Tensions in Lyceni

[Harrisopia]

Harrisopia, Tritous
Harrisopian Royal Palace
Conference Room
King Theon Jadeous

Sun shined through the windows as the King leaned back in his chair, awaiting one of the many reports he had to endure.

"According to Alexiandran officials the riots have eased off slightly in the last few days but it still can't be considered peace time Your Highness." Said General James Davenport

The King replied "Perhaps not but it isn't anything we can't handle. The Traldonians will calm before long. Their outrage mainly derives from misguided patriotism. Propaganda from the war that some haven't forgotten."

General Davenport sighed before shuffling through a few folders
"I would agree Your Highness if the Traldonian unrest could be considered an internal matter. But unfortunately it no longer can."
Finding a particular folder, the General presented it to the King who had a brief look through.

"Vichnayan naval forces have been seen lurking around allied waters. Not directly in our territory but close enough to show that they aren't on holiday."

The King looked up at this

General Davenport continued
"They seem to be taking a real interest in what they call Traldonian freedom. It sounds like an excuse to push for conflict to me Your Highness."

King Theon stayed silent for a moment
"I say we send word out to our allies in Alexiandra and Magica. I think it may be time for another council meeting."

[Riomler]

Riomler condemns the move by vichnaya,sending 10 frigates and 2 destroyers to patrol allied territory.Meanwhile Sends 100,000 more soldiers

[Nishikaigan]

This brewing conflict caught the attention of the otherwise aloof and distant Kingdom of Leifor, which deployed a few destroyer squadrons to monitor the situation as it developed

[Upper Magica]

---

Three months prior…

---

Aquilara City - Eastern League Hockey Semifinals - All-Vichnayan Hockey League v. Magican Sorcerers

It was an august day - figuratively and literally in the cool streets of Aquilara City, even more so in this artificially-cooled hockey rink. Like his homeland, this place was beneath the equator, thus, in stark contrast to most of the world, the seasons were reversed - summer was winter and winter was summer. It was more like Spring, to make matters short. The reason for such excitement? Not only the first Magican-Vichnayan game of friendly hockey, but also that Vichnayan Minister of Defense, Mrs. Karkstahl, one of the reclusive state's 'upper echelons', would be in attendance alongside yours truly: the ambassador of the Empire of Magica to the Federal Republic, Declan Scaraglietta.

The game started out friendly enough: the Vichnayans, of course, were ahead of the national team by five points by halftime, which stirred the ire of the Magican audience on the other half of the stands.

But it was during what was supposed to be a moment of friendly reconciliation and sportsmanship, in which Ambassador Scaraglietta intended to make a kind gesture, the playing of the Vichnayan national anthem as both Magican and Vichnayan saluted, that things would go terribly wrong.

As the Vichnayan flag fluttered on the telescreens, he could tell something wasn't quite right as the 'anthem' started playing…

'Vichnaya, Vichnaya, greatest country in world -
All other countries run by little girls
Vichnaya, Vichnaya, where the people are smelly,
And the government's corrupt and sleazy.'

Oh no. He recognized this anthem. Vladislav's Odyssey to Make Benefit Glorious Vichnaya. It was a funny movie, in his opinion.

The Vichnayans, however, did not think so. The movie on its release had caused almost immediately a diplomatic incident between the two countries. As tenuous as things were, it was an incident that almost got the movie banned, free speech be damned.

'Vichnaya, Vichnaya, land of the stars,
Where our horoscopes tell us who we are,
Our video games are always played,
And the smell never fades.'

It was during this verse, as the Magican section of the audience began to break out into uproarious laughter, that the Vichnayans would break out into uproarious outrage, their religion, personal hygiene and national pastime having been insulted. Minister Karkstahl looked furious as she sat on the Ambassador's right in the private box seats that Scaraglietta had rented for the Magican and Vichnayan delegations, as her people, who now began to throw foodstuffs and beverages at their Magican counterparts on the opposite side of the stadium, began to descend into a different kind of sport this day - bloodsport.

If Vichnayans and Magicans had anything in common, it was their passion for fighting, especially over sport - the Furorem Magicanum was notable throughout the region for time immemorial; nothing stirred Magican blood more than a good fight. The Vichnayan hockey hooligans had thrown down the gauntlet - and for the Magicans, who began to chant in unison: “Vichnayens malodorans! Retornetz a vòstre sótahòst!” - roughly corresponding to our English: ‘Smelly Vichnayans! Go back to the basement!’ while replying with their own missiles of beer cans, beer bottles, and globs of ketchup-soaked hamburger, it would have been dishonorable to them and their newly-found patriotism to back down so easily against the Boogeyman of the North.

Before long, the Magican and Vichnayan hockey teams began to engage in a veritable Battle on the Ice - even the goalies had joined in as Aquilaran referees and support staff hurried to leave the rink and the stands.

Minister Karkstahl, at this time, flanked by her attaches, arose, letting loose an exasperated sigh. “This venture seems to have been most unproductive, Ambassador. Frankly, I am embarrassed for you; and you should well be embarrassed by this debacle.” she said in guttural Magican, turning to leave.

“I- ah, I-, we’re, uh…” were the most he could say, overwhelmed by these sudden events and the sheer embarrassment. Minister Karkstahl, as it turns out, was not convinced by his bumbling and simply left. As he thought of the consequences of today’s massive failure to mend together Vichnayans and Magicans in the gentlemanly brotherhood of sport, he was cut off by a Magican hockey player pinning one of their Vichnayan counterparts to the plexiglass divider separating the diplomats’ safe space from the chaos on the field.

“Obten un clownagium, tiu filh de canis!”, the Magican player shouted, his light-blue uniform spattered with what looked like…. Blood?

“Вийди в бік і помри, сука ти!” the Vichnayan replied, finally breaking free of the Magican’s chokehold by grasping onto a… sensitive area and twisting with enough force to make the burly Magican player squeal like a girl.

As the angry Vichnayan hockey player began pummeling the downed Magican with their hockey stick, the Ambassador had enough of this sight, too. As Aquilaran riot police began separating the two sides in the stands and on the field, he left as well.

---

The next day…

---

“Well, that was a real fuck-up, there, Ambassador. Not only have the Vichnayans declared you - not the Embassy, though that was on the table - but you specifically as persona non grata, but we’re on the hook for millions of florin to pay back the Aquilarans for ‘disturbing the peace’.” The nameless interim Prime Minister sat back across the desk, looking through his tablet. “Also, for fuck’s sake, the National team won’t be able to play the Harrisopians for the World Cup - they just won it by default, since Team Vichnaya and Team Magica just got DQ’d for the rest of the season.”

Images of overturned cars, burning buses, Magican and Vichnayan hockey partisans beating the crap out of one another. Those same hooligans were corralled into ‘paddy-wagons’ by heavily armored Aquilaran riot police. The violence had spread outside of the stadium, causing one of the more costly examples of a sports-related riot in Lyceni in recent memory - and the Empire was on the hook for all of it.

“I, uh..”

“We already know. Your secretary went to ViewTube and clicked the first thing that said ‘Vichnayan National Anthem’ without even vetting the damn link to make sure it was the right one. Needless to say, she doesn’t have a job anymore. The real question here is: will you have one after today?”

He gulped. “I… I accept full responsibility for what happened; I ought to have looked and made sure everything went swimmingly myself.”

The Prime Minister switched from a lazed posture to a quite focused one, leaning in, elbows on his desk, staring through the Ambassador’s soul. “It wasn’t your fuck-up, kid. Shit happens. At any rate, we’re hard-pressed to find a spot for you, even though your record up until last night was…exemplary. In fact, that’s why you had the job in the first place; we needed the best for probably one of the most difficult periods of our relations with Vichnaya.”

He slid a folder, bearing the emblem of the new Organization of Global Powers, to the Ambassador. “That’s your new assignment. Read up. The Vichnayans won’t be happy, but in a few months - when the treaty takes effect - they’ll have forgotten their anger. Mind you, they might hold a grudge, but that’s life. You’ll be representing us there.”

“Me? This is… Sir, frankly speaking, this might be outside of my expertise. After yesterday, I don’t think I’m qualified to represent the Empire in front of the entire region.”

“I do, and that’s final. You have a few months to get your shit straightened,” the Prime Minister said, pointing determinedly at the Ambassador. “Otherwise, you’re no good to us. Besides, the Organization of Global Powers is just a shouting ground - no real power to change things. Consider this a demotion, having to listen to the Traldonians whine about their irredenta every day.”

---

In the present day..

The Imperial Palace, Aquis, Empire of Magica

---

The Emperor and the Prime Minister walked through the newly-rebuilt halls of the Imperial Palace.

Things were afoot - and in the worst way, too. Tensions had never been higher, and the constantly-delayed summit between Vichnaya and the Allies - more specifically, the Magicans, was once again on the horizon. If it wasn’t the Vichnayans delaying the summit, it was the Alexiandrans, or the Harrisopians, or the Riomlerians.
The time had come - with or without its Allies, the Empire would have peace on its borders, such as it was, with Vichnaya, and so the Emperor communicated this intention to its Allies. The reactions were, perhaps, mixed, but he had secured a tentative date for this meeting, which had been moved instead into the scarred - but rebuilding - metropolis of Aquis, capital of the Empire.

In a moment, the two entered the situation room, where aides stood ready as well as most ministers of the transitional government.

The Emperor took his seat. “Rise.”, the Prime Minister said. The ministers rose, bowing to their sovereign.

“Please, be seated, everyone.” The Emperor nodded, acknowledging the obeisance of those present.

“First topic of the agenda today is… recent tensions in Traldonia. How will we respond to that?”

The Emperor shook his head. “I believe my late father made our displeasure with their government quite clear; since we have no interests there with the revocation of our embassy, this is merely a Harrisopian and Alexiandran affair. As for Vichnayan provocations, we would best be better off not responding to them. We have, after all, advocated for caution in our endeavors; if our Allies do not listen, that is on them. There is no interest in the Empire for another war fought so close to our shores.”

The Prime Minister looked up from the sheafs of paper before him. “Your Highness, we can still provide indirect support to our Allies, perhaps, on the matter of Traldonian terrorist activity - and more specifically, who’s behind it all. Section XIII- er, the DCI is begging to be let loose after the big reorganization a while back. This kind of stuff is exactly what we have an intelligence agency for: let’s use it.”


The Emperor nodded. “That’s acceptable, and I agree. This ‘cold war’ is a war of shadows, and we must become as the shadows. For it to escalate would be a danger, and we must excise these chaotic elements lest…”

The Prime Minister cut in. “Lest the cancer of disorder grow.” Looking smug, he discarded the folder on that business. “The Harrisopians have called a meeting of the Allied representatives. And no, you can’t go. I will, instead. Constitutional governance and all that; and at any rate…”

He slid a folder to the Emperor. “That’s the itinerary for the summit; it should be within the week if the Vichnayans - or our Allies - don’t flake this time.”

Arthur flipped through the folder. “Is this a dossier of…”

“The Vichnayan representative? Yes.”

Arthur looked concerned. “She has too much makeup on. And, er…”

“She’s about your age? She shares your exact outlook on things, being an outspoken dissident in her own country, shielded by her privilege as the scion of a high-ranking official? Yeah. It’s coincidental; rather reminds me of a certain Crown Prince that was. To be frank, too much of a coincidence.” The Prime Minister looked awkward, reminiscent of his look when he told his son about the birds and the bees for the first time. “Your Majesty, this might be my experience running the old Section talking, or perhaps a healthy amount of cynicism from years of dealing with the most two-faced of politicians and nobility, but in my professional opinion, this looks like the perfect setup for a honey trap or some kind of political move. Frankly speaking, Your Majesty, you are a bachelor, and the Federal Republic, to say nothing of House Goto, could stand to gain immense political power and influence if, say, one took their daughter and offered h…”

“You don’t need to finish that sentence.” Arthur said, nipping at the collar of the black military uniform, a tinge of red to his cheeks. “I understand, but I’m not-”

“If it secures peace in the region?” The Prime Minister looked at the Emperor with his classic stern stare. “This is the reality of being noble, Sire. Not all monarchs and nobility are as blessed as, say, Theon Jadeous, who lives a romanticized Mouseland-esque fantasy come to reality, or your father, who married his childhood friend, the daughter of a lowly coal miner who he’d sneak out of the Palace in the middle of the night to go see, like some third-rate love story. If marrying someone you don’t like or perhaps even someone you’ve come to hate secures the lives of three hundred million people - those are the estimated initial casualties of a limited nuclear war in Lyceni, by the by - even as old as she is, I’d marry that dry old traitorous unpleasant sociopathic vain hag Auclair, no matter how much vino I’d have to drink before, during, and after that particular honeymoon ceremony,” referring to the Magican-Vichnayan co-CEO of Mara Industries, Vichnaya's closest analogue to the Magican Industrial Combine, also known as MagIC.

The Prime Minister drummed his fingers on the table. “At any rate, this is all hypothetical and frankly presumptuous. But if there’s one thing I’d like you to take away from this conversation: don’t be manipulated. ‘Stay woke’, as the kids say. Don’t get rushed into anything, don’t agree to anything, and I mean anything, unless we’ve all had a chance to look any… proposals over; they’re staying for a few days, so we ought to have plenty of time to give them due diligence. This is Diplomacy 101, kid. You need to know these basics before anything, and I'm disappointed we haven't gone over this, what with rebuilding and all.”

“You misunderstand, damn it. I wasn’t going to say I’m not, well, you know - but I don’t think they’re coming here for that kind of thing, you cynical old bastard.” Arthur scolded the Prime Minister. “Wouldn’t you be better off running a tabloid, for Christ’s sake? The fate of our region hinges on these talks, and we’re simply representatives of our peoples, not out looking for…”

The Prime Minister raised a hand. “Relax.” He sighed. “Point sent, point received. I wanted to make sure you well understood my concerns here. Number one among them: for God's sake, marry someone - anyone - soon so that we can't hamfist you into a political marriage and so we don't have to undergo another Regency. Number two, your needs as a monarch will always be secondary to that of the nation, lest you become self-perpetuating propaganda for a Republican party, God forbid.”

Arthur seemed to calm down a bit. “I do understand. We’ve come a long way, old friend. I won’t mess it up having come this far. And, er.. Maybe. It's hard for an Emperor, you know. Gold diggers around every corner, and all that.”

The Prime Minister folded his arms. "Perhaps if you'd have pursued the issue like your father did instead of focusing on your room's library and those dancing games and seedy arcades during your youth, Your Majesty, things would be different."

Arthur sighed. "I don't need the lecture."

Unfortunately, as this boring meeting rolled through the minutes, a lecture would be given.

---

Above Kinbridge, Traldonian Mountains

---

The Magican RRF - the 929th Air Assault Battalion of the Imperial Army - cut through the air from their base in Harrisopia. Unlike a mere year ago, this battalion was now equipped with Model 22 Ospreys, latest-model AH-64M Longbows and the new AH-66 Firelance - the cutting edge in Imperial technology, featuring some modest stealth capabilities, overhauled avionics, and truly wonderful upgraded weaponry: its infantrymen bore the new ‘Standard’ layout. AR-3 ‘Hellion’ rifles, AR-11 Terminators, essentially grenade launchers with a carbine attached, and the venerable M60E7 were equipped on these men, whom now had the benefit of network-centric systems integrated into their kit; headquarters could read a soldier’s vital signs from hundreds of miles away. Squad leaders, especially, were burdened with the majority of these benefits, as their radio could tie into a militarized mPhone 14 to view friendly unit locations, call in fire support, silently report enemy locations and even text one another, providing great tactical flexibility to the infantry squad. Perhaps most important for the survivability of these men, though, was the introduction of Type V body armor - Kevlar soaked in magnetorheological fluid-based compound, providing a greater resistance to large rifle-caliber bullets.

At any rate, a call for assistance had been made from these unlucky settlers, and help would come, though not for entirely humanitarian reasons. The 929th was one of only a few units armed with the cutting edge, the newest equipment that the Empire had to offer - it was necessary to field test these pieces of equipment. And, furthermore, it would be a great show of force - although the Empire was unprepared for general conflict and would likely be neutral or neutralized in any conflagration, it would be a viable bluff.

And so, that being said, the 929th descended onto their target, breaking through the slightly foggy morning air.

“This is Hawk Two-Actual. No activity on the wire that I can see, folks. This place is deserted,” one of the squad leaders mentioned on the comms.

“Hawk Three-Four here. Get CAS on the horn - I sight RPG teams down below! Shit, that one's about to let loose! Hawk Four, take evasive maneuvers now, goddamnit!” Another shouted, seeing enemy activity.

They were Traldonians, one and all, preparing themselves for what was to come: beneath improvised canopies, technicals waited, hoping the storm of helicopters would pass. Their gambit failed: AH-66 Firelances dove in, peppering these ad-hoc anti-air positions with chain-gun fire, while the Ospreys quickly began to descend, offloading their troops. RPG teams would be chewed to pieces, though one lucky shot would destroy Hawk Four, killing everyone on board as the plane-helicopter-thing descended into dust; it would crumple like a tin can, crushing everyone inside.

But the majority of troops would, in fact, be safely ferried to their landing zones, well guarded by the attack helicopter contingent, which continued to rain down hellfire and Hellfires onto Traldonian positions; followed shortly by a flight of the new Orca - a novel and curious yet quite maneuverable and swift VTOL attack aircraft that used turbofans and afterburner jets as its lift and propulsion mechanism - which proceeded to drop withering 20mm fire from its nose-mounted rotary cannon onto Traldonian guerrillas while decimating massed groups with its Hydra rockets.

As the infantry advanced, the work was soon done; these Traldonian guerrillas had been annihilated, their survivors retreating - on foot, for any conveyances larger than a bicycle had been unceremoniously destroyed - back into Traldonia or the mountainside. The Empire of Magica had dealt with an old enemy with new toys in an old way, resembling the massacres around Fort Cash in their violence, sans the flamethrowers and widespread usage of incendiary and/or thermobaric weaponry.

Unfortunately, so destroyed along with these misguided militiamen was the short-lived ‘Kingdom of Kinbridge’; its inhabitants having been exterminated to the last in a ghastly act of ethnic cleansing by the Traldonians in the precious moments before Magican troops made it there.

[Riomler]

With the slightest bit of hostilities,it was hard to believe the carnage that could occur.The riomler army general knew this fact and so he has decided to send an envoy to Vichnayan officials to discuss the naval incident and working out a deal for peace for all of Lyceni,the world depended on this plane to arrive safely to the Vichnayan capital,unfortunately,The plane suddenly dropped and crash landed into the north western mountainous region.it is unknown how many survivors there are but people would be demanding answers soon.

[Alexiandra]

Lockbourne, Alexiandra
2pm, March 25

The spring sun shone bright over Alexiandra's capital city, dazzling a populace whose tolerance for light had been weakened by the long winter months. The sky was a glorious expanse of azure, unbroken by even a single cloud, and the wind was weak by March standards. Children had taken over the streets, making the most of their half-term holiday, and the ancient city rang with shouts and laughter. This was the very opposite of pathetic fallacy: an atmosphere which utterly failed to correspond to the gravity of events.

The Traldonians were rioting, and they meant business. Police cars had been torched, banks raided, local government officials harrangued. The Republican Guard had managed to restore some semblance of order, regaining control of the airports and Onyx city centre, but protests had continued for the ninth consecutive night. In a predictable turn, the ill-fated Kingdom of Kinbridge had been wiped off the face of the earth by Traldonian revanchists, with all of its inhabitants presumed dead. When Magican relief forces had arrived on the peninsula, they had been ambushed and had retaliated with extreme prejudice. In short, the situation was nothing short of explosive - and to make matters worse, Allied intelligence had spotted Vichnayan ships lurking off the coast of Harrisopia, hewing carefully to the outer limits of the Kingdom's territorial waters.

Certainly, it was not unusual for foreign military ships to perform reconnaissance missions or tours de force in plain view of a rival - but given the size and strength of the Vichnayan navy, the Harrisopians were more than a little concerned. President Montferrat was on his way to Tritous for an urgent meeting with the King and Magican representatives; everyone feared that a new war, unprecedented in its destructive potential, could be about to erupt.

For the umpteenth time in the past several years, the Alexiandran military had been placed on high alert. Since its last brush with Vichnaya's armed forces, the Republic had developed a sophisticated set of protocols and responses for dealing with the north-eastern giant - several of its satellites had swung into geostationary orbit over the country, and the Cyber Research Centre at Ockridge had been ordered to prepare for online hostilities. In spite of these preparations, however, Alexiandran officials were striving to avoid a 'hot war' by any means necessary. Alexiandra, Magica, Harrisopia and Vichnaya were all nuclear powers, and Riomler scarcely had a history of responsible nuclear weapons use. If war broke out, mutually assured destruction - costing the lives of millions across Lyceni - was not just possible, but probable.

With this in mind, the Ministry of Defence sent out the following terse cable to its allies:

Code: Select all

To: Govts. of Harrisopia, Magica, Riomler
From: General Staff, Alexiandra
Subject: Vichnaya
Classification: TOP SECRET

Dear Friends,

Urge you all to approach affairs involving Vichnaya with extreme caution. Open hostilities to be avoided if at all possible; there are no winners in a nuclear war. Nevertheless, recommend you mobilise forces in line with agreed escalation criteria. Harrisopian ambassador will no doubt seek explanation from Vichnaya - no need to make a mountain out of a molehill. Our priority for now is suppression of Traldonian riots.

Even as the cable pinged onto Allied screens across the region, additional Alexiandran troops were streaming across the border into occupied Traldonia via helicopter. Alongside the regular soldiers came intelligence operatives from the Special Activities Division of the Central Intelligence Directorate (CID). Their task was simple, at least on paper: join their colleagues already inside Traldonia, subvert the incipient rebellion from within, and prevent Vichnayan intelligence networks from establishing themselves in the troubled region. But each operative, crossing the border in plain clothes, knew full well that the reality would be much more complex.

This was a war, after all - a war in all but name. And wars which are not acknowledged as such are often the most dangerous of all.

[Upper Magica]

Tritous, Kingdom of Harrisopia

---

Minister Paramount Léon Bertrand de Limonet-Estienne walked into the great hall, his characteristic sunglasses coming off, reflecting the light of the room onto his spotted bald head. He straightened his red tie, shuffling his black business suit, both somewhat disheveled from the flight in.

He was well-known as a successful example of the 'New Nobility' in the Empire - having worked to have built a good working relationship with the new constitutional order during the.. messy transition immediately following the Second Magican War and had been closely aligned with the monarchy even beforehand, using his position as CEO of Intelligent Solutions - one of the Empire's major investment firms - to direct funding to what would have been otherwise unprofitable ventures such as new polytechnic institutes, fusion-lab startups, so on, so forth, while also personally investing approximately 90% of his fortunes and any profits gained into philanthropic purposes.

However, this was merely his public persona: an open secret among Magican government circles - and a state secret for those who'd had direct contact with him in those job functions - was his running of, largely unknown outside of government and intelligence circles both within and without Magica, Section XIII of the former Imperial Security Bureau, also known in a public sense by many bynames: the United Magican Fruit Company, Intelligent Solutions, the Yost Group, Riomler Oil and Gas Exploration Co., Hercules Media, and the O'Connell, Bogisich and Carter Law Firm were all front companies for the greater "Company's" black operations throughout Lyceni, collecting the region's most valuable resource: information.

Under his tenure as "Company" director, the Traldonian War, the occupation of Riomler and the Second Magican War had occurred, and the Section provided excellent information capabilities to the Imperial government and military apparati - in the former case, the Section 'liquidated' Traldonian war criminals, in the latter case providing advanced forewarning of the imminent invasion of South Magica - to no avail, but regardless they had done their duty.

Now he was, largely due to his competence as the former director of Imperial intelligence, his strong royal ties and loyalty, and his public philanthropic efforts, Interim Minister Paramount: the newly-created second-highest office in the land.

Of course, he had always held that particular position since 2007 when he was appointed the Imperial spymaster, but that wasn't proper to talk about. He was characterized in his new role largely due to his sense of realpolitik on the foreign policy front - true to his roots in intelligence work, dealing with both Allies and Vichnayan with careful measure, while in domestic affairs, he eagerly assisted the Emperor in building a new constitutional system.

As he walked through the hall to the Magican seat, an announcer introduced him. "Everyone please note: the Right Honorable Léon de Limonet-Estienne, Interim Minister Paramount of the Empire of Magica has arrived." He exchanged looks with the other heads, nodding at both King Theon, whom had arrived here, as well as President Montferrat as he approached the both of them one-by-one.

"Your Highness; it is a pleasure to meet you.", he said to King Theon Jadeous as he shook his hand vigorously, conversing. "No, no; he's well - he's other business to take care of: sadly, none of it will be related to securing the succession. Uptight, reclusive prince, him, hah.", he replied to a inquiry about the young Emperor's wellbeing; it was only natural as the two monarchs were friendly, if not personal friends, reflecting the attitude of the two countries they nominally ruled over towards one another.

He then turned his attention to President Montferrat, shaking his hand equally as vigorously as he did Theon's. "President Montferrat - it's an honor to make your acquaintance in the flesh." The two conversed for a minute, give or take - largely about the geopolitical situation in Lyceni. "Yes, I think that's an accurate take on things; but I think this protest business will fly over as soon as the Traldonians realize who is in charge. Say, the DCI can probably help out some: our newer field agents could use the practice.", he offered in response to Montferrat's appraisal of the Traldonian situation and the difficulties caused by the ongoing unrest.

With the pleasantries over, he took his seat, waiting for the inaugural.

[Harrisopia]

Harrisopia, Tritous
Allied Control Centre
Conference Hall
King Theon Jadeous

The King sat in silence as the large room bustled with activity. Chairs being aligned, documents being poked and prodded at, each table being needlessly repositioned.
There was a nervous atmosphere cloaking the room.

Finally constructed the previous year, the Allied Control Centre was set up to be used for the most important meetings between Harrisopia and her allies, primarily Alexiandra and Magica.
Today was time for the very first of such meetings and the many officials and assistants wanted it to go as smoothly as possible.

King Theon didn't share their anxiety. He had spent much of his life in significant political meetings, the location of those meetings made no difference to him. Though he certainly had to admire the architecture of the new HQ. Taxpayer money certainly had not been wasted.

He had greeted his allies warmly after they had arrived. With them now seated he was given the alert by one of his assistants that it was time for the meeting to officially begin.

The King nodded

Despite his experience in these sort of events, the King couldn't help but feel there was a certain importance to this day.

Standing up and scanning the room briefly, the King began

"My friends and allies, it is an honour to have you all here. It is a significant day in this nation's history to host our first official meeting between the Allied powers.
I wish we could all be here for a more upbeat occasion, such as our defence of the Hockey World Cup."
He sent a playful nod towards the Magican Minister who lightly chuckled in response.

"But unfortunately we are here to discuss more pressing matters.
The current situation in Traldonia is well known amongst us all. The riots have yet to cease completely and this is causing much unrest.
Traldonia has been under allied occupation since the end of the conflict which was three years ago.
Our presence there has been to try to bring stability between our nations and avoid having to engage in any open hostilities. Whilst there has yet to be what can be described as rebellion, the noted protests of the Traldonian citizens are growing more and more aggressive each day.
Though this is what I have opened our discussion with, it is not the true purpose of this meeting.
The true purpose of this meeting is to find a solution for the unwanted involvement of Vichnaya."

There was a shift in the atmosphere at that. The King continued

"I understand that our nations in recent years have seen more conflict that they would like. We have suffered losses which we never should have suffered, some more than others." He looked briefly at the Magican Minister again then carried on.
"I understand that conflict is the last thing that any of us wish to see but that doesn't mean that we should refuse to acknowledge that conflict could very well be on its way.
Vichnayan naval forces have made a presence close to Harrisopian waters. Contacts in Riomler have stated that land forces of the same faction have been seen near their borders.
We cannot ignore this and we cannot cower from this."
Putting emphasis on those words, King Theon sat down and awaited a response.

[Upper Magica]

Conference Hall, Allied Control Center, Tritous, Harrisopia

With King Theon's inaugural concluded, the Minister Paramount of the Empire chimed in, whispering to an aide beforehand, who quietly passed two folders to the other leaders of the Alliance.

Tapping the microphone before him, his gravelly voice echoed, his face stone. "We're in agreement; things are a little too coincidental here to not suggest a... greater involvement on the part of the Vichnayans. DCI agents on the ground are on the lookout for Vichnayan gun-runners - arms dealer types - and monitoring cyber-communications in Traldonia to look for suggestions of advisory involvement."

He paused, looking at the other two leaders. "But such statements are conjecture. While certainly provocative - we'll agree - the movements of Vichnayan naval forces are in line with previous models and forecasts that indicate their... lack of finesse and tact on the world stage. Right now, the only latent threat I see are the Traldonians regaining their balls."

The Minister Paramount pursed his lips. "Answers need to be given for the extermination of....." He shuffled through papers, looking for the information in question. "One hundred and sixty three Riomlerian men, women, and even children. In cold blood. It could be argued that they were there illegally, yes. It could be argued they should have left at the earliest available opportunity, yes. But we've evidence that these Traldonians poured over the border - with no resistance on the part of Traldonian border guards, who that day were curiously missing, having all, to a man or woman, called in sick with no replacements sent."

He clicked on a telescreen, revealing images of the sickness that had descended on Kinbridge, images too disgusting to describe in any sort of good taste. "These are images," he described, "of cattle put to the slaughter. Early forensic analysis has suggested that this process wasn't clean or quick, either: it was quite literally torturous."

The Minister Paramount gazed at his peers with a mask of iron on his face, seemingly. "If you will open your folders, you will see this Government's proposal. In short, we're proposing joint targeted and restrained air strikes on these formative militia groups - with a particular focus on the Traldonian Army's Mountain Military District, who our intelligence suspects played a hand in this bloody atrocity. Nothing too overcommittal; we don't need to reoccupy Traldonia, but we need to send a message: this genocidal bullshit won't be tolerated by the international community."

He coughed, righting his temper after his speech. "The Vichnayans on the other hand...we need to tread carefully. Nothing is truth, nothing is a lie with those folks, and they have real power quite unlike the Traldonians. I'm inclined to wait for a cursory investigation and an official explanation before I give the green light to sic the DCI on every Vichnayan mafia set, every shit-ass arms dealer and scumbag from the shit-burg ghettos of Onasa to the neon brothels of Shiramoto, to say nothing of, for example, open confrontation in the form of sanctions or military exercises held close to their border."

With that, he paused, waiting for a response, his time to speak over.

[Alexiandra]

Conference Hall, Allied Control Center, Tritous, Harrisopia

At last, President Montferrat readied his microphone. In keeping with his calculating nature, he had remained virtually silent until now, getting a feel for the attitudes of his Harrisopian and Magican counterparts. And their attitudes were, as expected, fiery and implacable; the Traldonians surely had not counted on the Allied leaders to demonstrate such resolve. The moment called for action - and Montferrat would not allow Alexiandra to waver while her allies stood firm. He began to speak.

'Gentlemen, let me first extend my thanks to the King for convening this meeting, and for his hospitality.' He nodded cordially to the monarch. 'You have already stressed the gravity of the events unfolding before us, so I will not dwell on that subject. I will cut to the chase: the Republic's government is in full agreement with the Minister Paramount's proposal. The violence visited upon the innocent men, women and children of Kinbridge cannot go unpunished. This fate' - he gestured at the telescreen - 'is the same one that awaits our own citizens, should we fail to act at the decisive moment. And that moment is now. Alexiandran intelligence operatives have been operating in Traldonia since the war, and we have a pretty good idea of which groups represent the greatest threat. In most cases, they are being funded and trained by the Traldonian government, albeit with plausible deniability. As the Minister Paramount highlights, the Mountain Military District is especially dangerous - but it is also especially vulnerable to Allied air power, deployed as it is in regular formation in one of the most exposed regions of the country. Stealth will be of great importance here. While the Traldonian air defence network is negligible, any open hostilities between our forces and those of the Empire will spark an international crisis.'

He paused for a sip of water.

'Alexiandran stealth bombers are ready to engage some forty-five targets identified by military intelligence on the ground. The militias' training sites are quite remote, meaning the risk of collateral damage is minimal - but we can't rule it out. With that in mind, we should be prepared for a surge in civilian unrest following the strikes. I am assured that the thousands of Republican Guard troops patrolling the streets of occupied Traldonia will suffice to maintain order, but Alexiandra stands ready to deploy regular Army forces if necessary. We will coordinate any and all peacekeeping operations with our Harrisopian colleagues.' Montferrat nodded again at the King.

'As regards the Vichnayan situation: I am glad that the Minister Paramount perceives the need for caution in our approach. We cannot afford to be trading ballistic missiles with the Vichnayans. I suggest the establishment of an Allied Committee of Enquiry to determine whether Vichnayan forces breached Harrisopian territorial waters, and to assess the intentions of Vichnaya more broadly. Based on the findings of this Committee, we will be able to issue well-backed diplomatic demands, or to assuage public fears, as the case may be.

'I look forward to hearing your thoughts on these proposals.'

[Harrisopia]

Harrisopia, Tritous
Allied Control Centre
Conference Hall
King Theon Jadeous

Absorbing the words of his peers, the King stood once again

"I appreciate your input on all these matters my friends.
I agree that the naval situation is no more than the Vichnayans puffing out their chest. However it is making some of my people restless. Because of that Harrisopian naval forces will be sent out to our waters. I assure you we'll be as cautious as possible. They will mainly be on patrol duty.
Regarding the casualties in Kinbridge, they are devastating losses and we will gladly commit our forces to the cause. We cannot let incidents like this happen again.
To further emphasise the importance of this, I will dispatching HSS troops to assist our allies."

Being passed a document by one of his assistants, King Theon scanned it briefly then carried on
"There is also the concerns of Riomler that must be addressed. As I said previously sources in their country claim to have sightings of Vichnayan land forces on their border. I am unsure on the accuracy of this but it cannot be ignored.
All of our nations still have investment in Riomler and we have a duty to keep things ticking over."

[Vichnaya]

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Вечный в Cмерти

Chapter 1, Act 1

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To say Vichnaya was a militarized state would be an extreme understatement.

Putting it simply, the thin veil the Federal Republic of Vichnaya was putting up did nothing to hide the fact it was an authoritarian, militarized, and slighty dystopic police state that, if the rumors and stories from Vichnayan nationals were true, didn't even hesitate in massacring entire towns for even thinking of betraying the state and church. The few whispers and tales that have escaped to the wider world spoke of large camps in the deepest parts of her winter territories, filled with the skeletons of men and the hollow shells of people yet unidentified. Generations spoke with fear of said camps and the guards who run them, keeping their heads low lest they be the target of the ever-daily crackdowns and policing actions that were common in Vichnayan life, ensuring that rebellious ideas never spread too far, if any at all. While foreign residents weren't subjected to the brutality found in daily life, they were still placed under the heavy watch of the most infamous agency of the Northern Steppes: The All-Vichnayan Commissariat for Political and Social Security.

Already in a state of war even before the charade in Magica had even started, the Polar Sea Standoff — an armed incident where Vichnayan Peacekeepers hailing from the Ostova and Luzinov Military Districts, and Coalition forces from the Empire of Magica, the Empire of Riomler, the Kingdom of Harrisopia, and the Republic of Alexiandra stood off against each other, a hair's breadth away from engaging each other — had propelled the Federal Republic of Vichnaya into a total state of mobilization, with all kinds of tools for the business of war pumped by the hundreds each day — and for smaller weapons and munitions, in the hundreds of thousands — and deployed all across the motherland, with the great railways that connected the lands constantly shaking from the thunder of engines hailing from the logistical might of the Federal Armed Forces. Projects that weren't intended to be completed until 2025 or 2030 were rushed into active service, with these consisting of upgrades to the absolutely massive amounts of gear already in service — bolstered by technologies captured from the brief border conflict with the Empire of Riomler propelling the development of several research projects that would ensure the technological superiority of the Vichanayan Federal Armed Forces.

And having spent the last few decades embroiled in wars at home and abroad, damn near anything in Vichnaya was built/modified for the purposes of war or repelling a potential invasion. The streets that dominated the lands and filled many of the steppes — though pleasant with the architecture that had made many cities world heritage sites — were initially built for the efficient and rapid movement of troops, whether it be wide and open streets that would grant the armies of old to maneuver unimpeded or the winding alleyways that would serve as perfect kill zones for a group of men armed only with rifles. Likewise, the homes the civilians resided in were built to withstand the impacts of cannon fire, and in more recent times, small-diameter bombs, with each and every home featuring at least some type of bunker that would sustain them, for around a few days at most. Unlike the image most had in their minds about underground military bunkers — mainly, grey-concrete structures that had little in terms of comforts — Vichnayan bunkers are significantly different, with their interiors looking straight from a 5-star resort and stocked with plentiful reserves of food, water, and other necessities that were required to house a small family, with other items typically brought along as to ensure that no-one went bored for more than 10 minutes. However, while most citizens in Vichnaya have these types of bunkers, only a few use them regularly. Fewer still remembered why these were built.

For the few that had, they remembered vividly of a time when Vichnaya wasn't a unified state, or rather, wasn't even called Vichnaya. They remembered a time when the vast stockpiles of nuclear weaponry weren't controlled by a single, unified entity, but instead, a group of states all vying for power on the vast steppes that make up modern Vichnaya. For the few that were born during or directly after the fall of the Ustina-Adaki Empire or the Adak Provisional Authority. they did not saw their country fall into ruin once, but twice. Such was the confusion, the anger, the despair, and finally, the unabiding rage that followed after was incomparable to most, and none who experienced it forgot nor forgave. He was a mere conscript in the Adak Defense Forces — barely 19 — when it started to tear itself apart, 20 when it was collapsing into what would become the Federal Republic of Vichnaya. He was 21 when he landed himself a position in the All-Vichnayan Commissariat of Political and Social Security, running tasks that were glorified pencil-pushing jobs all the way to torturing Astovkans during the Third Vichnayan-Astovkan War. By age 30 he was running for office as mayor of Hero City Orlova. By age 40 — through wit, cunning, bribing, and a little bit of murder — he secured himself as the Chief of Security for the Ministry of Defense. And by age 50 he became the President of the Vichnayan Federal Republic, something that he held ever since.

Andrei Yazov had lived through much during his slow rise to power, rife with murder as much as the amount of political string-pulling he had to do to get here. With him in this room of 18 people were two of his friends from his days in the Adak Defense Forces, Ekaterina Geralt Novikova of the Vichnayan Air Force, and Anaheim Lecca Karlstahl, Head of the Ministry of Defence. Aside from them, the room consisted of the respective heads of the Armed Forces, the heads of the VPKO/FSB-FR, with the last seat granted to a special guest: Mara Auclair, one of the two CEOs of Mara Electronic & Aeronautics Limited — a major defense contractor and a new contender within the Vichnayan defense industry.

Mara Auclair, the little shit she is, managed to get a seat on the National Security Council through what she called 'Toss and Pushing' — a thin veil to conceal her outright threatening the heads of government. Distrusted not only because of that instance, but because she wasn't even Vichnayan, instead, she was Magican by birth, choosing to immigrate to Vichnaya after smelling a business opportunity in the country's attempts to rapidly modernize the Armed Forces back in the early 1980s. Yazov, unlike others that preceded him, didn't care about a person's place of birth (mostly), race, skin color, gender, orientation, etc — as frankly, caring about those other than the improvement of society was a good way of showing you're primitive — instead, he didn't trust Mara simply because he couldn't get a read on her. That constant poker face/smile always threw him off. She was..off in a sense. By the luck of the Stars, Mara personally spoke to him earlier that she will mainly be staying silent for this session, seeing as she was practically a civilian.

Even then, he still felt her stare from the back of his neck.

"..Don't fuck up, Mr. Yazov."

"Ladies, Gentlemen, Misc," He'd sigh briefly as he leaned in, "As of this time, the 221st Meeting of the National Security Council of Vichnaya will begin after this speech. As usual, Mrs. Karkstahl will be the facilitator once the meeting has begun, and Mrs. Alina of the VPKO to be the timekeeper, with our special guest Ms. Mara of Mara Electronic & Aeronautics Limited serving as...an observer to our gathering. I'll try to keep this short as possible, though if our meeting extends beyond the 3-4 hour mark, then we'll have a group vote on whether to continue or not. Are we under an agreement, Comrades?"

This would signal the last few precious moments the group would have to talk, gather and organize their belongings, and do whatever the hell they wished to do. The moment he uttered those last few words, he felt his phone figuratively explode. While he didn't dare to check it as it is somewhat inappropriate in the middle of a meeting, he was guessing that it was the shared group chat was getting bombarded by Ms. Alina of the PVKO. Alina, like Petrovich, was one of the three resident shitposters, unsurprising as the three directors were part of the newer generation that had crawled and festered like roaches.

He'd sigh, "Comrade Alina, I request you stop using your phone-"

"Ain't her, Boss."

That was a plain and pure Magican Accent.

"My apologies, Ms. Auclair," He'd swivel in his seat to face her, "Either way, I kindly request you stop."

"Mhm," Mara leaned back in her seat, shrugging, "I will for now, but as we agreed upon, I don't have to promise to stop."

After an awkward stretch of time filled with a few nods here and there, Mrs. Karkstahl stood up, a stack of yellow-tinted papers gripped in her gloved hands, "Mr. President, the council has come under a unanimous agreement to start this meeting." She'd spin around to face the rest, particularly, at Ratkov, "Comrade Rains of the Ground Forces of the Federal Republic, you may start with your report."

The first to stand would be the Chief of Staff of the Vichnayan Army, "First things first - the state of our forces in Calisa and Constis Oblasts. The 1st, 2nd, and 3rd 'Darintsa' Fronts have been reinforced with 2-3 Motor Rifle Divisions divisions each, with the 172nd White Guards Motor Rifle Division stationed nearby acting as QRF. As for Constis, the 5th and 9th 'Belan' Fronts have each been reinforced with a Motor Rifle Division and a Tank Division, with the 26th White Guards Naval Infantry Brigade and 33rd White Guards Mountain Air Assault Brigade en route to pre-planned staging areas if yet another allied incursion is confirmed. As of now, Strategic Operational Plan 'Obman' has been moderately successful, as we've reported mainly Riomlerian formations digging in up to the north, with additional attention from allied sources drawn to there, in thanks to the constant radio communications from attending all units. As part of Strategic Operational Plan 'Zala', KRFV units have successfully transported 2200 deactivated vehicles from stockpiles to open locations close to the border. As for the rest of the forces, all divisions are reporting optimal status in moral, personnel health, and vehicle health...though the 5th White Guards Tank Divisions has reported difficulties in replacing their T-22Us with T-11AMs whose-"

He'd turn to Mrs. Karkstahl with a sigh, "...Purchase was wholly unneeded, seeing as we need additional spare parts, not an entirely new tank that the crews will have to readjust and maintain yet another model that doesn't fall in line with Vichnayan doctrine, or more rather, the doctrine and training assigned to one of the most Elite formations in the entire bloody army."

Karkstahl leaned in forward, "Comrade Rains, I have explained once and I will explain again, we no longer have the capability of producing nor maintaining the T-22Us on top of the production and modernization of all available T-72s and T-90s, as if that weren't to say about the existing T-14s and T-110s. Simply put, we'll have to rely on...foreign companies to supply the spare parts need for the maintenance of foreign vehicles. Besides, the 5th White Guards will temporarily use them until Object 17991 exits the prototype stage and enters mass production. Is that all or will you need another explanation, Comrade Rains?"

"That...That would be all, Comrade Karkstahl." He'd briefly shuffle the yellow-tinted stack of papers he carried, "The Ground Forces will be ready to respond to any attack within 12 Hours as in accordance to Operational Readiness Condition Polnaya-1, and at this time, Army Aviation and Tactical Rocket Launchers will be ready within 36-72 Hours. Logistical-wise, all 8 Fronts on the border are each able to conduct high-intensive combat operations for an estimated 10-17 months if supply lines are unimpeded. If they are? The cut wouldn't be that drastic, shortening combat operations down to 7-12 months if we have continued assistance from the Air Force." Within a silent, somewhat awkward, stretch of time, Ratkov would hand out several pieces of papers to the other members of this geriatric congregation, "...Scheduled Exercise Pobeda 300 will be taking place by the Ostnovnoy Gap, in which we'll have the 99th MRD and 102nd Tank Division playing against the 1st White Guards Motor Rifle Division and 50th Airborne Regiment, the latter of which will be playing as OPFOR."

"Mhm," His eyes shifted to the corner of the table, towards the Head of Public Security, "Comrade Petrovich, I'm assuming you're picking up on all of this?"

Petrovich simply nodded. Yazov had noted that the man was increasingly becoming quieter by the day — that, while not strange in itself considering most PKKV/VPKO officers were semi-antisocial — had become a concern following a recent argument between him, Alina, and Laika. A man born from the cold Adaki steppes, Yazov had chosen him because of his innate ability to make anyone disappear. Simply put — regardless you were a man, woman, or child — the absolute moment you showed a hint of dissatisfaction or dared to think of committing treason to the State, and thus heresy against the Sacred Stars, you would quickly find your door broken down by the friendly hands of some very unfriendly agents. Such was life in Vichnaya, and frankly, such actions don't happen all that often nowadays considering the fanatical nature of most of the populace.

After a short pause as Rains took his seat, Karkstahl waved over to Fleet Admiral Vanovich, signaling him to start with his report. He spoke without any pause, which unfortunately for the group, meant hearing his semi-unintelligible Adaki accent/lexicon. "The Maritime Forces are reporting more than optimal conditions. Simply put, all 17 Fleets are ready and waiting for any battle to come. We have the 4th, 5th, 7th, and 8th Fleets patrolling the Polar Star Sea, the 11th and 12th Fleets patrolling the White Star Sea, and the 6th Fleet prowling by the Northern Star Sea. The 32nd Surface Ship Division — which consists of the Slava-Class Cruiser VVK Eternal Sovereign , the Lider-Class Destroyers VVK Arcalís and VVK Itonda, and three assisting Admiral Goshkov-Class Frigates and a single Gremyashchiy-Class Corvette — has reported an increase of allied naval presence as they're transitioning to the Southern Ocean, with the Eternal Sovreign in particular reporting shadowing by multiple Riomlerian warships and Harrosopian aircraft. Naval Surface Command is currently debating the deployment of the Northern-Star Fleet, though, that could potentially raise tensions beyond acceptable limits. As for now, the Kirov-Class Battlecruiser VVK Admiral Gorov has been dispatched to assist the 32nd Surface Ship Division, with the 19th Naval Aviation Squadron on standby if she finds herself under attack. Likewise, the forces in the Polar Star Sea have been placed on high alert with the reports of Magican Predator-Class Arsenal Ships undergoing construction, though, this is more or less a precautionary move seeing as they look like prime targets to a pair of Kinzhals."

"Regardless," Vanovich sighed under his breath, "The Maritime Forces and the Coastal Defense Forces are still developing the requested 3M22M2 Tsirkon-M missiles specifically for cases like these. As a stopgap measure, we have the Battlecruisers VVK Marshal Vitya and VVK Admiral Kulchitsky undergoing refits to replace their anti-ship missiles with pre-existing 3M22M Tsirkons — and in the case of the Admiral Kulchitsky, replacing all of her 'Makara' ballistic missiles with P-800 Onik-M ASMs to temporarily provide a counterbalance until the Tsirkon-M project is ready for mass-production. As for the escort ships operating in the Polar Sea, the VVK Spiral and VVK Ara have already been modified to carry 3M22M Tsirkons, though they'll obviously carry far less than the capital ships we're refitting...though that should be offset as we're pairing the two Liders-CLass Destroyers with the 17th Naval Aviation Interception Division, of whom operate 18 MiG-41As with the capacity to carry Kh-47M2 Kinzhals. Three on each of 'em, in fact. Aside from those, the Submarine Force is still waiting for the promised Husky-Class to replace the rustbuckets we call the Akula-Class-"

"Of which you shall, Mr. Vanovich." Karkshtahl, still bearing the same face she had when she visited Aquilara, butted in, "Once the funding has been allotted, that is."

"We've waited for two years just to secure funding for the pre-existing Lider-Class, when can I expect-?"

With a sharp glare from Karkstahl, the Silan was silenced, allowing her to call up the next unfortunate candidate, "Mrs. Novikova of the Aerospace Forces of the Federal Republic, you may now begin your presentation. Ms. Alina, do you have any remarks regarding this next presentation?"

Sitting further away and just behind Petrovich, Alina shook her head with a soft smile, though, rather tiredly with bags under her eyes. "No remarks nor complaints from me yet, seeing as we haven't passed the 1-hour mark thus far."

"Good, we'll have a lot to cover for later," Karkstahl shifted her attention back to the Air Force Chief of Staff, "Kat, you're up."

"Unsurprisingly and probably a delight for you all to hear," Novikova cleared her throat, "The Aerospace Forces are reporting similar conditions to the rest of the Armed Forces, with a few exceptions to taint the Aerospace Forces superb record, mainly, the squadrons operating the new Su-60SMs are reporting minor issues with the cabin's AC systems and well...the crews drinking the vodka coolant. Munitions have been stocked and the R-90As-"

That was interesting. Yazov leaned in, speaking into a microphone. "Did I hear that correctly, Kat? The crews are drinking vodka coolant?"

Rather hesitantly, she'd nod. "Unfortunately so. As I've been told by the Aviation Board, the temporary coolant for the Sukhoi Su-60SM consists of 45% Distilled Water, 50% Ethanol, and 5% ethylene glycol. Because of its...uncanny resemblance to Nara Vodka typically found in the Darinsta region, crews have been taking a liking to directly tapping the coolant from the aircraft itself or, as a number of MPs have found, directly sourcing them from the transport crews ferrying the coolant to and from the airbase and manufacturer. As it stands, the problem isn't becoming so widespread that it'll affect flight operations, though precautions have been taken to prevent such actions from occurring in the near/far future."

With a satisfied nod and a hand gesture from Yazov, Ekaterina continued, "..Anyway, the 7th, 9th, and 11th Air Armies in the Constis-Calisa Front have reported optimal conditions on the continued supply, maintenance, and operation of all of their aircraft in exception of the Sukhoi Su-60s stated previously. As of now, the 77th Reconnaissance Aviation Regiment are in the process of replacing their MiG-25RBShs with MiG-41RBs, with the 887th Assault Aviation Regiment opting out of their Su-25SMs with Yakovlev Yak-131s for greater speed so it seems. The 8th and 10th Air Armies are reporting optimal conditions as well, however, the 433rd Heavy Bomber Aviation Regiment is reporting structural issues with their Tu-200s, though this is quickly being rectified by modifications by the folks in Mara Industries. Overall, the Air Force is still undergoing the process of replacing all older aircraft with Su-60s, Su-94s, and MiG-41s, with newer production Su-57Ks and Su-75UKs expected to receive continued modernization packages until the 2030s. Simply put: the air force will retain the technological advantage we've enjoyed thus far, and will continue to hold a numerical advantage if the continued production of the Chelovek's and the Odysseus' series of UCAVs. Logistical-wise, the Air Force can handle sustained and heavy combat operations in Lyceni for an estimated 8 months before reserves are depleted, though the supply of newer munitions will obviously deplete quite quickly if the war does spark. Parts aren't a concern either, nor does fuel come onto the radar considering we're one of the largest suppliers of natural gas on the planet."

"As for matters for the defense against space-based weaponry — mainly, Alexiandran Brimstone and Rising-Class Satellites — the Peresvet and Zadira laser systems will provide a temporary solution until the Veles Land-Based Orbital Defense System can be brought online. For now? We're simply using the Zelenchukskaya laboratory as a testing ground for the solid-state laser which we'll predict to be around 70 Petawatts worth of energy. It doesn't sound all that impressive, however, do mind that a Petawatt equates to around...I don't know, a quadrillion watts, which essentially gives us the equivalent of a superlaser. We're planning to build one unit each in Orla and Vozrozhdeniye Oblasts, chosen for the simple fact that the cold weather will be able to provide some form of coolant to the unreasonably powerful units, and well, there are two hydroelectric plants and a nuclear power station nearby to feed the hungry systems."

"Thank you, Kat," Karkstahl yawned, rubbing the bridge of her nose, "Comrade Kirillovich of the Unified Missile and Rocket Forces of the Federal Republic, it is now your turn on this increasingly-boring stage."

Kirillovich, one of the younger members of the council as she was only in her mid-30s, wasn't exactly affected as heavily by the natural phenomena known as 'time' and 'aging', and thus, was the quickest to respond with only a half-second to shuffle her papers. "Don't worry, Comrades, my presentation will be rather short as the Nuclear Forces are operating quite well. Simply put? If you want a nuclear winter within 60 seconds of an order, then you're guaranteed that it will come within 40 seconds. As it stands, all 1,100 ICBMs are operational and ready to be launched within a moment's notice, 5/6 of the IRBMs such as the ones on the RSD-10M Pioneers are combat-ready, 3/4 of all SRBMs in inventory are also combat-ready, and the SLBMs Typhoon and Borei-Class Submarines are all reporting adequate conditions. Currently, the 31st White Guards Rocket Army, 32nd Rocket Army, and 33rd Rocket Army are dispersing into the Northern and Northwestern Oblasts, with the 55th White Guards Rocket Army at Condition Polnaya-1. Likewise, the 5th Maritime Missile Division and the 9th Maritime Missile Divisions are dispersing across the Polar-Star Sea and Northern-Star Sea, and in-thanks to our comrades in the navy, any attention dedicated to tracking them down has been distracted by the movements of the 32nd Surface Ship Division, and soon enough, the VVK Admiral Gorov."

"Ana," Yazov turned to the not-so-pleased facilitator, of whom had an increasingly worsening grimace on her face, "What's the time?"

"An hour has passed, Comrade President-"

"Andrei, Ana, Andrei."

"Mhm," She'd grumble, "An hour has passed, Andrei."

With a few chuckles in the room, Yazov cracked a smile as he shifted his attention back to his old friend, "What's wrong? Still pissed after your visit to Aquilara?"

"Y'know," Karkstahl turned, releasing a sigh that damn well everyone felt was rich with raw annoyance, "The next time we play at Aquilara, are we allowed to use guns?"

. . .

"Say, do you think I'll be able to trade a 'Choccy bar from one of them?"

"Dunno, man, wanna try it?"

Such was the famous case of boredom of the lower ranks in the Vichnayan Army. While presenting itself as a modern and highly capable army, able to conduct brutal wars of attrition in a scale that would horrify most nations, it mainly conducted roles that wouldn't be unfamiliar to nations that had border patrol services. Because of the giant size of the Vichnayan Motherland, the Vichnayan Armed Forces (With exception of the Air Force) regularly conducted the tasks typically found in the hands of law-enforcement agencies, essentially making the Vichnayan Army and National Guard glorified gendarmerie, in itself not to be confused with the actual gendarmerie organizations known simply as the Internal Troops and the VPKO Security Troops. While this had certainly expanded in the outbreak of the Adaki-Riomlerian Border Conflict, the mission given to the Ground Forces remained the same: secure the border at all costs. At first, it was Border Guards rebuilding up fences that were smashed during the short conflict, but it soon grew to become layers of high concrete walls and barbed wires that were constantly watched over by guards, ensuring that not only the Riomlerians stayed on their side of the border, but as to ensure that their own citizens don't escape. While Riomler had thought of simply building up a simple giant wall, the Vichnayans had been far more extensive — opting to build layers upon layers of walls that were interspersed with rows of barbed wire, anti-tank traps and ditches, and minefields, with all watched over by the thousands of personnel who were watching above from their bunkers and emplacements. For the few that weren't posted in the safe and secure bunkers that had been the bulwark the Riomlerians had thrown themself against in the brief but brutal border conflict, they would still be a highly formidable and deadly force that would hold their own.

While both sides thus far had posted personnel and the odd armored personnel carrier here and there in these checkpoints, the Vichnayan definition of an 'APC' differed significantly from their Western counterparts. Simply put: the main APC of the Vichnayan Armed Forces, the BTR-82U, was more akin to an Infantry Fighting Vehicle with its heavy armament of a 2A97 30mm Autocannon and a pair of ATGMs, typically a pair of 9M200 Top-Attack ATGMs (In itself a copy of a foreign ATGM Vichnaya purchased only a year previously). Recent upgrades and modifications to the 82U had improved nearly aspect of the design, with the IR-Covers that were commonly found on MBTs such as the T-90U now finding their way to the rank-and-file vehicles that made up the bulk of the military. Like their vehicles, the soldiers, too, had received several upgrades to their armor, communications, and by far the most noticeable aspect, their weaponry.

In the hands of one Alexei Bucharin was one of the newer weapons in the Vichnayan Army, the AK-500M. Created during the late 2000s as a successor to the then-new AK-12 in the event of heavily-armored opponents, the rifle was rushed into production at the literal second reports of new Magican gear and weaponry seeing active combat in Traldonia were confirmed. While it was light and, frame what it seemed, reliable as the previous AK-12. For him, there was little difference in the design, or rather — it just seemed to be an AK-12M re-chambered in 6.5x48mmV. While it did shoot significantly longer, and in turn, had a flatter trajectory than the 6.8mm rifles that the Magicans would be running, it did falter in one significant aspect:

The stopping power was abysmal.

Regardless, the armor penetration factor that it had possessed seemed to counter-balance this, and really, while one may survive a singular round to the torso, could you also survive multiple pentrating into the stretchy/meaty blob that you call a body?

Alexei slung his rifle across his shoulder, taking a step forward. Next to him was his battle buddy, Private First-Class Mikhael. Both, while two grew up in completely separate cities, they both had been born in Taka Oblast, a trait that had seemingly made the two men damn-near inseparable — brotherly, as the others described it. He'd turn back to Mikahel, who was giving the Riomlerian side of the checkpoint a thousand-mile stare, well, if they could see through the balaclava and goggles, that is.

"I mean," Alexei shrugged, "I could try, but considering how trigger-happy they are? I don't think I'll do it."

"Pussy."

"Screw off, I'll do it when they switch out with the Magicans."

"If," Mikhael emphasized that part, "If they do-"

"Mik, we've been here for several bloody days, the Romi's switch out with some foreign contingent every five hours or so." Alexei plopped back down onto a wooden crate that had served as a make-shift bench for the both of them, "Well, I'm hoping it'll be the Magicans, they'll trade damn well anything if we give them enough alcohol."

This 'checkpoint' had served a second purpose other than the foiling occasional Riomlerian attempts to cross into the motherland. Not too far away, at a clearing in the nearby forest, was Vichnaya's newest addition to its vast armored forces, the T-110 Vityaz. A large and imposing beast, the 'Knight' was capable of dispatching its foes at an extremely long range. It would serve as a visible symbol of the Vichnayan's presence on this particular section of the wall, and really, that was the purpose of Alexei's platoon setting up around here. From the gear and exoskeleton he wore, down to the rifle he held, he and his platoon would serve as a visible reminder of Vichnayan technological supremacy. Though rather strangely, the platoon leaders had instructed them to use their radios as frequently as possible, even for communications that weren't vital for the functions nor maneuvers of any of the squads. Hell, he was scolded for not using his radio when his buddy was a mere ten feet away.

"I mean, would it hurt?"

"Would a 7.62 Round entering your forehead hurt?"

Mikhael shrugged, "For a second it would, I guess."

"..."

"..."

"Still, would I still be able to get a 'choccy bar from one of them?"

"When the Magicans switch out with 'em."

[Upper Magica]

---

Conference Hall, Allied Control Center, Tritous, Harrisopia

---

Minister Paramount de Limonet-Estienne tapped his foot, mulling the words of the heads of state of Alexiandra and Harrisopia over in his head. Albeit a quick mind, he was not immune to the proverbial sword of time; ten years ago, he ought've had a response almost immediately, but alas.

"Minister, you've the floor," whispered one of his aides, interrupting his thoughts on mortality and the unpleasant effects of aging. "Oh. Good, good." He flicked on the microphone ahead of him, continuing on. "A committee of Inquiry sounds a bit too.. bureaucratic, if I'm being honest, but I'm an intelligence man, not a politician, for what that's worth." He folded his arms. "But, due process is due process: that's still a concept we in Magica are... getting used to, and I suppose I'm just an old fart stuck in the old ways, hah. At any rate, I approve of this idea, and going forward, we'll get those resources allocated and we'll start looking for proper nominees for our seats on this Committee."

He thumbed a page, looking at some notes. "In regard to Traldonia, we can contribute the 23rd Air Dominance Squadron, equipped with the new F-23 air dominance stealth fighter - we've been looking to test out the Black Widow platform in real conditions - drones, maybe a few squads of SAD troops to black-bag some HVTs. To be honest, we're stretched pretty thin with our... security obligations to Riomler, as well as our prime obligation to our home front, which you all know as being a mere sea-length away from the shores of Vichnaya."

He thumbed through images on a telescreen showing Vichnayan vs. Riomlerian positions on the common border and movements thereof. "The real question is," he sighed, "are Vichnayan movements on the border indicative of a deliberate attempt at intimidation? That's not for sure, but I'd err on the side of the Adakis being in the right - and you won't hear that statement from me again - but the Riomlerians did invade them without warning. To be honest, during that whole shitstorm, we were close to implementing Case Red-Yellow," referring to the open secret of the Magican Rainbow war plans - this particular one referring to the country of Riomler, and its most recent iteration being the neutralization of the Riomlerian government and military through coup d'etat, given ongoing Magican occupation - ostensibly for protection against the Vichnayans.

"Anyways, that's beside the point. If they get out of hand with their theatrics, we have a few brigades of our own to scare those damn star-huggers with - and they won't be second-line either. If things escalate, we can always increase oil production to crash the regional market; one of the benefits of having a state-run oil concern, hah - though I worry with that latter approach, of perhaps unintended harm to your countries' own oil markets."

He drummed the table with his fingers, his concerns aired and input given.

---

Sector 'Fox-Twelve', Riomlerian-Vichnayan Border

12th Territorial Army (Northern) Infantry Brigade, Imperial Magican Army

---

It was, once again, the 12th Infantry's turn to man this particular sector of the Eastern front, much to everyone's dismay. Although these men(and now the odd woman) were Territorials, one and all, they acted as grizzled veterans. In truth, most of them were: the majority of these troops had been formerly of the Magican People's Army either before or after the Second Magican War. Their dialects, their accents, their fashion, and their culture were substantially different from their Southern brethren, illustrating just how much the 12th Brigade was distinct from its Allied counterparts. At night - much to the annoyance of the neighboring 47th Brigade, the Riomlerians, and other Allied units - the Twelvers would play 'Bèla Chau', the Magican People's Army's unofficial marching song, among others, such as the Internationale, the Cant de Guèrra de l'Armada Vermella dels Treballadors i Pescadors, also known as the Worker's Marseillaise, and so forth through to the wee hours of the morning.

Of course, they took real delight in the annoyances they caused, as the Northerners were still something of a pariah one year after the War: to Southerners, they were as Communist scum, although many of them had become disillusioned with the ideology. To the Alexiandrans and Harrisopians, many still remembered the chemical weapons attacks of the Second Magican War and tended to distrust them. And to the Riomlerians, many had relatives that were obliterated in People's Government terrorist attacks.

It is a sad fact that, in this sea of slight prejudice so far away from home, that the Vichnayans - their so-called 'foes' across the border were perhaps the friendliest nearby military unit to the 12th Brigade.

As the troops took up position - many still wielding last-generation AR-10A2s and PASGT-standard helmets and vests, uniforms in gray-tiger stripe although some were perhaps funnily enough furnished with urban camouflage - Sgt. Raoul would notice the characteristic flicking of lights on the other side of the border.

This universal signal, of course, had become a sort of inter-Border trade language in its own respect. It was a gentle inquiry: "Do you want to trade?"

Of course, the Magicans were the most inclined to engage in this rather dimunitive black market. Supplies of luxury items often would run short. Unlike the Alexiandrans and Harrisopians, the Magican Army had no such thing as a post-exchange store on bases or nearby encampments: goods were either provided by the Army or one was left at the mercy of... local market conditions.

As a result, enterprising soldiers returning to 'Hell on Ice', as the Border station was called, often bought and brought extras from home: vino, books, blu-rays of 80s procedural police dramas, marijuana and marijuana candies, chocolate, coffee, sodas, and hell, even phones and LED TVs in order to trade with the Vichnayans.

In return, the Magicans would get 'anime' box sets, vodka - by far the most popular commodity among the troops, unused to the weather - advanced Vichnayan ration packets, and staples that Riomlerian shops wouldn't have, such as potatoes, pigs, and chickens, as rationing due to... certain radioactive events was still in effect.

A certain newbie entered the cold bunker, his teeth chattering. He spoke in a distinctly Southern accent. "Sergeant, what's that flickering over there?", he managed to chatter out. Sgt. Raoul was quick to respond, saying simply, "Payday." When he cocked his head in confusion, the Sergeant explained, a shocked expression coming over the newbie. "That- That's... That's illegal! We could get turned in -"

"Or have your ass kicked by a girl.", the Sergeant retorted to the infamous number 38 on the Magican hockey team - or at least he had been.

Clément Dubos was known for being an excellent right defenseman once upon a time. He had even made it to the semi-final. However, it all changed for the worse - when on live television, no less - he pinned one of his Vichnayan counterparts in the infamous Semifinal Brawl and had his absolute ass kicked and beat out of him, shaming the nation on two counts - one, that he'd helped to have ruined a moment of reconciliation that the Empire so desperately needed, and two, that he had lost the fight in the first place - and to a woman, no less. Many Magicans were of the 'old style', vaguely misogynistic and paternal in thinking: for these people, who also tended to have religious attitude toward sport, and thus constituted a healthy majority of the fan base, this was a sign of weakness.

After the clip made its rounds, he found himself without a career: no Magican team would have him after the debacle and neither would any foreign team.

"That's.. low, Sergeant." He looked down, eyes filled with a bitter regret. "Relax, damnit." The Sergeant grimaced. "Look, I don't even like hockey, but you better get that Southerner holier than thou attitude off you real fast: everyone does this here. If the higher-ups didn't want this to happen, they'd start shitting on people and NJPing them to high hell."

"Right," the disgraced hockey player turned soldier answered. "So, what? We share supplies with the Vichnayans, now?" Raoul nodded. "Yep, basically." He mulled over something, thinking. "Private Dubos, click that light on and off a few times."

"What?" the confused Private replied. "Turn it," Raoul gestured to the light switch, "off and on. Three or four times." He clicked on his radio. "Sector three-one rifle squad, meeting in five: we've got a tac plan to walk through.", saying into the helmet microphone.

A few moments later, the squad gathered everything they'd planned to trade: cartons of marijuana and tobacco cigarettes, chocolate bars with a curious green ribbon wrapped around it, 24-count cases of Shocka Cola, miscellaneous snack cakes, potato chips, hand warmers, scented bags(don't ask why), and, of course, box sets of overly-testosterone filled police dramas; it all neatly fit into two and a half ammunition crates weighing, when filled, two-hundred pounds of psychological drug addiction and excessive consumerism.

It was time to trade.

---

The Imperial Palace, Aquis, Empire of Magica

---

In a few days, the meeting would begin - already, F-23s were prepared to escort the Vichnayan airliner holding the delegation through the Magican half of international airspace, along with a tanker to fuel up the Vichnayan escorts - the Air Force had reportedly had a hell of a time determining whether or not their refuel ports were compatible with the Mother Hen's refuel nozzles. NOTAMs were sent out throughout the Empire in advance to all major airlines: aircraft would be grounded and Magican airspace during this time, in effect, restricted 'as part of a national security exercise' for a few hours in the time it would take for the Vichnayans - and other Allies, if they deigned to meet here - to enter Magican airspace and land safely.

No stops would be pulled with security - the entire Imperial Guard, a force of 12,500 men including its special-operations troops would be quartered in Aquis. The Boulevard de Marshal Jourdan leading from Aquis International Airport to the diplomats' accommodations in the Embassy District - and one of the city of Aquis's vital arteries of traffic - would be outright closed, along with the first mile of every street branching off. The Embassy District itself would be isolated by rent-a-fencing and quarantined by Imperial Guardsmen while a meticulous system of checkpoints both outside and inside the District itself - also manned by Imperial Guardsmen - would ensure further security, backed by roving patrols of UH-1 helicopters and the odd AH-64.

This burdensome presence was felt necessary; after all, if these talks failed due to an outside interloper visiting disaster on the summit by way of assassination or a well-placed suicide bombing.... as evidenced by the recent plane crash involving a Riomlerian diplomatic mission - cause unknown - the speculation and conspiracy theories could very well 'boil over' politically into a worst-case scenario.

Meanwhile, at the Imperial Palace, laborers - from maids and butlers cleaning the Palace extra-fine, white-collar aides putting up flags and other gaudy decorations in the interior, rearranging furniture and calculating the ridiculous costs of the overtime that was being accrued by the Palatial staff - to, as the Emperor himself was witnessing, inspecting the kitchen - chefs desperately attempting to perfect the menu that would be served for lunch during all three days of the summit.

"This goddamn sushi is raw!" one of the chefs shouted, a furious look on her face.

"You nonce, it's supposed to be raw! Don't you know a goddamn thing about [unintelligible] cuisine?!" another shouted; she was clearly a foreigner. He didn't know what word that was; foreign to his ears. Despite being a polyglot - largely through books - the Emperor didn't recognize the linguistic root of that descriptor, bothering him in the back of his mind.

"This borscht tastes like and looks like wet diarrhea! Absolutely appalling! GET OUT!" he heard an old crone shout from the back of the kitchen - he'd never seen Maman Bonnay, the head cook, so furious. The dark underbelly of the day-to-day operations of his own palace revealed its ugly shadow - a shadow he had been largely insulated from. He remembered the woman as having been a sweet old lady: to see her so.. reminiscent of a demon, spewing verbal flames.. it was something of a surprise.

The Emperor was mortified. He'd never stepped in a kitchen before - now he remembered why. All these discordant voices and the hostile, so to speak, vibes. Before he could elaborate any further in his thoughts, a glass bottle of vodka crashed into the wall nearest him, narrowly missing the Emperor's head.

"THIS VODKA IS REVOLTING. Did you find this in some fucking alleyway in the Bowery? WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!" A red-faced chef shouted, the veins on her forehead twitching, and seemingly so too her messy blood-red hair tied up underneath a slightly discolored white chef's hat, like the Medusae of Alexiandran mythology. He enjoyed reading of those stories, but it was another to witness a live specimen.

"You fucking bitch! You nearly hit the Sovereign!" one of the sous-chefs shouted, rushing to the Emperor. "Are you alright, sire?" The middle-aged woman suddenly looked ashamed, realizing her faux-pas. "Oh, er - pardon my gutter-speak, your Majesty."

He looked aghast, to say the least. "I, uh... I've the fear of God struck into me, but otherwise I am fine. Er, don't worry about the language. I've heard worse." he said, brushing off his shoulder, which had a piece of glass laying atop it, barely digging its way into the thick cloth of his traditional military dress uniform. "Clarisse, you're going to get let go for sure!" one of the other chefs said. "Maybe even arrested, you dolt!"

"Shut the fuck up - no harm was done, eh?" She shrugged. "I apologize, your nobleness." She fake-curtsied, promptly slapped upside the head by Maman Bonnay. "Pay the Sovereign his proper respect, yo-"

The accent was... odd. He recognized it in a second - Northerner. Referring to the girl his age or so getting a verbal thrashing from Maman Bonnay, that is - the old matron was giving the red-haired cook a verbal thrashing as he almost was dragged into another one of his famous episodes of run-on thought, breaking out of it to spare the young woman from Maman Bonnay's tirade.

"Stop." He said sternly to the old woman chewing 'Clarisse' out before catching his temper, relaxing visibly. He sighed. "No, really, it's fine. No harm done," he said, raising his hands as if he was one of those prosperity teachers on television, forgiving sins left and right.

"Are you sure, Your Highness? That could have been awful, simply awful!" the older woman retorted. "No, things are good.", he said, reassuring everyone.

"Not that goddamn vodka," the near-regicide said, flicking her matted red hair away from the eyes, looking not the least apologetic in her actions.

He turned to leave, glancing at the offending chef. "The vodka might have been awful, but throwing around things like a psycho isn't going to do anything about it, ne? By the way, your job is safe; just please don't throw things in here again - at least not at a person or some kind of entryway, thank you very much." He left out whence he came, leaving the kitchen in silence.

Clarisse looked aghast. "Did...did he just?"

"Did you just have your job saved by the Emperor? Yeah, you did." the middle-aged woman who had minded the Emperor retorted.

"He called me a psycho! That... That damn.. blue-blooded piece of.." She shook, balling her fists up.

"Calm down, Clarisse, Jesus. He didn't call you a psycho. Anyway, get to work already and be grateful - we have a lot of shit to do. I don't want to work overtime today.", a young boy peeling potatoes quipped.

Maman Bonnay laughed sadistically - everyone knew what was coming next. "Henri, get off that station. Clarisse will take it over. Come, garcún - it's time you learnt how to make steamed jambon."

Clarisse protested. "Goddamnit, no! My hands are alre-" Maman Bonnay snapped her fingers loudly. "I don't want to hear a damn word out of your shitty mouth! The Emperor ought to have thrown your lousy ass into the sewers with your pink slip and last paycheck, damnit! If there's any weakness of his, it's that he's a sweet boy - and goddamn it, I should know, I've only fed him and his family for the last twenty years!" She shook her head.

Righting herself, Maman Bonnay now said - sternly, with a practiced matronly voice: "Now get to peeling potatoes and be grateful for the opportunities afforded us in life." Behind the Maman's back - much to Clarisse's silent fury - Henri stuck his tongue out as he was breaking out bags of ground meat and pouring in the spice mixture and fish sauce, mixing all the while.

Another chef - much to Clarisse's enjoyment - called this out: "Henri, you little shit, did you just spit in that?" Maman Bonnay turned around quickly to see the young boy with a horrorsome look on his face. "No, no - I only stuck my tongue o-", he tried to explain. "I don't bloody care!" screeched the Kitchen Witch. "I turn my back for one second, and you're already fucking up! Bloody hell, get away from the food - the toilets need scrubbing!" She went about her work, giving Clarisse one last meaningful glare.

And so, Clarisse, for the day, was relegated to peeling potatoes for her transgression of nearly getting a KO in on the Emperor, fuming the entire time about having been presumably called a 'psycho' by the highest office in the land - though this was offset greatly by the thought of little shit Henri scrubbing toilets.

Meanwhile, the Emperor would write a missive as he returned, grateful to Providence for the renewed lease on life he had been given, avoiding death by vodka bottle.

---

Official Communique from the Empire of Magica
Personal Correspondence from His Imperial Majesty Arthur the Second, by the grace of God Emperor of the Magican Isles, King-Emperor of the tribes of the Mu, Prince of Umbra, Protector of the West Seas, Viscount of Aquis, Defender of the Realm and of the Cathar Faith

Recipient: Vichnayan Foreign Ministry, CC: Honorable Emissary of the Federal Republic, Shiro Goto
Classification Level: 4 - State Business


Faiet justise, et purrai le monde périr - Let justice be done, though the world perish
Per Deu e mon dreit - For God and my Right

---

As previously discussed, the new location for this oft-put off summit(much to my displeasure, but sadly unavoidable) will be the city of Aquis, as the city of L'Anse a la Medee poses an unacceptable security risk particularly in re. to UXO(unexploded ordnance) hazards, at the same time also being unsuitable in terms of delegation accommodation and facilities, while the Imperial Capital, now rebuilt, has been restored to both suitability and safety, addressing previous concerns of explosive hazard raised by your government.

We must now take the unequivocal stand that this summit must not be delayed any longer as we have labored to address both material and diplomatic concerns lodged by all applicable parties, concerns that I feel have been used to delay, hem, and haw this dialogue in order to effectuate political agendas: vital issues that affect all of the region of Lyceni must be discussed here and solved once and for all.

The alternative, I fear, may be a permanent state of tension - and this is a path that I determinedly wish to avoid for both my country and the region at large.

With that said, we shall be expecting your delegation at [00_CALENDAR_ERROR DATE.TIME.HERE]th of March as, again, previously agreed upon; the Palatial staff will also be expecting a formal file of the Vichnayan delegation's flight plan, and as - again - previously agreed upon, four F-23 Black Widows of the 1st 'Tarantula' Fighter Squadron of the Imperial Guard will escort the Federal Republic's delegation and their fighter escort to Aquis Int'l Airport, additionally offering underway refueling by a singular Model 135 'Mother Hen' to any components of the Vichnayan escort that require replenishment.

I look forward to finding a way out of this right mess together with the Federal Republic. There can be only one workable path for the future: peace. And the future, as we all know, cannot be delayed nor stopped. It is time for it to be delayed no longer.

Best,

Arthur II de Sacre-Feu, [ERROR: STRING: LIST_OF_TITLES FAILED TO PROCESS, CODE: MSG_TOO_LONG]

[Riomler]

What Oscar had just witnessed scared him frozen so much,he couldnt even move when his friends and family were slaughtered like cattle,He coudnt even call for help when the magican soldiers arrived.WHen they were far away from the country,he walked out of the house he was hiding in and soon the fear was turned into rage as he vowed to kill every traldonian from the face of the earth But he couldnt risk international condmenation so He travalled for 3 days to harrisopia,narrowly avoiding getting noticed,then he called a contact he knew to get him a boat to vichnaya,"if the allies wont do anything about the traldonians,I will" he says as he sails to vichnaya(he wants to join your military,its in your hands now)

[Upper Magica]

OOC: in case 'tis wasn't obvious, april fools!

It was a cool Autumn day in the Empire of Magica.

Unfortunately, in this improvised workshop, gigantic in scope, the workers here wouldn't feel it; it was as hot and humid as any other summer's day. Large metal arms heaved up thick metal paneling, welded in place by awaiting workers hanging precariously off tethers on this massive construct.

Its defining characteristic? A cannon bigger than any other: three thousand millimeters around and weighing alone hundreds of tons of steel alloy, this custom-specification gun as well as its hefty ammunition had to be specially designed by the engineering team at MagIC. Bays for mecha lined the hull, and dozens of artillery emplacements bristled above, many of which were surface to air missile batteries.

Inside was a comfortable crew compartment for several hundred battle maids, fully air conditioned. All would be controlled by an equally luxurious bridge, featuring the finest and latest of electronics, fire control, and LDAR equipment. Below decks was a set of four pressurized water reactors driving this tracked monstrosity weighing in at over 9,000 tons of steel and composite armor.

One certainly wondered, though: how would it get to its final destination? It was easy enough: flight. For this construct would also have eight massive turbofans - again, powered by the pressure of its nuclear reactors - to propel it into the sky. It would not be a simple land cruiser, but a true airship in its own right. Who cared if radioactive isotopes rained down onto the land below? It was a flying tank!

And so, the HMS Rovoria sat in its sort of drydock, awaiting the days when it was fully operational.

And all the while, the accountants of Magican Industrial Combine laughed heartily, counting the swimming pools' worth of money they had gained from this perhaps ill fated venture.

[Alexiandra]

Conference Hall, Allied Control Center, Tritous, Harrisopia

Montferrat tapped politely on his microphone, clearing his throat, as the Minister Paramount finished his thought.

'Your input is greatly appreciated, Minister Paramount,' the President said. 'Now that we are agreed upon the need for a Committee of Inquiry, it seems to me that the most pressing issue is to determine, in advance, our response to its findings. Should the Vichnayans be found to have trespassed in Harrisopian waters, or to have acted in a deliberately provocative fashion - what then? Of course, all of our nations have planned extensively for any military confrontation. But the question is: how far do we, as political decision-makers, want to take this? Are we willing to accept the risk of open hostilities with a nuclear-armed power? And if not, how do we go about punishing the Vichnayans?'

His eyes fixed upon the Magican delegation. 'Economic sanctions are all well and good - and your suggestion regarding oil markets, Minister Paramount, is one we have considered ourselves - but we must decide in advance how far we want to allow the military confrontation to escalate. Key to this question, I feel, is Riomler - the only Allied nation with anything approximating a land border with Vichnaya. It might be possible, for example, to steadily feed arms and supplies into Riomler, trapping the enemy in a never-ending meatgrinder. This would avoid the apocalyptic prospect of open hostilities, albeit at the cost of many Riomlerian lives. Perhaps we ought to invite a Riomlerian delegate here, and get a feel for how keen they are to get a piece of the Vichnayans. Coupled with economic sanctions, plausibly deniable cyber and intelligence attacks and so on, this could weaken the Federal Republic and exacerbate the social unrest we saw during the last war. With any luck, our greatest rival will simply tear itself apart.'

[Upper Magica]

Conference Hall, Allied Control Center, Tritous, Harrisopia

The Minister Paramount tapped his foot - was nervousness setting in?

"Hmm. President Montferrat, you've more stones than I'd been told. We have thought about this scenario too. Let us posit that all of our Allied troops have pulled out from Riomler save for plausibly-deniable and covert advisory deployments," de Limonet-Estienne began. "How do we keep this hypothetical conflict from - quite literally - mushrooming into the worst case scenario? Both Vichnaya and Riomler are nuclear-armed states, and I do not imagine either hypothetical party will utilize the least of restraint, given their histories. Additionally, I do not hold any confidence that the Riomlerians will last in any conventional conflict. That being said, I believe the consequences of such a hypothetical brought into reality would be simply disastrous, no matter what practical conditions one could impose."

de Limonet-Estienne sighed. "If we allow things to venture into the realm of military confrontation - as in guns running hot - with Vichnaya whether by proxy in Riomler or, God forbid, directly on or off our very shores... we will have failed as statesmen, and it will be the ultimate failure: no generation - if any would arise from the flames that are sure to engulf Lyceni in the conflagration to follow - will remember us."

Standing up with vigor, he started in on a speech, as was becoming typical of the Minister.

"We must therefore endeavor that this not be the case, should the Committee we propose to create return bad tidings to our ears and eyes. Instead, I propose we ought to adopt the strategy of the termite, which eats at its prey without mercy yet it is beneath notice until it is too late. It is, as President Montferrat has noted, a fact that the Vichnayan regime holds fearsome military power wielded atop a rotten foundation that seems to galvanize itself when struck from without. Let us consider:"

"One, the Vichnayan military seems to pour vast sums of money into its military for marginal gains. Every bullet, every shell, every tank and warship they purchase or manufacture, these represent not national achievements, but a theft from those homeless, those starving, and so on."

"Two, how long can Vichnaya sustainably increase the size and technological sophistication of its armed forces at the current rate before the spectre of state bankruptcy becomes apparent?"

"Three, how long will their population accept such buildup - without an external threat - before popular dissent, quenched by a patriotic fervor at the beginning of the premature Riomlerian invasion of Vichnaya begins to rear its ugly head once more?"

"With these points in mind, I must argue that we - through our powerful secret services - leverage direct action covertly and strategically with a maximum of plausible deniability to damage Vichnayan politico-economic interests abroad, while maintaining our strong position in Riomler for both their protection and ours, while also confronting the Vichnayan armed forces with utmost vigor every time they deign to think of violating our sacred borders on land, air, and sea. If we can maintain our current appearance of military threat, perhaps even intensify it to a degree to encourage yet more military spending to the actual detriment of their own people while proving to those same people we mean them no harm nor harbor any designs of regime change or puppetry, I surmise the Vichnayan regime might very well collapse in less than a decade under the weight of the military machine they have created." He sat back down, but he was not finished quite yet to everyone's exasperation.

"I would also call attention to Vichnaya's own puppet states, the so-called 'Orlova Pact', or their near-abroad, a system of puppet states gained through conquest in times past. Indeed, a cursory look of Vichnayan history indicates a diverse ethnography held together by what we might consider religious zealotry sponsored by the State. I would also - somewhat regretfully, as its genesis has been, by and large, the Magican Imperial Army - call attention to the growth of what has become an emergent black market trade growing on the Vichnayan-Riomlerian border."

"These three factors - a diverse cultural makeup, presumably restless puppets, the people of whom are likely chafing under Vichnayan imperialism, and a growth of disorganized crime within, it seems, their own military... in my professional opinion as a professional intelligence officer for the better part of the past fourty years, these represent workable vectors of covert action in my mind. We have but to exploit them if we wish, should the worst news be confirmed, to accelerate this inevitable process of decay. There are a variety of tools which we can use --"

An aide cut in. "Minister, you're reaching the 10-minute limit." de Limonet-Estienne smirked. "Only 10?", he said quietly aside the microphone.

"Apologies for going on perhaps a bit past polite speaking time, friends. I have a real passion for my expertise, and, as one might imagine, I tend to get passionate when speaking on these matters. Lastly, I have no objection to the sending of a Riomlerian representative to these chambers." He smiled warmly - in stark contrast to his businesslike, almost sociopathic description of a hypothetical war of shadows.

[Riomler]

,

[Harrisopia]

Harrisopia, Tritous
Allied Control Centre
Conference Hall
King Theon Jadeous

King Theon tapped the table rhythmically as he sat in the conference hall alone.
The meeting had concluded twenty minutes before and after saying farewell to his allies, he had requested his assistants to leave him by himself for a while.

The meeting had been significant and with so much to take in the King saw company only as a hindrance at this moment in time. He needed his mind to be a sanctuary but too much too soon would make it only a prison.

King Theon knew it would be a testing time for him and his people. The avoidance of war felt like such an important priority yet the inevitability of it felt so great.
In terms of dealing with Vichnaya the Minister Paramount had likely suggested the most logical option despite its potential complexity.

Economic power was true power and in turn economic damage was true damage.

Harrisopia's Special Forces had already been informed of their imminent deployment to Traldonia to help allied forces deal with the terrorists.
The more graphic dangers were with past threats rather than Vichnaya right now and this was, in a gloomy way, comforting to an extent. It was far less intimidating to be tasked with taking on the devil you do know rather than the devil you don't.

Taking a long breath the King stood and prepared to leave. He took one last look at the hall, expecting to find himself back in there very soon.
An invitation had been sent out for a Riomlerian representative and it would not take long for another meeting to be arranged.

[Upper Magica]

Aquis, Empire of Magica, Red Light District

It was a day of poor weather yet again in this dreary jungle land. It was even more dreary in the neon streets of Aquis at night; the rather rare torrential rains of the Magican summer poured forth from the skies onto those below.

Lieutenant-Colonel de Castrie was one of those unfortunate few, not even having the benefit of an umbrella to shelter him against the almost horizontal raindrops that simply bypassed the thin rain-tarp above him and the other patrons of the seating area of the street food shack he was currently patronizing. Even in the middle of objectively terrible weather such as this, the street-life of Aquis never really dulled; it was of course a fact of Magican life.

Rain, death, and taxes: these were the three certainties of the Magican.

de Castrie was, however, not enduring this test of will, a rather terrible program on the large LCD screen behind him advertising 'SKY★BATTLESHIP★ROVORIA', some sort of Vichnayan animation - or a Magican ripoff of the genre - annoying his auditory senses, nor that his back and bottom were wet and slightly cold, for a simple hot frybread - peppers, cumin and chili spiced mincemeat, and cheese atop it - he was waiting for someone. Unfortunately, he was ripped out of reverie by the arrival of a man in a Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts, oddly wearing sunglasses - aviators. “Hey, brother, you got the time?” He gave the man a quizzical look before finally responding.

“No, sorry.”, he dismissed him. “Damn. Hey, thanks a bunch anyway.”, the man replied before sitting down to place an order. de Castrie did the same.

That certain someone he was waiting for arrived midway into his delicious meal.

“Colonel,” he said, dressed in a sharp business suit, “how the hell are you?”

“I’m eating. You’re late, Roche.” he replied entirely laconically. “Weather looks good for our outing later this week before the snowstorm moves in.”

Roche smiled. “We’ll have no interruptions, I wager? We’ve been planning this outing since before the War; shame it got postponed on account of that damned fool Yuvaraj and the… terrible car accident my father had shortly before it ended. And we have one less king-sized mattress; we’ll have to make do with the one we have, as… thorny as it can be.”

“No interruptions,” de Castrie nodded, reaffirming his statement. “We even have a window of sunshine for our grand barbeque.” He stroked his beard. “We can make that mattress work. We’ve, after all, discussed all this before. Why bring it up again, Roche?”


“Flutters, I suppose. The itinerary is solid, but… I can’t help but think, what if our wives find out about this? We’ll surely be fucked.” Roche scrunched his face, anxious, as a man haggled the price of a frozen custard next to him. Loudly.

“Oh, the wives won’t notice a thing. We’ve got a new mattress; looks just like the one we’re taking. It’ll be a perfect swap; they won’t notice a thing. We’ll have to keep the old one, though, just in case anyone gets suspicious. Otherwise, the great green forest will be ours for the taking, none the wiser. The wonders of computing nowadays, ne?”

“Aye, I suppose,” Roche said. “What of… hm, the warden? Or the Sheriff? Or their cronies? Won’t they have something to say about all this?”

de Castrie nodded. “Aye, they will, but we’ve already sent word to the boys to distract ‘em. By the time them two know what’s going on, it’ll be too late - squatter’s rights, after all.” He finished up his food. “But all of this will be worth it if we can go back to those good ol’ days. You remember.”
Roche raised a glass, having ordered a warm brandy of licorice. “To the good old days, then.”, as the two toasted; a man excused himself, walking away, plopping down a ten-florin banknote as he left.

As these two drank and ate, one couldn’t help but wonder if they were talking about a simple country outing or… perhaps something else.

The man, covered and protected from the fierce rains by an umbrella, glares of car lights zooming past his sunglasses looked disquieted as he flipped open his phone to make a call.

---

Tritous, Harrisopia

For Marco, it was perhaps the third time he’d zoomed by The Great Southern Hotel at this supposedly dead hour. It was a busy life as a Doober driver, running to and fro places for people who made objectively more than him in a matter of minutes than he’d see in a day. He didn’t have much time to see, but the Harrisopian police were in full force at nearly any time of the day, or more pertinent to the matter at hand, the night, especially around this sector of Tritous; so he kept to the speed limits and the right side of the road.

Not that he paid special attention, either, to the hotel’s guard of Harrisopian police: that was the camera’s job.

In hours, revenge would be exacted, albeit not in full. It helped, of course, to know your target. That was the first thing he learned in MSS ‘spy school’, after all.

Meanwhile…

The Traldonians and Magicans - northerners, to be precise - stood across from each other in this low-rent motel room, light blaring in from the imminent dusk. Although Tritous was virtually utopian, it still held its fair share of… seedy underbelly from which a place d’operation could be located - a place where no prying eyes would peek into nor would any covertly criminal behavior attract suspicion per se.

John Digger looked at the camera feed, announcing loudly to all with a thick Traldonian accent. “Dass’ da bastard’s laer.” For the better part of a year, now, these forgotten Magicans - bolstered by those wanderers fleeing the chaos of Northern Magica to greener shores - had been working with Traldonians, bereft of home and ideology. They had made the Traldonian cause their cause, in simple terms. ‘Comrade Raoul’ was the first to speak up. “Goddamn Minister-Paramount, old son of a bitch. He’s really here?” Alice - another Traldonian - replied quickly. “Yes. Our intelligence came from a reliable source.”

Digger coughed - he was the veritable leader of this ragtag group. “Right, lads an’ lasses: this is basically a suicide mission. Ye all know that. Our target’s this nonce -” he tapped at the laptop in front of him, spinning it around to the views of all, showing a candid picture of the Minister-Paramount of the Empire of Magica.

“Fer some futtbuckin’ reason, the dick’s here in Tritous; we cannae make a move on the King, an’ wae certainly canna’ make a move on that bastard Mon’ferrat since’n all reality, wae dinna’ know where the sucker is.”

The Magican - red beret with the MSS symbol laid proudly upon her head - ‘Comrade Laila’, a dark-skinned Mu - the indigenous people of Magica - interrupted the Traldonian; she was, essentially, the leader of the Magican troop here and Digger’s de-facto second. “We’re going to set up a distraction: two Traldonians, two Magicans. Fred, Hanna, myself, and Raj are going to the FireFest club fifteen minutes from H-hour: we’re going to hold it up with violence, hopefully distracting Harrisopian police QRFs.”

She coughed. “The rest of you - James, Allen, Alice, and comrades Raoul, Marco, Jeanette, and our newest friend Vladislav -”, she pointed to the pale-skinned Adak in the corner, “...will, lead by Comrade Digger, storm the Great Southern Hotel and terminate de Limonet-Estienne. It is simple as that. Our equipments will be in our vans: AK-74s, AR-10s, pipe-bombs, smoke grenades - we’ve even got an RPG. Great Southern team, you decide which van that RPG goes in; we on the bank team are going in light. Use it wisely, yes?”

John Digger nodded. “Aye, wha’ the Magikan lass said. Whoms’t dinnae wanna go?”

None left or objected.

With all that being said, Marco, having gotten the code-word over ‘encrypted’ SMS perhaps vulnerable to interception - if any were watching, they certainly wouldn’t let him know of it - pulled into an alleyway, awaiting his team, shutting his rental off, lights drawn closed as he prepared for his business.

Meanwhile, three ‘Olga’s Plumbing’ vans - hastily stolen from the aforementioned business the night before, the license plates swapped out with dubiously ‘clean’ ones that might be perhaps revealed as a fraud - trudged onwards to their destinations into the night.

[Harrisopia]

Traldonia
Fort Benson
Allied Forces

The mood of the camp had turned sour since terror threat levels had officially reached "Substantial" across Traldonia.

For allied troops it meant more and more drills every day for longer.
"A good soldier stays on his toes!" The seniors would bark.

The courtyard thrived with activity as waves of soldiers, Harrisopian, Alexiandran and Magican alike, all carried on with their exercises.
As the taxing regime continued a certain group had decided that today wasn't the day to 'be on their toes' and had taken refuge in a supply room.

The room was clouded in smoke and banter as three soldiers smoked to their heart's content while playing cards.

"I believe that is what you call a full house boys." One declared smugly

The other two soldiers grimaced and put their cards down
"I swear you Magicans are either blessed by the Gods or masters at cheating Allard." Grumbled the palest of the three through his cigar.

Allard snorted "And I swear you Harrisopians wouldn't be able to pull off a poker face if you wore a paper bag Thompson."

They all laughed as they got ready to deal the cards again.

"What the hell do you chumps think you are doing?" Growled a voice

Startled they all jumped up and stood to attention, sending cards and cigars on holiday in the process.

Stood at the door with a face that would turn Medusa to stone was Captain Douglas.

"Uh Captain, we were just..." Thompson stuttered

"Taking a break?" Finished Allard lamely

This remark did little to calm the Captain down who proceeded to rant for ten minutes straight as the troops stood there with their heads down like three school boys getting a scolding from the headmaster.

Satisfied with his tirade the Captain turned and left.

"Jesus Christ, Captain Killjoy needs to get laid some point soon." Mumbled Allard when he was confident Douglas was out of earshot.

Rolling their eye his comrades quickly cleaned up the room and left, returning to their duties.

International Waters
HNS Whirlwind
Ambassador Dean Wright

"How you feeling sir?" Asked a young deck hand as he watched the sickly looking politician cling to a bucket like it was his first born child.

"About as well as I look." Croaked Dean Wright
"I hate travelling by sea. How on Earth do you do it for a living?"

The deck hand laughed
"Well technically I don't travel by sea for a living sir. I clean up other people's mess while we travel by sea for a living."

Before he could respond Wright disappeared into the bucket once more, supplying it with sticky green contents.

The deck hand couldn't help but laugh again. Seeing a posh, reputable ambassador in such a state was quite the sight to behold.

"If you get sea sickness so bad sir then why didn't you just head to Aquilara by plane? I am sure the government would have provided one for you since you're on this all important negotiation mission."

The Ambassador looked back up, face etched with regret
"Because the air sickness I get is even worse."

The deck hand burst out laughing, unable to contain himself.

[The Aswaltican Imperium]

(Bad Nature Documentary Voice) The Longus Texitasus successfully scares the new aswalticus imperius, and it flees from the area


(National Geographic theme)

[Upper Magica]

---

Act One: This Is Where The Fun Begins

---

Katarn Ave and 27th St - Tritous, Kingdom of Harrisopia

---

It had been a... tenuous sort of ride up until now through the side streets of Tritous - wherever possible cutting into alleyways to evade the ever-present Tritous Met. Laila gripped the steering wheel of the cumbersome van as she accelerated ever so gently through one such alleyway.

Hanna, Laila's passenger in the van's cabin, smoked a cigarette as they went on a cruise of this gigantic metropolis - the fifth this hour, it'd been. "Take a left", she said, scrolling through her phone.

Laila kept her head on a swivel, looking down the inbound and outbound lanes she came upon as she halted the van on the precipice of the street. "Right. Will do."

"No, left." Hanna looked confused. "...yeah, we're going left, like you said." Laila replied, pressing the gas down, willing the van left.

As Hanna said.

Without warning, in the next few minutes, however - unbeknownst to all in the van - a Tritous Met patrol vehicle had made them. The annoying sound of a Met patrol vehicle's siren and the flash of blue light made itself known in the rear-view mirror.

Laila gripped the wheel ever tighter, thoughts running through her head at damn near one-hundred miles per hour. Hanna looked aside to her, flicking the cigarette out the window, rolling it up. Two distinct clicks were heard from the van's back - the sound of safeties disengaging. Hanna was the first to break silence. "We're not going to stop, are we?"

Laila shook her head. "No." She was keenly aware of the disadvantage she'd have if there was a fake-out or some such nonsense; the van was simply too heavy to compete with a police cruiser of any type. And so..

She pressed - hard - on the gas, darting through the ahead traffic, which was relatively light - and downhill to boot, providing a perfect opportunity to gain some speed. As the engine started loudly revving, two more police cruisers joined the chase.

It was a bad start, she reckoned - turning into a busy lane of West Tritous, it got no better ahead.

"Fuck!" one of the men shouted from the back. "They're right on our ass, Laila! Let's fuck these bacon boys up!"

"NO!" she shouted fiercely, barely focusing on other matters off the road. "We can get to a better position, maybe dodge these fucks without calling down the heavy artillery on us! Wait a little longer, god damn it!"

All of a sudden, she found herself in, frankly, some of the worst urban road traffic she'd ever had the displeasure to drive - let alone at a hot 80 kilos per hour. The van lurched and weaved through the traffic, in both the outbound, turn, and inbound lanes, and skipped through roundabouts. "We're losing them!" shouted one of the boys.

This was not to be for long - she heard another noise, distinct from that of her own van; a Tritous Met vehicle was on her left coming up through the blind spot of her mirror. In a few moments, all felt a strong jolt rock the van - it took all her strength to hold the wheel in place to avoid a full-on spinout and all of her skill afterward to avoid slamming head-on into inbound traffic. Much to everyone's delight, a police cruiser lost control, crashing head-on into a double-stack bus, earning a belated whoop from everyone - including Laila, who was, in this group, the 'quiet one'.

But soon enough, although their van and their police pursuers had been dancing for what seemed like hours in these few moments.. a police cruiser zoomed up on the flanks. "Fuck this," one of the men in the back shouted. "Wait, godda-" she tried to say, cut off suddenly as the retort of the van's rear doors opening interrupted her: followed by the sound of AK-101s belching hot lead.

To her surprise, she saw one of the cruisers spin out, bullet holes in the driver's side, the white lines of the cracked glass surrounding them spackled with blood - promptly sliding into a crowded chip-fry stand at high speed. Also to her surprise was the reply of small caliber - likely pistol - fire from the other cruiser that remained, bullet holes still smoking out of the car hood. She heard a sickening thump and a choking sound as one of the men - Raj, she remembered the name - shouted: "FUCK! Fred's bit it!"

Dismay struck Laila. Another jolt of an attempted PIT maneuver struck the van, sending what she assumed was Fred's body out the back. More importantly to the matter at hand, looking out the side mirror, she saw that the rear wheel had bent, locking in place; the engine was making strained sounds.

Hanna looked back, cocking a pistol. Laila shook her head silently at Hanna as the two exchanged glances, and then the rattle of an AK decimated the two's hearing, ending with another sickening thump after a cascade of gunfire. Raj screamed. "Oh god," Hanna shouted. "Raj! They got him in the gut!"

Laila pursed her lips, eyes and attention firmly on the road. "It hurts, goddamnit!" he shouted. "I- I can't see! Oh, god! Someone help!" She heard chattering - shock, if her years' worth of experience informed her on these matters. "M-m-m... Mother?", he whispered one last time before he went into a deep sleep from which he'd never wake.

"Fucking assholes!", Hanna yelled, firing her pistol wildly out of the side; interrupted in her fury by another jolt and a loud popping sound to the right.

Distracted, Laila had little time to notice an incoming dump truck. Startled, she turned sharply away, wobbling the van; with a vehicle on the ropes as this one was, however... it did not stabilize. In fact, it flipped, flopped, and floundered, rolling over into a sidewalk violently.

In the few seconds it took Laila to register the situation, as discombobulated as she was from literally being tossed around in a van, she slapped Hanna back into the present, screaming at her and handing her an AK. "Get the fuck up! We've got to get out of here!" She unbuckled her seatbelt, complying, though still quite out of it; Laila, too, grabbed her AR-10 from its place betwixt the center console and the driver's seat, and crawled out of the wreckage.

Greeting them was a spotlight shined directly on the two from a helicopter above and six armed Tritous Met officers taking cover in a sort of perimeter formed by their cars, guns trained squarely on these renegades.

A cascade of "Put your guns down!" and "Hands up!" rung out from the other side. Their reply? To drop down, taking cover, opening fire on the police.

Laila's first shot knocked the checkered hat of a Met officer off its mount, which divided cleanly in two, faced with the force of a 7.62mm Magican round at relatively short range, while Hanna's gunfire popped naught but a tire - in return, the sound of pistols and shotguns hit nothing but air.

The two nuzzled up into the van, using it as cover, replying in turn with sporadic fire of their own. "Fuck," Hanna said, "We're fucked, aren't we?" Before she could counter her comrade's defeatism - albeit she wasn't incorrect in her take - Laila was knocked backward by the force of a shotgun slug cramming itself through the van and into her chest - which, thankfully for her, was covered by a ballistic vest.

"God damn it all," she moaned in pain; it was as if a sledgehammer had hit her lungs. "Fuck, fuck!" Hanna screamed out, looking over Laila, putting aside the AK for a minute. Laila took a moment to breathe in, breathe out. Hanna's face glowed up with realization. "Oh! You're not hurt!" Laila couldn't help but laugh - painfully. "You try getting hit with a freight train right in your chest, you fuckin' idiot." she countered, looking upwards. A rib was certainly broken, she judged.

She pointed towards a convenience store on the nearby street corner. "Hanna. We can hole up there." Hanna nodded with conviction. "Let's make this last."

The two emerged quickly, firing off a salvo of rounds from their rifles, cutting down a couple of more Tritous Met officers, who failed - once again - to hit a single thing in their cascade of fire. Running from parked car to parked car, they reached their destination under fire, kicking in the glass door to the horror of the clerk and what few patrons there were in this seedy, dingy establishment.

Hanna raised up her AK, Laila following suit, aiming at everyone inside with intent. "Not a fuckin' person move!", Hanna shouted. To reinforce the point, Laila popped, like a tomato, the brain of someone making a runner for the exit with a well-placed 7.62 round, sending a volley of screams and panic out into the streets.

The message, however, was understood. For now, it was time to dig in and wait. This was their mission, and they would achieve it no matter if it were a club packed to the gills with well-off youth or a corner market with a few unlucky sobs.

[Alexiandra]

Alexiandran Embassy
Tritous, Kingdom of Harrisopia

President Montferrat always liked staying at the Tritous embassy. It was a grand old building: art deco, with high vaulted ceilings and sparkling chandeliers. Built during the nineteen-twenties, in the so-called Golden Age of Alexiandran-Harrisopian relations, it had borne witness to many of Lyceni's most dramatic international incidents. It was here that, during the Harrisopian Civil War, Alexiandran marines had fought a desperate last stand against hordes of rebel troops, successfully evacuating the diplomatic staff at the last possible moment. As Montferrat trudged wearily down the corridor to his room, flanked by Secret Service guards, he could never have predicted that the old structure was about to form the backdrop to yet another tragedy.

He had just kicked off his shoes when the call came through: shots had been fired near the corner of Katarn Avenue and 27th, less than a mile away. And this wasn't some two-bit mugging - the Tritous Met had deployed all available armed officers to the area. There was no sign of any danger to Montferrat himself, but the Secret Service wasn't exactly famous for taking chances. Within five minutes he was ensconced within the Embassy's safe room, protected by a whole company of marines and a thick vault door of rolled steel. A secure laptop and satellite phone had been set up inside; immediately he began making calls. Could it really be a coincidence that this attack was taking place while he and the Minister-Paramount were in town? He thought not. Presumably the Magicans had already been warned, but he tried dialling de Limonet-Estienne's staff anyway. Montferrat knew that his Magican counterpart's accommodation was less secure than his own, and that gave him cause enough to worry.

Ring, ring. Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

Montferrat tapped his foot impatiently.

Ring, ring. Ring, ring. Ring -

Suddenly a voice answered.

'This is the office of Minister-Paramount de Limonet-Estienne. How can we help you?'

'Please listen carefully,' Montferrat began. 'This is President Harper Montferrat. I have been informed that a suspected terrorist incident is underway in downtown Tritous - you have probably already been warned, but please take steps to ensure that the Minister-Paramount is safe.'

There was a pause.

'Thank you for your concern, Mr President,' the Magican answered. 'I can assure you that everything is' — Montferrat jerked his ear away from the receiver as it emitted an incredibly loud noise, a noise that sounded awfully like a gunshot.

'Hello?' he said, his voice tinged with panic. The line had gone dead silent. 'Are you still there?'

And then came the sound that chilled him the most: a cold, dead, passionless dial tone. He was too late.

[Riomler]

» Tuesday Apr 18, 2023 4:10pm
RNN-Today it is declared that the country of buhers has risen up from the ashes!,people are furious with the government and demand they have their freedom,the government released a statement just a minute ago .Alexander riondel-“We defend our borders,keep you safe and fed and you Rebel?Fine,have your independence BUT know that you have just waged a war you never thought possible and there will be a fight now leave me,yes goodbye news reporters,I don’t speak to buherians.”This sends a powerful message to the breakaway state that that riomler does not easily let go,how will buhers respond?Come back tonight to find out.