"The New World Stands Tall" - SR Lore Upkeep Thread

[South Reinkalistan]

THE NEW WORLD STANDS TALL

We stood for centuries beneath your boots. We were forced to watch, helpless, as you tore our country apart. We gazed on in horror as you sold us to foreign businessmen. Our culture rendered a matter of mere trinkets; ignorant tourists gawking at our ancient wonders, while we swept the floor after them. We watched as our royalty bent the knee to the imperialists. You don't understand the agony -- you can't. You looked upon as us your subjects. You knew we resented you. You knew what we went through. Struggling to feed our children, losing life and limb to ill-maintained machinery. The taxman and landlord bleeding us dry. And you continued the oppression regardless. Where we could have grown grain for our families, you made us grow cash crops so you had more money to line your damned pockets. The fatherland, its spirit so broken and its people so weary, began to sink into despair. It seemed hopeless.

At every turn, our leaders had betrayed us. And you had watched with gleeful malice as you plunged your greedy fingers into Reinkalistan's heart. You did so, ignorant of the wrath you would instill. The blood of the Reinkalistani people, shed by foreign tyrants on Reinkalistani soil, began to irrigate the fields of dissent. Arms smuggled out of barracks. Railroads bombed, businessmen assassinated. You saw the warning signs of our imminent rebellion, you felt our chains beginning to creak. The old regime trembled at the fury of the proletariat, standing united behind and alongside the Revolutionary Father, Kaszar Turaniski. And you did nothing but continue to rape and plunder, vindicating our righteous struggle in the eyes of the people.

You were shocked when we finally emerged in open revolt -- three sister-republics united beneath the Reinkalistani banner. We still don't understand why you were so surprised. You made us work for you at gunpoint, and shot us when we resisted. What did you expect? You, with trembling hands, attempted to crush the workers' revolution. And you failed. Your armies were pushed north, until you had your mountains to cower behind, with what remained of the comprador regime you had so long propped up. You vilified us as we began the long and painful process of healing the scars you had torn into our soil. We rose into the modern age on equal terms with you, and you despised us for it. You hated our audacity -- that we rise above you rather than stand cowed beneath your oppression.

But that was the past. Now, our forward march is only accelerating in pace. We have liberated half a continent from your clutches. Over lands mere decades prior in the firm grip of the darkest reaction, the red banner of the people now waves in the breeze. And with every success you continue to rage in futility against history's inexorable course. You do this because you know you're next. Not even man's deadliest weapons can fight the tide. And when we finally have you within our grasp, we will show you what it means to be oppressed. To be cast from your ivory towers, thrown into the mud, and stamped upon until you can barely breathe. We'll make no excuses for the violence. Our righteous anger shall be dispensed, and once your taint is cleared from the earth, all men may live in peace forevermore. Can you hear it, Comrades? The righteous cry of the smothered and oppressed is finally being heard! The star and sword, bathed in crimson light, is rising over the Earth! The sacrifices of generations are finally bearing fruit! Rejoice, those who refuse to be slaves -- we will take our freedom, no matter the cost! No matter the sacrifice! You can't stem the flood now. The working people march towards total victory.

Introduction | Constitution | Setting Information | Map
CHAPTERS: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 (COMING SOON)

South Reinkalistan, officially the "People's Federation of Reinkalistan", is the foremost state of the Fifth International, a geopolitical organisation dedicated to world communism. It is a constitutionally socialist state, operating upon a very particular subset of socialism termed Spiritual Vanguardism. Spiritual Vanguardism informs the general outlook of the Fifth International. The interpretation of Spiritual Vanguardism has grown more radical as of recent, with the ascent of Mozhkin K. Turaniski to the leadership of South Reinkalistan, instigating massive change and social upheaval across the socialist world. Reinkalistan is more than a nation: it is an idea. Ever since the 1964 Revolution, socialism has been cultivated in every aspect of Reinkalistani society. Huge urbanisation initiatives, industrial programs, mega-projects, and social reforms have marked the socialist era. While Reinkalistan's fast-paced and intense development has come at the expense of personal freedom and even human lives, it has transformed society at every level. Subsistence farming is a thing of the past; no foreign corporation sets foot on Reinkalistani soil. To many, this way of life seems inviting. Despite the Federation's many shortcomings, life is stable and secure: cities are well-designed, employment is guaranteed, homelessness is nigh-unheard of, and labour laws provide paid vacation and reasonable hours. Yet others detest the system of what they perceive to be Vanguardist tyranny. The intense cult of personality surrounding Turaniski continues to unsettle observers, and the authority wielded by the behemothic Executive Office for Ideological Affairs betrays the existence of a deep-rooted and all-pervasive police state.

This has culminated in the Cold War with the Union of Dhoerish States and Nations. Dhoeria is Reinkalistan's antithesis in every way. Ruthlessly individualistic. Free market to the core. Socially liberal to the greatest possible extent. Under President Frederick Elias, the Union controls a vast sphere of influence, concentrated on the continent of Askander, pressed against the D'ailloustre Line -- the thin division between the socialist world and the capitalist one. It is on Askander where the pieces were set in place for the conflicts of the modern world. When the Iron Republic of Kayastadt, hitherto then in domination of the whole continent, was opposed in 1981 by the micro-states still independent from its influence, Reinkalistan and Dhoeria joined forces to destroy its global hegemony. A brutal struggle ensued, one that could have seen nuclear war initiated at any time. But the world carefully weaved its way around annihilation -- people stopped fearing the atom bomb as they realised the horrors of modern mass warfare far exceeded the devastation of atomic conflict. Askander was left in unspeakable ruin, its population totally decimated. The world's economy lay shattered. But peace, as disastrous as it was, had been attained. The continent was split into two halves -- the North and the South, divided into various nations beneath Dhoerish and Reinkalistani influence respectively.

Many believed that following this show of co-operation, there was a possibility for peace between Vanguardism and Capitalism. These people were wrong.

While for a few years, relations improved, everything changed without warning or explanation when South Reinkalistan ordered every land border between the Fifth International and the northern nations be closed. All foreign residents were expelled, forces mobilised to the D'ailloustre Line. The North looked on in shock, in reaction proclaiming the North Askander Defense League to protect themselves. Now, the conflict on Askander is cold. Ice cold. South Reinkalistan looks with envious irredentism towards the pro-Dhoerish rump-state on its northern border, the last obstacle towards total reunification of the Fatherland. Ships, planes, and armies stand ready on every corner of Askander, knowing war could break out at any moment. In the year of 2021, the world is changing. Kayan restorationists wage an insurgency against both Reinkalistani and Dhoerish influence, and everywhere on the continent, the presence of foreign armies begins to draw resentment from the local populace. Indeed, danger is ahead. A meticulously-built world order stands poised to collapse at any moment. But another war, over the hubris of competing empires, would not be welcome to the people of Askander.

This setting, tense and ripe for cataclysm, provides a good place to write stories. This is where I intend to post these stories. Read if you want, no pressure -- I'm doing this out of personal gratification more than anything. If you do want to read, I hope you enjoy the story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

- Rein

[South Reinkalistan]

THE LAND FOR WHICH WE BLED
15^TH OCTOBER, 1985

Beneath our hubris, death's garden watered,
That taint which flows, floods, blood trickling from the Fatherland's wounds.
The holy cannot but wail at the greed,
Unhinderedly march'd forth unto oblivion's embrace.

- Wilhelm Erderung, Quiet Flows the Aren, 1986

Heidrichsburg was in ruins. The once-proud Kayan capital had fallen to the Reinkalistani Red Army in a show of might which had dispensed the fury cultivated by centuries of oppression at Kayastadt's hand. Artillery had indiscriminately smashed into the city; planes had obliterated its infrastructure and fortified positions from above. And then, block by block, district by district, the inexorable forward advance of the People's Federation had been made evident. With the Instrument of Surrender for all Kayan Forces in the Southern Theatre, the rapidly-fracturing government had effectively capitulated to the Reds.

Field Marshal of the People's Federation Koraki Azantasa watched atop a balcony from the badly damaged halls of the Republikskongress, elbows leaning on the rusted railings, observing the fires and rubble below. He had a good vantage point over the city, and drew mild satisfaction from the devastation his men had wrought. A lone flake of ash blew past in the wind, landing on his shoulder. With a calloused, rough hand, the old general brushed it off. He was not alone. Generalfeldmarschall Henrik Gedenauher stood beside him, a man of equal rank yet now vastly less powerful than the decorated Reinkalistani officer. Azantasa respected Gedenauher. For all his hatred for the Kayan nation and government, he understood Gedenauher to be not so different to him. Both of them were men of humble background, having agonisingly climbed the ranks of their respective militaries, and had commanded vast bodies of men beneath themselves. Both marshals had sparred on the southern front, and had grown to appreciate the respective skill of their opponent.

Now, they met, face-to-face. Azantasa had specifically requested his presence from his holding cell, and the General-Secretary had personally sanctioned this meeting. Unlike most of the Kayan junta, he had fought for his country tooth and nail while his comrades fled overseas from undeniable prosecution for their perceived crimes. Azantasa held in his hand a small glass of Reinkalistani grain vodka, and was passively smoking a cigar. Gedenauher had nothing but the clothes on his back. "I imagine you're somewhat sad." Said Azantasa. His voice was gruff and simple. There was no taunting or disrespect, merely a statement.

"Not particularly," replied Gedenauher, "for I fought until I couldn't fight." Both men spoke Kayan, by far the world's most dominant tongue. A bitter irony, perhaps, considering the state of Kayastadt at that moment. "All I weep for are my countrymen," he gestured to the men's surroundings, "and how they suffer right now."

Azantasa nodded. "Indeed, it is how many of my countrymen wept sixty years ago, when your country pressed us into chains. History has a way of repaying wrongs, friend."

The Kayan thought about this for a moment. "I wonder how many of the men who died and suffered in this war were complicit in your nation's slavery." He said at last. "Shortly before you captured this city, I watched as a young girl cried by her mother's corpse. Did this girl or her mother sign the Three-Power Treaty? Did either of them put any Reinkalistani labourers on the plantations?" There was a hint of venom to his voice.

"War is war," shrugged Azantasa, "and people die. I watched my mother die, not from shells or bullets, but from the starvation you inflicted on us. I feel sorrow for this girl, as I felt sorrow then. But, alas, the cycle of war and death can only be ended through violent struggle. People die as a result. They always have."

"And what for your Dhoerish allies? They oppressed your country just as much as we did."

Azantasa's stoic expression slightly cracked, a thin smile emerging. "They're next. It doesn't matter how long it takes. One day, a man like me will be having a conversation like this with a man like you, looking over the ruins of Satychi from the Dhoerish Presidential Palace. I don't care if we have to cross an ocean to do it. We will."

"Your optimism is admirable. It's something I don't have, considering my fate." Both men knew that Gedenauher's time was limited. He would be executed with the rest of the Generals and Politicians who'd either refused to leave their country or merely failed to escape in time.

"It's sad." The Reinkalistani looked, mournfully, at the darkening sky. "But it cannot be averted. I tried to intervene on your behalf to no avail."

Gedenauher let out a small smile. "It is fine. I would not like to live or die at the whim of one man anyway."

"Death in service of one's country." Azantasa nodded. "It is honorable." They stayed in silence for a moment, until an armed guard entered the balcony, bearing a badge of the Reinkalistani National Security Service.

"Comrade Azantasa, your meeting-time is up. We will be taking over custody of Gedenauher now." The Kayan general nodded sadly to his adversary, a final goodbye to end the war. In silence he left with the guard, leaving Azantasa with his cigar, watching the city continue to burn in the setting sun.

[South Reinkalistan]

THE LAST THREAD SEVERED
11^TH DECEMBER, 1985

The spiritualists will smother Vanguardism in its cradle!

- Horath Devask, in an inebriated sob-wracked rant, 1972

He was a wretched man. His hair matted, filth-ridden, and greasy. His skin calloused and smeared with dirt, his clothes ragged and tattered, no shoes on his feet. He was tied to a chair in a dark, musty cellar. However, like most people who found themselves in such a situation, he was a man of considerable significance. For while his body was thin and weary, the steel-rimmed flame in the eyes of Horath Devask had yet to be extinguished. He had always lived his political career in the shadow of the now-paramount leader of the People's Federation, Kaszar Turaniski -- the "Revolutionary Father", supreme executor of the popular mandate. In the revolution's early years they had stood side-by-side through the civil war and subsequent reconstruction. He was a die-hard atheist, secularist to the bone, and had clashed with Turaniski's spiritualist faction at every point. When the Party ruptured in 1968, Devask won the 1969 elections -- yet his lack of support in the army had seen him ousted in the 1970 New Year's Coup, propelling the spiritualists to unquestioned political dominance. Since then, he had fled abroad to Askander, and lived in relative obscurity, exiled beneath the protection of the Kayapakt.

Now, however, the Iron Republic had fallen, and Devask abandoned as more pressing concerns - such as the Red Army's advance into Kayastadt proper - had occupied his patrons. Discovered and captured by a Red Army patrol in the war's closing months, he had been black-bagged and sent to the capital, now named Turaniskidak. It was here that he lingered in this dark room. He hadn't been given a toilet or been informed as to what would be done with him. He couldn't tell how long had passed. Devask had drifted in and out of consciousness multiple times. He was starving. No water, no food. He was sitting in a pool of his own filth. He didn't like to admit it to himself, but he was frightened. He knew he was going to die. He racked his brain for any way out of the situation he was in. His muscles burned from his restraints as he struggled to break free. Each attempt merely cost more energy, rendering him weaker and weaker. Devask was no stranger to putting his life on the line. But each time he'd done so, he'd felt sick to his stomach, knowing at any moment the ever-thinning thread which kept him bound to this world could have snapped.

Now, despite his defiance, despite his fifteen years of overseas resistance, the spiritualists had finally found him. And they had done so triumphantly -- overthrowing a reactionary regime. In the words of Turaniski himself: "we turned over the Kayan rock to find the louse underneath." He waited through the hours. How long had it been? His throat was parched and his limbs were weak. His stomach growled for food. He felt as if he had been trapped for years, though he knew this could not have been the case.

Then, finally, salvation -- a trickle of light spilling down damp stone steps into his basement tomb. Devask was morbidly excited; at least the page would turn onto the next chapter of his imminent demise. He almost groaned, however, when he heard a familiar voice which, albeit coarsened by the years, still bore the patronising yet calm tone he had been used to all those years ago. It was the voice which had chided him when he'd overstepped his boundaries; the voice which had overruled his decisions so many times. It was the voice which had dissolved the People's Congress in 1970, sending him into exile despite his electoral victory. It was a voice he hated with every part of him, a voice he'd despised since he'd first heard it, yet had to work with so long.

It was the voice of General-Secretary Kaszar Turaniski; the Revolutionary Father himself. "Hello, Horath." His words were punctuated by the clear-cut sound of shoes on stone. "Holy fuck," he continued, "it smells of shit down here." Turaniski now came into view. He wasn't a particularly impressive man. He was relatively short, his hair was greying, and he had grown rather portly since the guerrilla-fighting Devask had known him for. Then again, he was arguably in a far better state than the scrawny man before him.

"Ah, Kaszar." It hurt Devask's throat to speak. "C-come to gloat at long last?"

Turaniski paused, then resumed. "Yes. It's not like you have anything better to listen to." He gestured to the man's surroundings.

Devask almost smiled despite himself. "You have a point." He suddenly recoiled as a blinding white light shone in his eyes, a blinding contrast to the darkness he had been acquainted with. "That's a bit annoying." He grunted. Turaniski laughed again, his voice now tinged with malice.

"Don't worry. You'll be fed, cleaned, and watered for the trial. You'll be rather presentable and will live the next week in relative luxury. But for now I'd like to just discuss things with you. I cleared out my schedule especially for this moment. It's been a while, friend."

"We've never been friends. You know that. The fact that you neglect your duties as a statesman to rub salt in my wounds is testament to this." Devask seemed genuinely angry at this point, straining at his bonds. There was no doubt that, if he was able to, he would attempt to strangle Turaniski in a feral rage. But the rope held firm.

Another cruel laugh. "Save your energy. I don't want you to die of exhaustion just yet. I've already had about twelve Kayan Generals executed -- your trial was saved for last. It's going to be special."

"What have you made up about me this time, leech?"

"What is there to make up?" The General-Secretary shrugged. "You sat beneath the protection of a reactionary regime. You plotted to subvert the legitimate government of the Federation while beneath said protection. You are without a doubt guilty of the highest form of treachery. This is all undeniable."

Anger flashed in Devask's eyes once more, but then died down. From any factual perspective Turaniski was spot-on. "I... I just don't care any more. You stole my country. You know I won that election. In your heart of hearts you know."

Again, this was met with indifference. "You were outplayed."

"Is... is that all you have to say?" Devask was aghast. "You fucking coward. I watched you, I fucking watched you, as you marched into my inauguration with your goons, and I watched as you took everything we'd built and cast it to the wind. I spent fifteen fucking years in a backwards feudal shithole, and every second I saw you spit on our fucking legacy. And all you can say is that I was outplayed? Yeah, I guess I was. I thought you'd be reasonable. I thought you'd be fucking rational. But I guess a zealot like you can't be appeased. Your fucking cult wasn't going to stop until you had everything, no matter the cost. You've killed the revolution. My revolution. Our revolution. I hope it was fucking worth it." He tried to spit at Turaniski, but his throat was too dry.

His captor remained silent throughout his rant. He sadly nodded. "Devask, you were always the idealistic fool. You never saw the game you were playing. You'll be dead soon, and you'll have nobody to blame but yourself." He tutted. "It's a shame. If you had slightly more nuance, knew slightly more than you did, you'd have been worth keeping around."

"Beneath your thumb? Never."

Turaniski was now resigned. "Goodbye, Horath." He turned off the light, and slowly trod up the stairs once more, his footsteps echoing, Devask's ranting following him and growing fainter. Eventually, the door slammed, once again leaving the defeated man shouting, his voice weaker each passing second, in the dark.

[South Reinkalistan]

AND THEY THOUGHT WE WERE BEATEN?
21^ST APRIL, 2022

I'm not exactly sure what Turnov aimed to gain from his little plot, but it appears you've pigeonholed it. I trust you have things covered in the party then, Comrade Koronoski?

- M. K. Turaniski, shortly after the 2022 General Secretariat election's conclusion

And thus the silence of the President's office was broken by a knock on the door. "Come in." Turaniski's voice, hoarsened by the stress of the past few days, had returned to the slightly agitated not-quite-placid tone as was usual for him. He was sipping on a small glass of vodka, two ice cubes inside. On the table sat the bottle, an artisanal and frankly impractically large thing with a capacity of six liters.

The door creaked open, and Koronoski - newly-elected General Secretary of the Communist Party - stepped through, his raven-black hair combed and his suit neatly ironed. "Ah, Comrade President, so we meet at last." He said with an odd mix of pride and apprehension. Despite Turaniski's endorsement and under-the-table dealings with Koronoski, the two men had not met until this point -- and a man of Turaniski's status, albeit damaged via the cloak-and-dagger shenanigans of the past few weeks, was still one which begot the necessity for a decent first impression.

"Take a seat." Said Turaniski, wordlessly. He silently poured Koronoski a vodka, cracking ice into the glass from a pitcher. Koronoski sat down, but declined the drink.

"Apologies, Comrade President. I am afraid I'm teetotal." Feeling he had made a mistake, the General Secretary winced in anticipation of a stern rebuke. But Turaniski's lips instead curved and opened, revealing a flawlessly white-toothed grin.

"Of course!" Laughed the senior politician. "I knew you were the right man for the job. A man's mind unfettered by the world's myriad vices, his mind in one direction with stern and uncompromising conviction! Supersession itself dictated your victory, I am sure of it!" Koronoski seemed taken aback, but took the praise happily. Turaniski continued- "Right, regardless, I believe a decisive partnership can be established here. As you are of no doubt, the constitutionality of our respective offices find conflict which has been resolved via let us say... common convention. This has not been an issue over the past twenty years because I have held both offices and this has allowed a certain degree of legislative leeway. Now Article 5 of the Constitution is in tatters."

Koronoski sat back, thinking. "I've given this a great deal of thought as well. Generally, I think the best way by which to proceed is close co-operation on both parts. I'll keep the party in line and make sure that the kind of nonsense that happened in Statzdai doesn't re-occur, while you maintain your executive decision-making with regards to policy and the People's Congress. Keep in close consort and make sure nobody contradicts the other." Noticing Turaniski's smile beginning to slightly fade, Koronoski quickly added: "naturally, I will defer to your experience and supersessively-endowed wisdom in the case of strong disagreement."

The smile returned. "Good. That is precisely what I was imagining as well. You see, your immediate duty is deciding who has what responsibilities within the party. Naturally, I used this authority in 2003 to adjust the situation in which this party found itself. I would like you to do the same." Turaniski withdrew a folder from his pocket. "Here is a dossier on a hundred or so individuals who I'd like to see removed. How they are removed is up to you. I've got most of the governors on board -- keep close liaison with Taratysk and the EOIA. All we need to do now is sort out the Statzdai situation. Turnov can't save them now."

"I see." Replied Koronoski. "I will do as you ask. And what of Turnov?"

This elicited a sudden frown from the President. "Turnov's situation is... delicate. He will remain in his position as Exterior Commissar - though he will no longer be Chairman of the Central Committee, this is now Comrade Khuvashchev's job - and I've instructed Taratysk to keep an eye on him. He won't take a step without me knowing."

"Would it not be more prudent to nip the issue in the bud?"

"No." Turaniski said firmly. "He is too invaluable an asset to lose. He is a skilled diplomat, administrator, and advisor. The Federation still has much to owe him."

"Understood, that should be all, then?" Koronoski inquired. Before the President could respond, he remembered something. "Oh, another thing. Khuvashchev seems itching to restrict the autonomy of the Republics. I understand this contradicts your plans on the Kaskia situation; besides, he's far too full of himself. May I have his case seen to?"

Almost like a proud parent, Turaniski smiled. "The Party's yours now, Comrade Koronoski. You can do as you please."

[Reinkalistan]

ROOT OF ALL EVIL
10^TH JANUARY, 1985

"The worst thing about fascism isn't the death camps. It's not the fact that they have a grotesque vision of violence and despair, their deeply pessimistic view of human nature and the world at large. It's not that they put our Comrades in front of firing lines, that they send the trade unionists to be hung. The worst part of fascism is that anyone can don its black cap and crawl into its flesh. Fascists, no matter how pure their smiles, no matter how they love their friends and family, must be rooted out with the cold lack of mercy with which our forebears hunted animals in the forest."

- Marshall Azantasa, Heidrichsberg Victory Speech, 1986

Three dialects of the same language let out the same triumphant roar of "victory!": "Vash'tala!", "Vazstala!", and "Vostori!" The language of the Kaskians, the Statzdaites, the Shirakans, and their sister-republics all screaming with defiant rage at their erstwhile subjugators.

This wasn't the pseudo-slave revolt of 1964, where the Reinkalistanis had fought to throw off the chains of the Three-Power Treaty; this was a war of vengeance, and the gleeful conscripts, pep-talked by their units' commissars, were reveling in it. In their eyes, they were no longer just fighting for their resistance against imperialism -- it was a war to free others from it, and make sure that the Reinkalistani Civilisation would no longer again be threatened by an Askanderean power.

Yet, as they prepared to rise up to spill blood and metal against the technologically-superior foe they were nevertheless besting - albeit at great cost - the commanding officer of the 41st Rifles Brigade picked up his radio, received a transmission, and nodded. "Comrades," he shouted to the men and women gearing for the assault, "the fight for Upper Djanabrok is over. The surrounded enemy has surrendered." At this, a raucous cheer emerged, and yet more shouts of victory -- the day was won.

And thus brought Kail Mystrikioti to the assembled prisoners of war in front of him. Kail was a Kaskian farming boy. He didn't know much about Communism, not much about the war, nothing really about who the Kayans were or what they wanted. All he knew was that they were the men who worked his ma to death, and that was all he needed to hate them. But even he was shocked when he watched the pleading prisoners of the Wulfsangel - the Kayan warrior elite - shot against the wall on the orders of his unit's commissar. So, at mess that night, he sidled up to his commissar - Red Army units did not separate messes by rank - and asked.

"Comrade Dmitri," he began, "why did we have to shoot those men? Why did we have to watch?"

Dmitri responded through a mouthful of bread. "Because they were Wulfsangels. Fascists. The worst of the worst."

Kail pondered this. "But I saw their eyes, Comrade. They were full of life and fear. We could've put them into prison, at least. Made them better men."

For a second, Dmitri looked like he was about to reprimand the young man. But then, his expression softened nigh-imperceptibly. He put his bread down on his plate, and sighed. "Because, Comrade, you are right. They were men. They were just like you and me. They had souls and hearts and lungs and blood. Friends and family who'll now never see them again." With that, he picked up his bread and started eating once more.

"...well?" Asked Kail after a long pause. "Go on. What else?"

Dmitri shrugged. "What else is there to say? That didn't stop them from being who they were. They didn't stop being fascists."

"I don't understand." Kail murmured.

Another sigh. "Comrade, you must understand, we don't kill fascists in spite of them being human. We don't even kill them necessarily out of hate. It isn't fun to kill fascists. No well-adjusted human being wants to kill anyone else. But war isn't for the well-adjusted. We kill them because they, too, have hopes and dreams. These aren't necessarily fascist hopes or fascist dreams. Perhaps they want to see the Eldarossi mountains. Perhaps they want to raise a loving family. They're uniquely human in their desires." He lowered his voice wearily. "Every time you kill a fascist, you bear the weight of all those things they wanted to do, but never did. That's ultimately a good thing."

"But I still don't understand. Why is taking human life good?"

"Because the good things in a fascist's life come at the detriment to the world around him. He wants to visit the Eldarossi, but he also likes the idea of carving the face of his leader into the sacred peaks of the Saniolan people. He wants to raise his family atop the mass graves of his subjugated lessers. His worldview is a part of him, it flows through his veins. The movements of his human muscles and the beating of his human heart work towards building fascism, like ours build communism."

Kail nodded. "But why can't we make them better men? I just- I don't understand. Did you not say that we're fighting for peace, for love? A world where all are redeemed in the grace of socialism?"

"All worlds are built upon battered bodies and broken bones." Muttered Dmitri solemnly. "The only difference with the world we strive for is that there'll be no violence afterwards. The old Lords and money-Barons built their societies not just through violence, but with it as a component. Our society will need no such violence. Our world will have peace and love. But before then, we need to break skulls against each other, because the old world will not die quietly."

He looked down at the young man. How old must he be? No older than twenty. Half Dmitri's age. Just a conscript plucked from Kaskia, sent off to fight so that others could be free. He smiled inwardly at himself. At Dmitri's age, he was fighting the King's armies and their Kayan backers. "Comrade," he lit a cigarette, "when I was your age, I heard news every day of the protoszchi¹ killing us in cold blood during the revolution, because we were as dangerous to them then as they are to us now. They did far worse than firing lines. They'd burn entire villages to the ground. Mine included."

"Ah." Kail looked at the floor. "Comrade, I don't know what to say."

"You don't need to say anything. You are willing to learn, that's enough." He tried to pull off a warm smile. He semi-succeeded. "Comrade, look. You can be squeamish about death. You need not celebrate it. In fact, treat death with disgust. You need to go back home without hearing gunshots in your head as you sleep, without seeing the faces of the dead in your eyes. That will make you the type of man that can build communism with no regrets." His voice steeled. "Nevertheless, you must know that this death exists and is necessary."

"Without these deaths, the future won't blossom. That's the burden we bear."

¹ "Protoszchi", or "protos". Proto-fascists; the soldiers of the Kayan Empire that existed before the Iron Republic, seen as precursors to modern Kayan fascism.

[Reinkalistan]

WHEN THE DAWN BREAKS
31^ST JULY, 2023

"We were once young. We made great, terrible mistakes, the consequences of which the lesser races now live with, though they know nothing of how they suffer. They do not need to love us. They simply need to be different. They are foolish, clumsy, and inelegant creatures; and that, in no small part, is a component of their strange beauty."

- Yun Xiao, 'The Future is Theirs', 2002

With passionless elegance, just over one and a half thousand lives were ended at the press of a button. The Sianshu Confederacy took threats to its sovereignty seriously, and any attempt by perfidious foreign interlopers to impede on it had to be responded to in a proportionate, just, and fair manner. This is why it was an entirely necessary use of force to launch five fusion torpedoes simultaneously at the civilian cruise liner that entered Sianshu waters. Anything less would be a great disservice to the Project; it would stain the honour of countless generations; it would erode the foundations of the mighty civilisation which moulds mountains as if they were clay.

This foreign policy had served the Confederacy well for the past few thousand years, so there was no reason to change it for the next few thousand. The protozoan invertebrate barbarians had no recourse against any response their betters deigned to throw at them, so it was safe to keep destroying civilian cruise liners until the situation escalated. Their command of antiphysics was practically neanderthal, and their grip on any natural law that mattered could be best summed up as elementary. Every day they continued to exist was a great mercy bestowed upon the lesser races, and the lesser races would do well to respect the generous parameters imposed by superior peoples. That was the least they could ask.

Some Sianshu took great pleasure in observing the political developments that occurred in the barbarian kingdoms. Foolish and trivial, but a tolerable distraction from the serious matters which they had dedicated their whole souls towards. How they had laughed as the Askandereans pillaged Odoheia; as Zeinbergh wrote his silly book, and Turaniski brought its words to life. If the Sianshu still engaged in the defunct system of transactional currency, they would open betting pools on how long after mastering the atom these simians would obliterate themselves. They had not done so yet, but, like themselves, their possession of nuclear technology was young. It would only take a few more decades - maybe more - and the rest of the world would regress to a simpler, less annoying state.

That said, it was never nice putting the recalcitrant barbarians to death. It felt like kicking a puppy; why did they assail the borders of the Sianshu Confederacy expecting impunity? The great cost exacted upon their bodies, and on the collective Sianshu soul, was a great one. The defense of that which is sacred demands a steep sacrifice. But the bedrock of faith and the advancement of humanity does not leave room for compromise.

The project continues.

[Reinkalistan]

I AM DYING. HELP ME
11^TH DECEMBER, 1999

"We don't know where the Great Pterapoles came from, only that they are far older than us; perhaps older than the Sianshu. They are beings of pure metamatter, and they graze on the ether of the skies. What is their purpose in this world? We cannot say, but there is a great imperative to learn more of them."

- Professor Arthur Schmidt, Lecture at the University of Satychi, 2011

The delinquent youths sat at the apex of one of many valleys on the northern reach of New Dhoeria. It was winter, and the searing cold lashed at them with reckless abandon. But the youths did not care. They had greatcoats and hard cider, as well as a flickering fire that persisted heroically against the Dhoerish winter wind.

They laughed. They kissed. They did what any teenagers have a right to do: make memories. The kind of stuff you reflect upon, and laugh about, in the future. The world was free, noon had come, and the sun hung high above all that sat under heaven. Then, something changed. It felt like the air pressure all around them flattened. It was almost imperceptible, but confusion settled onto the young faces as the pressure dipped further. Then, they saw it.

It did not really have a colour, more a shimmering shell of not-quite-matter that morphed and bulged. It stretched from one end of the valley and back, mighty, multi-kilometer wings folded as it gracefully slid downwards with no visible means of propulsion, before settling in the valley and hovering above it. It was smooth, impossibly smooth. It bore no arms or legs, no discernible head; and in every sensation that erupted from it, there was the unmistakable stench of fear.

The teenagers did not move. They simply watched in awestruck horror. It was clearly 'wounded'; a large 'incision' extended into its back, and a florescent cascade of rainbow light poured from it. "It's hurt." A girl muttered. "It's afraid." Despite very little being known about the dubious 'biology' of the Great Pterapoles, it was clear that this one was about to die.

Nobody was expecting the voice. It was ethereal and booming, and indeterminably androgynous. It did not come from any one place. It filled their ears all at once, a righteous cry for aid from the heavens. "Help me." The agony was implicit in those words.

"What do you mean?" Whispered the girl.

"I was hunted, hunted by weapons fashioned from my slaughtered kin." The voice boomed again. "We are dying."

With a trembling voice and trembling hands, she responded; talking to the mighty, ancient beast. "Who is hunting you?"

"They call themselves the Sianshu Confederacy. They are exacting their conquests upon the lands beyond. We are the keepers of the gates that lead to the world they wish to access. Our flesh is what they are after."

By now, the girl had not noticed that her companions had run off. She was transfixed on the great, gyrating anti-mass that was pleading for her assistance; this mythical creature with which nobody had had the chance to interface. It spoke her language, it heard her no matter the volume of her voice.

"We have watched, helpless. They raise their great airships into the sky and use harpoons made of our skin to bring us down. We are peaceful. We are being hunted."

The girl gazed down. "What... what are you? Really?"

"Longer ago than your race can count, this world - the Disc - was built with rugged might by golden Gods. They created the Sheet to wrap it around you and prevent the Outside from accosting you. The human race was designed for this paradise which you have graciously endured for as long as you have been here. It has not been easy. You have witnessed, and are witnessing, great injustices. But you have lived."

"What golden Gods? What Outside?"

"It is not for you to know. But we have watched you, humanity, and we have loved you. You could mete any retribution against us, and that would not change." The Pterapole was weeping. She could just tell.

"How are you talking to me?" A lone tear slid from the girl's eye.

"Your voice is ours, ever since breath filled your lungs. Your vocal chords are your greatest assets, if at times your greatest weakness. You needed the music of language to coordinate your Kingdoms, and free yourselves from disease and war. That still appears to be a work in progress, which is fine. The mountains did not form over mere days either." It paused. It vocalised pain, as more light seeped out of its unraveling body.

"There are only twenty of us left. There cannot ever be much more, but our numbers grow thinner with each assault upon us. That is your greatest vice. The power to destroy things, not out of malice or primal hunger, but just because you can. You have hands that can build tools, and brains that let you use them. You now turn these tools on us, and in doing so you will end your own races too."

"How..." the girl knew not what to say. "Can we help? Can I help? Will we all die?"

"When we no longer float in the skies, the great symphony that ties the Sheet to the Disc will fall silent. When this happens, eighty two percent of the human population will be slaughtered indiscriminately. The civilisations you have built will die. It will be worse than every war you have ever fought amongst yourselves. You will be the architects of your own slaughter."

As the girl watched, the incision widened. The creature's 'skin' began to fade out of existence. "You're-" she stumbled over her words.

"Dying." The Pterapole acknowledged. "It is one of the few things we fear. I do not know what comes afterwards. I loved experiencing the world. Listening to the song of life. I would miss it, but I fear that when I die, I will be unable to miss things as well. Death is sad. Every death, from a stillborn child to old age, fills us with anguish. It is avoidable. Conquer it."

"I- I don't know how."

"You all must learn. And you must stop them from killing us. I say this both for my brethren, and for you. You stare oblivion in the face. You are the youth. Every new generation is another breath of life into your beautifully flawed species. I have no directions for you, sadly. You must make the world yourself, like your ancestors."

The girl watched wordlessly as the Pterapole died. Its skin evaporated, the rainbow light a kaleidoscopic extinguishing of its soul. And then it was gone with not a trace remaining, leaving her there. Alone, in the cold.