. For one, the person was crying — one could see the tears sipping through their mask. And two, the person was tied down to a rainbow pole.

“NO-O-O-O-O-O...”, the person wailed with deep sound. Well, that was easy — it’s a he.

The AR3R1 armed men began to lick his left arm, and then his right arm. They made their way down... and then...

The screen went black.

The TIGER 121 tattooed man walked out of the screen. The masked man who was first on screen came back. He said:

“Tea please, tea,” he pointed to the ginger haired masked lady. Clearly frustrated, the masked lady gave a cuppa tea for her leader — clearly, he was their leader — whilst sulking; this was after all sexism in action. “Insufferable, I daresay”, one could hear her muttering.

“My name is Yohannes Donata.”

“I am the leader of Homofront in Yohannes^TM.”

“My associate standing next to me...”, the lady next to him moved and seized the mic.

“I can do this myself. Please, b[****].”

“Sexist pigs...”, she muttered.

“Hi. My name is Erika.”

“I am the co-leader of Homofront in Yohannes.”

The big TIGER 121 tattooed man suddenly moved next to them.

“I am TIGER 121. Bitch.”

“I am yo worst nightmare.”

Suddenly someone cried. Or rather, one could hear someone pleading: “Please no, no, N.O.O.O.O.”

Two masked men forcefully dragged someone to the front of the three leading figures of Homofront in Yohannes. The person wore an expensive looking business suit — well, that was easy: clearly it’s a he — and was sweating profusely. He squealed like a pig. In fact, he was so fat he looked like one.

TIGER 121 brandished his Anemonian AR3R1: it was rainbow painted. He shove it down the fat business suited man’s mouth.

“This what happens to bigoted LGBT hatin’ mothafucka yo.”

It was too gruesome to see. The screen went black.

---

Nota bene, this is completely in character; out of character wise I am pro LGBT and a socially liberal person, and the other person would dump me the moment I say anything politically incorrect (that is not in character) from this account. So that too. I truly hope that this post will not offend anyone as it was intended to be a completely in character post

[Povolzhye Khaganate]

Having finished her speech, and prayed to her deceased father and Teŋri for guidance through her regime's first ever major crisis, Emeşbikä retreated to her quarters for the night. Suddenly, her idling television had its signal jammed to show a rainbow-masked, effeminately-proportioned male, shouting for the end of society as she—and everyone else with half a brain—knew it.

Then a sh*tty parody of even sh*ttier popular music from abroad began playing, and Emeşbikä covered her ears—in vain, as the volume could not be turned down—only to hear the hatred directed at the heterosexual majority, and talk about converting them to homosexuality. Then she saw the footage of the Ar-Ramin Mosque's construction site being sabotaged, and the arson attack on the Rawil Gaynetdin Islamic Law School building of Povolzhyi Islamic University's branch, all in Ufa, playing over and over again. Then, a verbal attack of an ultimatum levelled at Our Lady of Kazan, the Patriarchate, the legislature, the government... and finally herself. She was used to criticism, but the vitriol made her flinch, even if only for a moment.

Then a triad—two transsexuals, and a man—finalised the broadcast with a call to arms directed at all sexual minorities, to join a certain immoral and deeply-questionable paramilitia by the name of "Homofront". Then the broadcast ended, then and there, and the night's episode of "The Brash and the Backstabbing" continued, as if nothing had happened. At that, Emeşbikä switched off the her television set, and ran to her personal office, located within the heart of her quarters.

Waking up her computer unit, turning on six of the seven monitors connected to it, and opening the Discourse application, she tried to maintain a calm temperament while pinging each of the following for an emergency voice conference, with the codeword "murder": Naştaşşi Mišši, Khanım of Chuvashia; Shabdar Kyrlya, Khan of Mari El; Kuzma Ovechkin, Khan of Mordovia; Söyembikä Taqtaş, Khanım of Tatarstan; Kuzebay Napolskikh, Khan of Udmurtia; and Zilyanä Saidesheva, the elected Chief Vizier. It was late at night, yes, and they had probably all gone sleepies, but it was worth a shot.

Seconds passed, then minutes. She pinged once again, with the codeword. Finally, after half an hour, signs of life, as they all began to heed her summons, responding with "echo". At the drop of a hat, Emeşbikä started a video conference with them—having spam-added all of them to a server she had made on the spot that night—and alerted them to the obvious dangers plaguing Ufa, and possibly the entire Khaganate as a whole.

2300 27/05 to 0000 28/05

*begin transmission*

SÖYEMBIKÄ (TATARSTAN): What is it, childe-Khatan? I was just on my way to bed for the night, though I will say yours was a good speech tonight.
EMEŞBIKÄ (BASHKORTOSTAN): Did you see the signal-hijackers during tonight's episode of "The Brash and the Backstabbing"?
KUZEBAY (UDMURTIA): I wouldn't know, I don't watch soap operas.
SÖYEMBIKÄ (TATARSTAN): Nor I, or any television whatsoever, except the evening news.
NAŞTAŞŞI (CHUVASHIA): Emeşbikä-Khatan, I saw—whats-their-name—Homofront hijacking the broadcast while I was watching "The Brash and the Backstabbing"!
SHABDAR (MARI EL): Everybody point and laugh!
KUZMA (MORDOVIA): Shabdar-Khan, that's enough, thank you. There's a time and place for poking fun at others for their tastes, but this is neither the time nor place.
SHABDAR (MARI EL): Sorry, sorry! My bad, my bad. Well, Naştaşşi-Khanım, what did you see?
NAŞTAŞŞI (CHUVASHIA): Some effeminate and probably-gay dude in a rainbow balaclava, rallying homosexuals and trans-people, by saying: "You have reached your end, O heteronormative theocratic homophobes. The mandatory mother-and-father units to raise a child; the Patriarchate of Izhevsk, Saransk, Cheboksary, Yoshkar-Ola, and all Volzh'; the internalised homophobia of closet homosexuals in the legislature proposing the suppression of LGBTQ+ youth's rights, voices, and existence—this ends now! That, or you are all to be put to the sword. NOW."
SHABDAR (MARI EL): That's a pretty damn specific memory you got there... you sure you not a Homofronter with all that advocacy for gay rights on your part, in Chuvashia?
NAŞTAŞŞI (CHUVASHIA): Pot calling the kettle black, eh, Shabdar-Khan? You're one step away from decriminalising homosexuality in your Mari El, though that's because your people are more willing than my own. But anyway, they did a cover of Whitney Drears' song, "Circus", and I think they were talking about male-on-male stuff in the lyrics. And then there was an acerbic smear delivered at the end, towards Emeşbikä-Khatan here, and—
ZILYANÄ (CHIEF VIZIER): And what am I, chopped liver? I saw the hijacked broadcast as well, in 4K definition on my widescreen TV. I could see the codename tags that each Homofronter wore, and they said—from left to right—"Cdr. Conchita Wurst"; "Adj. Gen. Stripperella"' and "Gen. Chipperella". Make of that what you will, but for that very reason, I insist that I didn't blow my budget unnecessarily by installing a ₳36,000 4K definition 120-inch widescreen TV in the cabinet's lounge.
SHABDAR (MARI EL): Are you completely stupid, woman? Oh wait, did anyone else—Naştaşşi-Khanım, or you, Emeşbikä-Khatan—catch the names of those Homofronters?
NAŞTAŞŞI (CHUVASHIA): Nope, my TV is only 30 inches wide, and I can't even the news anchors' montages at the bottom without my glasses.
EMEŞBIKÄ (BASHKORTOSTAN): Nope, I still have yet to replace the cathode ray tube analogue telly, with its set-top box, in my quarters. I mean, I had a widescreen telly for a bit, but I gave it to my maid, Zubeidat, when I learned her family back home in Dagestan had never, ever owned a telly. Oh well, the CRT still works—as does the set-top box—so unless it finally gives up the ghost, I'll keep using it.
SÖYEMBIKÄ (TATARSTAN): That is very nice of you, dear. However, there are more pressing issues, namely this homosexual terrorist cell calling itself as "Homofront". So, maybe we focus on that, rather than our personal lives.
ZILYANÄ (CHIEF VIZIER): As you have ordered, Emeşbikä-Khatan, the state of emergency has now been implemented. It will be in place for 72 hours. The constitution has been suspended, and police have been sent to patrol all major cities and towns for suspicious activity.
SHABDAR (MARI EL): How about we give Homofront what they want? If they want more LGBTQIA+ rights, why not start setting the cultural scene to make the Khaganate more LGBTQIA+ friendly, like the rest of Greater—
SÖYEMBIKÄ (TATARSTAN): ABSOLUTELY DEGENERATE OF YOU TO THINK IN SUCH A WAY, YOUNG MAN!
NAŞTAŞŞI (CHUVASHIA): Whoa there, let's not be too hasty! I mean, Homofront hasn't targetted Mari El, Chuvashia, Udmurtia, or Mordovia, due to our friendlier policies to the LGBT+ community. And—knowing how tight you, Söyembikä-Khanım, are with your Khanate's overall security—Homofront hasn't targetted Tatarstan... yet.
SÖYEMBIKÄ (TATARSTAN): Excuse me?
EMEŞBIKÄ (BASHKORTOSTAN): ALRIGHT. WILL YOU, SÖYEMBIKÄ-KHANIM, AND YOU, NAŞTAŞŞI-KHANIM, CALM DOWN NOW? I AM NOT AFRAID TO MUTE BOTH YOUR VOICE AND VIDEO FEEDS ON THIS SERVER. THANK YOU.
NAŞTAŞŞI (CHUVASHIA): As you wish, Emeşbikä-Khatan.
SÖYEMBIKÄ (TATARSTAN): As ordered, childe-Khatan.
ZILYANÄ (CHIEF VIZIER): I already notified the Minister for Home Affairs—Vaçtirek Artemiev—as soon as I saw the broadcast, and has commenced a unilateral investigation on my orders, to look into this matter. He's often up late into the night, so we can probably expect—at the very least—preliminary results by tomorrow morning. I do apologise for not asking your prior permission, Emeşbikä-Khatan, but no second can be wasted in emergency situations such as these, as I'm sure Vaçtirek would tell you.
EMEŞBIKÄ (BASHKORTOSTAN): Normally, I'd be p*ssed off at you doing this, Zilyanä, but in this case, it can be justified. Carry on, but keep us updated on this matter.
ZILYANÄ (CHIEF VIZIER): I mean, you only started pinging me when Vaçtirek had departed from our one-on-one emergency phone conference about a minute prior. And yes, I keep a set of burner phones handy; they're all flip-phones, but durable, water-resistant, and lasts for days without charging, all while not being traceable.
EMEŞBIKÄ (BASHKORTOSTAN): I understand. So, the take-home from this meeting is to wait on Vaçtirek getting back to you, Zilyanä. And then you get back to us, while sharing enough information to keep us informed, but not so much so as to compromise the investigation.
ZILYANÄ (CHIEF VIZIER): Yes, Emeşbikä-Khatan. Does anyone have anything else to say?
KUZEBAY (UDMURTIA): I haven't seen the broadcast, so I wouldn't have a clue.
KUZMA (MORDOVIA): Nor I.
SHABDAR (MARI EL): Well, now we know—thanks to Zilyanä, Naştaşşi-Khanım, and Emeşbikä-Khatan—that we are now facing a domestic terrorism threat, and by Kugul Jumo, we are going to contain this!
EMEŞBIKÄ (BASHKORTOSTAN): Then we're done here for tonight. Zilyanä, touch base with the Minister for Defence—Iskändär Ishemgulov—as soon as possible, and put the military on high alert. Goodnight, and thank you for being present. Think not about what was discussed here, until tomorrow morning, when you wake up.

*end transmission*

Emeşbikä was the last to hang up, having waited for everyone else to do so first, in case she missed anything last-minute. With Zilyanä hanging up second-last, Emeşbikä closed the conference. Then she went to her quarters, got ready for bed, and just sat up. Alone, and weary, she muttered a brief, informal prayer in her head to Ülgen, beseeching his protection of all her peoples in the Khaganate, from Homofront, and to deliver them from the evil that is Erlik. She called for her maid, Zubeidat, ordering her to stand vigil for the night in her office—with the computer unit on sleep mode and the volume turned up to the maximum—for any incoming communications, and to wake her up if there were, no matter what hour of the day or night it was. Then she slept. Turbulently and troubled as she may have done so, but she slept nonetheless.

[Yohannes]

---

On a cold night, on the twenty-ninth of May in the skies bordering the heart of debauchery, the Luftwaffe’s Petr Ufimtsev was about to penetrate possibly hostile airspace unprotected for the first time.

In the primary school classrooms of Yohannes, it became a legend amongst children before it even went through its first mission seven years ago. With its fuselage shrouded by a classified composition of radar absorbing stealth, she could visualise it already: they would fly into possible harm’s way, deliver their assigned eleven thousand kilogrammes of destruction for this mission, and then escape whilst remaining almost undetectable.

As mission commander, Oberstleutnant Claudia Fischbächer was not sure at first whether Homofront in Yohannes was capable of seeing anything like that. At first night of operation she went through the mission level analysis once again, which stated that there would possibly be present a pair of hostile Mikoyan MiG-29Ms over the skies of Homofront territory — how the hell a terrorist organisation could have the fund to obtain not just one, but two aircraft that could fly at high altitude two times faster than the speed of sound she did not know nor care — and clearly she could not afford to commit any mistake to open the possibility of an engagement with those fighters: such would equal death for her and Robert.

In the cockpit it was starting to be tense. They were entering their thirteenth hour of continuous flight. Claudia glanced at Robert furtively. He was in thought — as pilot he had no chaff, no flares, and no high speed afterburner. He only had one thing to protect them both: stealth.

She could still remember clearly the refueling operation one hour before over the sea which indicated that they had left the region of Greater Dienstad. Then, as Robert put his hand on the steer and the refueling attachment was released, the Petr Ufimtsev switched into partial stealth mode amidst the night sky. And now, as Robert moved his hand through the steer just the same and stared blankly at the interfaces and cockpit electronics in front of her, Claudia said: “On the way here... I’ve been so nervous.”

“What if we don’t make it?”

Robert kept looking ahead, both hands tight whilst studying the imagery displayed on his interface. “You’ve studied the targets well in advance throughout the mission analysis”, he glanced quickly at Claudia before shifting his gaze back in front. “We’ve studied all these imagery and prepared ourselves well.”

“That is true”, Claudia clicked on the mission analysis interface once again; joint direct attack munition values and coordinates displaying the bomber moving was all she could see on the interface. “I daresay we have acquainted ourselves well with where the threat might possibly be.”

“This is real...”, Claudia touched the interface with a column displaying ‘Fuel’, ‘Electronics’, ‘ECS’, ‘FCS’, and ‘ENGG.’ She changed the input to zero, ninety-eight, one hundred and three, eight hundred, and finally zero.

“N 1.. N 2.. T 1.. F F.”

Although she could not see from her position, she knew that there and then the control flaps were slowly being shut so that radar signature could be decreased.

They were entering combat operation territory. Partial stealth mode made way for stealth mode.

The Petr Ufimtsev slowly rose to reach higher altitude to hopefully bypass the predetermined combat altitude from the threat. Claudia clicked on the analysis interface to go through the input of carefully choreographed bombing runs again.

She looked at Robert, and he at her.

They were ready.

[Bluepeace]

---

“Progressive vanguard,

Bluepeace stand at the forefront of anti-bigotry, righteous misandry, and green funded feminist empowerment. Whether straight or not, we have long stood for the rights of women over men. Note that this does not mean men should be exterminated; rather, they should be enslaved and made to do Eve’s bidding. The Saint Maxtopia and the Grand Church of Bigtopia have promoted the cause of social progressivism, that is true; but we take it a bit further: only with the subjugation of the Adams and Chads of this world can green utopia be realised.

Think about the wars, the violence, the enslavement, the rivalry... and the cries of parentless children. The orphans of this world were made real thanks to the ambition and hatred of menfolks. For centuries they have ruled the world — and in every part of the world where menfolks reign there would be famines, wars, and deforestation and climate change. These are facts; they are real.

And so we offer Homofront in Dienstad an offer you cannot possibly refuse: we will help fund your operations in return for your commitment that should you seize a pristine territory, only best green practice would be applied and that no deforestation and the burning of forest will happen.

Together, Bluepeace and Homofront can make a real difference.

Let’s do this.”

[Dienstadi Homofront]

*Pshhhkkkkkkrrrr​kakingkakingkakingtsh​chchchchchchchcch​*ding*ding*ding*

HOMOFRONT COMMANDER "Agent 000" aka "Conchita Wurst": Let it be known that—lesbian, gay, bisexual, pre-and-inter-and-post-transition transgender, genderqueer, non-binary, intersex, asexual, pansexual, two-spirit, genderfluid, drag queens, drag kings, and aromantics—our brothers, sisters, brosters, and everything in between; and especially to our new comrades-in-arms hailing from Bluepeace International, hold the heathen hammering high!

*securely-wired footage of Conchita Wurst's speech sent to Bluepeace International's headquarters cuts to scenes of Bluepeace International activists setting fire to and climbing to the tops of government buildings worldwide by muscular-built Amazons*

HOMOFRONT COMMANDER "Agent 000" aka "Conchita Wurst": As a born-again Daughter of Eve—through surgery, hormones, and a realisation of my true sex which I have had for as long as I have been able to remember—and many of our forces and allies being the more tolerance-minded women and trans-women, with almost as many gay and trans-men, we at Dienstadi Homofront duly accept the hand of friendship and alliance that has been extended by our like-minded comrades-in-arms at Bluepeace International. We already practise environmentally-friendly and sustainable methods of materiel production, acquisition, activism, and militancy; and we are pleased to continue our practices, this time with our new-found friends, in a world where like-mindedness is as rare as hen's teeth.

*footage cuts to previously-televised eyewitness scenes of wars that have happened throughout the world*

HOMOFRONT COMMANDER "Agent 000" aka "Conchita Wurst": The struggles of womenfolk, and trans-womenfolk alike, have been great, and their sacrifices persisting for millennia and beyond. The struggles of homosexual menfolk, and trans-menfolk alike, have been likewise great, with their tendencies and personalities deemed unfitting of "true" menfolk by the patriarchy and the Patriarchate alike. For millennia, womenfolk, homosexual menfolk, and trans-womenfolk have been marginalised, relegated to last-class citizenship, with their lives hanging onto threads as their heterosexual husbands had every right to murder them and go unpunished, for even the slightest suspicion of adultery. But, what is adultery anyway? Premarital sex? Extramarital sex? And what is wrong with adultery? For as long as there is consent—nothing whatsoever! And let there be enforced adultery, as was Mother Nature's intent: as can be seen with our ancestors—baboons, chimpanzees, bonobos, and other primates—we were made to be polyamorous! And in the societies of many uncontacted tribes in rainforests, women are superior to men, and reign supreme in all matters!

*footage cuts to the zoomed-out speech podium where the Homofront and Bluepeace International flags are hung up side-by-side as a cover of Cole Porter's "Let's Do It" begins to play*

Primates are!
Cattle are!
Even dolphins and whales are too!
Let's all be, let's all be queer!

And as for the trans...
As clownfish dance!
Banana slugs and...
Butterflies, birdies, and corals!
Let's do it, let's all be trans!

Like honeybees...
With their Queens in hives!
Elephants and even meerkats jive!
Let's do it, let's crown some Queens!

*footage cuts back to the podium with Conchita Wurst standing upon it*

HOMOFRONT COMMANDER "Agent 000" aka "Conchita Wurst": Then it is done. Death to homophobes, transphobes, misogynists, queerphobes, genderphobes, biphobes, heteronormies, patriarchs, and desecrators of the environment! Long live Homofront and Bluepeace International!

[Bluepeace]

---

Out of character information: [ continuing from the previous post ]. For transparency, this is the player who owns the Yohannes account

On the thirtieth of May in the skies of the Wild South, Bluepeace combat forces have been committed to the cause of green revolution for six years.

On this cold morning, two extensively domestically modified Bluepeace Air Raider Mikoyan-Gurevich MiG-21bis single-engined jet fighters were orbiting six kilometres nearby the southernmost point of Greater Dienstad. Transmission coded as “The Black Hawks”, they were waiting to escort a single Antonov An-124 Ruslan aircraft, chock-full of supply, into the heart of their latest ally in Greater Dienstad: Homofront.

But, in a dramatic reversal of the supposedly simple air walk, there would be a mix up. The Antonov An-124 was still on the ground, and they were burning fuel at a rate of one kilogramme per second. Flight leader captain Nenasheva Ilyinishna indicated to the other Black Hawk Raider for them both to jettison their empty fuel tanks. She knew deep in her heart, however, that doing so would only delay the inevitable.

Nenasheva knew she had to make a decision. One, she could order The Black Hawks raiders to wait for the An-124 Ruslan and risk running out of fuel. Or two, she could order them both to readjust their mission into that of an intercepting hunting mission instead. There would be no shortage of victims around — after all, they were against the whole world: the patriarchy and the bigoted majority. She made up her mind. The leading Black Hawk turned one hundred and fifty degrees.

“We are now on the prowl.”

Flying number two was her partner. Former professional tenis champion turned senior lieutenant Maria Pavlova knew that too. They could stay there and burn as much fuel as they could in a wasteful way. But that would be bad. So they could only make one decision, and that was to utilise their resources to the maximum. The moment she saw Nenasheva made a turn and head straight for the sea which would indicate their arrival in the southernmost region of Greater Dienstad, she knew what that would mean: they would cross the borders of rightful debauchery to hopefully intercept a lumbering second-rate supply aircraft or two.

She pushed the power up and took out the speed. But, there was something odd. There was not the usual supply aircraft around this time.

“Leading Black Hawk I. Radar scope indicates something approaching.”

“Roger that. Let us... look for them.”

...

“Bogey.”

“Something just went by us.”

...

“Smart joke captain. Right down radar scope empty. Twelve... twelve and a half... thirteen kilometres. Probably some big bird.”

“Something just went by us. No joke.”

...

...

“Let’s get the fight started, if that’s true,” Maria answered.

Nenasheva, being her usual stubborn self, would give chase. And as her wingwoman and lover, there was nothing else for Maria to do but to fulfill her duty. Nenasheva said she was sure there was something high up there. Well, once turning, there would be no backing off. It was not a fighter, that was for sure; if it was one they would know already by now. Which meant only one thing: it was avoiding them for some unknown reason; whatever it was. In right down the radar scope there was nothing significant, but whatever it was they would know soon enough.

“Roll into climbing turn. Swing.”

“Roger.”

The climbing turn and swing to around one hundred and eighty degrees was a slow and faithful one. Maria would stay in trail to protect her lover come what may.

[Mokastana]

Audio Inspiration

---

Money
It's a crime
Share it fairly
But don't take a slice of my pie

Money
So they say
Is the root of all evil today

Bank of Las Venturas,
The Free City State of Las Venturas

If Tarn was the a Capital of Mercenary work in Greater Dienstad, then Las Venturas was the Capital of discretion. Landlocked between the Commonwealth of Morrdh and the People's Unified Federation, no one could touch the Free City State without going through one or the other first. It gave the Free City State a certain degree of freedom, as long it refrained from human trafficking within its own borders. As long as that was true, it's big neighbors mostly left it alone.

While tourism and expensive exotics put Las Venturas on the map, it was the banking and monetary policy that gave it power. Hundreds, if not thousands, of corporations had been incorporated in Las Venturas for tax purposes, and many more established branches just to store funds offshore. With no major threats and an extremely friendly government who owned the banks directly, currency from all over the world flowed in for safe keeping: Lamonian Rushanas, Golden Throne Ríokmarks, Rands, Brins, Pounds, Crowns, Quertz Russlings, Trabajoros and dozens more currencies filled the vaults of Venturas, granting it the financial security a small independent nation thrived for. It wasn't long before the currency trading houses opened, buying and selling money at a moments notice as the economies of Greater Dienstad fought for financial control. But it wasn't just money, one could pay to store practically anything of value in Las Venturas, provided you could get it there, and pay the vault fees. Diamonds, gold, platinum, and even rarer materials were traded here as well.

In short, it was easy to send a few million of whatever dirty currency you had to Las Venturas, wait a week, and get 80% or more of it back in the form of perfectly legal dividend payments, or diamonds, or even entire companies. Many investigators from around the world knew that a money trail ending in Las Venturas was probably enough to demonstrate it was money laundering, but they'd never be able to prove it. After all, discretion was their greatest export.

---

A lone gentleman in a brown jacket walked into the main lobby of the Bank of Las Venturas, Western District Branch, enjoying the AC and getting out of the desert sun. The lobby spoke of the wealth and clientele served at the Bank, while an orderly cue had formed up to a velvet rope separating the customers from a pair of doors. Of course, everyone here was merely a representative of someone else, the VIP branch was a few blocks away and had no such lines. The man looked up at the security cameras watching him and the other patrons, a key part of this transaction that had become second nature to him by this point. The cameras filmed everyone for the safety and security of the Bank. If anyone tried to rob them, their face would be blasted across the city with a million dollar bounty on it, assuming they made it out past the armed security forces just inside the next room.

The door at the end of the hall opened, and a young woman stepped out, talking to the person leading the cue and leading them through the other door. Even at this branch, the bank tellers each had their own offices, discretion, after all. A few more Bank representatives called in people, and pretty soon it was the man in a brown jacket’s turn. From the left door, a young man in a navy blue business suit stepped out and motioned for the customer to come over.

“Sir, please follow me.” The man in the brown jacket did as he was told, and was led through the right door and up a stairwell to a row of offices, where the suit instructed him to enter the fourth one from the right. An unlocked door opened and the man found himself face to face with one of the many bank tellers.

“Greetings, Sir, please have a seat, what do you have and where do you need it sent?”

The man in a brown jacket pulled out a envelope sealed with wax and passed it onto the bank teller.

“Perfect, I will ensure the funds move quickly, please inform your employer he will get an email from us once his funds have been deposited.”

The man in brown grunted, before the bank teller pushed a hidden button, and the young man in a navy blue suit returned to show the man with a brown jacket out. Once the bank teller was alone, he began to work, opening the letter and breaking the wax seal. Inside, he found an order form filled out with multiple routing numbers and a series of letters and numbers at the bottom. Reading the last five he went to a shelf and pulled out the proper encryption book, and began manually decoding the order form. Once decrypted, he had the total amount, $10,000,000 Universal Standard dollars, and it’s origin account and it’s future account. He checked the wax seal and encoded password against the routing number and then began to wash the money.

First the money was scheduled to be broken up into various payments in the next month from the original account. The requested amount plus a 20% handling fee would be withdrawn over next month to cover the cost of these transactions. The various locations for those payments were selected out of the hundreds of paper companies that existed in Las Venturas, they would begin buying and selling items that didn’t exist in nations that didn’t know they didn't existed in. This would move the money around and mix it up with billions in various currencies that all existed only in the vaults of Venturas, but on paper traded ownership almost by the minute. Add a few conversions from Pounds to Ríokmarks, and then mix up the various Ríokmarks even more before, buying diamonds from some investor in Nicaro, then sell them to a shell company in Omega. It wasn’t hard to lose track of all the currency, but the bank tellers here were skilled in this art.

Within an hour, the bank teller had managed to get 10,000,000 USD worth of currencies to the new account. It would be ready to be picked up or used by the account holder within a few days. Normally the new account holder would then just send a representative later to launder the funds elsewhere, but sometimes they requested an off coast transfer. It was the circle of currency in Las Venturas, and whether that money came from Multi Trillion dollar companies or went to international terrorist cells, the bankers of Las Venturas didn’t care. For everyone important seemed to have used their services at least once, and when everyone needs you, everyone takes care of you.

After the emails went out and the Bank teller closed his office door for lunch, a man somewhere in the Former Red Star Union sat beneath a rainbow banner and received an email that 10,000,000 USD had been transferred into his account, and that Bank LV representatives looked forward to hearing from him. Elsewhere, in southern Mokastana, a Federal Agent for the Bureau of Secret Affairs received an email that his investments had gone through, and to expect withdraws from his account according to the contracts. The email was careful not to mention the total or what the investments were.

Such was the daily affairs behind the scenes of Las Venturas, while others partied all night or spent millions a day on things they could never sample at home, these offices continued to work behind the scenes, keeping the dirty money flowing around Greater Dienstad and the darker economies moving.

[Dienstadi Homofront]

Undisclosed Location | Outskirts of Savannah | Timocratic Republic | 03:00 Local Time

"Special Agent 14", inquired a low-pitched, growling voice from just outside a makeshift laboratory situated behind a false wall, in the basement of an abandoned building. "Speshy? Is every single ounce of the stuff ready yet?" The voice continued when met with silence, and knocked on the bookshelf concealing the false wall.

"Yes, bossy!" responded the high-pitched, bouncy, and excited voice characteristic of Speshy, albeit muffled by the false wall and bookshelf. "Nine litres of liquid sarin—each in hermetically-sealed one-litre easy-to-puncture plastic sachets—at your improper disposal! Now, which route did you say you were going to dispose of them at again, Brother Bear?"

"It's Agent 88", corrected Brother Bear, his minor annoyance tinging his satisfaction at a job well done by the slim, short, and pale manlet of a Biochemistry dropout, in his thick goggles, pocket-protector-protector-protector, and lab coat.

"Anyway, good job, and it's № 1's homophobes on their morning commute that we're going to gas, not №3 as originally planned, because the blue-collared backwoods bigots frequent that route when going to work—and let's face it—there's more of them, so bam! Bigger statement. Also, we're going to the docks tomorrow—and I got tickets for all of us, except for you, Speshy, but I'll get to that later—to each catch different ships to Mokastana and Povolzhye Khaganate, which leave at the same time. As for you, Speshy, we bribed some Mokan drug runners to drop you off at the docks of Povolzhye Khaganate, en route to Mokastana. You are going to sit, sleep, and sh*t in the bilge deck, and ignore everyone who comes down there, and the only person you will respond to will be our insider—named José Cristóbal—who will provide you with Povolzhyi papers and other identification, and drop you off for our agents in Povolzhye to spirit you away to the Urals. Introduce yourself to the chief runner who dresses in Cappuccino brown at all times, by saying: "Me llamo Agente Especial Catorce." Do not talk to anyone else, do not interact with anyone else, as they are thieves at best, and cutthroat executioners at worst. Is that clear?"

"Yes, bossy..." gulped an even paler Speshy, nodding slowly as he handed Brother Bear the sachets, which he put into three generic-looking zip-up vinyl satchels, as any blue-collar worker would carry to and from work, complete with a thermos flask of boiling-hot builder's tea, and fresh-hot Timocrat lunches in paper bags. Brother Bear then handed each of the satchels to the three young, plain-looking women standing behind him, dressed in jeans and flannel shirts, typical of Timocrats. Each woman brandished an oversized darning needle, and gestured into the air what they were going to do, when the time was right.

Brother Bear then turned to one of the women, who was particularly broad-set, and better-endowed than the others. "Agent 180... Mx. Magumbo, you're going to get off at Magdalena station, and you know this the end of your story, right?"

Mx. Magumbo nodded, xer eyes and face without expression, and raised xer fist above xer head. "Yes, Agent 88. I am willing to die for the homosexual and transsexual revolution's cause. I told you that a long time ago."

Brother Bear smiled weakly, and winced to stop the tears. "Call me Brother Bear" he replied softly, "it's the last time we'll ever see each other in this theocratic, homophobic, transphobic world. And you know to subdue and murder the old man who drives the cleaning truck to Saint Mary Magdalene's Ladies' College, just as he gets into it from the parking spot in the alley behind the College, right?"

"And take the spare keys that you stole and used to plant explosives in the back of the truck, drive right next to the morning assembly hall, and then detonate the Semtex from inside the truck?" continued Mx. Magumbo, making eye contact with Brother Bear.

"Yes, and you will be reunited with Commandante Bera, in the Other World", finished Brother Bear, his hand on Mx. Magumbo's shoulder, and then dismissed the three satchel-carrying women, as he took Speshy's lab coat and chemical-tainted glassware, throwing them onto a mound of sand deposited near the false wall and bookshelf.

"Bossy, what are you doing?" asked a concerned Speshy, struggling in vain as his lab coat was taken off.

"Destroying evidence, Speshy." responded Brother Bear coldly.

"We have to get out of the Timocratic Republic, the security situation is too tight. Just the other day, I got carded and asked for papers while going for a walk to get some fresh air outta this stuffy-as-hell basement dungeon! And Agent 180 was detained by police last week because xe was too scantily-clad, and they thought xe was a prostitute by xer looks alone! Now, Speshy, make your way to the docks, and look for the SS Paperweight, at Wharf № 11, which is the second-last shipping wharf in the port. You will be loaded into a breathable box, and then dumped in the bilge deck. You know the rest, I would hope."

Speshy, his nervousness reduced, nodded with a bit more certainty, and saluted Brother Bear silently, before going to his quarters, packing his things, all while preparing to get the f*ck out of the basement dungeon, and the Timocratic Republic as a whole.

Metro Route № 1 | Savannah City | Timocratic Republic | 06:00 AM Local Time

*intercom ding-dang-dong plays* "The next train to arrive on Platform 1 goes to... Savannah Docks. First stop [...] then [...] then [...] then all stations to Magdalena [...] then all stations to [...] then all stations to [...] then all stations to Savannah Docks."

The three women—Mx. Magumbo (aka "Agent 180"), Miss Ängie Thrice (aka "Agent 0003"), and Dianella Carmen (aka "Agent 123")—looked at each other for what would be the last time for the day as the train approached, and the last time ever in the case of Mx. Magumbo, who was relegated a suicide mission. They each nodded to each other, and then split up; Mx. Magumbo took the middle carriage, Miss Ängie Thrice took the penultimate carriage, and Dianella Carmen took the front carriage. Knowing in their hearts and minds what they were going to do, they were at peace, even though they might never see each other again, were the gassing to go awry.

Minutes passed. Then an hour passed. It would be the right time... anytime soon.

*intercom ding-dang-dong plays* "This station is... Magdalena. Interchange stations for Route № 3 to Airport... via Savannah Docks. First stop... Savannah Docks. Then all stations to... Airport."

It was time. Miss Ängie Thrice, Mx. Magumbo, and Dianella Carmen punctured their satchels through the vinyl with their darning needles, flicking the needles in a slashing motion, before surreptitiously slipping them off their backs, and then swiftly going their separate ways, each of them smiling as the civilians—guilty as they were of the same veins of homophobia and transphobia as their bigoted, theocratic, papist government was—began to collapse on the platform, train carriages, and even in between the doors, suffocating, sweating, vomiting, and writhing on the spot.

Then the train doors began to close on the bodies piled on top of them as their spasms, the rising and falling of their chests, and their screams lessened. Then all on the platform were silent as the doors forced themselves shut, and each body lay dying, comatose, or dead in a pile of their own—and others'—various bodily fluids.

*intercom cancels the next train service and its announcement*

All trains on Route № 1 ground to a halt—including the one that, at this point in time, was a biohazardous environ—while Miss Ängie Thrice and Dianella Carmen were on Route № 3's train, albeit separately in order to make sure that, if anyone caught one, at least the other had a chance of getting away.

St. Mary Magdalene's Ladies' College | Savannah City | Timocratic Republic | 07:30 AM Local Time

With the old cleaning man bound, beaten, comatose, and bleeding to death in the back of the truck—likewise stocked with Semtex distributed among cleaning products and crates, with the detonator hidden and re-connected only when Mx. Mugumbo had hijacked the rigid vehicle and subdued its owner—Mx. Mugumbo made xer way to St. Mary Magdalene's Ladies' College, through the gates, and parking as close to the assembly hall as xe possibly could.

With Brother Bear's name on xer lips, and the detonator in xer hand, xe closed xer eyes and pressed the button.

*BOOM*

There was an eardrum-shattering sound as all the Semtex detonated at once, which broke, split, and exploded windows throughout most—if not all—of the school's property...

There was a massive blaze from the flammable cladding used for the assembly hall's building, its many tongues of flame permeating throughout the entire structure, leaving behind it a trail of just as great—if not greater destruction—than the explosives that birthed it...

There were heartwrenching, anguished, desperate screams and prayers coming from the survivors of the explosion, as they saw their many friends, classmates, students, mentors, and mentees dead and dying...

And then there was Mx. Mugumbo, who... let's just say all that was left of xer were scattered body parts, and leave it at that, shall we? Thanks.

Savannah Docks | Savannah City | Timocratic Republic | 08:45 AM Local Time

Having taken some time to rob clotheslines for new changes of clothes—while still unaware of where the other would be, nor when or whether they would meet again—Miss Ängie Thrice and Dianella Carmen made their way down to the dockyard, each carrying one-way passenger ship tickets bound for the Povolzhye Khaganate which were hidden in their undergarments, thus surviving their changes of clothes and the discarding of their satchels. Also hidden in their undergarments were forged identification papers of both women as Povolzhyi citizens—with falsified local-sounding names, signatures, birth-dates, and other important fields—and each caught separate ships departing at somewhat-different times, from different wharves. Miss Ängie Thrice boarded the SS Monitus, while Dianella Carmen boarded the SS Monere; neither of them had any idea where Speshy or Brother Bear were.

SS Monitus | Sea of Ordena (SE) | 19:00 PM Local Time

Miss Ängie Thrice, a former Povolzhyi opera singer in her younger years—as soon as the coast of Savannah was nowhere to be seen in the distance for a very long time—went to the upper deck of the SS Monitus and sang a variation of an old sailor's song as the sun gradually dipped below the horizon...

Farewell to old Timo forever
Farewell to Magumbo as well
Fare well to the Bear of a Brother
Whom Timocrats would all condemn to Hell

Singing too-ral-li oo-ral-li addity
Singing too-ral-li oo-ral-li ay
Singing too-ral-li oo-ral-li addity
And I'm bound for Povolzhye

There's the captain but not our commander
There's the boatswain and all the ship's crew
There's the first and the second-class passengers
Knows not what we third-class go through...

SS Deadweight | Sea of Crowns (NE) | 23:00 PM Local Time

Having been knocked unconscious upon naming himself as per Brother Bear's instructions, stuffed into a smelly crate, and then dumped into the bilge deck, Speshy was understandably displeased. But, as a new recruit to Homofront, what could he expect? Certainly not one of the drunken drug runners from their evening drink-and-smoke, who could speak some English—but strangely enough, not José Cristóbal—coming down and demanding that he say something about himself in Spanish.

And so Speshy, fearful for his life, blurted out "My potato has forty-seven anuses!".. rather than the fact that his father, back home, was forty-seven years of age. Accenting was a bitch, and Speshy knew relatively little Spanish not covered in the Spanish courses he took at college and high school.

The drug runner laughed, and whispered harshly, his breath smelling of cheap tobacco, beckoning to Speshy as he went up the spiral stairs leading out of the bilge deck: "Ven aquí" (Come here). Speshy, afraid of what the drug runner would do to him, and even more so what Brother Bear would do, followed the drug runner without question, meek as a tame puppy being disciplined by its owner.

The drug runner introduced himself as Jesús, and led Speshy to the runners' den by the arm, much to the delight of the other six runners, all hulk-like and gathered in the cramped and smoke-filled room, the largest of whom demanded his name, saying: "¿Cómo te llamas?" (What is your name?)

Speshy responded his name was Speshy, which elicited laughs from the other runners, and a look of annoyance from Jesús. And so Speshy responded by introducing himself with his birth name—Ilyas Bogdanov—which was met with raucous approval from the runners. Then José—whom Ilyas had met at the docks—stood up, shook his hand, and asked if he had anything to share with the den. Ilyas reached into the small rucksack he had taken with him when fleeing Timocratic Republic, and found his own, mostly-unused packet of MaxBoro Reds, with forty-seven of the original fifty cigarettes still in the box. Then Jesús shouted in Spanish, and afterwards translating into English: "See? His potato really does have forty-seven anuses!"

The night was long, and by the time most of the runners had fallen asleep after having quite the time with Ilyas—whom they had renamed Elías—except for one, who asked Elías if he wanted to become part of their crew forever, to travel the seven seas running drugs, and having what they called a real "good time". And Elías, disillusioned with Homofront after witnessing the camaraderie in the drug runners' den in comparison with the harshness that Brother Bear displayed towards him, accepted. Wincing as the tattoo needle was threaded through his skin for most of the next day and night, Elías became a full-fledged Deadweighter; his skill at chemistry and thus, manufacturing psychedelic compounds—old and new—would come in handy, even after they had docked at Mokastana, without even stopped at the Povolzhye Khaganate as originally planned. After all, free money, less fuel expended, and a new lab rat were the take-home from this deal with Homofront! Such good customers, and always great doing "business" with them.

Tetyushi Wharf | Tetyushi | Tatarstan | Povolzhye Khaganate | 19:45 PM Local Time

Almost three days had passed since the SS Monere and SS Monitus had disembarked from Savannah, and had finally docked in Tetyushi, at the mouth of the Volga Basin in Tatarstan; one of the Povolzhyi Khanates. Miss Ängie Thrice and Dianella Carmen—false identification in hand—each "verified" by underpaid customs officials more occupied with their smartphones than their jobs... until they got a little cash injection, duly administered into their left hands. And all was silent as the two women continued separately, stowing away in river-boats destined for Ufa, before they continued onwards to their makeshift strongholds, deep in the Ural Mountains...

✧✧✧

Meanwhile, Brother Bear was nowhere to be seen in Povolzhye, having stayed behind in Timocratic Republic, grieving for Mx. Magumbo, as smoke emanated from the basement of the abandoned building the Homofront cell's base was located at...

[United World Order]

Unnamed village, Along the Frontier with the Pezlevko-Rubino Satrapy,
South-West Krasnova, Reichskommissariat West.

"Herr Hauptmann, The drone has painted half a company worth of armed men in the village its self. The rest are civilians." Oberleutnant Corssen said while standing with the Captain who was leading the 1st Fallschirmjagerzug in his company outfit. At least 8 other paratroopers were with them as part of the platoon and were well off out of sight of the village they were watching. They had arrived the previous day and had been staking the village out for over 19 hours and were prone to raid the village soon. Actions such as these were common for the Fallschirmjager deployed in Krasnova since the end of the 3rd war, insurgencies were ripe across the eastern portion of the island. 7th and 9th Fallschirmjager Divisions were in country already and had seen action in the past wars over the island, they were battle hardened, experienced and were the perfect answer to the war going on behind the bigger picture. The fall of the Unified Eastern Star Soviets had been a huge morale and political victory for the Ordenite Reich, such a victory was still ripe and fresh in the mind to many in the Reich including it's Wehrmacht. However the war was not over for everyone and there was still an enemy out there, fighting against the Reich and it's victorious armies and allies. They did not of course fight conventionally, a tactic that was well known to the Wehrmacht as they had regularly dealt with them for years before. This enemy was one that they had fought before, Homofront or as many of the men in the Wehrmacht refer to them as "Marshites". The unorthodox terrorist cell that was present in Krasnova had it's moments while operating in country, several churches of both Orthodox and Stevidian Catholic had been bombed before. Kidnappings had been contributed to them, most of their victims being priests or overall 'straight' men. None would live to tell the tale, nor that they would want to tell what happened to them before they were executed in some propaganda snuff film that were regularly recorded and sent out to the rest of the region's major media networks.

"Raise the 2nd and 3rd Zugs, we will commence our attack when they are ready."

Oberleutnant Corssen radioed in to his fellow comrades in the 2nd and 3rd. "Prepare for the assault, how copy?" he said as the Platoon leaders in the 2nd and 3rd radioed back and readied their men for what was to come. The Hauptmann of the 1st platoon begun to move with his fellow paratroopers towards the edge of the village, the 2nd and 3rd platoons did the same as the first Homofront terrorists were encountered. They were nearly naked and armed with TK-60s as they were near oblivious to the men who were coming towards them. A rifleman with a silencer attachment dispatched the pair of gunmen with a shot each to their foreheads as they dropped dead on the ground, their bodies moved out of plain sight as the paratroopers infiltrated the village. Oberleutnant Corssen spoke to his men as they went past the first few houses.

"Be ready to go loud, they will catch on to what's happening soon enough." The platoon continued into the village and once they came to what looked to have been a church that was burned out and hollow, gun fire erupted in the distance. 3rd platoon was now engaging the enemy as the 2nd and 1st platoons would react accordingly, Homofront fighters began to show themselves in the village looking for the attackers. The paratroopers would now be engaged in urban fighting in which they were well prepared for as they shot down terrorist after terrorist. It wasn't long before much of the village was pacified of Homofront, save for a few who surrendered to them out right when the fighting began to die down. All of them were naked, wearing colorful bandanas across their foreheads as they were restrained and kept on watch by two Paratroopers who also questioned them.

"Fucking fascists, I will fuck all of you." One of the tied up Homofront fighters cursed as he spit blood from his mouth. The paratrooper again hit the man in the jaw with the butt of his assault rifle. The man fell back as he took the blow. The others like him were also sat near him as they looked on as they were being questioned.

"Quiet, Marshite scum." Another paratrooper grabbed the man by his hair as he pulled him up. The man winced in pain as he was picked up off the floor by his hair, as the paratrooper threw a hard right into his abdomen, letting him drop to the hard floor again. A man entered the room as the two paratroopers saluted and the man saluted back, he was followed by another man and both had the look of those from the Ordenite-SS. The two were from the intelligence branch of the Ordenite-SS and had confirmed a prisoner transfer to their custody as they would take over the questioning with their own methods.

"State your name, boy." The SS man said to the naked prisoner who had talked out of turn earlier. The other SS man had carried in a black leather case which had the Death head logo on it, he set it down on the floor near his feet.

"Go fuck youself you fascist scum. Homofront will rid you from this earth soon enough." He spat as the two SS men traded looks before one of them unholstered their sidearm and put it to the prisoner's head.

"Yes, but before that happens I will rid this earth of you." The trigger was pulled as blood splattered the floor and the lifeless corpse fell in a pool of blood. The two paratroopers took the body away and left the SS men to do their work as they would get information out of the rest of the prisoners by any means nescessary.

[Dienstadi Homofront]

*Pshhhkkkkkkrrrr​kakingkakingkakingtsh​chchchchchchchcch​*ding*ding*ding*

HOMOFRONT GENERAL "Agent 111" aka "Lemon Pledge": Your end is nigh, O heteronormative theocratic homophobes. The mandatory mother-and-father units to raise a child; the Patriarchate of Izhevsk, Saransk, Cheboksary, Yoshkar-Ola, and all Volzh'; the internalised homophobia of closet homosexuals in the legislature proposing the suppression of LGBTQ+ youth's rights, voices, and existence—this ends now! That, or you are all to be put to the sword. NOW. Heed these words, or else—

*turns on the radio for all Povolzhyi and Timocrats to listen to as broadcast over their now-hijacked television sets to the tune of "She'll Be Coming Round The Mountain"*

We are the new rulers of the Ural-tau*! Blam-blam!
We are new new rulers of the Ural-tau*! Blam-blam!
We are the new rulers of the—
We are the new rulers of the—
We are the new rulers of the Ural-tau*! Blam-blam!

We'll wear rainbow balaclavas when we march! Onwards!
We'll wear rainbow balaclavas when we march! Onwarsds!
We'll wear rainbow balaclavas—
We'll wear rainbow balaclavas—
We'll wear rainbow balaclavas when we march! Onwards!

*Урал тау (Ural tau) is the Bashkir word for the Ural Mountains; many of the militants know the Bashkir language, if not being Bashkir themselves

*cut to a podium with the Homofront and Bluepeace flags behind it side by side and with the man and the two trans-women standing before it*

HOMOFRONT ADJUTANT GENERAL "Agent 69" aka "Stripperella": Your sacred mountains—to the "hero", Ural—are ours. The minerals and the valleys are ours. All your miners and prospectors going missing have been because of our doing. You are afraid of us. You dare not destroy the mountains that you consider sacred, by your feckless, patriarchal, heteronormative standards. You dare not face us, so you stick to the cities—where we are weak—while we are slowly advancing onwards from the Urals. Our strongholds in the Urals and beyond are nigh impregnable, and—like the Lernaean Hydra—cut off one head, and two shall take its place! Agent 11—bring us the prisoner!

*the man leaves for a bit and returns with a bearded old man who is bound and gagged and in tattered black vestments*

HOMOFRONT ADJUTANT GENERAL "Agent 69" aka "Stripperella": This primitive mountain man advocated for the stoning of a young boy—with the approval of his now-slain parents—for the fact he was born homosexual. He serves the Patriarchate of Izhevsk, Saransk, Cheboksary, Yoshkar-Ola, and all Volzh', as you can see from his vapid, mortal trappings. Agent 11—remove them!

*the man gingerly tears the vestments from the old man to reveal the forced mutilation that had taken place the previous night*

HOMOFRONT ADJUTANT GENERAL "Agent 69" aka "Stripperella": This primitive mountain man—as punishment for his crimes against humanity and Mother Nature—has been forcibly reassigned to the fairer sex... without anaesthesia. This was done so that he could hope to live as an inferior member of society, for once in his life, instead of upon his high horse, preaching about hellfire from his pitiful pulpit, carrying out the stoning of homosexuals and transsexuals, and being an otherwise odious twat. He has been bound and gagged to seal his cries for help and his pathetic struggles to escape... all in vain! Alas, he won't survive the next morning, for his wounds are oozing and gone septic! So, there is nothing left of him... but his death.

*the trans-woman who was just speaking draws a loaded revolver and points it at the old man*

HOMOFRONT ADJUTANT GENERAL "Agent 69" aka "Stripperella": Your prayers to your false "god" cannot help you now. Now sleep tight, for you are delivered into the hands of Santa Muerte; the only divinity who gave two sh*ts about the downtrodden, of which you will die as...

*the trans-woman pulls the trigger and... BOOM! The old man's grey matter covered the podium and the ground as he lay completely still*

HOMOFRONT ADJUTANT GENERAL "Agent 69" aka "Stripperella": Let it be known, that all who stand in the way of the Homofronter-Bluepeace Internationalists will face the same end... if not worse! And so I say to you, superstitious mountain-worshippers—come and get us, for that will be not all of us... as you learn the hard way!

Undisclosed Location // Povolzhye Khaganate // 20:20 UTC±XYZ

"Brothers, sisters, brosters, and everything in between!" roused Commander Conchita Wurst, speaking to the assembled High Command sitting at a low-set, aged, and well-worn wooden table: Adjutant General Stripperella, First General Chipperella, General Lemon Pledge, Lieutenant-General Spin-N-Meet, and Major-General Beefy Man.

"It has been determined—due to how many good men, women, trans-men, trans-women, and everything in between have been slain—that we are to cease our operations abroad; they are not sitting ducks as the Povolzhyi are, at least not the backwards backwoods mountain savages that the Yuldybayevo villagers are, whom our have captured, and forced them to swear fealty, on pain of defilement, mutilation or death, over the past few days. A village under the control of the last Homofront cell in the Ordenite Reich was stolen from us, Agent 88 was captured alive in Timocratic Republic—though not without collateral damage to a major port city known as Savannah there—and Special Agent 14 is nowhere to be seen, at least not since the gassing of the Savannah Metro, or the suicide-bombing of St. Mary Magdalene's Ladies College by Mx. Magumbo. Oh, well, the drug runners probably got him in the end; that's what happens when you deal with Mokans. Anyway, carrying on. We are advancing beyond the Ural Mountains, and Irgizly village is next on our radar. The war party will be hiking, and have restocked on supplies provided by the subjugated villagers of Yuldybayevo, though there are the villages Poboishche and Krasny Kushak in the way... which shall both be taken care of, first. A separate party is approaching Abdulkarimovo, going to our base in Algazino to restock and reinforce themselves, before moving inwards, towards Baymak... where the reinforcements in Ozero Kultuban will meet them, then take them to Sibay, where they will meet the Davletovo war party. And from then on, a small portion expands eastward, and the rest advance upon Sterlitamak once Kumertau, Meleuz, Salavat, and Ishimbay are under our control..."

Each general stood to attention, raising two fingers, sticking out their tongues in approval, as was their gesture of approval. "Yes, Commander!" they all voice in unison. "We shall hoist the seven colours high and contact each relevant mountain base with post-haste, with the new orders!"

The generals all left the room, each making contact with a separate Homofront mountain base via radio; internet penetration had yet to reach many of the remotest parts.

[Povolzhye Khaganate]

All the civilians' eyes and news crews' cameras on her, Emeşbikä Khatan—having heard of the double-tragedy that struck the somewhat-neighbouring nation of Timocratic Republic—stood there, at a hastily-assembled podium in the heart of Ufa, with her papers in hand as she prepared to read her speech. Though she—like any Povolzhyi with at least half a brain—condemned the actions of Homofront, they still operated within the borders of her nation, and she had failed in her responsibility to crack down upon the seven-coloured terrorists, who had reared their ugly heads in the Timocracy and the Ordenite Reich, though the latter swiftly had them put down, to the last of them. Emeşbikä was troubled and trying not to show it in public, but she hoped her deceased father and Teŋri would watch over her as she put on a brave face for her people. Then she began:

"People of the Povolzhye Khaganate, the Timocratic Republic, the Ordenite Reich, and the rest of Greater Dienstad.

[...]

"The entirety of the past month has been a troubled one at that. This began with the renascence of the rogue terrorist organisation known as Homofront resuming its onslaught against the good Povolzhye peoples, but the Godly Timocratic people, and the Ordenite people of pure bloodline, as well. Last Monday and in the early morning, Homofront terrorists attacked the rapid transit system of Savannah, a port city in the Timocratic Republic, releasing into the confines of the station a deadly chemical, and weapon of mass-destruction: sarin gas. There had been numerous fatalities, and almost as many hospitalisations, that day on the morning transit to work for many working-class and ordinary Timocrats, who are also people like us, and good ones at that. Then, later that morning—at a prestigious college for young women—a suicide bomber drove a cleaning truck into the campus grounds, and detonated it, killing not only her wretched self, but also many, many beautiful and educated girls, who—like our bright, young university students who were killed on Friday—had their whole lives ahead of them. Those beautiful girls could have been doctors, they could have been solicitors, they could have been artists, they could have been film stars, they could have been singers, they could have been so much. And now they are gone. Forever. And nothing is left of them but their remains, which their parents and loved ones have had the heartbreaking task of identifying which daughters were their daughters. My peoples, they could have been our daughters. From the daughters of the Khatan, to the daughters of an incarcerated woman, they are still daughters of Greater Dienstad.

[...]

"And in the Ordenite Reich, the blonde-haired, blue-eyed peoples of extraordinary beauty were slain. Not out of envy towards their beauty, no. But out of hatred towards the ways of their people, and the large, loving, nuclear families filled with so many wonderful children that would make any parent or grandparent proud to have begotten. So many of them have perished from, irreparably mutilated, and psychologically scarred by the sick, depraved actions of the rough terrorist group calling itself Homofront. Far, far too many. However, there is a silver lining: the Ordenite Schutzstaffel—elites at the art of death—managed to destroy each and every last Homofront cell that had been operating in their Reich, and cleansed themselves of such a depravity in this way.

[...]

"We applaud you, O Ordenites, for having done first what we have failed—so far—to do ourselves; for this, we hold you in high regard, with great respect for your efficacy in dispatching such fell deviants post-haste. To you, we send our condolences. Many of our peoples—myself included—will be praying for you tonight, for the souls of your fallen to ascend to the afterlife, for the survivors and loved ones of those lost to heal as time passes, and for your people to find the strength to recover from the rapes, mutilations, and pillaging that such degenerates have inflicted upon your nation.

[...]

"To the Timocratic people, we send you our condolences, and likewise, many of our peoples—myself included—will be praying for you tonight, for the souls of your fallen to ascend to the afterlife, for the survivors and loved ones of those lost to heal as time passes, and for your people to find the strength to recover from the atrocities inflicted upon your nation that fateful day that was—like any other day—meant to be completely safe, and a part of daily living.

[...]

"For the Timocratic Republic and Ordenite Reich—knowing your swift, divine, and deadly justice—we welcome your soldiers into the basin of the Volga River and beyond, to drive the Homofronters into the hearts of the Urals, and kill them without a shred of tolerance, emotion, or mercy. For those who wish to travel by ship, the wharves of Kazan are open to you, but the path from then on is . For those who wish to travel by air, the Ufa International Airport will be conducting additional security checks—with added security and our own military presence—to ensure your safety as best we can. You will be fighting alongside our troops, who have experience when it comes to traversing mountain ranges.

[...]

"And—for the Povolzhye peoples—I entreat you all, to save our nation and its many peoples, to report any and all suspicions regarding Homofront and its affiliates, Bluepeace International, to your local police station. See something? Say something.

[...]

"Thank you for listening. And good afternoon"

Emeşbikä Khatan, at the completion of her speech, retreated to her Bentley as soon as it was proper to do so, flanked by her personal security, and hounded by news crews' cameras. Hopefully, the message was out to the Dienstadi nations who had been terrorised by Homofront, and thus their blood was that which cried out for vengeance.

[Patrick OConner]

The Timocratic Republic
Statesboro
Red House
Pressroom


The room is simple, the carpet is thick deep and blood red. The walls are covered in black fabric. A 6 by 6 square of chairs split down the middle occupy the center of the room and they are filled with reporters, in the back camera from major news networks are set up. Along the walls Special Protective Service men line the walls wearing suits that obviously conceal body armor and weapons. A podium stands at the front of the room against a red backdrop. The podium is covered in black cloth.

A side door opens and enters President General Marai Overhill. The woman is tall standing 5 feet 11 inches. Today she is dressed in all black and looks dour. Her breasts are a C cup, proud and perky while her waist is narrow and body curvy in all the right ways and places. She has a body that any model would die to have. Her face is white with high cheekbones and red plump lips. She has bright red hair that falls down her back like a waterfall and ends around her waist. She gives off a quiet and understated, but none the less powerful and commanding, sense of authority.

She steps up to the podium Looks around the room takes a deep breathe then begins to speak.
"Freinds, family and fellow citizens of the Timocratic Republic, I come before you today to speak. Not as your elected leader but as a fellow citizen. Yesterday we were horribly and brutally attack without provocation by the group know as Homofront. They attacked a school and a public transport train"

"At the school 45 children were killed and 115 injured on the public transport train, they used gas. There were no survivors... 69 citizens of the republic were killed... All of these killings were in cold blood. They were carefully premeditated and planned."

President Overhill seems to grow even sadder now, her voice sounding like she is holding back some great emotion inside.

"Why would you do this? We have done nothing to you. And to slaughter children, while they are at school? How? Simply how? It is monstrous."

Overhill collects here self-stands up straighter now and begins speaking in a much firmer and stronger voice.

"The attack was clearly unprovoked without even a declaration of war and not even legitimate targets, merely those meant to inflict the most pain on us. It worked, but with that pain comes anger and wrath. Listen to me now and listen well Homofront. In the days to come you will know us and know our wrath and in coming to know our wrath you will come to fear us...those that survive."

President Overhill picks up a very official looking document complete with seals from the podium and holds it up for everyone to see

"This is a declaration of war from the Senate. We are here and now declaring war against Homefront and all of its allies. We also call for all good decent and honest nations to join us. This kind of terrorism has no place here. It is time to stamp it out."

She puts the document down

"Homofront we are coming for you. Even now the wheels are in motion as resources and manpower are being redirected at you. We are gearing up not just for a war but a crusade to exterminate you. You will pay in blood for what you have done. You can run and you can hide but we will find you and we will make you pay. Every hour now is a blessing from God. I suggest you cherish and make your peace now while you have the chance.

We wish to offer Povolzhyne our support in fighting these rebels and strongly encourage them to take it. We can be a great ally and asset in the fight against such forces...

That is all. No questions."

President Overhill turns and exits through the door she came in from.

[Mokastana]

Presidential Palace
Mokastaña City
Republic of the Islands and Tierra Nueva
People's Unified Federation


President of the Federation Ben Rodriguez walks out onto the stage in front of the Presidential Palace. It's pristine white walls and columns make for a warm backdrop as the olive green canopy above the stage shades the President and his staff.

The former Surian President had all the trappings of a typical Surian, lighter than average Mokan skin, dark hair and piercing green eyes. Despite being in his late fifties aging had only begun to catch up with him, leaving him looking ten to 25 years younger. Normally he had quite the charming and bright personality, which only highlighted the irregularity of the somber look on his face and mannerisms of today.

“Ladies, Gentleman, citizens of our Federation, and all Peoples of the world. Yesterday, the Timocratic Republic, a nation we would consider a friend, was brutally attacked by a well known and dangerous terrorist organization, Homefront.

I will not go into detail regarding the attacks, as many of you have already heard the terrible stories. But as the families of the victims grieve, let it be known that The People's Unified Federation mourns with you. We of the Federation are also no strangers to terrorism, and many of us, know the heartache, and pain, you feel today. To those who have lost someone or are waiting in hospital rooms for the doctor to return with news, I offer my deepest sympathies. The thoughts and prayers of your fellow Dienstani nations are with you tonight. May we have a moment of silence in their honor.”

President Rodriguez bows his head as a few flashes from cameras go off, and soon the room is quiet. Seconds go by as another camera pans over the press, many of whom are quiet and looking down, while others zoom in cameras on the President. The Broadcast switches back to the President who is mumbling something while looking down. The mumbling stops and he looks back up.

“Thank you.

As many of you know, the Federation knows the importance of striking back at terrorists who cause harm to our citizens and law enforcement. Our comrades from Povolzhye Khaganate have invited the Timocratic military to aid them in their campaign against the terrorist organization known as Homofront, the Federation will assist with any deployment that the Republic deems necessary.

However, the Povolzhye Khaganate has also invited Ordenites to their nation. While the Federation understands a nation's sovereignty, we cannot allow Ordenite vessels to be in the Far East. Blockades will be set up around Castille, Morrdh, the Malgravian straight and Lamoni. Any Ordenite military vessels or aircraft crossing this line will be ordered to turn around or be fired upon. We feel this line is more than sufficient to prevent accidental attacks, while maintaining our own security against a known threat.

In exchange forthe understanding of the Povolzhye Khaganate, the People's Unified Federation will offer its own External Army Forces and Naval power to assist in fighting Homofront, in place of the Ordenites. My military commanders assure me that military units can be deployed within an hour of a request from the Povolzhye Khaganate government.

Those of the LGBTQ community know the Federation supports their rights, as we do for people of all ethnic groups, sexual orientations and species. All are welcome to make a life for themselves in the Federation. The only thing we won't tolerate, is intolerance. Be it racial divides of the Ordenites, or the sexual divides of Homofront. Neither have a place here to spread their hate. As of today, we consider Homofront our ideological enemies.

Thank you.

Long live the People, long live the Workers, and long live the Federation.”

[Povolzhye Khaganate]

Mezhgorye Military Base Barracks
Near Mt. Yamantau
Bashkortostan
6:00 AM

With the call for war now on the horizon, Master Sergeant Rezida Bahtieva—a formidable, stocky, older female veteran of the Povolzhyi Uprising—walked back and forth, past each of the newly-minted enlisted standing before her.

"We have a war against radical homosexuals and transgenders going on right f*cking now, and you scrawny little nublets are needed to stem the rainbow hordes, even if only as cannon fodder. And to get the best use out of you before you die or otherwise get sodomised to death. Do you c*ckheads get that?"

"Yes, Master Sergeant!" they all shouted in unison.

"Bullsh*t, I can't hear you!" replied Bahtieva, feigning the first signs of apoplectic rage the best she could. "Sound off like you got a pair!"

"Yes, Master Sergeant!" they all shouted in unison, louder this time.

"When you p*ssies march on from this stronghold and against the Homofronters... Instead of a bird-brained hulk who only knows how to pull triggers, they have set up queans who are well-versed in the arts of death and torture alike! And they shall not be dark, but beautiful, and terrible as the morning and night! Fair as the sea and the sun and the snow upon Ural Tau, but will castrate, mutilate, unsex you the moment you blink... and they are right behind you, restraints in their hands... around your wrists! ALL SHALL LOVE THEM AND DESPAIR! For there is no reasoning with them, nor with me.

[...]

"Because I am hard, you will not like me. But the more you hate me, the more you will learn the arts of war. I am hard, but I am fair! It don't matter whether you are a Mokan drug mule, a Gypsy matchmaker, a Mari tree-hugger, a Tatar scalper, an Udmurt lamb-slaughterer, a Mordvin bride-kidnapper, a Chuvash babble-speaker, or even a Bashkir yurt-squatter like myself... You are all equally worth even less than whatever's living and dying on the soles of my boots. You are going to be weeded out of this squadron, or you are going to survive, then kill or be killed by Homofronters. Do you f*ckwits understand?"

"Yes, Master Sergeant!" they all shouted in unison.

"Bullsh*t, I can't hear you!" shouted Bahtieva, even louder than the first time she had done so.

"Yes, Master Sergeant!" they all shouted in unison, at the top of their lungs.

Bahtieva suddenly stopped walking, and turned to face a Mokan recruit—one of the few females in the hall—who had found their way into Mezhgorye, instead of the jointly PUF-Povolzhyi-operated Rayevskiy Military Base. Bahtieva locked eyes with the young, darker-complexioned woman, and asked her, in a dead tone: "What's your name, Pobrecita?"

"Peregrín, Master Sergeant!" replied the Mokan.

"Peregrine, what? You mean you got named after a bird that preys on weaklings like you!? Bullsh*t! From now on, you're Private Tacoball. Do you like the name?" sneered Bahtieva.

"Yes, Master Sergeant!" replied Tacoball.

"Well there's one thing you won't like, Private Tacoball: they don't serve Spinning Mermaids or crack rocks with your good friend José here!" scowled Bahtieva in response.

A young gypsy by the name of Reshetnikov whispered under his breath, struggling not to laugh Tacoball's ordeal: "Praise A-Baht!"

The entire room froze. Bahtieva's face grew cold and venomous, before she shouted: "Who said that? Who the f*ck said that?"

The entire room was silent.

Bahtieva continued: "No-one? The ghost of the great hero Ural—whose name is borne upon the very mountains we're based at—f*cking said that! Uh-huh, I get it now. I f*cking get it now! I will f*cking smoke all of you until your hearts stop!"

Then she walked over to the other end of the room and grabbed a Tatar lad named Gavrilov by the collar. "Was it you!? You piece of sh*t!"

Gavrilov responded, panicking at the short woman dragging him down: "No, Master Sergeant!"

"Bull-f*cking-sh*t. You look like a snake, Private Snek! My Altyn's are on the fact it was you!" Bahtieva growled.

"I said it, Master Sergeant!" confessed Snek's neighbour, Reshetnikov.

"Well, la-di-f*cking-da!" mocked Bahtieva, as she marched across the hallway to Reshetnikov, looking him dead in his dark eyes. "Looks like we got ourselves some kind of joker here. I admire your honesty. Not often we see an honest gypsy. In fact, I like you, so you can probably marry my little sister, if you haven't already gotten hitched to someone else's little sister, that is. What's your name, Private?"

"Reshetnikov, Master Sergeant!" he responded, calm and cool.

"Reshet-what? You gypsies are terrible at coming up with dynasties that people can pronounce. From now on your name will be Private Cardsharp!" declared Bahtieva. "Now, Private Cardsharp. Why did you join my squadron?"

"To bring glory and honour to my nation, Master Sergeant!" responded Cardsharp.

"Oh, so you wanna be a hero?" mocked Bahtieva, tilting her head.

"Yes, Master Sergeant!" answered Cardsharp.

"Let me see your best impression of the hero, Ural, then!" demanded Bahtieva, dialling the pressure up on Cardsharp to deliver.

And deliver he did, for—instead of a grimace—he looked Bahtieva straight in the eye, with a serene and imperious expression on his face.

"Work on it" was Bahtieva's only response, as she then marched over to Snek.

"Now, Private Snek, how old are you?" she asked quizzically, glaring at him.

"Twenty, Master Sergeant!" responded Snek, his nervousness still apparent.

"What age? Not what shoe size, Bigfoot!" growled Bahtieva. "Where in Teŋri's chosen lands do you come from, anyway?"

"Kazan, Master Sergeant!" he responded.

"Kazan!? Holy f*cking sh*t! Kazan!" screamed Bahtieva in feigned horror. "Only gopniki and oprichniki come from Kazan! And you don't look like an oprichnik to me, so that narrows it down considerably! Do you wear Baridas tracksuits to job interviews?"

"No, Master Sergeant!" cried Snek.

"I bet you're the kind of guy who'd drink Spinning Mermaids because they're easier to steal and conceal in Baridas's signature deep pockets!" scowled Bahtieva. "I'll be watching you!"

Bahtieva then marched over to a tall, curvy young woman, with long, blonde hair—named Chapayeva—and barked: "Did your parents have any sons?"

"Yes, Master Sergeant!" replied Chapayeva.

"I bet they'll regret that, if they all ended up plump and large like you! What's your name, fatty Patty?" demanded Bahtieva.

"Avgusta Chapayeva, Master Sergeant!" she responded, enthusiastically.

"Avgusta, what? Like Yulia Avgusta?" scowled Bahtieva. "That name sounds like an immigrant Empress's, are you an immigrant Empress who's come along to join the rank-and-file of commoners?"

"No, Master Sergeant!" responded Chapayeva, her enthusiasm dying down.

"I don't like the name Avgusta. Only immigrant Empresses are called Avgusta. From now on you will be called Private Chapan!" decreed Bahtieva, and then set them free for the rest of the day.

A few days and hours later...

"Present!" barked Master Sergeant Rezida Bahtieva from the sidelines of the bare concrete shooting range—the painted lines on the ground only just visible after years of exposure to the elements—as the row of enlisted reloaded their rifles, taking aim, and preparing to...

"FIRE!" ordered Bahtieva a few seconds later, and a subsequently loud *bang* was heard, as each bullet managed to puncture the targets on the far end of the range, each with a clean hole where their once-pristine dark surfaces were.

And thus, the training session went on for the next forty-five minutes, to the tune of reloading cartridges, gunshots, barked orders, and the clattering of spent shells on the concrete. Despite all the shouting, Bahtieva's voice remained gruff and authoritative as ever, never faltering or growing hoarse, even without regular drinks of water.

[Povolzhye Khaganate]

Rayevskiy Jointly-Operated Military Base
150km SE of Ufa
Bashkortostan
11:00 AM

It was a cool, crisp, and windy late-morning when the Timocratic and Mokan troops arrived at Rayevskiy Military Base, and the base co-commanders—Colonels Irek Yuldashev and Héctor Zerón—spared no effort in welcoming the visiting reinforcements against Homofront, which had inconveniently holed itself up deep within the sacred Ural Mountain Range down south, while spreading like wildfire the best they could in the difficult terrain and high altitudes. What was also down south—and in the middle of the ocean—were the newly-arrived Timocratic warships and aircraft-carriers, preparing to strike at the heartland of Homofront... which was almost as hard to precisely locate as a reCaptcha asking you to click all the squares of the pictured jungle that contained hidden enemy guerrillas.

With the welcoming speeches from Yuldashev and Zerón concluded, the military band assembled and began to play the instrumental of a popular patriotic ode to a heroic General of the Povolzhyi people, who had ultimately fallen in battle, during the Uprising, a little over a decade ago: Miñgeğäle Minhažetdin Shaymoratov.

There was no cheering or clapping, only standing to attention, and all troops—foreign and otherwise—holding a salute as the song played till the very end; even more so as this was a state of war. For not all those who marched into the mountains would return home alive, let alone in one piece; the stories about Homofront from eyewitness accounts were brutal, disturbing, twisted, and not all those who made it would even want to live another day.

[Dienstadi Homofront]

Occupied Village of Poboishche
170km SE of Sterlitamak
Ural Mountains
Bashkortostan
23:00

It was a dark, windy night in Poboishche village, and Homofront had reduced the villages in their path—from Kashkarovo, to Ishberda, to Krasnyy Kushak; in that order—to smouldering piles of rubble and bodies, having taken everything they needed from the dirt-poor villagers, before torturing, mutilating, slaughtering and leaving for dead, all those who refused to take up arms alongside Homofront, when forced at gunpoint. Every villager stood in a long row in the cold and in their nightclothes, having been forced to do so by the sub-commandos and footsoldiers of Homofront; armed with AK-74s, and rainbow-clad.

The distressed wailing and mournful cries filled the thin, chill mountain air, and a dual-gendered sub-commando—dubbed Banana Split by xer comrades—creased xer brow so hard with annoyance, it was visible even under xer rainbow balaclava, and in the dark to boot. Raising xer rifle, xe shouted "shut the f*ck up!" and fired shots—one, two, three—into the air, which led to the villagers ducking and covering their ears, but which ensured their silence... save for a young girl of no more than ten years of age, who was crying from the loud bangs, while being held by her parents to try and console her, in case the...

"I TOLD YOU TO SHUT THE F*CK UP!" roared the husky voice characteristic of Banana Split, and xe grabbed the girl roughly from the arms of her parents, before firing three shots—the first two into her chest, and the last into her head to make sure she was dead—and throwing her lifeless body back in the general direction of her shocked parents, both of whom were on the verge of breaking down in grief, which was only averted when Banana Split glared at them.

Xe then gestured to a female Homofronter in close proximity—a stocky, athletic woman going under the code-name of Muffy—and she pointed her rifle's bayonet at the father's shoulder, breaking through the thin fabric of his nightshirt, but stopping short of his flesh. "The selfishly-borne-and-raised get of yours is dead, and you will never see her again. Next time you breed, your children will come to us. Is that clear?" sneered Muffy, in a voice sounding a bit on the low side, by female standards.

In unison, the bereaved parents nodded, slowly, and in fear for their lives, as the body of their daughter fell to the ground without their support. Little did they know, their cousins in Baymak village were suffering a similar fate by these fell rogues... But unlike many others in their village that night, they survived, only because they willingly surrendered their baby son when the Homofronters were preparing to burn down every structure in the village, and because they joined Homofront, if only to be able to slightly increase their chances of seeing their son again.

✧✧✧

Ozero Kultuban Homofront Base Camp
220km SE of Mezhgorye Military Base
Ural Mountains
Bashkortostan

With the villages—from Abdulkarimovo, to Yumashevo, to Akmurun, to Baymak—they had passed all out of the way, it was time for this merry-not-merry band of Homofronters to put their guns down, and enter friendly territory for once: Ozero Kultuban Base Camp. With the lake's waters ice-cold, but fresh, drinkable, and coming hand-in-hand with a plentiful supply of fish, it was the perfect place for the previous iteration of Homofront to construct a base; one of which lasted even through their destruction, and allowed the Povolzhye-based cells to regroup and reorganise, in preparation for their future renascence—now.

The Commander—Conchita Wurst—had come for a brief visit to Ozero Kultuban with her two bodyguards, Strip and Chip, from Homofront High Command's bunker at Tatlybayevo's Mosque, securely located on a neighbouring peak. Pleased with the progress of her subordinates in razing their way through the Urals, she personally promoted each arriving militant up one rank as a reward for their valiance, brutality, and fighting ability, when outnumbered—anywhere from seven-to-one to twenty-to-one by the villagers; a great honour in the eyes of the Homofronters for their mostly-unseen Commander to come down, as their saviour and version of the Abrahamic Jesus, to bestow upon them her personal favour.

Having rested, healed their bodies to a mostly-serviceable state, the Homofronters prepared for their strategic assault on Sibay that was yet to come...

[Mokastana]

Rayevskiy Military Base

General Magnus Basu watched as the ships unloaded his soldiers and their equipment onto the cargo haulers for deployment.Trucks hauling marshite designed helicopters to the airfields where Anuien crews quickly tried to get them up and running and moved before the next batch came in. Others trucks moved Macabeean style tanks to fuel depots for inspection before being activated, while Lyran air defense systems mounted on Yohanni designed vehicles kept an eye on the skies.
The PUF military had fought countless wars, and always went looking for the best when it came to their weapons of war. General Basu admired the work of his troops. It was the smooth train of logistics, bringing the Mokan soldier from his home in the desert, all the way to some mountain top to shoot a poor terrorist in the head.

Yet, General Basu wasn't Mokan, he was from Wellovia. But unlike the typical pale skin and Imbrinium style family names most associated with Wellovia, Basu’s skin tone was a deep shade of red, for he was a Dinen, the native ethnic group who lived in Wellovia long before it had been colonized. The darker than usual tan was from spending too much time deployed in Mokastana. Where he had gotten more sun in the past few weeks than his whole time serving in the Wellov Mountains as younger officer.

It would be this commanding officer that would meet with the local commanders and begin planning the attacks against homofront. He climbed into his personal PPMV(Pseudonaja Protected Mobility Vehicle) which, even with his broad frame and height of 1.9 meters, made him look rather small. But he was here to greet his fellow officers at the welcoming ceremony. Not compare the sizes of personal transports.


Somewhere in the Ural Mountains, one week later

The Buzzer scout helicopter flew low, surveying the area it had spotted a few days ago. It's passive sensors searched for any electrical signal in the area, such as radar or radio traffic, while it's crew looked around visually for any threats. In the clearing below the helicopter, the rocks and slight incline might have dissuaded other landings, but the red smoke rising from a treeline confirmed this wasn't the first time someone landed here. A team of six had been dropped off two days ago to scout the location and see if it would serve as a good location for a Forward Operating Base. Once the scouts confirmed that the location was good and free of enemy combatants, the engineers were sent in.

The Buzzer pilots noticed the red smoke, the signal for all clear, and notified the engineering team it was time to move in. Two Apache Attack helicopters flew in followed by Roc Transports and King Stallions, nearly a dozen helicopters with construction equipment and personnel were ready to go.

Within a week, they would have cleared the trees from the plateau just west of the landing Zone and bring in rocket and tube artillery. Tents and hardened buildings would be brought in soon after. Additional areas would be cleared for helicopter landing zones, big enough to even fit Mi-26Ms, the largest cargo helicopter in PUF service, capable of carrying even light tanks. Not that they would need tanks this high up in the mountains, but this was the 45th Air Cavalry Division, “Higher than Helos”, a Mountain Warfare specialist division. They knew the last thing someone fighting 900 meters above sea level would expect to see, was a tank firing on them from one peak over, which was why they trained to do exactly that.

This Division would only be the first of many units deployed to this theater to fight Homofront.

[Povolzhye Khaganate]

Abdrakhmanovo Military Garrison
15km SW of Ozero Kultuban
Ural Mountain Range
Bashkortostan
18:00

The trade-winds rarely—if ever—blew round here, but the bitter cold winds of the steppes certainly did, penetrating the forty-strong soldiers' uniforms, and chilling them down to the bone. Enclaved by tall, jagged, icy, and windswept peaks, Abdrakhmanovo was definitely out of the way in the scope of things, and was often the last to receive news, supplies, or even contact from the outside world. The ice-cold water came in buckets from a small stream that flowed from Ozero Kultuban, and which had to be collected every weekend for everyone; the running water and plumbing had long failed them. The men and women stationed there were underpaid, the garrison was understaffed, the supplies were often meagre or of the wrong sort, and the weather was atrocious almost all year-round. In fact, it was so out of the way, that they did not receive word of the war against Homofront... despite the fact that there was a large Homofront base a few hours away, and the secret Homofront Command bunker hidden deep within a long-abandoned mosque only an couple of hours away.

"Private Aliev!" growled an absolutely fuming Sergeant Salimov, with the look of death in his eyes as he stormed over to the mess hall, grabbing the scrawny enlisted by the collar of his uniform. "Where the actual f*ck were you at PT this morning!?" screamed Salimov, his anger rising as Aliev tried not to freak the f*ck out, before telling his superior what he had discovered, that afternoon in the barracks, from the transceiver of his makeshift ham radio.

"Sir, I was using my ham radio, and discovered some suspicious signals coming in the general directions of the abandoned mosque and the lake Kultuban, sir!" responded Aliev, trying not to panic.

"You did WHAT!?" exploded Salimov, his anger levels reaching the point of no return. "You are telling me this: you played with your toy, and found paranormal activity, RIGHT!?"

"Sir, no sir!" panicked Aliev, trying to backpedal so hard that he'd win the reverse Kazan Marathon, if there was one.

But not when it came to Salimov, who spat his orders straight into Aliev's ear: "Water duty for you, starting at 04:00. Be there, or there will be consequences."

Aliev's only response was a feeble: "Sir, yes sir!"

But Saturday never came, for—within hours that night—all troops who ate the food, and drank the water in the mess that day, were stricken down, and lay dying. From the lowest of the enlisted, to the entire officer corps, they were all rendered catatonic by sun-up.

Then God—or Allah, In-Mumy, Kugurak, Mastorava, Teŋri, Tura; whoever you call They who claims the dead—took them away as the next day grew old.

And they were no more.

[Dienstadi Homofront]

Unnamed Minor Stream flowing from Ozero Kultuban
4km NE of Abdrakhmanovo Military Garrison
Ural Mountain Range
Bashkortostan
03:00

In the bitter cold of the early morning, a black-clad figure—in laminated gloves, goggles, a mask, and a biohazard suit—carried a bucket to the spot where the punished and those whose turn it was to collect water gathered, with their wooden poles, and two buckets at a time to take back to the garrison. Taking a vial of powdered white abrin—as synthesised by the Homofront lab technicians in Ozero Kultuban—the figure painstakingly dusted the interior of the bucket in a thin layer of the powder.

"The Mokans sure have plenty of toxic plants, and drugs! Better the natural powers of Mother Nature to slay the wretched scum that are homophobes and transphobes, than despoiling Her with all that lead, plastic, shrapnel, and fire!" whispered the figure, cackling before disappearing into the night, as a soldier with dark circles under her eyes came with a wooden pole, two buckets, and a military-grade torch on high-beam. Groaning, the soldier did her work, collecting the water and—seeing an extra bucket another soldier must have left behind—decided to balance it on her head, and carry it back to the garrison. And so, her collection went as follows: back, forth, back, forth, side, side...

[Dienstadi Homofront]

Homofront-Occupied Ruins of Kyzlar-Birgan Village
60km SSE of Bashkiriya National Park
Ural Mountain Range
Bashkortostan
09:10

*zzzzzzz* A buzzing noise was heard by the hermaphroditic Banana Split, as xe stood watch, as xe had done since waking up from the sleeping bag xe brought from xer last restock in the ruins of Kyzlar-Birgan, after Muffy had done so for the night, and now needed to relax for a bit, but not sleep just yet.

*zzzzzzz* Went the buzzing noise again, and Banana Split—understandably irritated, but also suspicious—asked xer bent-as-a-floppy-disk Mokan comrade, Avocado: “Did you hear that? The buzzing noise from the sky, I mean.”

“Sí, I deed” responded Avocado, his Mokan accent thick as ever. “Ees too loud to be flies coming for the dead. I talk to the others over walkie-talkie, okay?” he continued, getting out his pocket radio, with added encryption.

“Be careful, Avocado” warned Banana Split, as xe loaded xer SPG-9 and deactivating the safety lever on xer AK-74, as Avocado paged the others scattered throughout the ruined village. “I think the Povvo peeps caught on, and this is neither the beginning or the end of our story.”

Avocado nodded as he finished the warning, and readied his own rifle. But he was not assigned a recoilless rifle, being deemed as having a weaker-than-normal non-dominant arm, which would normally be used to steady a heavy recoilless rifle when firing; the munitions for those weren’t as cheap, light, or as easy to acquire as bullets.

30 minutes later...

The distant sound of at least two helicopters broke the silence that permeated the ruins since the drones left, and the Homofronters were immediately roused; even Muffy, who was relaxing on a pile of rubble while protected by her sleeping bag until then, had her rainbow balaclava on, her SPG-9 ready to aim, and her AK-74 loaded with the safety lever deactivated.

Muffy shouted into her pocket radio, addressing everyone in the war party: “They’re here! I repeat: they are f*cking here! Be prepared to scatter in small mobs when they fire, and remember: the rubble and dead bodies are your friends; hit and run, my queens, for the trap is ready!”

The fight had only just begun.

[Patrick OConner]

Maksyutovo Homofront Training Outpost
120km SE of Sterlitamak
Bashkiriya National Park
Ural Mountain Range
Bashkortostan
22:00

The late night air smelled wet and fragrant, of pine and spruce, with hints of rotting, and infusions of broadleaf, such as linden, oak, elm, and maple. The buildings are made of local woods, so pine and spruce, sprayed with fire retardant to inhibit blazes. The soil was mingled with leaf litter and crunched underfoot. The sound of eagles cawing could be heard, and all who ventured within the vicinity were warned of wild bears and Dire Wolves, so be careful. And though it was cold, the thick cover also worked to trap heat.

The Urals in general were typified by thick, forested cover—with scattered, isolated clearings for habitation—but there was one such area that was thicker than the rest: Bashkiriya National Park, which was where a suspicious clearing was located, within its southeastern wing…

Within that clearing was an outpost, and an illegal one at that. But, with a slight cash injection for the big cheese, the world will go round many times over, at least in Povolzhye. The owner of the outpost was none other than Homofront, and the cash injections came from none other than “funny money” from the Free City of Las Venturas.

The outpost consisted of an entire network of nigh-impossible-to-attempt-and-probably-lethal obstacle courses, made deliberately difficult to both train the new recruits and deter escapees, surrounding a set of educational, training, refectory, and storage buildings. Enclaved within those buildings were the barracks and latrines.

But, as it was night-time, the obstacle courses were bare, and instead the educational buildings were occupied with students, for their nightly “enlightenment” on the glory days of those who loved their own and all other genders equally… long before homophobia, transphobia, and other anti-social social ills begotten from Abrahamic harbingers of fire and brimstone destroyed their idyllic paradises.

In the largest building, a reading of Plato’s Symposium was underway; being a Thursday, it was the day to focus on the plight of their homosexual brothers in this dark, dark world. A bearded adult male of Mokan descent—dressed in a white woollen Ionic chiton and cloaked in a heavy crimson himation—stood upon the elevated podium, as flanked by flagpoles which hoisted the seven-colours high, at the front of the pinewood hall, and recited passages passages from Symposium, with a younger lad of no more than eighteen by his side—hailing from Aqua Anu, and dressed in nothing but a coral-pink chlamys—by his side, and taking turns.

The bearded Mokan recited his lines, with tears brimming in his eyes, and an anguished look of anger colouring his expression as he threw his hands into the air, as if pleading for mercy from the Heavens above to purge the wrongs from humanity as the Homofronters in the audience below spoke with him, albeit in low whispers and with their heads bowed: “They were being destroyed, when Zeus in pity of them invented a new plan: he turned the parts of generation round to the front, for this had not been always their position, and they sowed the seed no longer as hitherto like grasshoppers in the ground, but in one another; and after the transposition the male generated in the female in order that by the mutual embraces of man and woman they might breed, and the race might continue; or if man came to man they might be satisfied, and rest, and go their ways to the business of life: so ancient is the desire of one another which is implanted in us, reuniting our original nature, making one of two, and healing the state of man...”

The bearded Mokan bowed his head, before gesturing to the Anuan lad, who came to the podium as the Mokan left, picking up from where he left off. The Anuan lad, a mournful but subdued air about him, recited his memorised lines from Symposium, as the audience continued to follow his lines in a hushed whisper, albeit not bowing their heads this time: “...Each of us when separated, having one side only, like a flat fish, is but the indenture of a man, and he is always looking for his other half. Men who are a section of that double nature which was once called Androgynous are lovers of women; adulterers are generally of this breed, and also adulterous women who lust after men: the women who are a section of the woman do not care for men, but have female attachments; the female companions are of this sort...”

The Anuan lad gestured to the Mokan, and the latter recited his lines, with a sense of hope, serenity, and encouragement colouring his words, as the whispering from the crowd grew warmer in tone: “...But they who are a section of the male follow the male, and while they are young, being slices of the original man, they hang about men and embrace them, and they are themselves the best of boys and youths, because they have the most manly nature. Some indeed assert that they are shameless, but this is not true; for they do not act thus from any want of shame, but because they are valiant and manly, and have a manly countenance, and they embrace that which is like them...”

Finally, the Anuan made way for the Mokan, who declared loudly, with the flames of life in his eyes to rival that of any Priest, Iman, or Shaman, as the crowd began to loudly chant after him: “...And these when they grow up become our statesmen, and these only, which is a great proof of the truth of what I am saving. When they reach manhood they are lovers of youth, and are not naturally inclined to marry or beget children,—if at all, they do so only in obedience to the law; but they are satisfied if they may be allowed to live with one another unwedded; and such a nature is prone to love and ready to return love, always embracing that which is akin to him!”

The crowd roared with applause, clapping with one free hand and the other hand holding their copied excerpts of Plato’s Symposium, before holding up two fingers of their free hand, and sticking out their tongues; the official salute of all Homofronters.

And with the conclusion of the night’s “enlightenment”, the Homofronters retired for the night, safe and sound in their training camps, and ready to be deployed early next morning, into the Urals.

Or so they thought.

High above the facility, alone transport plane cruised along through the dark night sky. It was a C-130 Hercules and it was carrying a very special package for the people below. The facility had been located and observed in secret by a group of troops from the Extended Deployment Group who had been roving around area collecting intel on the terrain and local conditions as well as searching for things like this compound. And now it was time to strike hard and strike fast.

The rear of the plane opened up and 10 men jumped out from it. Each was dressed the same as the others. A full body black armored suit and a helmet that resembled one a biker would wear and combat boots. Over this was a metal frame anchored to the suits. The only difference between them was the weapons they carried. Six of them carried assault rifles with either under barrel mounted grenade launchers or shotguns while two carried marksman rifles and two more carried machine guns. All the weapons were equipped with suppressors, this mission was supposed to be silent and quick.

The ten men plummeted through the dark night air. Until at the right time they opened their parachutes. They blossomed as black bars in the night and the men steered them and carefully landed on the outskirts of the facility. The strike team divested themselves of their parachutes reassembled and slowly made their way into the compound from the south side. They move low in two columns of five each there flat black gear blended in perfectly with the night and they moved silently stalking through the night…

It was the dead of night at the Maksyutovo Homofront Outpost, as the wind blew feebly through the surrounding coppice, albeit barely reaching the clearing itself; over the past couple of hours, a thin layer of frost crept upon and encrusted the buildings, obstacle courses, and other structures within the clearing. It was only an hour shy of the march that almost sixty of them would take into the Urals, when their stories—as they knew them—would come to an abrupt end.

Save for four sentries at the entrances of their barracks—as they were the unlucky ones whose turns it was to do so—and the two additionally and likewise unlucky ones who wandered the grounds of the outpost to watch for intruders and weak-willed wretches attempting to escape, all other Homofronters were fast asleep, in their cold, hard beds; whether with or without their newfound lovers of the same or indeterminate gender. The four stationery sentries may have drawn the short straw, but the two wandering sentries got the sh*t end of the short straw; straw was all they had for toilet paper in that neck of the woods.

The ten-man team slowly made their way through the obstacle course using the obstacles themselves as cover as they slowly advanced through the facility scanning with the night vision gear built into the helmets each person wore. They slowly advanced through the leaves and brush until they encounter and the group of building. These were composed of a cafeteria, auditorium and other assorted structures. The team slowly worked there way through the building moving quietly.

In the cafeteria, the team encountered a man raiding the fridge. One member of the team drew a large knife crept up behind him and knifed him the kidney from behind while covering his mouth his other hand. The intense pain prevented the man from screaming while the operator then slit his throat. He then carried the body away and stashed in nearby closest. While searching the buildings 5 more people were encountered and dispatched as such and the bodies hidden.

The team continued forward until the rank and file barracks where in sight. The two marksman moved forward and positioned themselves laying out in the shadows and taking aim at the sentries. Then they fired. With a soft poot each time they pulled a trigger, a sentry slumped dead, a new hole in their head. But one missed but not before one of them shouted “INTRUDERS!” at the top of their lungs, with their dying breath.

A surviving sentry managed to evade the Force Recon Team Shiva—known as Shivans, after their codename—and pounded the alarm; a lever that, when pulled, emitted a 150-decibel siren song that roused all Homofronters in the compound to war.

The Force Recon team did not panic at the sound of the alarm only moved faster now. They split into 2 teams of five and raised up to the doors of two of the barracks. One man kicked in the door and another then tossed a satchel charge in while the other 3 lay down suppressing fire. Then both teams fell back. After 4 seconds both satchel charges detonated. Two of the barracks room window flashes red and yellow, then shattered, before the building partially collapsed and caught fire.

The other two barracks, with their door-sentries panicking as they overturned the beds of any still-sleeping Homofronters, shouting at them to get the rifles hidden under their mattresses, and to form lines within and without the front and back entrances to their barracks, to protect their queens.

The team circled around to the left barrack building. They took cover and open fire while the men equipped with grenade launchers opened fire, lobbing grenades into the building through the windows. The heavy and powerful rounds from the machine guns and assault rifles tore through the flimsy wood of the building and then through the men inside. The grenade finished off the survivors while decimating the structure. The building soon caught fire and began to cave in on itself. The building was wrecked and everyone inside either dead dying or injured.

The Homofronters in the remaining right barrack building was more than ready for war when the Shivans came for them; by the time the Shivans entered the building, each of the twelve Homofronters had their rifles loaded with the magazines—with about forty rounds in each—they slept with at the foot of their beds, and assembled quickly, as the last line of defence for protecting their queens. One of them had smuggled a grenade into their quarters, ran out the front entrance, pulled the pin, threw it in the general direction of the Shivans—the best they could see in the pre-dawn darkness—and ran far past them.

The Homofronters were finally getting organized and putting up some resistance. The squad split again now into teams of 2 and spread out more taking the Homofronters under precise fire. By leveraging there Night Vision Goggles, they were able to see the Homofronters while not being seen as much themselves. They fired precise shots picking off visible members. Then one tossed a grenade it rolled out and right at the feet of one of the pairs. The man pushed his partner out of the way as the grenade denoted. The grenade flung him back and shredded the external covering on the front of his armor. While the chest plate remained unbreached his legs were peppered with shrapnel from close range and managed to pierce his boots and shits. The man went down with a cry. His partner grabbed him by the framework and dragged him away from the fight and behind cover where he began to apply first aid. Another man began dashing across the compound followed by his partner as well. He was a medic coming to tend to the injured man.


In response to this, more grenades lashed out from the team's launchers impacting the wall and flying through the windows.

In the chaos, a young girl of no more than nineteen broke from the crowd of Homofronters, threw down her rifle, and put her hands in the air as high as she could in the dust brought about by all the explosives, as she knelt and pleaded to the Shivans: “Get me out of here and I’ll tell you everything…”

One of the team members mistaking the girl for trying to attack them in all the confusion aims and fired at her hitting her in the shoulder sending her tumbling to the ground. With fire slackening from the building to the point of random pot shots, the 8 remaining men of the assault team advance now on the ruins of the building. They bound forward in pairs of pairs, one set of four covering while the other set of four advances.

The eight members of the Command—three women, two men, a trans-man, a trans-woman, and a neutered former oprichnik who was once a pencil-pusher for the Khaganate—assembled at once, and the two men had their fingers hovering over the buttons of their detonators, ready to kill everyone in their vicinity, the moment the Shivans arrived.

And arrived they did. The rest of the Command fled down the stairs to the basement level and watched from the stairwell as the two men blew themselves up in an instant, caving in the entire ground floor of the structure, and filling the air with the smell of smoke, dust, ash, and smoldering rubble.

The team advanced on the command bunker now only to have it blow up. The shock wave shook the team and staggered a few of them but they quickly recovered. The eight men advanced on the structure surrounding it then inspected the pile of debris that was once a building two of them stepped forward and began yanking debris out of the way trying to clear path while the other four formed a perimeter. Another two fell back and helped the medic in searching for enemy wounded that were willing to surrender. They also helped with triage of the wounded prisoners.

The de-facto head—the neutered (former) oprichnik; a certain Maddy Monstrosity—hurled barbed taunts at the Shivans, and raised xer hand as xer fellow-underlings fired armor-piercing rounds from their rifles from below, at the interlopers.

The four men digging through the rubble dove out of the way of the armor piercing round. Once the fire stopped for men jogged back over to the debris pile. One man ripped away the last of the debris while the other one hurled a flashbang inside. A second later it went off with a loud bang and a bright flash stunning the survivors inside. After that, the flashbang went off the four men dove in after it. It was a brief struggle where 1 of the Shivans was wounded and 3 of the commanders captured alive. They were injured as well and forcefully removed from the bunker and stripped search for weapons then led off to join the rest of the prisoners.


The rest of the team broke up with just two left to watch the prisoners while the rest searched the compound for any source of intelligence or information that they could find about Homofront and its operation.

Maddy Monstrosity and the two surviving members of her command refused to surrender, fighting even while wounded, and so the Shivans dispatched them by emptying their rifles into the triad’s thick skulls, splattering their brains all over the rubble.

As the sun began to rise a steady whoop whoop whoop was heard. Over the horizon a CH-47 cargo helicopter, a heavy duty dual rotor version, appeared. Three of the men race marked out a landing zone with flares. The helicopter flew in low and came in for a landing on the marked out the craft touched down lightly and the rear door swung down opening up the large hold. The prisoners were herded or carried inside as needed. And papers and computer and other stuff confiscated from the base as well. Finally, Force Recon Team Shiva boarded the helicopter and it took off leaving behind a shot up and wrecked compound.

[Patrick OConner]

The Timocratic Republic
Statesboro
Red House
Pressroom

The room is simple, the carpet is thick deep and blood red. The walls are covered in red fabric. A 6 by 6 square of chairs split down the middle occupy the center of the room and they are filled with reporters, in the back camera from major news networks are set up. Along the walls Special Protective Service men line the walls wearing suits that obviously conceal body armor and weapons. A podium stands at the front of the room against a backdrop of the Timocratic Republic's Flag. The podium is covered in black cloth.

President General Marai Overhill enters the room from the same side door as before and steps up to the podium.
"Good evening ladies and gentleman of the Republic and of Greater Dienstad as a whole. I am come before you now to speak of glad tiding. Yesterday at around 4 am local time a strike force composed of Force Recon Team Shiva attacked an outpost of the terrorist organization known as Homofront. The out post was located in the Ural Mountains, I was an overwhelming success. Over fifty terrorist were killed and three captured alive. I will now take a few questions.”

The reportes hands shoot up but they do not shout questions at the President General, they are more well mannered than that.


President Overhill selects one, a young man in a nice three peice suit.
“Madam President were there any casualties?”
“Only two of our men were injured.”

She selects another one an older distinguished looking female reporter.
“What will happen to the prisoners?”
“They will be dealt with according to our laws and customs but only after all usable information has been extracted from them.”
“Meaning?”
“Pending level of cooperation, they could just wind up in prison for the rest of there lives or be executed.”
The lady grunts in approval.

“No more questions”
President Overhill looks straight at the cameras now
“So hear me now and hear me well Homofront we are coming and this is only the beginning. We move more and more forces into the area to confront you. You have now tasted only a small sample of what we are capable of. More is to come. We will have our justice.”

She turned and leaves the room through the same door she entered from.