Patria Delenda Est (IC | TWI ONLY | CLOSED)

[Dormill and Stiura]

Alban, Territory of Arvan, United Republics
03 January, 0750
1^st Regiment, 1^st Brigade, United Republics Army

---

It took only about an hour and change for the 1^st Regiment to reach Alban, and a few moments more to secure control as the city was the closest to Dormill-Stiuraian control as it could get. The command staff quickly set up in a square near city center, restricting civilian movement in the area and establishing a curfew to make sure things remain calm while they were in the area. Sargent Pocock had barely a few moments to dismount, stretch out, and wake up before they mounted again and began their trek northwards. The 1^st Regiment was tasked with taking the western coast of Arvan, starting with Base Fleur and Rippen in the next day before getting across the nearby lake. The forests that dominate the road towards Fleur would be the more difficult thing to deal with, as Noronnican forces loyal to the Overlord could be hiding there and waiting to lay an ambush, or cut off the supplies at the head of any convoy the Regiment could assemble. It was convenient that Bull Company, his company, would be taking point in the convoy, seeking to identify the Noronnican troops in the area and ascertain if they are Loyalists or Government troops. There were also the Osters that operated out here, there were strict orders to not fire on them in any circumstance. Aggravating the Osters was not the goal of this operation. They would be closing in on Fleur over the following two hours.

---

45km from St. Recont
03 January, 0715
1^st Platoon, Special Forces Regiment, United Republics Army

---

The flight over the Argean was quiet and uneventful. Most of the men in the platoon took the time to rest, others cleaned up their weapons with whatever equipment they had on hand, all of them were preparing for their special operation to secure the Prefect of Arvan. The sun was chasing the black Matuastos, time was running out before they would be visually spotted. The plan was relatively simple they would rope down near the Prefect's residence, the central government office, and the city's central police station. The three teams would act simultaneously to ensure if the Prefect, or the Council, or the St. Recont PD, turns to siding with the Overlord, that they can be handled. If things go well and none of them try to fight, they would remain in the city to safeguard it until reinforcements from 2^nd Regiment, 1^st Brigade arrive over the next few days.

---

Meanwhile
Bureau Operations Headquarters, Chery

"Are we ready to get this show started?" Trix Lovel asked, standing over the shoulder of one among many of the Bureau's finest cyber-warfare agents. The Bureau had spent several weeks trying to crack their way into Arvan's defenses, to make sure that they are nullified before operations began. "Of course, ma'am," the agent replied quickly, "Ready to shut down the radar and SAM sites in Arvan at your command." She smiled, ready for things to get fun again in the Bureau, "Then do it."

---

The beating of the rotors of the Matuastos was becoming more evident in St. Recont as its nearly 200,000 residents were awoken by their approach over the skyline, weaving in and out of the few skyscrapers of the city and hovering over their designated landing zones. On the inside, the lights went green, promoting the men inside to open up the doors and throw out their rappel ropes and head down.

[Noronica]

Overlord's Palace, Nolon City, Noronica

---

Harold was a purist through and through. Everything from his uniform to the straightness of his spine exuded uniformity and a ridiculous sense of pedantic perfection. His gaunt face expressed only a scowl as he walked the halls of the palace, his position as butler becoming more dictator than anything as much of the staff tended to turn the other way or shrink in his shadow. However, on this occassion, he wore an exasperated and shocked expression, watching as what could only be described as 'geeky' interns and students ran amock around the palace, dirtying the carpets with their battered trainers.

He felt a sudden pain in his shoulder as he was knocked forward. Crying out, he whipped his head around to see one of these students on the floor trying to recover his laptop and fallen documents that he had haphazardly piled in his arms. "For the love of God boy, what is this madness?!" Harold exclaimed, anger burning in his eyes.

The boy gave him a conflicting look, "I-ehm, sorry I shouldn't have knocked into you, I- kinda need to run though. I'm late." He said, ready to rush off.

"Now hang on just one moment, I would understand were I not the palace's most senior staff, I should know the goings on in this place and as such I ask, no demand answers." Harold clearly enunciated, his face threateningly close to the boy's own.

"Leave him Harry!" Came a voice from behind them. Recognising it immediately, Harold turned and bowed low for Prince Trystan, his employer's son and heir. Harold's face was calm, having had decades with royalty, yet the boy next to him was shaking with nervousness. Trystan, unaware of the previous altercation, walked up to the two of them. Turning to the boy, he quickly spoke, "Duncan, yes?" The boy nodded, "Go join the others, they're setting up servers and trying to start everything up already."

That left the prince and Harold. Trystan chuckled, "It seems tradition meets technology. After seeing Duncan's face, you seem to have worried the soul out of him!" Seeing Harold's less-than-appreciative expression, Trystan sighed and continued in explanation, "I must apologise for the cloak and dagger, but this really is a matter of the greatest import."

"What, inviting friends over for one of those Magarati video-games you used to love to play?" Asked Harold, pointing at another rushing person carrying a large laptop under her arm.

Trystan scowled and leaned closer, "I understand that you must know every detail in the palace to ensure everything runs smoothly, yet this I cannot afford you. You know me, I love you like an uncle Harry, but this is more than our relationship, this is for the state and nothing shall stand in my way of doing this. Go back to your patrol, tell the others whatever you want, even if it is that the prince has reduced himself to his childhood and is inviting uni students to play video games then so be it."

Harold gave Trystan a scathing look, and the two stood against each other for what seemed to be the longest time, but Harold was forced to concede. A small smile of respect formed on his features, he'd never admit it, but seeing the boy he helped raise assert his own voice in the world could only be good. He gave a slight nod and turned on his heel, humming a tune.

Trystan, however, was already on his way to the Maple Room, so named due to the colour of the décor. Opening the door, he took in the image before him. The Maple Room was an error, the original designs of the palace had been made by an eccentric, and therefore there were at least three rooms that had been lightly furnished and never given much notice to. When Tytus ascended to the throne, he was bent on reshaping the 'haughty' image of the royals into something more human, so those three rooms were on the chopping block. Trystan, however, took the Maple Room as a spare for his own things, thus allowing him a bolthole during stressful times.

Standing before his old childhood play-room, he saw it had been converted from a decorated palace room to a server room. Trystan could hear the whirring of fans almost as loudly as the people all rushing around. It was not the noise that impressed him, the sight was something else. So many cabinets, laptops, PCs, monitors, cables, extension leads, and random items had been crammed into the room that it was borderline excessive. Avoiding leads and cables on the floor, he walked towards the manager of the group, who stood talking to one of them. Seeing Trystan, the manager turned and smiled, ushering the person beside her away.

"Your Highness," she beamed, "meet your army." She held her arms wide, her face displaying her pride clearly. Trystan nodded animatedly, it truly was.

"Hannah, I-" Trystan said breathlessly. This was too exciting to bear, "T-this is more than I thought possible! I mean, sure, I'm not my Dad when it comes to tech but-... Jesus this is like alien shit." He said, foregoing speech protocol.

Hannah laughed, "Nah, 's alright, we've gone through university with this stuff, you know how to use programs, we sit and drown in coffee making them." She shook her head, "But that isn't what we're here for. This stuff looks good, but its what we're about to do with this stuff that will really count."

Trystan nodded, "I trust payment was sent through?"

Hannah smiled, "I was going to refuse you as an old uni buddy, but whatever, this isn't exactly on the calibre of meeting with your mates and buying them a coffee is it?" She asked wearing a knowing smirk, "All this secrecy is fun though, I'll admit."

Trystan regarded Hannah with a serious gaze, "Yes, but it's necessary for your safety. Now, the plan."

"The plan..." Hannah said in a mocking suspenseful tone, "we have the software up and running, and we have the algorithms. We will bombard social media, comment sections and anywhere else we can get our voice heard. Whatsmore, we shall have a goldmine of untapped resources, the people on the fence. According to analysis from post history and political interest, there are at least three million of the electorate who are unsure of their loyalties between your father and the Prime Minister. If we can target them, we can take three million more supporters away from the Prime Minister's support base. We can make good guesses about what they want to hear, the assurances they so desperately need to have."

Trystan was elated. He could sway the minds of millions. Through ads, comments and posts, he would be able to do what neither of the two old men could do, reach out to the populace. He looked at Hannah, "What are we waiting for?"

Hannah smiled and let Trystan go towards one of the unattended laptops, "Look, in the movies the character taps a key and something amazing happens, but unfortunately we don't have a big red button. However, you say the word and everyone around us will start the process."

Taking a moment, Trystan rubbed his chin before nodding to Hannah, "Alright, go."

Rippen, South of the Prefectorial State of Arván

---

If anyone looked, it would not have been obvious. In the town of Rippen, people were sleeping, eating, chatting with friends. Southern Arván, despite the bad press, was an easy-going place in the urban areas. People slept during the day, tended to their families, relaxed. However, just outside the town, there was an uneasy tension. Troops from both the Arván Infantry Regiment and Royal Arvanan Defence Force were waiting for contact with Dormill-Stiuraian troops. The tension was not due to the foreign force, but within themselves. The Overlord's visit had divided them badly, and even the best of friends within units soon turned against each other. What had been drunken brawls soon turned to targeted sober fights.

The command was barely holding troops together, fearing the troops who were looking to kill one another. Many sided with the government after the bombing back home, while others sided with the Royalist camp as they supported an overthrow of what they deemed a corrupt system.

Base Fleur had been taken swiftly by the Dormill-Stiuraian forces, as it had been deserted through a panicked order conveyed by the Prefect. Now the Noronnican troops had settled outside Rippen, commandeering its airport for military use. No movement had been detected yet, but the troops knew it was only a matter of time before the invaders moved further north.

Sergeant Matthew Hawthorn, a veteran of the 2016 Noro-Arvanan war, could only watch as his fellow compadres tore themselves apart by a division of opinion. His principles devoted him to the swearing of allegiance he made all those years ago, to the crown. He was not vocal with this, however, taking to going for a walk if the inevitable conversation ever came up. He despised the fact that there was such division, and he had so far been disappointed with the Overlord's campaign. The man was moving too slowly, yet Matthew knew in his heart of hearts that a coup would not have been successful, the two sides were well-matched.

He took a drag of his cigarette and leaned back against the wall. He barely had enough time to relax before someone began shouting at him. "Sarge? Sarge?!" Matthew turned to see one of his troops running towards him.

"Fucking hell Charlie, I take a minute for a break and you interrupt me!" Matthew angrily retorted. The boy looked to want to apologise, but Matthew cut him off, "Look, you've already ruined it so don't waste my time and tell me what it is."

Charlie was out of breath, but he tried to speak quickly anyway, "S-sir, 12th, 41st, 52nd, 39th, 9th and 101st Infantry Companies, are leaving."

Matthew threw his cigarette on the floor and glared at Charlie wide-eyed, "What."

Charlie nodded, "They're all leaving now to go back home. Most of the Royal Arvanan Defence Force are retreating to St. Recont as well. I-I tried to ask mates in some of the companies and the RADF why they were leaving but they all said the couldn't say why." He tugged on Matthew uniform with urgency, "If you wanna see for yourself, they're about to fly off now."

The two of them set off sprinting towards the runway, soon being joined by hundreds of other troops. Crowding around on the grass beside the airfield, Matthew noticed that it was not just the companies that were leaving, but transport aircraft were also being loaded with military supplies.

He turned to Charlie, "They're loyal to the government," he stated with growing realisation, "They're going to leave us behind to face the Dormill-Stiuraians only for us to be slaughtered like fucking sheep! How many of us are staying?"

Charlie looked panicked, "A-about only 1,200?"

[Dormill and Stiura]

Base Fleur, Arvan
15 January, 0600
1^st Regiment, 1^st Brigade, United Republics Army

---

A week had passed since the Army had entered Arvan, and describing it as "uneventful" would be apt given the circumstances. As expected by the political leadership, McIntosh had withdrawn as many Government troops from Arvan, leaving the Peninsula to Dormill and Stiura; those Noronnicans that remained were assumed to be Loyalists, refusing their orders and waiting for an inevitable attack by Dormill and Stiura. With a military base and small airstrip under their control, the 1^st Brigade had a much more capable foothold in Arvan, with reports coming from the 2^nd that Base Rouge was a similar story, and that they were ready to move further up before the end of the week. The commandeered barracks of Base Fleur were not up to snuff with Dormill-Stiuraian standards, let alone capable of actually housing most of the men. The command staff had decided to split up the forces even further, with 3^rd and 4^th Battalions getting the short end of the stick, having to set up makeshift camps in the base as they would be leading the attack into Rippen the next day. Colonel Marcel Otten had been spending most of the weekend setting up the plan on the attack. The roads going in from the southeast would have been well covered by Loyalist troops, as it was the most direct route from Fleur to take. The roads from the more direct east, on the way to Alban, would probably be a better place to come in from but it would take several hours to set up troops there, at which point Loyalist forces could either have left or staged an ambush; hitting Rippen directly and locking down the Loyalist forces there was the best option to end the fight quickly. Then there was the case of the civilians. Nobody knew what their situation was, and trying to warn them beforehand would probably harm their image for the rest of the campaign.

All of this was going on in probably the quietest war in Dormill-Stiuraian History. The last time any of them were in Arvan it was way back in the late 80s when the Stiuraians invaded in an attempt to conquer the peninsula. Now many veterans of that war, or their children, had returned and none of them had even fired a bullet. The situation was tense as the past few days dragged on but nobody was honestly sure what would come next.

[Noronica]

Rippen Airfield, South of the Prefectorial State of Arván

---

Sergeant Matthew Hawthorn watched with tired eyes over the coming days as the airfield became a fortified castle, with sandbags reaching the skies and temporary guard posts being erected anywhere possible. Tenches had been dug also, to ensure that the defenders could maintain an element of surprise when the time came to engage. They all knew that it would be near impossible to defend the airfield and achieve victory, but when cornered, Noronnicans would certainly put up a fight in their darkest hour.

It was almost poetic, as every last able-bodied soldier, even some civilians, joined to construct the grand monstrosity that would be their coffin. Not even the chirper younger troops could crack smiles anymore, yet they did not desire to give up, clenching to their hope that they would be able to defend against the foreign invaders even at tremendous odds. The internet connection had been horrifically slow, but Matthew could understand why. Almost every soldier was on a face-to-face call with their parents or friends.

Matthew had already said his goodbyes to family and friends and was now merely waiting for the oncoming storm. They had been reluctant and at many moments he had questioned his own loyalty to a man miles away from him, but he knew that there was no other life waiting for him back home. He joined the army because he had tried living other lives, but each left him cynical and more angry with himself. It was no longer an occupation but an addiction. It seemed that many of his comrades felt the same, as not one soldier had abandoned his place to attempt to escape. Perhaps it was the concept of it, perhaps it was their loyalty, perhaps they were lost like him, but all had a purpose here.

Letting go of the metal railings of the control tower, he took off down the stairs to find his squad. They would need something before they went to war, whether it be the false promise of victory or a pre-emptive eulogy, they needed words of assurance that they were not doing this final act for nothing.

The cold had set in. Arván rarely had snow like the Noronnican Isles, but even without it the climate was still chilly, and every soldier wore gloves to keep themselves warm. Perhaps it would be a blessing, these southern boys they were going to face may not be used to cold winters, but even that did not give much comfort to the defenders.

When he approached his squad, he found them huddled around a laptop which had been propped up on a bunch of old ammunition boxes. Interested, he moved closer to see what was going on, only to hear the voice of the man who started this mess, their monarch. It was a military broadcast to the troops in Arván. Matthew could see the man's face, and while his camera team had obviously attempted to give him a touch-up, his eyes were haunted with guilt.

"...I know that I ask you too much. We are faced with insurmountable odds and are trapped with the impending war. Many large tracts of Arván have already been captured now, and we stand on the precipice. Despite this harsh reality that we now face, this is not untrodden territory. Many of you may be veterans of the last wars in Arván, or even the 1980s, a war in which we were faced with all the odious apparatus of the old republican government. Yet I ask you to find within yourselves that answer to this simple question. In all those wars and battles, who stood victorious? I do not lead you to pointless destruction and loss, I have every confidence we shall attain victory, at whatever cost that may be. Arván has faced foreign invasion before, and thus it is our duty to repel them. I ask of you a task that should not be asked of you, but that I know we must face this force with any power that we can muster..."

Matthew could tell that the Overlord's words were positively affecting the squad, yet he was left with an awful taste in his mouth. This would go down as a wasteful battle in the history books, and there was nothing they could do to remedy it.

"Sir!" Called the squad's radio operator, "We've caught sight of the Dormill-Stiuraians."

[Dormill and Stiura]

Forest Outskirts of Rippen, Arván

---

The IFVs that had been carrying the men of the 3rd and 4th Battalions in the direction of Rippen had finally come to a halt near the edge of the treeline, dismounting its infantry in relative silence. Captain Aldert Petit stood to the right of his IFV, looking out over the horizon with his binoculars to verify the information sent to him earlier in the morning. Aerial reconnaissance suggested that the military forces were concentrated near the airport and had set up makeshift defenses to take on the Dormill-Stiuraians. There was additionally little evidence that civilians had evacuated in large enough numbers to warrant a large scale attack, any amount of collateral damage would harm Dormill and Stiura's position with the Noronnican government, a risk far too great to take.

The winter air bit at his face, even wrapped behind a mask. This whole thing would not be in any way easy, but it was necessary to make sure the conflict did not go further south, or so he believed.

"Sir, new orders from command.", his radioman chirps up from behind him, "We are to proceed with an attack on the airbase following an airstrike."

An airstrike? I'd have expected the mortar company to handle that he thought to himself, "Very well." he replied quickly, thinking back over the map that was made beforehand to plan for this attack.

"Mount up! We're Oscar Mike!" he ordered, to the response of everybody present quickly remounting in their IFV's, ready to charge across the open fields leading to the airport.

---

Joint Base South Alban, Kapolder
Moments earlier

---

"Bandit Squad, flight of four Jaorfalkehns, ready for taxi." Bandit-1 called out, spooling up his red-tipped P121E Jaorfalkehn. The Jarofalkehn was a HDS plane, and was the choice of the young United Republics Air Force up against other competing designs brought over by the former states, which meant the Noronnicans would know just as well what these 'off the shelf' variants were capable of. As the flight got up and away from the runway, up towards the deep blue of the stratosphere, some of them began to reflect on their mission. Just a few months ago, it would have been normal to fly alongside the few Noronnican planes in Arván, today however, Bandit Squad would probably have to be on their toes and ready to shoot down the same Noronnicans they had come to befriend.

A few moments passed as the squad flew northwest towards Rippen, a few moments more and the squad broke formation and began to line themselves up for their strike, then released their payloads and turned away from Rippen. Theirs would be the first shots fired in this new 'War for the White Eagle Cape'.

[Noronica]

Rippen Airfield, South of the Prefectorial State of Arván

---

No time to weep. No time to aid. No time to suffer.

The two sides were fighting different battles. The Noronnicans had prepared a last stand, but the Dormill-Stiuraians had no plans to stop, this was the beginning for them.

The airstrike had been vicious. Seeing the Jaorfalkens had been terrifying for many, as these jets were so unlike any other fighters of the day, their forward-swept design giving them an unsettling look. However, for those who recognised the planes, it was rage-inducing. They were Noronnican-made. The machines that had slaughtered hundreds of the defenders had been crafted by the very hands of their own brothers and sisters, a thought that easily demoralised many.

The bombs had been so fast. This was not the Imperial War when bombs screamed through the air. In the modern age, these bombs were ferocious and quieter, taking lives swiftly. The devastation was awful, and while the bombs did not scream, the troops did. Hundreds of voices called into the void, pleading desperately to anyone that would listen. Some did not have that luxury.

They had no time to count the losses, nor did they have time to lick their wounds, as the roar of war machines soared towards them. Many of the younger troops were crippled with fear, opting to stand desolate with their rifles at their feet. The veterans who had served in the last two wars opted for cover instead, crushing down their fear and emotion as they had done so many times in the face of the horrors of war.

Matthew was quick to get his squad into position. He had suffered minimal losses, yet seeing the devastation around him sickened him to the core. Radio chatter was intense, with almost everyone blaring orders or reports into their mics. It was pandemonium. Then, the sounds of rounds being fired could be heard.

The Noronnicans were quick to return fire, yet the Dormill-Stiuraian numbers seemed to grow ever higher as the battle advanced. "Layer the fuckers with lead!" Matthew bellowed, calling to his squadmates as he let loose several rounds into enemy lines. There was no time to be precise here, if at least one bullet found its target then he would be doing his job well to survive. The firefight intensified, and soon Matthews squad were given slight leeway to move themselves to the cover in front of them. They would take any advance they could get, anything to give them a morale boost.

However, that luck was soon tarnished, as when the man next to Matthew stood a little too high above cover, his head snapped back with a horrible crunch and blood sprayed the ground behind. Matthew recoiled in horror, bile rising to his throat as the newly-created corpse seeped with blood.

Matthew clutched his rifle to his chest and took a moment. He thought he would be prepared. He had tried to resurface the imagery of the savagery of the last Arvanan war to give him strength, but nothing could ever prepare someone for this. Tears brimmed in his eyes, how the hell could they continue to fight?

As if to answer this, his senses picked up on one distinct sound before him. Whump, whump, whump. A blast of air hit him forcing him to look upwards to the sight of three H177 Valkyrie Attack Helicopters taking to the skies and advancing towards enemy lines. While it was a temporary solution, they would give the defenders some time to recuperate. Many whooped and cheered, including Matthew, whose tired grin was etched with pain.

[Dormill and Stiura]

Rippen Airfield, South of the Territory of Arván

---

By the time those bombs struck dirt and concrete in the airfield, the entire battalion was racing across the open fields between the forest and the tarmac. The IVg Bull (based closely on the Boxer) was Dormill and Stiura's direct answer to the last war in Arván. She was built for her speed, armor, armament, and troop-carrying capabilities. Her multi-role design made her a perfect candidate for the United Republics' Army, and today more than any other day, 31 years later did she prove her worth.

The plan was to get the Bulls as close to the Noronnican defender's lines as possible before dismounting the troops. Though it was a reasonable assumption that the Noronnicans were plenty outnumbered, the top brass wanted to minimize losses as much as possible. Most of them could not afford to throw troops away like they did in Lihai, so their careers hung on the quick success of this second battle of Rippen.

After a few minutes of driving up, the orders were given to dismount, Sargent Pocock would be among the first, leading his men forward in a charge against the lines. Just as he was dismounting, he had a quick listen to the radio chatter, needless to say it was a bone-chilling report.

Enemy Valks in the air, Enemy Valks in the air! Get those 'Backers up here now!

He was among the lucky members of his squad to get away from their transport as it became a scorching wreck in the wake of the Valkyrie's ATGMs, their auto-rifleman being the poor soul still on fire from the burning gas of the Bull.

Rattling his head, he barked his orders to the squad and they began to move up, taking cover with 7th Squad's IVg which was still operational. "Fuck," was his first word to Sargent Eugene Spijker, the leader of 7th Squad. "I know, things got fucked fast alright." Spijker was a few years older than Pocock, but his voice came out grizzled and in a deep Dutch accent, he had rarely spoken English and only recently learned it as part of his education to his eventual promotion to an NCO. "Let's get this done so we don't lose anybody else."

Further behind the lines, the Linebackers managed to get to the edge of the treeline, holding in reserve to deal with any air assets the Noronnicans decided to deploy, the Valkyries in the air would be their first targets of the day. Some of the men couldn't stomach shooting at what was supposed to be their allies, but it didn't take them long to steel themselves or get the sense slapped in them by their commander.

In the following moments, the rest of 3rd Battalion slammed its way past the makeshift fortifications of Rippen Airfield and into the hornets nest of Loyalists.

[Noronica]

Rippen Airfield, South of the Prefectorial State of Arván - Days Ago

---

Patrick knew the familiar rush of flying helicopters. He had trained continuously, yet it was always something that would leave him breathless. He knew the fear that he instilled in the enemy, rushing close above their heads while carrying very deadly weaponry. It should not have given him such a rush, but knowing the devastation that had been caused to the defenders, he thought it right to be vengeful. He knew his gunner Graham was. The man had almost emptied the Valkyrie's load of ATGMs on the ground below on the first sortie.

Patrick heard the fizzle of the radio and listened, "Alright boys, keep a loose formation, we have one more sortie before we get back. Over." Patrick confirmed the order and curved his Valkyrie to follow the others in the sky.

It was hard not to be arrogant in this situation. He held immense destructive power in the air, giving him a taste of being an apex predator, the ground troops were his prey. He followed suit with his fellow pilots and maintained a healthy distance between the others in case of one of them being shot down. He found that unlikely though, the Dormill-Stiuraians had seemingly not expected the defenders to still have some of their air assets ready to be deployed.

Slowing for another assault, he radioed Graham, "What's the status on our ammo? Over."

A short, curt reply came in the form of, "Enough." Patrick would have reprimanded his gunner for foregoing procedure, but seeing the boy's anger before they took to the skies, he decided to give Graham some slack.

Lining up for another assault on helpless APCs that were lagging behind the main assault wave, Patrick heard his radio fizzle again. Sighing, he broke his concentration, only to be rewarded by a chilling discovery. "O-oh my god," came the voice of one his group, "Dormill linebackers!" The warning came too late, as Patrick could see one of the vehicles in the tree swivel its automated missile system towards the formation and let loose its ground-to-air missiles. With that, Patrick watched with abject horror as one of the Valkyries was hit with an irreparable onslaught.

The pilot, Tony, had no time to eject before his craft was blown to the high heavens by its own contents that had been blasted by missiles. The Valkyrie, a symbol of fear and modernity in Noronnican military might, fell to the ground pathetically, its pieces lining the ground below.

The group commander spoke rapidly to Patrick, "Hawk Nine, return to the airfield immediately! Over." Both of them turned tail and fled the scene, leaving behind a few more destroyed targets and their friend in their wake. They were quick to descend, with Patrick landing haphazardly on the landing zone.

Ripping off his straps and his helmet, he clambered out of his craft and almost fell to the ground in shock. Graham followed behind, although the boy seemed to retain his composure. There would be no time to rest however, as the two were approached by fellow Noronnicans carrying fuel tanks. Patrick shook his head rapidly, "We are not fucking going back out there!"

One of the men fixed Patrick with a searing glare, "We aren't refueling the fucking thing, we're burnin' it. So if you want to stay alive, I suggest you fuck off." He said, before yanking Patrick to his feet and beginning to douse the craft in fuel.

Patrick was about to try and fight the men, who were about to waste millions of norons worth of military tech, and his livelihood, until he felt Graham twisting him by the shoulder. All the boy said was, "Look."

Before the two of them was a sight they were unused to as pilots. Total and utter chaos. It was a miracle that the fuel carriers had made it without being assaulted by Dormill-Stiuraians on the way, as almost the entire airfield was covered. Patrick had always imagined modern warfare on the ground to be efficient and clinical, but he was not prepared to witness the savagery of close-quarters combat, as both sides were opting to use their bayonets as well as their rounds. The scene looked out of place, more fitting for the Great Argus Wars than a modern battle, yet here men were tearing through fractured lines of their enemy with their blades, their faces inches away from each other.

Now Patrick understood. His side would lose, but if they had the chance to hamper their enemy's victory, then they'd take it. Burning the helicopters would at least stop Noronnican tech and military systems getting into the hands of the enemy.

Patrick felt a sudden rush and was knocked forward by the blast of his helicopter behind him. He turned to watch his prized possession set alight in a roar of flame and smoke, tears welling in his eyes.

He sat there watching the flames for the longest time. He only moved when he felt a steel cylinder on the back of his head and barked orders to surrender himself.

La Route de Montagne (Mountain Road), Prefectorial State of Arván - Present Day

---

A lone figure traversed the silent mountains of Arván, the dense mist descending on them. Akin to ancient ghost stories, the figure stumbled ever forward, grunting in pain as it did. Most importantly, it wore the clothes of a soldier: defeated, torn, and sodden. Yet this figure was very much alive, as he had survived the fate of death. Sergeant Matthew Hawthorn was cursed with the gift of life once more, even if he should have been dead. He clutched his chest in pain, both due to physical and mental wounds putting a strain on his body.

By all accounts, the man should have been dead. The battle at the airfield had been an utter slaughter, as try as they might, the Noronnicans could not fight the onslaught of waves of Dormill-Stiuraian metal. While the outcome was as expected, that did not take away the claustrophobic horror of the battle. The airstrike was perhaps the pinnacle of their suffering, yet the close-quarters combat both sides experienced was horrific.

What sickened him most was not their enemy, but his actions in the end. He had fled. The Dormill-Stiuraians were taking the surrendered few under their custody, and rather than face the misery of sharing cells with his countrymen, he ran away.

Feeling the bile rise in his stomach, Matthew doubled over the side of the road and threw up violently. Tears followed suit, rendering the man a hollow shell of his former self, battered, sick and traumatised. Itching his upper arm, he felt the fabric of his badge. Ripping it off, he stared at it, recognising it as his country's flag. He had kept the badge for so long that the red had become a reddish-brown, causing him to hate the sight even more. In a sudden fit of anger, he threw the badge to the ground and began to stamp on it mercilessly.

"Fuck you." He said repeatedly, soon screaming it to the mountains beside him. He stopped when he heard hushed tones from further down the road. Pulling his pistol from his holster he quickly pulled himself into a defensive stance.

Emerging from the mist came two women dressed in hiking gear. Both had their hands shakily raised. Matthew dropped his pistol to the ground and followed suit, begging on his knees.

"Help me."

[Dormill and Stiura]

St. Recont, Arván

---

The last time Dormill-Stiuraian Army troops were in this city, they came as conquerors, raising the Union Flag over every government building and declaring that the Penninsula was now a part of the United Republics. Not 30 years had passed and now the men and women of the modern United Republics Army patrolled the streets as peacekeepers, or so they keep telling themselves. While it was true by most extents the United Republics was here again to keep the peace while McIntosh and his government kept up the fight against the Overlord in the mainland, those who had the misfortune of doing patrols in the city were witness to what most of the civilian populace thought.

Every so often, a patrol is shadowed by civilians, or pelted with produce, the people of St. Recont saw the Dormill-Stiuraians no different than they did the first time, as conquerors marching over their homes that they had all bled for too many times now. The poor folk that had to endure this more than once a day were considered true heroes back at base, and morale was collapsing. This wasn't helped when some jackass decided to turn on the broadcast of the League Assembly, caught up in the debate about the situation in both Arván and Noronica. When the Ambassador from Wellsia (whose name could not be pronounced by anybody on base), and Ambassador Van Adrichem debated on why Dormill and Stiura was in Arván, the argument of where the Prime Minister actually stood on Dormill and Stiura, whether they were replacing once detestable ruler for another.

---

Presidential Palace, Courlaroux

---

With the immediate crisis averted, the National Congress returned to its regular business soon after the reports came back that Arván was safe, and most of the public moved on to other things for this year, most importantly the elections. Dyson knew all too well that this would play a huge role in his reelection campaign, he had to convince the people that he was on their side, stood for the beliefs they elected him to uphold, and so on. The stress was palpable when Trix Lovel walked into his office, a new report in hand.

"The update on Noronica as you requested, Mr. President. Why did you have me deliver it?", she began, in her classic cold tone.

"I wanted to talk to you about the situation in greater detail. I wonder if McIntosh will uphold his end of the bargain, if he will give up Arván." Cedar said, glancing around the room. "What if he decides to call our operation an invasion, and launches the full might of the world back at us?"

"If he does sir, we have our contingencies. He won't get far."

The President sighed, and stood up, directing Trix to take a seat in the couches just in front of his desk, "I think we need to act preemptively. Though the Wellsians have backed off their rhetoric, it appears our friend the Overlord, or whatever cronies he has on the web hasn't."

Trix remained silent, deciding to not answer the question the Bureau was still figuring out.

"We need to put our support with somebody else, in case we can no longer trust McIntosh." he spoke up, trying to keep her attention.

"Well there is the Prefect, he was quite agreeable the last time he was here, and we still have him under guard in St. Recont."

"What would you suggest?"

"We set him up against whoever wins in the mainland, use him to depose them if he can, and promise to keep Arván safe for him while he rules in Noronica. It isn't much of a change from the situation now except that we could probably keep him compromised by this deal, and keep Noronnican influence down for quite a while. How this will effect your reelection is something I can't predict right now."

Cedar sat there for a few moments, thinking over the suggestion, "I agree. Do what you must to make him our new Overlord."

---

Prefect's Palace, St. Recont

---

The seat of power for both the Prefect of Arván and the Overlordship had been transformed into a veritable fortress as the United Republics Army used it as the command post for local operations. Prefect Bartholomew Montague had been essentially under house arrest for the duration of Dormill and Stiura's operations in Arván, with Bureau agents and a Joker's Deck squad keeping a close eye on him. Those few loyal BIS agents that remained had provided useful information on the situation, and shared the responsibility of the protection of the Prefect with their Dormill-Stiuraian counterparts.

At the door to Montague's wing of the palace, a Bureau agent walked up to the guards, requesting passage to the other side.

"My Lord Prefect, may I have a word with you?" he asked once he caught sight of the Prefect in his office.

[Noronica]

Lord Prefect Bartholomew Montague sat with his cat on his lap, his solemn gaze fixed outside the window, watching as military guard posts were erected on every street corner. He felt emasculated. This was his land, yet it was now under another's control, and he was merely here under their hospitality. He had grown to dislike Arván. It was unwilling to progress, especially in the south, where Sundays reduced towns to ghost-towns, and afternoons meant to sleep for all. Arván had industry, yet its culture was not of pragmatism and hard work, and that annoyed him.

He wanted Noronica more than anything in the world. Seeing it be tarnished by two of his 'betters' angered him greatly. Sighing, he patted his cat's head as he continued to watch St. Recont before him. He smirked as he managed to make out a small scuffle between Dormill-Stiuraian troops and some shopkeepers on what looked to be Rue-de-la-Boulangerie. The Arvanans were certainly fierce. Despite himself, he enjoyed the sight of the Dormill-Stiuraian troops. The troops were well-organised, and their march into the city left him in awe when they first arrived.

Turning his head to face the intruder, he inclined his head and spoke softly, "You may."

[Dormill and Stiura]

The agent spoke coldly, not much emotion was allowed to escape his words, "I am an agent of the Bureau of Special Intelligence sent on behalf of the Director to speak with you on an opportunity you might be interested."

Pausing for the Prefect's response, he continued, "The Bureau has come to regard the trust it had placed in Prime Minister McIntosh to be made in error. As pointed out in the League, it has been made apparent that he will not act in good faith towards Dormill and Stiura, much opposed to your grace. Therefore, the Bureau would wish to enlist you in an operation to seize control of the Noronnican government in a much more, subtle, coup than the one attempted by the Overlord. To keep things brief, we wish to make you the next Overlord."

[Noronica]

Montague spluttered abruptly, his hand clasped to his chest in shock. He scrambled off of his chair and moved towards the agent who, to his credit, reacted very little. Montague scrutinised the man's face for a few uncomfortable moments, his eyes boring into the man's very soul. When he did speak, it was in a hushed tone, "You must be joking." He paused, "No, no an agent would not joke, they have no capacity to joke." He chuckled nervously, "My God. You are being quite serious on this matter."

He turned to gaze out of the window. It did not help that he had thought about this scenario before. The country was burning, all possible options of a reprieve were incapacitated, he was the only one to step up to the plate and recover his nation from chaos, and he would do it masterfully.

A smile crept onto his features, widening as he thought about the implications of power. He spoke with more confidence, "It would be impossible to become Overlord without some claim to the line, as that position is ordained by God, whether you believe in that common nonsense. However, one might be able to... hypothetically achieve what you are implying through several carefully planned reforms once in power. I understand that it must be difficult seeing such an... unruly character be your main ally in this mess, so I would be interested in trying to relieve that burden." He paused, stroking his chin for a moment, "Tell your masters that I shall consider this splendid offer of their's, but I would again stress that I would very much wish for this offer to remain a matter between those who need to know."

[Wellsia]

Shar-eser, Ambassador to the United Republics, looked at himself in the mirror, he hated the traditional formal wear that he was forced to wear for an official meeting with President Dyson. He sat still while his groom performed the finishing touches on his hair and beard. Rising he waited as his chamberlain slipped on the tasseled lined robe, and tied the purple and white sash around his waste, sitting back down, he waited while the chamberlain helped him put on his boots. Standing he had to admire himself. Lifting the diplomatic bag and putting across his body he turned and headed for the waiting limo, thankful that the ultra conservative Suru Miat didn't expect him to arrive at the presidential palace in a chariot.

Shar-eser stood waiting in the anteroom out side the president's office, waiting his turn to meet with Dyson.
Walking into the room, he looked at President Dyson sitting behind his desk, the first thing Shar-eser noticed was that he did rise to meet him, oh well, it that was how it was going to be. "Your excellency, I am here on the behalf of the Sar Sarani, the Suru Mi'at, the Ham Ukkim and the people of Wellsia." .
Looking about the room, before speaking again Shar-eser took a deep breadth; "President Dyson, I have here an ultimatum demanding the removal of Republican troops from Arvan. Our ambassador in the League will also be asking the League to follow suite with sanctions against you. We expect him to fail. Now, Mr. President, for the real reason I am here. The Sar Sarani feels that due to their actions, neither Overlord Tytus nor Prime Minister McIntosh can be allowed to remain in power. The Sar Sarani does believe that a suitable replacement in the person of Prince Trystan has been found. It Tytus abdicates in the name of his son, we are sure that those still loyal the the Overlord will support his son, also it is known that he is popular with the people. His appointment , Wellsia feels, will be the quickest way to stop the crisis in Nornonica. The Sar Sarani, believes he can a convince Tytus to step down and accept house arrest at one of his estates. In return for our covert support, we do expect you to eliminate Josh McIntosh. Any deals that have been made with you over your involvement in this affair, will be honored by Wellsia.
Now, Mr. President the official reason I am here.
Reaching into the Diplomatic bag he removed a bound document and handed it to the President. Opening it, President Dyson read the missive;

Since the government of the United Republics of Dormill and Stiura have taken it upon themselves to intervene in the Noronnican Crisis and use this as an excuse to invade an seize the Prefecture of Arvan, the Empire of Wellsia does hereby demand the removal of said troops with forty-eight (48) hours or face the following: All trade between the Empire of Wellsia and the United Republics of Dormill and Stiura will be suspended. The use of the Southern Canal will be forbidden for any and all ships flying the flag of the United Republics. These will both remain in effect till the total withdrawal of Republican units from Arvan.

Sar Harold, Sar Sarani Wellsia

Yehi-melk Maliku Matu Wellsia

[Dormill and Stiura]

Cour Rouge

---

Cedar had to suddenly clear his schedule following the visit from the Wellsian Ambassador, the suddenness of the ultimatum and its demands were surprising enough. He also had to get the translation of what exactly was said by the aging man in what was the biggest diplomatic faux pas in his presidency. Once he had a translation on his hands, he called up Minister Kevyn Shepherd to confirm how Dormill and Stiura will respond.

"I suppose this, ultimatum, is on your desk too?" he asked, trying to stay calm.

"Yeah," Shepherd began, "48 hours or we lose the canal. All we have are the Wellsians and Balniki behind on this action, though the Balniki are a pest the lose of that canal is of greater concern. We're stuck I'm afraid. If we bend now, we'd be giving the Overlord the space to win this crisis; if we don't, we risk all of our international standing. Was there anything the Ambassador said to you in particular about this?"

"No, he just told me the situation and handed me the ultimatum. This is just getting worse and worse. First morale starts falling apart and now Loyalists are making us look like the bad guys across the Isles. We can't just abandon what we did, we've sacrificed enough men and material for it."

"Well, I'll be sure to shore up support with our allies and discredit this ultimatum sir. So long as none of our closer partners start turning on us, we might be able to throw the Wellsians off again."

"Right, thank you, Mr. Shepherd."

---

Chery

---

When the translation of the Wellsian Ambassador's speech to the President reached Trix Lovel's desk, shock was the only describable mood in the room. Giving a few moments to gather her composure, she briskly walked towards the room that was playing host to the planning of Operation Kottos, to end the Noronnican Crisis in such a way that Bartholomew Montague would take control of the Noronnican government. As she threw the doors open, silencing the room, she walked towards a group of analysts that were a part of the core planning team. "The Prefect won't be the new Overlord", she said coldly, anger brimming.

"What?", one of the men responded, "Then who?"

"Apparently the Wellsians want Trystan on the throne, and that's their condition to drop the sanctions.", she responded with gritted teeth.

"What did the President say about this?", another man asked.

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes it does, if you don't mind me saying. You're expecting us to change our plan at the whim of those Wellsians? Are you serious?"

"Do you want to stay on this team? Then do as I say.", she snapped. The rest of the room was still silent over the course of the exchange, with a chill running down the spines of the main planning group.

"Of course, Empress." the first man responded, walking in the opposite direction towards a filing cabinet, and grabbed out the current document that contained the most complete version of the plan.

"So, to clarify. You want us to somehow also eliminate the Prime Minister and not elevate the Prefect to replace him?"

"No, keep most of it. We can deal with the Overlord and the Prime Minister in one fell swoop, without giving the Wellsians their precious Overlord. As for Montague, we'll try to elevate him but if we can keep the Prince on our side he won't be missed.", she responded, slightly calmer than earlier. She looked upon the room before leaving, stopping for one more comment, "I want this in action in less than 10 days. You'll have everything you want to get it done."

[Noronica]

Noronnican Media Corporation - Gwynon Branch, City of Gwynon, Noronica

---

Jack stretched his jaw as he heard the automated introduction and saw the little filler animation played to announce what was up next. Doing a few small sound exercises, he noted the mention of one of his favourite programmes was starting a new series in the evening. He rolled his shoulders and presented a cool and serious gaze to the camera as he saw the producers show their hands to ready him. Action, he said to himself.

“This is NMC News North at six o’clock, here are the main headlines.” He read the teleprompter with practised ease, “The Prefect of Potania in crisis as his Chief of Staff is charged with ten accounts of attempted assault. We’ll have the latest from the Auld Court with law correspondent Wendy Wei. In other news, Yorklander fishermen are on strike as bosses say they are struggling to cope with ‘national uncertainty’, and are students in the University of Gwynon under tremendous pressure due to the prestigious nature of their university?”

“Our first story this afternoon. After weeks of little clarity, the Prefect of Potania’s Chief of Staff, Reginald Hudcliffe has been arrested by Police at his home in southern Potania. The Prefect, Lord Karl Mach, has expressed his ‘sadness’ at the news and-” Jack paused ever so slightly, his eyes following someone new entering the studio quietly. Sure it had been nothing, Jack continued swiftly, “Has asked that the public understand that he will have to remain impartial during the process.” Jack could see the figure that he had failed with his gaze was now in an argument with the producers. Trying to continue, his attention was slowly being drawn away as more people entered the room. “I- uh... Reginald Hu- Hudcliffe came to the A...uld Court this morning to-”

Jack watched with wide eyes as the argument grew louder. He could see that the people working on sound were getting agitated. “Apologies to those at home, it appears that there is a commotion within the studio.” Some of his producers tried to encourage him to continue but when he tried all hell broke loose.

The first man who had entered the room had evidently gotten angered by the situation and had now pulled out a pistol, aiming it for one of the producer’s heads. The argument stopped then, and when the others pulled out weapons of their own, it was clear who was controlling the situation. The producers began cooperating and Jack could see that the teleprompter had changed.

Shakily getting himself in order, he smiled at the camera and began to speak once again, “I apologise for the interruption, regularly scheduled programmes shall resume once this message is imparted. People of Noronica, many of you watched the events in Arván with close attention. You watched as relatives, through no fault of their own other than their free thought, were brutally cut down. What you were told about their insubordination was a lie, a total shameful sham. The men and women who defended Arván were not told to evacuate. Instead, a selected few were handpicked to leave the peninsula, leaving behind around a few small units compared to the immense invasion force that illegally entered the Arvanan peninsula. Perhaps, even the officials of Dormill and Stiura were blindsided too, but it was clear that their ally, Prime Minister Joshua McIntosh, used the men of both sides as cannon-fodder. Now our veterans of war seep with blood on the land that they were tasked to defend.”

Jack paused, watching as more text was loaded onto the screen, “This horrific event has left the Arvanan peninsula scarred again by unrighteous bloodshed. However, the word of mouth does not do this justice. Onscreen you shall now see one Sergeant Matthew Hawthorn, a hero of the 2017 Arvanan War, found wounded on the side of the mountain pass by two hikers. He was prepared to walk the entire length of the peninsula to escape capture and now here he is, safe and alive.”

Jack watched as an in-studio screen showed the footage of an unkempt soldier covered in medical dressings staring blankly at an interviewer. The room they were in was fitted to look genuinely like an average interview, with the equipment and lighting almost perfect except for some awkward angling. The soldier came to life a few seconds after Jack came to a stop. His voice was weary and angered, “I signed up because I was lost - had nowhere to go. I- I had little opportunity back home because of my decisions, but joining the Army gave me clarity. It gave me a group I could identify with. I pledged my allegiance to the Overlord because that is the law, I did not expect to have myself be slandered and called a traitor for following correct orders. Nor did I expect to be tricked into my own grave like so many of my mates. McIntosh-“

An interviewer out of shot cut in, “Just to clarify: Prime Minister Joshua McIntosh of Noronica?”

The soldier looked uncomfortable after losing the flow of the conversation but continued, “Yes, Prime Minister Joshua McIntosh did not inform my commanders or others in my unit. It was only brought to my attention that others were evacuating when my subordinate came to tell me... that- that the others were abandoning us.” The soldier stopped, staring blankly.

“What happened next?” Asked the interviewer, obviously keen to get to the meat of the accusation.

The soldier nodded slowly, “Then... then came the airstrike. It was out of the blue, no one knew we were being targeted. We thought there would be a confrontation because we didn’t have time to evacuate, but we did not know we were at war. We lost buildings, men and valuable supplies, and had little time to mourn. As soon as the bombs had fallen, we were almost immediately battered by waves of Dormill-Stiuraian troops. I-it was a slaughter. It came to the point where we had to use bayonets."

The interviewer cut in again, “Did you have any support by fellow troops on the peninsula? Anyone?"

"We had no backup." The soldier deadpanned. Prompted to explain, he continued, his voice rising in anger, "How could we have had any bloody backup?! We were the only troops in Arván!" The footage cut and the lights were back on Jack.

Stuttering, the news presenter put on his smile and jolted when the armed men within the studio urged him on, "I-is this how Noronica should be treating her sons and daughters who take up arms to defend her? The Prime Minister has proved himself an ally to tyranny. However, as we speak, the legal troops of the Overlordship are entering into their next phase of operation, and soon the Noronnican Isles shall be returned to stability." Once Jack was finished, the cameras were off and the studio team froze as they were given new orders to cooperate.

Adh Iolaidh Army Base, Prefectorial State of Potania, Noronica

---

Corporal Henry Sutton of the A11 Commandoes, Royal Noronnican Marines, watched as Oster-built OSD-RA2 MLRS's unleashed barrage after barrage of artillery strikes against the military complex before him. The walls crumbled easily, and Henry could make out several fleeing vehicles being caught in the torrential bombard. Military bases were not made based on the chance that one of their own would be assaulting them, which made this much simpler for the marines who were readying their equipment.

The retaliatory fire was limited, yet deadly when utilised, so the OSD-RA2s were pulled back and Henry heard his commander on the radio, "All callsigns, we are on the move, over." At once, the marine personnel-carriers moved with tremendous pace to reach the military base.

The thundering growl of the armoured vehicles echoed across the valley, their metal grating sharpened teeth, their lights flaming eyes. In the darkness and the snow, the true terror of war had come to the north. Regular troops tasked to swiftly barricade and defend the military base below could only watch with abject fear as the war dogs came ever closer. The biting northern wind serving only to cause their very bones to shiver.

The last barrage of missiles had torn apart the eastern barricades of the military base. Utilising tactics that had been observed during the successful Dormill-Stiuraian insurrection against Noronnicans in Arván, the marines moved with ferocious speed to secure their point of entry. This would serve as their revenge against McIntosh, who had sentenced many of their brothers and sisters in arms to the slaughter.

As soon as his APC came to a shuddering halt, Henry rammed the doors open and sped his squad and himself out into the battlefield, their rifles primed. His radio crackled into life, blaring orders immediately, "Foxtrot 22, this is Lima. You are cleared for engagement, over."

"Copy that Lima, moving to engage, over." Replied Henry, who then turned to shout out to his squad, "Alright boys lets go!"

Henry and his squad entered into combat almost instantaneously, as a ferocious response emanated from enemy lines. Henry pulled his rifle closer to his shoulder and, with a steady aim, returned fire. Henry made many of his shots count, the idea of wasting ammunition a foreign concept to his rigorous marine training. His eyes squinted as he focused on his targets, singling them out from the crowd of enemies. He began with easier targets, some of them having stuck their heads too high in the air, others stupidly trying to change positions.

As easy as entry had been, the royalist marines were then engaged by two machine-gun nests buried within enemy lines, ripping through the marines with chaotic violence. Slightly disturbed, yet unperturbed, Henry pressed forward slowly, alongside several other units fortunate to survive the onslaught.

Henry continued to order his troops to attempt to destroy the nests, yet the gunners were far too entrenched in their position to be successfully hit. Enraged, Henry let loose several rounds into retreating government troops before falling onto his hindquarters and rubbing his tired eyes with snow-covered gloves. The coolness soothed the itchiness, allowing him to rest for a moment. He continued to rack his brain however, which was hard at work attempting to find a solution to rid him and his squad of the gunners.

The issue was rectified however, when a projectile ripped through the air above him and slammed directly into a machine-gun nest, obliterating the enemies trapped inside. Shocked, Henry searched for the source and finally landed his gaze on two NO-917 Weasgaich tanks, which were rolling forward to support their troops.

Being given an invigorating new lease of life, Henry and his troops amped up their efforts, bearing down on the enemy line which was slowly retreating within the compound. Fighting in the dark and snow was difficult for sure, yet Henry felt a certain warmth and comfort in this battle.

Prefectorial Manor, Lancaston, Sessux Isle

---

Tytus stood with his hands clasped behind his back as he watched the sleeping figure of Sergeant Matthew Hawthorn in a hospital bed. The soldier was his saving grace as was evident by the interview that was broadcasted across the nation from his home city's major broadcaster. He smiled, while the initial steps of this 'pseudo-war' had been tentative, he was now stepping through the country with surety. The Prefectorial State of Potania would surely fall within his grasp, effectively granting him the northern passage to the capital. Gwynon would likely resist, as university students would not likely take kindly to an attack on their independence, yet Gwynon was not his goal.

Pulling out his phone from his breast pocket, he entered his passcode and perched his reading glasses on his nose. It was a text from his daughter, Princess Mellisa Alexander. She was concerned, seeing as her six o'clock news had been taken over. He could not explain the situation, how the NMC building had been taken over by operatives dressed in civvies, yet all would surely become apparent when troops began patrolling the streets. He sighed, wishing that neither of his children was involved in this mess. He would ensure that the two of them rested when this debacle was finished.

An aide came to his side, whispering in his ear so as to let the man in front of them sleep, "Sir. Adh Iolaidh Army Base has surrendered, the Council is asking whether to initiate plans for Mount Baeron?"

Tytus nodded his consent, "Let us enter into these final steps."

[Wellsia]

Sar Harold Sar Sarani walked into the office and looked at the officials already assembled. Waiting for him were Ithoba'al Maliku belutu, the Chancellor of the Empire, Yehi-melk Maliku matu, the Chancellor of State, Del-eashtart Simma Karasu, the Minister of War, and lastly Pu'mayyaton Rab Kohanim,the High Priest.
"Is it true?"
"Yes your majesty," replied Del-eashtart, "It has been confirmed, Royalist forces using MRLSs and tanks have attacked and captured the Noronnican Army Base at Adh Iolaidh. Reports are that most of the men were members of the Marine Corps."
"Damn, it would seem that we, no I made a mistake. I was blinded by the fact that Tytus got revenge on my family by overthrowing the People's Republic. Now that maniac is attacking his own troops."
Yehi-melk interrupted," Your Majesty, we must act fast, we pushed to get Trystan to replace Tytus, but after this, the people of Noronica will never accept any member of the Alexander family. Unless Tytus wins, his family will at best be exiled, at worst, who knows where McIntosh is involved."
You're right Yehi-melk, we have to fix things fast, hate to change horses in mid-stream, but the one we have been backing is now lame at best. I want you to fly to Courlaroux and speak with President Dyson yourself. This needs to be handled at the highest level. Make sure you express our determination that McIntosh be dealt with, but we will accept a candidate of their choice at this time. Next what to do about Tytus, don't want to cut all ties with him, lets face it, he might just win in the end. Tytus must know that we do not approve of his actions, but are not ready to accept the Round Table's rebellion. Tytus must also know that we will not support his actions that are escalating the Noronnican Crisis into a full Civil War. Gentlemen we have a number of fires to put out, most of our own doing, so lets do what we can to keep from getting to burned.
Pu'mayyatan, if you please, a prayer would be very helpful at this point."

[Noronica]

Cabinet Office, State Palace, Nolon City, Noronica

---

The room was brimming with politicians from far and wide, all having scuttled out of the woodwork to squeeze themselves into a room that many had only dreamed of once visiting many months before. Now, they could care less as they clutched their heads in their hands, muttering nervously. Those of the cabinet remained seated, having fended off the others who attempted to steal the comfort of a chair to endure the long hours of this meeting. One chair, however, was left entirely alone and untouched, for the consequences were much riskier. Its occupant, Prime Minister Joshua McIntosh, sat at the centre of the mess of the room, allowing the politicians to jabber incessantly around him.

Howard McTavert, Federal Councillor for East Harburgh, gazed at the room exasperatedly, "Do none of you truly see the gravity of the situation?" He paused to see that the room continued to mutter around him. "For the love of God! Tytus Alexander has the Marines under his belt, and while your cronies in the NMC wrote a pretty piece of journalism, they woefully underestimate just how far we are to be buggered up our own arses!" He spat onto the table, his face raw with anger as he watched his Prime Minister stroke his chin in absent-minded thought.

Joshua glared down the challenge by McTavert, who slowly back down. Speaking with a hint of annoyance, Joshua addressed the room, "Friends, we are overestimating his power surely? We have ensured the loyalty and backing of tens of thousands of our military-"

Another voice sparked up, this time from his own cabinet, "Joshua, the man decimated a major centre of military power in one of Noronica's largest Prefectorial States, therefore handing him the keys to the north while he maintains control over the south-west. Even after the defeat in Arván, his forces moved through Potania like a hot knife through butter."

Joshua tried to get a word in, "Now wait a moment, our forces are in the majority! We have a numerical advantage in all the mediums of battle-"

"Then why, pray tell," came the voice of McTavert again, "did our ally Dormill and Stiura, do the fighting for us?! We should have unleashed the full capability of our military might against his rebellion and crush him!"

"I-it's not that simple I assure you." Tried Joshua, who was beginning to grow more and more agitated by the continual barrage of jingoistic emotional nonsense. The room loudly sighed at his response, and McTavert had the audacity to laugh spitefully.

"To summarise, we keep our forces holed up in the east, allowing our enemy to move his way and consolidate the western states under his control, despite our so-called 'numerical advantage'? We have the most toys in the box, yet we refuse to utilise them because it is 'not that simple'? Good Lord man, have you gone utterly insane? You will let the man walk into the very door," he pointed to the cabinet room door, "before authorising the mobilisation of our own forces?!" The room began to cheer or clap, with many politicians siding with McTavert.

Slamming his fist on the desk, Joshua stood abruptly and yelled to quieten the room, "You are all career politicians elected to sit on your arse while I do the real work in this system! How the fuck would you know anything about the effective use of your forces in a situation like this? How many of you watched the civil war from your window rather than do anything about it?! I was too young, but as soon as I could, I served in the forces after 1991. I helped to rebuild this fucking nation from the ground up. I moved positions to the Bureau, where I also remodelled the organisation in my image! I fought corruption and rot within the system and I knew what I was doing then and I still do now as Prime fucking Minister. Should any of you happen to find out how to do my job better than I can, take up the mantle of my position yourselves!"

With that, Joshua pushed his way through the crowd and slammed the doors behind him, only to be stopped by his Chief of Staff, Malcolm. "Oh what is it you impatient bastard?" Joshua said, his voice croaking from his previous rant.

Malcolm shook his head angrily, "They are turning on you faster than you will be able to handle soon. We need another victory, by our own hands this time. We may have a numerical advantage in terms of arms, but not in the electorate. Our supporters demand we strike now and stop relying on President Dyson to fight our battles, and now it seems the BIS is picking up information about a massive aggressive political campaign online, advertising Tytus' cause."

"What." Joshua asked, his face etched with horror.

"We underestimated the one modern field of battle that is highly important in our day and age. Those assemblymen arguing with you today will have been on their social media and will have seen these ads, I guarantee it. I have seen them myself and they are bloody well convincing, were I not your personal aide." Malcolm said, his voice urgent, "Damn it, Joshua we need to meet the rebels for a decisive battle or we will not have the confidence of those that are close to swaying to the other side."

He pulled Joshua closer to him by the man's lapel, whispering in his ear, "Should you lose another battle in this war of ours, sir, you will find knives in the hands of the men and women standing in that room."

[Noronica]

Overlord's Palace, Nolon City, Noronica

---

Prince Trystan smiled as he watched his miniature legion continue to work hard on his propaganda war. He had heard from some of the students working in the group that they had heard friends arguing over the social media, and whether comments were 'Royalist-bots' or genuine comments. The mass hysteria and panic he was causing, even indirectly through paranoia was sensational. It did not matter if one of his people had commented on a video defending his father, people were growing worried about the influence the Royalist side had, and if constituents were worried, it was a given that their local assemblyman would know about it. He wondered just how panicked the assemblymen who had chosen to side with the Prime Minister were, now that they realised that even civilians who played no significant role in the political sphere, were causing such a ruckus.

Patting the shoulder of the boy working in front of him, he turned to move out of the room, his eyes readjusting to the sunlight beaming through the palace windows. He gazed out into the hallway and watched as dust particles cascaded through the air, trickling down onto the floor. He smiled, slumping his shoulders as he allowed himself to relax. While he had not been content with some of the action of his father, he knew that the man was now handling himself perfectly, as the swift mobilisation into Potania had been excellent. Partnered with Trystan's aggressive campaign online, Tytus was heading towards victory if the cards were played correctly.

Prevented from extending his break, Trystan saw a portly man walk towards him quickly, puffing as he over-exerted himself. Harold, the Palace butler followed close behind protesting. Trystan attempted to rack his brain for any knowledge of the man before him, but he was given little time as the man was soon in front of him, bowing.

Harold began to speak angrily, "I have told the Honourable Gentleman to leave the vicinity at once, yet my orders were ignored. I shall lead him away at once!"

"Hold there a moment," Trystan said, a small smile forming on his face, "Mister McTavert, one of the most lively Federal Councillors in the entire assembly!" He exclaimed, meeting the man with a handshake. In truth, Trystan did not have many positive words to credit the man with, he was far too boorish, yet this situation seemed to warrant a compliment.

"It. Is. An. Honour your Royal Highness!" The man said, enunciating every word with clarity and effect. He beamed, "I would have a word with you - if you would permit me?" He asked, his eyes pleading. Trystan nodded and called off Harold, taking Mr. McTavert to a private meeting room far away from the so-called 'computer-den' that had been set up.

Once the two were inside, McTavert sat with a loud grunt on one of the armchairs. Eyeing the man, Trystan chose to stand, leaning against the mantlepiece. "What is it that you wish to meet me about?" Trystan asked, his voice friendly yet his eyes wary due to the man's choice of support.

McTavert smiled slightly nervously, rubbing his hands together, "Ah. Well, the situation has grown to a rather tenuous position. You know," the man began to trail off, "I-I was always a huge supporter of your father back in the day..."

"What changed?" Trystan asked blankly.

"Ehm, well it was due to the fact that when one sees another commit an act against constitutional law, it is hard to see why. Perhaps I was misguided, yet I chose to support the Prime Minister because I am a man of the law. However," McTavert struggled to say the next part of his ramble, "it would appear that the Prime Minister is not fulfilling his duties as well as he should be for the nation."

Trystan hid his emerging smirk with difficulty, deciding to play along, "I would not know however sir. I would agree with your previous analysis, my father did the country a great wrong and the Prime Minister has promised a great deal. I do not wish to hear that you agree with my father-"

McTavert blurted out loudly, "My Prince, I beg you please listen, do not speak of this to the Prime Minister."

"Go on." Trystan said, to which the man sighed with great relief.

"While your father marches north, the Prime Minister has refused to engage in open battle. If it were me, I would have thrown the full weight of Noronica's military might on the rebellious cause, yet he continues to castrate himself further by waiting as military positions are being crushed." McTavert said, impassioned, "Many of the other assemblymen who listened to him today were disgusted by the inaction and lack of clear leadership the man has displayed."

"You are dissatisfied with how the retaliatory effort is being led. So how do you propose to fix the issue?" Trystan asked, keenly interested in what the man had to say and what he was revealing.

"W-well, what the general consensus is, is that we need to ensure the effort against the rebel forces is concise and efficient. The Secretary for Defence, Martyn Greyhound is our best bet, as he supports our cause and is close to our generals. Let us say that, hypothetically were the Prime Minister to continue to not fulfil his role as was trusted in him, w-would you possibly consider supporting us in... well. Moving him aside for Martyn to take his place?" Asked McTavert, his voice unsure.

Trystan grinned widely, "Certainly."

He would need to make a phone call to Lancaston as soon as he could.

[Dormill and Stiura]

Prefect's Palace, St. Recont

---

Tonight was one of the most calm nights in St. Recont, with the Dormill-Stiuraians being long gone the people simply went back to their quite lives. This was not reflected in the Prefect's Palace where evidence of Dormill and Stiura's presence was being shipped out and replacing the old furnishings. In one of the drawing rooms of the palace, the Prefect was surrounded by a group of people, Bureau agents to be particular. The group was locked in a conversation about exactly what would happen next.

"So walk me through this one last time." the Prefect asked, standing in the center of the group.

"We leave St. Recont tonight on a plane bound for Nolon. Once we are there, you will gather your political allies in the city and wait for our signal to act. Intelligence suggests that Loyalist forces are poised for a major attack on Nolon City within the week. Once we confirm the Overlord is moving his forces, you will be signaled to put the Prime Minister under arrest alongside any members of his cabinet and Round Table that resist. After the Overlord takes control and sentences McIntosh for his treason, we will be ready to assassinate him just before he is transported away. After that, your job will be to use your allies to then overthrow the Overlord, setting yourself up to take his place.", an agent responds, using this as an opportunity to brief the rest of his team as well.

"Are you sure this will work?", Montague asked.

"If things go wrong, we will escort you back to Dormill and Stiura, where you will be made the Governor of the Territory of Arvan, or spend the rest of your life in a chateau in Avillon. That will be your choice if it comes to that."

After a few moments, the men all piled into a small motorcade and departed the palace, driving in a fashion to not attract too much attention in the sleepy city. At the airport, they filed through the terminal in a brisk manner, the Bureau agents trying their best to keep Montague obscured as to not attract attention to him in particular. It did not take much longer from that moment to when they boarded their private jet to leave the airport and begin their mission in earnest.

---

President Dyson's Bedroom, Palace of the President, Cour Rouge

---

Much in contrast to St. Recont, the night for Cedar Dyson was sleepless. He sat on the edge of the bed close to his phone, waiting for a call confirming the operation had begun, which it hadn't yet even though the schedule he had stated it would begin an hour ago. His eyes were heavy but he refused to sleep until he was certain things were in motion.

Tonight was not the first of his many sleepless nights, but this was one of the most nerve-wracking. He never wanted to be at the head of a government conspiracy to murder two national leaders, but the situation demanded that McIntosh at the very least had to die, Tytus might have had a chance to live but the assessment from the Bureau suggested that Tytus would never accept Dormill-Stiuraian sovereignty in Arvan, and would most certainly have the international community do everything to punish Dormill and Stiura for it's transgressions against him. That kind of situation would simultaneously end Dyson's Presidency and render all of his efforts to build the Union's position in the international stage for naught, even risking a western response to Orsandia. So, for all of his reservations, he still signed the kill orders for both Joshua McIntosh and Tytus Alexander; he hoped that when all of this was over, Dormill and Stiura could take its new position without much more controversy.

Then the phone rang.

Dyson was quick to pick it up, his heart pounding in his chest, begging to be free of this stress. Then the voice on the other side spoke.

"Good day, Mr. President. Thank you for taking my call, I just wanted to make sure we're all set to watch the game tomorrow."

"Of course," he responded, "It'll be great spending more time with you."

"I'm glad, Cedar. Anyways I should let you sleep, but before I go, I totally believe they'll be destroyed tomorrow."

Cedar smiled as he hung up the phone, like a large burden was just lifted from his shoulders. He still very much couldn't sleep, so he got up and went out to a lounge to watch some TV, maybe eat something. He'll try to go to sleep later.

All the while, a private jet was cutting open the cold Argean air, making its way to its final destination.

[Noronica]

State Palace, Nolon City, Noronica

---

For the first time in his long life, Joshua was entirely and utterly vulnerable. Unlike his usual sense of bravado as a leader, he lay in a fetal position, with his head resting on his wife Beatrice's lap. She stroked his hair, trailing her long fingers through his hair with cautious softness. He could not see it, but Beatrice gazed down at him with concern, not knowing Joshua to be one inclined to silence and worry. Not even in the crucial hours of the Charbagnian War did he bow down to the pressure, as he held onto the idea that it was going to be an unavoidable victory.

Being the spouse of a Prime Minister gave one certain privileges and advantages, one of them being privy to insider's knowledge, especially that of Joshua's Chief of Staff. Malcolm had proved invaluable on giving the full details if Joshua withheld anything, and so now Beatrice was prepared when Joshua came to the residential wing in silent shock. It was one of the first times that his authority was being questioned in the political sphere, where the puppets began snipping at their strings with scissors to rebel against their puppeteer. Now that Joshua was proving to not be as swift in dealing punishment as many would have liked him to, they were now seriously concerned about his ability to rule the country.

Beatrice had to admit that she hated the man that politics had forced Joshua to become. Outside of the residential wing, he was rash, angry and more importantly he fed into the 'Strong-Man' stereotype in politics. He had been a quiet and thoughtful man before, yet now his worst qualities were amplified. Continuing to stroke his hair, she looked up at the ceiling and prayed for him, something she had not done in the longest time. Prayer felt uncomfortable to her, it was too intimate, yet when her husband was so emotionally raw, she felt it was the only right thing to do.

Her thoughts inevitably turned to the negatives of the possibilities before them. What would happen if Tytus won the war? What if it was protracted and led to the deaths of thousands akin to the last war? What if there was an internal uprising leading to the arrest and detainment of Joshua and her? Would they treat them as revolutionaries had tended to do with their leaders? As her mind raced through every possibility, she had not noticed that her husband had turned to face her.

"Bee?" His voice grew more urgent, "Bee, what's wrong?" Searching her eyes for a moment, Joshua's face softened before reaching up to brush her cheek, "We're both worried about the same thing aren't we." He said, more as a statement than a question. When she nodded and drew him into a hug, the two sighed in the relief of being close to one another.

"You are lucky that the press isn't in the room right now, they'd be having a field day." Beatrice said jokingly, to which Joshua laughed happily, something which Beatrice had not heard for years, true, genuine, unadulterated laughter. It was such a brash yet brilliant moment for her, something which she would grow to cherish in these dark days.

What would have shocked her to know, however, was that Joshua was praying too.

[Dormill and Stiura]

Nolon City International Airport, 5:00 AM, February 8^th 2019

---

Nolon City might be home to one of the more busy airports in the Argean, but given the recent situation flights have been way down, making the flight of Prefect Montague and his entourage of foreign sounding bodyguards one of the few to land at 3 in the morning on a Thursday. The terminal was almost dead silent as they walked through it. Most of the shops were obviously closed and the few people who were sitting around were either asleep or just not paying attention, making the trek to baggage a fairly safe affair. The group stayed in the airport's hotel to prepare, splitting the operation into two teams. Team 1 consisted of the operation leader, Prefect Montague, and one other agent. Their objective was to oversee the counter-coup and ensure McIntosh's death. Team 2 was a sniper team, consisting of 6 Joker's Deck agents divided into 3 groups. Each would be given an area of Nolon City to watch over, keeping an eye on the situation on the ground, directing Team 1, and if possible, assassinate the Overlord.

When the two teams went to exit the hotel, they were greeted with a pair of pitch black SUVs that had been laying in wait for them to arrive. Once they got in, the counter-coup would begin in earnest. As the convoy pulled away, the leader spoke up again to the Prefect.

"If you have friends in Nolon, now would be a good time for a call.", he said, to which the Prefect silently acknowledged by pulling up his phone and starting on a series of calls to various people.

In the dark of the night, this convoy coasted its way into downtown Nolon, mixing in and out of the traffic as it went. After finishing the last of his calls, Montague saw the notification on his phone, an NMC Special Report. The headline simply read, "Live: 'Royalist' forces attack Fort Hamn". The concerned look on his face spoke all too much to the Bureau agent, who was quick to ask, "Sir. What seems to be the problem?"

"They're at the gates of Nolon.", Montague responded meekly, his eyes fixated on the videos captured as the attack began.

"Then we have to act quickly.", the agent responded, signalling to the driver to speed up. He picked up his radio to contact the other car, "Our timetable has changed, I want team two to be set up before sunset, team one's objectives have to be completed in less than 48 hours. We exfil in 60 hours, synchronize watches on my mark. 3. 2. 1. Mark."

The clock was ticking, and the country has to be destroyed in two days.

[Noronica]

Overlord's Palace, Nolon City, Noronica

---

"Martyn pulled out?!" Came the panicked voice of one.

Another replied, "I knew that man was a rat the moment he stepped into office. If he does not keep his vow of silence-"

"Would you all please calm down. It served only to cause chaos in the cabinet room, and now that we are free from McIntosh's overbearing scrutiny and detestable leadership here in the palace, I propose strongly that we get it together!" Came the booming voice of Howard McTavert. Some in the room were discontent with this interruption, others welcomed it with muttering agreements.

A loudmouth politician from Yorkland threw his arms in the air and spoke with frustration, "While I appreciate the attempt to placate this band of merry gentlemen, I suggest you back it with some solution to the aforementioned issue? Our leader has gone. That scheming bastard has hidden away in his factories of war and we are now left with a group of revolutionaries without a revolution." Many in the room nodded in agreement.

Trystan, who was hosting the meeting, stood leaning against the fireplace. As events transpired, he found himself becoming rather concerned. Further instability was something to be cherished, yet without a leader, there was no viable reason to arrest Joshua and put an end to the country's strife. He had watched the entire room fall into disarray as the news that Defence Secretary Martyn Greyhound had changed his mind. He had considered attempting to sway their opinion towards his father Tytus, yet that would have lost him supporters amongst the plotters.

A short rapping on the door sent the room into utter silence. Some of the more flighty and unsure plotters looked to hover over their chair, ready to push past whoever chose to enter the room. Others, however, including McTavert, seemed to be calm. Trystan noticed that there was a certain dangerous glint in McTavert's eyes, which unsettled Trystan greatly. Perhaps he had been duped by McIntosh, strung along akin to a puppet, finally caught right where the man wanted him.

The doors opened to reveal the most unlikely of guests. Lord Bartholomew Montague entered the room, his gait sure yet his eyes told a tale of a man undergoing tremendous stress. He put on a confident smirk, yet as his gaze turned to Trystan, there was a short moment of wavering uncertainty.

McTavert threw open his arms, addressing the room with loud clarity, "My friends, I told you that I came bearing gifts, and here he now stands. Martyn has forsaken the cause as he is no leader, yet the man before you has proven his worth."

Others were not so convinced, "Yes, he let hundreds of Noronnican troops fall to Dormill bullets, while he hid away in St. Recont!"

McTavert looked to want to strangle the man, yet Montague stepped in, his voice soothing, "I assure you, Dormill and Stiura handled the situation with professional ease. I find how you refer to one of the combatants as 'Noronnican troops' rather odd, should you not refer to them as 'rebels'? Is that not what they were? Or... perhaps you would share your thoughts to the room on why their cause was reasonable?"

Seeing as others were poised to defend the previous speaker, Trystan spoke, his voice urgent and stressed, "We have only tonight to decide ladies and gentlemen, should we continue to bicker, the longer McIntosh remains in power." He paused, waiting for the message to sink in, "I for one, do not feel it necessary to interrogate or throw away the one chance we have at solving this crisis. I cannot count for all of you, but I cast my vote in favour of Lord Montague." He smiled thinly at the man, who nodded in appreciation. Montague was the lesser evil, as long as someone stood to depose McIntosh, Tytus could enter the city while the plotters fought against one another to reform the retaliatory efforts against him. However, Trystan found himself growing worried at Montague's sudden and unannounced appearance. This was dangerous.

However, many nodded and voiced their agreement. To the satisfaction of McTavert and Montague, it seemed that Trystan had garnered a majority vote. Seizing the moment, McTavert addressed the group once more, "It is decided then. Joshua's administration shall be deposed tomorrow."

No one noticed Montague's grin.

[Dormill and Stiura]

Streets of Nolon City, 5:00 PM, 48 Hours and 30 Minutes until Exfil

---

One of the first things Team 2 did to prepare for their situation was just to pull up a map of Nolon City. The layout was unorthodox when compared to a Dormill-Stiuraian city of the last few years, but it was clear where their overwatch positions would be. The first squad would position themselves in an empty apartment with lines going down most of the main downtown street, the second squad positioned themselves in a skyscraper roof with angles on the main entrances to the Overlord's Palace, the State Palace, and the Parliament Building, the third and final squad positioned themselves on another skyscraper with the same angles to ensure one of them managed to make the shot if the other could not. The Nolon Underground was light on security but they didn't want to risk their chances and walked most of the way to their destinations.

As for Team 1, the situation was slightly more complicated than setting up in sniper positions. The plan for McIntosh was to commander a meat wagon from Nolon City Police and transport him away from the city to deal with him. In order to do that, they would first have to scout the vehicle, then uniforms, then actually steal the two without blowing their cover, and then wait in position without drawing suspicion until the right moment when McIntosh is being dragged in front of the cheering crowds of Nolon City. After that it would be easy enough to get him out of the city. For most of the day, Team 1 had been scouting around, looking for the right truck at the right time. It was around 4:50 when the first squad of Team 2 identified one such truck heading down the main street towards a police station. Team 1 would have to catch it in transit if it was going to come back out.

Fortunately for the operation, that same truck did pull out of the station, with a patrol car ahead as its escort. After a few moments of planning and some quick calls to the local Bureau site in Nolon City, Team 1 managed to create a plan that would split up the patrol car and the truck from each other in a secluded spot of the city, allowing the team to commander the truck and continue their mission.

A few moments later, a black sedan pulled up in front of team 1, with its driver stepping out. "All yours sir. Good luck." was all the man had to say to confirm the situation, walking away while the team piled in and got on their way. They were about 10 minutes away from the truck according to a report from the third squad of team 2, who had a visual on the two as they went along their business. If all went well, the poor folks driving the truck will be enjoying an early retirement.

[Noronica]

Fort Hamn Army Barracks, Fort Hamn, Greater Nolon, Noronica

---

Softly thrumming his fingers against his passenger window, Tytus allowed his gaze to drift onto the river beside him, which winded across the state and connected to the sea. It was a gentle thing, ignoring the hammering rain and brutal wind. The soft winding paths of the river displayed a tapestry of history, flowing through periods of great harmony and strife. The river had played a role for all in Noronica, from the Iron Age to Empire. Many a conqueror from a warring tribe would have traversed the river, knowing that at some point they would reach their destination, the city of Nolon.

Tytus had done it once in his lifetime, travelling the very same road that followed the river. The road that would end tyranny, the road that would allow a new beginning. It was so fitting that this road followed the very source of life for all beings, and now Tytus would use this chance to rebirth his country from the flames of division.

His imagination sobered as his NO-TP5 Tiger drew further into the town of Fort Hamn. He could see that fighting had also occured in the town, yet only lightly, as while there was signs of bullet holes and savaged buildings, much of the population had remained, choosing to watch as his convoy passed through. He did not expect them to smile or wave, they did not when he took this trip the last time, but they would soon learn to smile again. As the convoy progressed further through the city, the level of fighting had greatly intensified, and as they entered into the property of the Fort Hamn Army Barracks, it was clear that it had been levelled. The jeep traversed the route with ease, but after looking at the ground beside him, Tytus saw that it was clear that there was not much of a proper road left after series of bombings and mortar attacks.

The convoy came to a halt further ahead, and as troops quickly exited their vehicles and took positions either to aid their comrades or to investigate, Tytus opened his own door and began the long muddy walk to the central offices. He did not appreciate muddying himself, especially on a wet winter's day, yet he was no stranger to it and continued his journey.

"Your Majesty!" Called one of Tytus' officers, emerging from one of the office buildings, "According to surrendered staff, General Hilton is awaiting you in his office. Its the room marked by his name." Tytus nodded his thanks and walked to where he was being pointed towards.

Once inside, he noticed that the central office building was relatively intact, perhaps suggesting that the defending forces had surrendered early. Tytus frowned, he knew that General Hilton was a highly proficient commander, ergo it made very little sense that the man would have caved so easily to opposing forces. He grew concerned, perhaps this was intended as a ruse? A larger force perhaps readying itself to close in?

As he opened the marked door, he noticed that several troops were inside the room. What was in the centre of the room, however, shocked him. General Hilton sat bound by tape and rope, parts of his uniform discarded on the floor. His face hung, and blood seeped from various wounds. The gun that had been used to commit the deed was carried by a triumphant soldier who was grinning from ear to ear.

"Your Majesty, I have here General Hilton, commander of the barracks and traitor to his country." The man asked, his voice carrying an arrogant tone. He jostled the body beside him with a sneer.

Tytus ground his teeth, his hand close to his holster. Slowly, but with intense clarity, he spoke to the troops, "What happened."

The man carrying the pistol stammered slightly, his face displaying obvious confusion as he spoke, "W-well we were under his command, b-but we're loyalists and we convinced the others to join us."

Another man spoke next. He was a gaunt soldier, his sunken eyes displaying a nasty bloodlust. "Some of the officers tried to defend the General, but we shot them too." He began to snigger, "They were so afraid."

"We plan to march the General with us into the city, to show McIntosh-" The man could not continue as Tytus had, with surprising speed, hit the man in the stomach with a sickening crunch. The others jolted in shock and confusion, horrified to see that the planned appraisal was being replaced by anger.

Tytus yelled to the room, "He was General of Noronica! How dare you maim his body in this manner!" He grabbed the gaunt soldier by his collar and pushed him into the wall, "Not even in the last civil war did we treat the enemy like dogs, and now you show me this? As some form of a psychotic present?"

Having heard the shouts, several of Tytus' guards entered the room with their rifles readied. "Have the General's body prepared for a funeral with full military honours." He then pointed the soldiers in the room, "As for them, do with them what you will for murdering and tarnishing the memory of a decorated senior Noronnican officer. If I see them join us in the city for anything other than their punishment, I shall bury them myself."

Tytus, after giving General Hilton's body one last look, turned to exit the room. He understood the intent to win this war, but the military was held in the highest esteem in Noronica, and to him, those that would tarnish that honour and dignity of one of Noronica's senior officers, were beyond forgivable. Sighing loudly, he sat himself on one of the staircases in the buildings, rest for a moment.

He felt a buzz from his jacket pocket. Pulling out his phone, he recognised the name, "Good news, give me good news for I could not tolerate anything else today."

"You shall be glad to know then, that the operation begins soon. I shall be leading it, alongside some of the others. Be ready, yet maintain caution, there is another situation at play that I have not figured out as of yet."

[Dormill and Stiura]

Nolon City, 48 Hours and 21 Minutes until Exfil

---

It was fortunate enough that the prisoner truck only had one escort car ahead of it, making the job of Team 1 that much easier when it came to hijacking the thing. Now the actual hijacking would be a bit of a vulnerable moment, they would have to split the truck from its escort and actually take control of it without anybody in the entire city of Nolon noticing what had happened. Their car continued to trail behind the truck as they went through the city, waiting for the "Locals", the local Bureau office in Nolon, to make their move.

Apparently that move would be made soon as when the pair got to the next light, another black car of a strangely similar model to their own merged into the lane in front of the truck, cutting it off from its escort. The men of Team 1 knew that if the Locals were planning anything, it would happen soon. Regardless, they continued to drive in this new convoy of theirs up until the next light, which conveniently turned red just before the lead car could cross the intersection, separating them from the police escort.

Just as the light turned green, a third car, this time of a wildly different model than the prior two speeds into the intersection in front of the convoy. Its occupants piled out brandishing guns causing panic across the entire street. They demanded the man in the back, one of their own they said. It was further fortunate that the officers inside the truck were cowards and had their hands far away from the wheel and radio, allowing a pair of gang members to grab the officers once they got to the truck and threw them out, hijacking it for themselves. The last three went around back to recover their buddy, with one of them flashing a weird gesture towards Team 1's car before running back towards their own car and speeding away, the other black car that was ahead also pulled into the intersection allowing for the commandeered truck to drive off. Thinking quickly on his feet, Team 1's driver began to chase the truck, all the while the sound of sirens began to pierce the air, time was running short for the team and now their one chance to do this right was barreling through the streets of Nolon City.

The chase was growing in intensity with each passing second, the police of Nolon City all swarming around their area yet it appeared as if none of them was trying to stop Team 1, with most of the cars involved either staying behind them or passing ahead of them to stay on the tail of the truck. Eventually, a police barricade at another intersection forced the truck to stop, giving Team 1 the only chance they had to grab it for themselves. As the police circled around, the leader of Team 1 and the front passenger decided to risk getting out and face the police if necessary to get the truck, they would have to wing it from there.

One of the officers who was grabbing the criminals had managed to notice the pair walking up to the truck and spoke up, "Detective Seward, boy am I glad you were there to start the chase. I don't think we could've caught up without you." Stunned for a moment at the way this officer spoke, the leader spoke up to respond, "Well, we were lucky enough to have been there just as it happened. Though we probably wouldn't have caught them without your help either.", reaching his hand out for a brief handshake before concluding, "We'll be taking this back to the station, don't you worry about that."

"Oh, of course sir. We'll see you back at the station then.", the officer replied, dragging the gang member he had back to his car. The leader took a quick moment to look back at the car he had been using all this time to figure out what happened, where he saw a Nolon City Police Department plate on the front bumper, A surprise, but a welcome one, he thought to himself before getting in the truck. Now all they had to do was get to the police station and wait for McIntosh's eventual arrest.

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20 Hours until Exfil

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Most of the following day in Nolon was uneventful for the teams, most of whom finally managed to get some sleep in overnight. However, Nolon was becoming animated as news of the Overlord's swift victory in Fort Hamn made its way in. Team 2 woke up to the first signs of protest in the city, people were beginning to demand the removal of Prime Minister McIntosh before the Overlord and his Loyalist army attacked Nolon next, it would be only a matter of time until he arrived.

All the while, the eyes of the Isles were fixed on Noronica. Would the Overlord attack his own capital city again? Would McIntosh even surrender? These questions were as much a concern for the Bureau teams there as it did anybody watching the situation closely.