Stöckler's Last Speech [CLOSED, MARKION/FRIENDS ONLY, PMT]

[Christbol]

Stöcklers blood and giblets do not all fully even land on the floor before the Earthly Voice and the Chairman of the Internationale jump up from their seats. At first Jüri mistook the explosion as being caused by a small drone packing plastic explosive, like how some Christbolian military drones function. It wasn't until he saw Stöckler's head flying and rotating into the back rows of the conference room, around the Tyrian observer delegation, that he realized the explosion came from inside Stöckler and not from the outside. After the head lands somewhere into the crowd and the first second or two of real shock settles, panic ensues. People shouting, screaming, trampling over eachother to get to the exit, it all occurs.

Jüri tries to get a handle on his panic while everything is falling apart around him. He takes a few deep breaths before stopping the act immediately, fearing that the explosion may have been biological in nature, that Stöckler's own body was simply infected and made to blow up. Thinking that it may spread by air, Jüri reaches under his table's seat to grab the gas mask underneath, encouraging the Anavokyan, Rhastovian and Krastovian delegates around him to do the same.

"We have to get out of here, now!"

[Iyum]

Yyanwylthe International City, Yyanwylthe International Zone


As the delegation were paying attention to the speech, they noticed Stöckler was acting strange. Then, with no warning, there was an explosion on the podium. The Emperor, Farelqin, Yshalūn, and the others duck down, not realizing Stöckler’s head landed in Yshalūn’s handbag. The Imperial Courts Guard quickly put on the VIP’s gasmask first, before they put theirs on.

“By Zandar’s name!” Yermaz reacted as he and his fellow delegates were quickly surrounded by their security.

“Your Excellency! Quickly! Put this on!” One of the Imperial Courts Guard said as he helped the Emperor as the other the Imperial Courts Guards quickly helped put the VIP’s gasmask on first, before they put theirs on.

Then with swift efficiency, they evacuated as quickly yet cautiously as possible. In the midst of the panic, Yshalūn picked up her handbag without realizing the decapitated head of Stöckler was in it. Creating a trail of blood as they’re evacuated by the ICG out of the GMAN Assembly Building.


OOC: For context. They can be called either "Iumian" or "Tyrian". Both demonym works.

[Emerstari]

In the moment before, which was now as long gone as Stöckler himself, Thomes, king of the Green Union, had been lost in the tranquility of his own meditations. He thought on his adopted country, how just a few short years ago before, or so the years felt to him, it had been laid down so low. Indeed, what country was there then? A country can't be sold. Now, one of its sons headed this conference, which united nations across Markion in a singular, rather noble project. A crusade, Thomes imagined it. A crusade, for better and worse, with its noble aim, the benefits its success would secure, and the vast potential for destruction. A crusade, indeed, the more he considered the Lirvittian Empire. Thomes, an aristocrat of the Emerstarian mold, a conservative -- an outlook his years in the GU had recently internalized -- was naturally hesitant toward idealistic sentiments and the popular abstractions that came along with crusades like this. All the same, there Stöckler, a living sign to the leaps and bounds the GU had made since Thomes was crowned, stood.

And then, he didn't.

Thomes stood, then froze. This wasn't the first time he witnessed a man die so violently. That had been a few years ago. But it was a sight he thought he had bid farewell to back then. "Josef..." he mourned. Some part of Thomes was compelled to take hold of the body, or whatever of it remained, as a father might. This man, after all, was his beloved subject in life. Thomes inched forward, his face dropped, flushed, but quiet, the quick seconds before the gas ballooned outward from its source. He turned, reaching out, at Yshalūn's handbag, which carried Stöckler's head. His fingers just grazed it, becoming bloodied, as this fatherly part of Thomes was suddenly pulled away. Maybe by Haida.

Meanwhile, Ambros Lillefel fell back as others rushed out. He quickly returned to his feet before speeding out with the crowd. He only briefly slowed, glancing back -- where had the explosion come from? was another to come any second now? was Thomes still in there? would an Emerstarian royal die today as well? -- before picking up pace again as the force of the people-wave behind him grew, covering his face with his hand. His nerves resembled Stöckler's innards. His thoughts dashed between possible persons to call upon reaching safety.

Somewhere, Ambassadors Bar Toma and Nango also rushed in the crowd, and Hayerkia's ambassador to GMAN.

[Soveiniesberg]

Stöckler was dead, in a violent shower of vaporized flesh.

The nine shot up, and sprinted out of the hall, managing to be some of the first out from their position in the center, all panickedly looking back for any other traces of danger.

It was all a blur, really. But they had pretty narrowly managed to escape, pushing past and out of the building, down the steps, and into the grass.

The nine paced about on the front lawn of the building, confusion and worry building as they all looked amongst themselves for any sort of comfort from the torturous situation that had unfolded violently seconds before. Four of the nine were on their phones, calling someone.

Grüvere screamed “WHERE ARE THE POLICE???”, looking around, listening for sirens amongst the sobbing.

Anschyise looked at Marchtz silently, before producing a pack of cigarettes. “Do you want one?” He asked, taking one out for himself.

Marchtz didn’t return his gaze, but he nodded, taking one, and producing a lighter of his own.

He yelled an expletive, stamping his foot down as he turned to pace away from his group, lighting his cigarette.

“…He never got to start. How miserable is that? Blown up by what I can only assume to be some evil contraption.”

He walked back towards his markedly silent group, eventually passing it, a bit.

“You know? Wouldn’t hurt to actually.. Try to read it, still? I know there’s some… dangerous evil gas. Killed that Vilhalan guy… But- No, someone could go back in there and get it, and read it! Just maybe not now. But someone’s gotta do it, I swear…”

He exhaled a gigantic cloud of nasty smelling cigarette smoke.

[Southwater]

The Regent of Kooplieden would've been unfortunate to have been so close to the front, especially for someone of his age. However, he was not that someone. His training and experience from his many years in Fushen kicked in. "Harmen of his ilk are seldom smithed." were what many of his supporters said about the now 84 year old regent. Cadwaladr immediately reached under the table to grab his gask mask and cursed at his entourage to do the same. Even in his old age and seemingly slow pace, he could get up and move. His delegation moved with him. Ahead of Cadwaladr, one of his men had tripped and fallen in the desperate escape. "Nary a man shall be left to the bonehawks." Risking his own life in the slowdown, the old Hywellwgian lifted the aide back to his feet. Cadwaladr's mind was on the immediate emergency, primarily hunting for clues of what happened while trying to look out for problems along the escape route. He was not stunned or shocked by what happened, not because he saw it coming, but because he was far too busy to be stunned.

As it was, the Southwaterian, Wastmann, and Huxlite delegation had been seated in the back, possibly on account of them not actually sponsoring ships. Being so close to the exit, they simply rushed the exit. A couple of the delegates rushed to hold the door open for the fleeing delegates. The group quickly became scattered in the crowds. Billings got to the first doors fairly quickly, and managed to jam the door open in record time. His mind rushed trying to process what just happened, the blatant gas attack, and running through emergency response plans drilled into him at the Department of Global Relations HQ. “How the hell does a security team fuck up this bad? Did they not put him through a metal detector?” He asked himself repeatedly.

Further into the building, another Southwaterian heard the alarms, Monsieur Thibodeaux-Robichaux. He and his kitchen staff knew this alarm meant they had to evacuate. They turned to each other, and the big man just said, “Orderly conduct is like the meat of a swine, it goes well with everything including both white and red wine.” The staff agreed and calmly went around and turned off all gas in the kitchen while shutting off all electricity. Then they walked out using the closest emergency exit which was far from the rushing mass of delegates. It was truly ironic that the flight of the chefs was more dignified than that of the dignitaries.

With the screams, an invisible smile could be heard from the strange shaman speaking to Ryan. “My friend, it appears Ichtacitlizi the Fortune Sought has smiled upon you. What was your greatest embarrassment was your greatest salvation. Even the most lost may find the mothbrown light of salvation in the deepest depths. May you learn and grow from this.”

The Texotli inside were surprised, several of their dignitaries crouched then ran for it too. Mr. Tejedor’s sun herald amulet changed subtly. Suddenly trust in their words turned sour. The delegates turned to stone, trusting entirely in their gods and ruthlessness. They were way off to the side in the room and struggled to get through the crowd. Suddenly, the Amulet’s eye panicked. Suddenly, some kind of subtle rhythm started, Tejedor looked back in time to see the Honorable Senor Morazan laugh, convulse, then his flesh was no more. An unholy turquoise crest and garment grew out of the bones and the thing started dancing and laughing, proclaiming blasphemous fates. With this sight, another Texotli delegate got startled then knocked over by the Skeleton, being tossed into the gas.

[Union of Krastovian Socialist Republics]

The trio leaned in to try and hear what Mr.Stöckler was saying before his body blew apart in a violent gory explosion, his head flying through the air. The shower of giblets and red spattered everyone in the front and second rows as panic immediately ensued.

The UKSR delegates raised their arms and hands up far too late to shield themselves from the spray. Even sitting in the second row, their suits were covered in the red essence, their tiny pocket flags soiled.

"Get up! Lets get out of here go!" Gordan was yelling, his thick western Krastovian accent showing as the three men stumbled past overturned chairs and made their way towards the doors. Everyone was scrambling and throwing themselves to the exit as fast as they could. Mihael stumbled nearing the exit, falling over and onto the ground. Looking up he saw someone he hadn't seen before. In that moment it felt as if time had slowed. Their green fatigues, the black beret, the military looking boots, and a patch on their left shoulder. He didn't really know the English language in writing as well as he did in speech, but he understood the word 'God' as it was printed on this red and black shield, laced with white. They looked down at him, and he met their eyes. Those bright red beads felt as if they were boring into his very soul, and gripping his heart, squeezing it tight. And yet a hand reached out from this thing. It grasped onto his shoulder and before he realized it he was half airborne and being thrown out into the lobby, the doors half closing behind him.

He barely had time to recompose himself or even process what he had just seen when Pavel and Gordan grabbed him and hauled him outside to where the others were waiting. The entire hall of delegates had escaped that room and were resting on the grassy front lawn of the building. Aids were coming by and distributing bottled water and cloths to wipe themselves of what they could. A cigarette landed in Mihaels lap, fingers snapped in his face as he finally recognized his friends were trying to talk to him.

"Look I get we all just witnessed him fucking explode but can you just say something Mihael!? You look like a zombie, de-stress a little and have a smoke for once, it might help." Pavel exclaimed, a cigarette in his mouth as he took a deep drag and slowly blew it out into the air. Mihael reluctantly and with shaking hands put the cig in his mouth. Gordan helped him a little cause he did it backwards on the first try. Pulling out a lighter, Gordan lit the cig for him and he choked and sputtered but eventually took his first real drag and breathed out. By the time he stopped shaking he had gone through twelve of them.

[Stallenbourg]

Josephine sat in silence and remained invisible, waiting for Mr.Stöckler to begin his speech. She noticed he was having a hard time with his opening line, taking a pause. Nothing out of the ordinary. But what concerned her in the moment was when he stopped, and began looking at his notes like a fish out of water. Eyes widening as if to try and read everything on the page at the same time only to speak nothing of it. Like someone had taken all of the words out of him just a moment before. Her ears perked up, she took a very soft breath and listened very closely. The deep breath, then the sound of his hands gripping the dais, the opening of his mouth.

And then something that shouldn't have been there. It was the sound like that of a device clicking, but it was muffled by the distance. The Stallenbourgian delegation was the third and fourth rows back on the right side of the chamber with the entrance being in the middle of the top of it, where the rest of the room descended towards the podium and the dais. That device, whatever it was, would probably go off in the time it took someone to blink three times. To her astonishment, she heard him sob and speak the words;

"I'm sorry. They're already here."

And with that, she reacted. She let go of the concentration she had held, letting herself be seen. Her green fatigues, black beret, leather belt and long holster at her side. She turned to David and pulled the chair from under him, and pressed him to the floor as Mr.Stöckler blew apart in a shower of gore and red mist. Looking up, she saw a sharp bone had embedded itself at head height into the desk behind them. She got up, pulling David with her.

"Code Black. Go. Now." She spoke the command with fierce agitation in her voice as she hauled her priority to the door and pushed him out into the lobby.

"Get everyone to the front lawn, move it!" She barked at him as he still was trying to adjust himself to what exactly had just happened. He soon realized as he found his stained delegation pouring out behind him. He took charge and led them outside.

Josephine stayed by the door, grabbing anyone within reach and pushing them through as fast as she could. Some stumbled, some fell, but she picked them up and got them through. Some man fell right on his face before her and looked into her eyes. She saw her reflection in his eyes, her short black hair, the beauty mark above her lip and to the right, even her glasses that she mostly wore for aesthetics at this point since she was turned, and the scar upon her right eye from long before she had become one with the night. The man looked small, disheveled and covered in the remains of the speaker. The little stained flag in his pocket singled him out as one of those commies she was told not to interact with. Fate has a sense of humor, she mused. She grabbed the man and hurled him out of the chamber. Looking back, no one else came.

The large cloud of gas spilling out of what remained of Mr.Stöckler had made it to the second row when the chattering and clicking of some creature could be heard throughout the chamber. She undid the holster and drew Garmr, a long slide blued pistol chambered for .454 casull and loaded with Anti-Midian rounds. Silver coated, explosive core, and blessed by the head of the Royal Order of Protestant Knights of Stallenbourg.

The monster revealed itself, a skeleton emblazoned in what looked like Aztec runes and symbols, feathers running off the back of its bare skull, turquoise stonework built into its body as if it had always been there. She did not know who this had been if they were once living, she didn't have anything in her head that told her what she was even looking at. But she knew it was a threat the second it looked at her with those dark black empty sockets.

It spoke to her, both in a tongue she could understand and one she could not, the two voices at odds with each other.

"Suns may rise and fall, grounds may give way to seas, and flesh will slough off in death. Oh horrid child of flayed dreams and unending hunger, the light of infinite suns will burn you as creatures of the night have no place when day and night cease to be. Yet submit to my will and I can rewrite you into something greater.” It outstretched a pale boned hand to her, as if to invite her into the ever creeping gas cloud, it slowly engulfing the room as she looked up and saw it descending upon her. She could feel her skin beginning to tingle ever so slightly. She was out of time.

"May god have mercy upon thine tortured soul, daemon." She raised Garmr and fired, the massive flash illuminating the darkening chamber as she let loose two more rounds. The first round crashed into its spine, blasting it apart. The thing shrieked before the next round hit its collar bone. The third shot impacted the skull and annihilated it, a shower of turquoise, feathers and bone dust blasting up and into the gas, disturbing its descent.

She whipped around, and slammed the doors shut behind her, locking them and throwing the security bar down, ensuring nothing in there could ever escape it. The gas she wasn't so sure about, as she had never experienced something of its nature. Her skin was still tingling, the feeling of a burning sensation creeping across her exposed face. She looked around for any source of water, anything. A bottle of wine. She snatched it up and splashed it across her face, as she viciously clawed and grasped at it to try and get any of the residue off of her. Her skin stopped tingling. She breathed a sigh of relief before turning to the door and making her way outside, her waist cape blowing in the wind as she descended the stairs to her charter, the delegation she was sworn to protect.

"So that's what you look like." David spoke, as he looked her up and down. He was like everyone else in the group, dumbfounded at her sight, but also grateful she had saved from from whatever that was.

"Like I told you. I would act if we weren't safe. My hearing is far better than you would imagine. As per my charter, there's no reason to hide myself from you all now that something has happened. Now can one of you go negotiate with one of the other delegations to see if they have some holy water? I need it. Don't ask why just do it." She demanded, the pain ebbing back across her face.

[Christbol]

Upon reaching the lawn in front of the assembly building entrance Jüri took off his gas mask and quickly took an eye count of the delegates who previously sat near him: amidst the blaring sirens and flashing lights Jüri managed to identify that Dolezal was here, as were the Anavokyan delegates and the Krastovian delegates. The Rhastovian delegates seem a bit further away in the crowd but Jüri is relatively sure they are all accounted for as well. Aside from Stöckler, the cleanliness of some people's multi-thousand mark suits and one of the Krastovian delegates' deteriorating lung health there appear to be no further casualties. He heard three gunshots and shrieking coming from some demonic creature he only caught a glimpse of before fleeing out of the chamber, yet taking a short lap around the lawn and looking around himself to check on the other delegations nobody seems to be clutching onto any physical wounds so much as now trying to deal with the blistering mental one they had sustained just mere moments ago. Fifteen years ago Jüri would've pulled out his phone, a common habit he picked up as a teenager when he wanted to de-realize from political pressure attached to his mother's post and therefor to his family's, but remembering the weight of his office snaps him out of it enough to realize that wouldn't help anyone right now, and his phone probably wouldn't have much to tell him other than news sites reporting Stöckler had popped like a piñata and that the Weltholm stock exchange is likely experiencing fluctuations that make the Christbolian isolation period look like astounding economic growth. He decides to put his skills as Earthly Voice to better use by helping comfort the other delegates, particularly the Catholic ones even if some of them from across Markion do not see fully eye to eye with the office of the Earthly Voice itself. He even decides to check up on how the Arcadian and Arsenian delegates are doing; some of the Arcadian officials went on to yell at him if for no other reason than a mix of habit and trauma trying to look for something familiar, and therefor safe, to latch onto, which Jüri took with stride - it is better they yell out at him who is used to it than some other poor soul who deserves their anger less.

It is perhaps through this morale-stoking that Jüri receives some attention. Jüri feels a tap on his shoulder. He is not used to being approached from behind, and given the chaos of the whole situation he tenses up not ruling out somebody about to attack him before he turns around. It turns out to just be Cassidy Orville, a junior delegate member that was also present in the assembly chamber when Stöckler unfortunately lost his life. Jüri doesn't personally know her and doesn't recognize what delegation she came with, it also doesn't help that his mind has been trying to ease him into derealization against his will by turning the faces of the individual delegates more and more into just generic and vague human features he can't differentiate from one another whenever he tries to look at any of them, however he could at least tell she has blonde hair. Unbeknownst to Jüri who at this point can't do as something as basic as reading human facial expressions yet is trying to upkeep a confident facade for everybody else's sake Cassidy looks a bit aloof and intimidated trying to speak to him but gets some words out nonetheless.

"Excuse me, mister . . . Annor? I umm... do not know how the Earthly Voice entirely works, but given how the Christbolian Catholic Church functions you'd be something of a Catholic representative, yes?" - "You could say that." - "I feel like what I'm about to ask you is like waiting for a second sunrise, but is there any chance you carry holy water with you?"

The call to his post envokes a sobering and renewed sense of self within Jüri. For a moment his confused and subconsciously enforced loss of focus fades, calling on him to unbutton his coat to reveal a grenade belt stretching from his left thigh to the right top of the pelvis holding an assortment of clipped-on small and round holy water flasks, making him look like some B movie holy warrior. Jüri unclips two round flasks from the belt and puts them into Cassidy's hands. - "No clue what you need some of these for, but in the off-chance it's for some unholy mess that God missed, make sure you don't."

[Stallenbourg]

Everyone in all of the various crisis response units that were stood up for the now present GMAN summit sprang into action as soon as Mr.Stöckler had violently combusted on live international television. The GMAN International City CBRN Unit was on its feet in seconds, everyone scrambling for their lockers, ripping them open and clothing themselves in their obtuse and unwieldy gear. It was vintage stock from the 2010's, but it was proof against all of the known chemical weapons and biologic agents in Markion. The man in charge of them all, Captain George R. Karnel, hustled everyone outside and into their white wheeled armored personnel carrier, the vehicle was itself equipped with various air filtering sensors and readers to detect any toxic or hazardous gasses, as well as nuclear and radiological sensors. It was the first in a growing high speed convoy racing through the streets of Yyanwylthe International City. Police cordons had snapped into action and blocked all traffic on the main thoroughfare leading directly to the gates.

Behind the white APC with the GMAN symbol emblazoned upon it, was several other semi-armored military grade vehicles in the same white paint and matching liveries. More security personnel, three ambulances, two firetrucks with long booms and a tanker truck with 6000 gallons of water. The armed guards at the gate hurriedly opened the gates, disengaging their slow automatic motors and physically throwing the gates open. Once all of the vehicles were inside, they slammed the gates shut, with two more guards taking post with the original two. The entire facility was in lock down now. A helicopter was coming in. It began circling the perimeter and the building, looking for any possible assailant or perpetrator that could be part of the attack or plot of whatever was unfolding below.

"Alright team, we need to go in, test whatever this gas is, and leave. The staff have already shut off the ventilation in the western part of the building where the chamber is, and evacuated it. The gas is not going to go anywhere else as far as we know. Do I make myself clear?" Words of affirmation filtered back to him, muffled thanks to the gas masks and the thick yellow suits. They marched up the steps, all twelve of them, and into the hall that lead towards the chamber.

-

Bill V. Argyle, a young man in his early twenties was sitting on the steps off to the left of where the men and women clad in yellow suits and gas masks marched up the steps. He coughed, his lips felt dry. Earlier he had been helping shuffle people to the doors and out onto the lawn, making multiple trips back and forth. The transition from the warm March air to the cold air conditioned building over and over caused him to sweat. He signaled to a friend of his in the facilities guard staff. She had been distributing water bottles to everyone in the lawn, along with other aides. She came to his side and sat down next to him.

"You need one too?" She handed one to him. "Its the last one I had, I was going to get more but I can take a short break."

Bill twisted the little plastic cap off and sipped, tilting the bottle back further as he drank.

"Man I needed that. Thanks Hailey."

"Of course. Are you sure you are okay? You look a little pale."

"Oh I might have just been a little dehydrated. I don't know, my chest hurts a little."

"Don't go over exerting yourself now, you've hardly begun your career here. And you had your first crisis to deal with. When you get to meet the newcomers of the next generation you are going to have quite a story to tell them."

"Yeah..." He let the word hang as he looked out to the lawn. Paramedics were seeing to others, there was a lot of talking, phone calls being made, cigarettes being smoked, and coughing. There were quite a few people coughing in fact. Maybe it was just the pollen in the air, it was springtime after all.

-

Cassidy bowed in respect to the Earthly Voice, thanking him for his willingness in the endeavor. She admittedly never handled holy water before, and really wondered what the purpose of it was in these slightly ornate glass orb flasks. A intricate cork with a gilded cross served to stylize the top of the two flasks in her hands. She briskly moved back to her group, about half of them were seated, sipping water and trying to clean themselves of the blood. She came face to face with Josephine, and tried to avert here gaze.

Josephine looked at her and the two flasks he held out in front of her. A wide smile crossed her pale features.

"Thank you Mrs.Cassidy. I will have to thank whoever provided these once I am done." She took both in her hands, attaching one to her belt, a wave of reassurance appeared to pass through her.

"Now for the hard part." Reaching into one of her inner jacket pockets, she pulled a simple wooden cross out. No ornamentation, no scripture, just a simple carving from a great pine that had been felled long before her. She undid a gloved hand and rested the cross in it, with the other she removed her beret, allowing her short hair flow a little in the wind. She undid the cork on the flask, and splashed her face with the holy water. She held the cross tightly to her chest as her face scarcely hid the pain she was feeling. Yet the burning sensation on her skin was overcome by the warmth and belief she held so strongly in her faith. The tears came, the streaks of blackened crimson seeping down her face and onto the grass, the essence burning away. Steam seeped from her face as she almost stooped over, falling to a knee, yet still holding tightly onto the cross as the blood flowed. It was a necessary pain she told herself, one she needed to endure. The rest of the delegation watched, as if viewing a pennant marching through a street, whipping their back raw for sins they have yet to commit.

After a few moments longer, she breathed out, and the blood stopped flowing.

"Cloth, please." She said in a meek voice. One was handed to her as she wiped her face clean of the crimson blemishes. She tried to stand, but couldn't get up from her kneel.

"David. Can you help me?" She held up a hand, and with some reluctance he moved to her side and helped her stand. She struggled even with help but made it up. Appearing dizzy, she swayed for a few moments before finding her composure. Pressing both her hands behind her back she arched and several pops and cracks we heard. He teeth flashing for everyone to see as she adjusted herself.

"Oooh, that's better." She spoke as she looked around, they were all looking at her, mostly just the Stallenbourgian delegation but the eyes of others did fall to her as well.

"So... What are you really Miss Josephine?" David asked. He felt he had a right to know who their 'protector' was at this point after everything that had just happened. She shrugged, but knew that she needed to tell them if they were going to continue to trust her.

"It is against my orders to explain my nature, but under the circumstances I think everyone here can keep a secret, especially since I know who pays all of you." She pointed around to all of them to ensure they all knew. Taking a deep breath, and putting her beret back on, she looked at them all.

"I was once human. But as of almost two decades ago, I lost my humanity in exchange for eternal service for a greater cause. To undertake that cause, I had to lose what made me human. So now, I am a creature of the night and of old tales that many of you have heard before I am sure. Most of them wrong. For example, have you noticed that I am still standing in the broad daylight?" They all looked around, they knew it was day but it was a important point to be made.

"I willingly gave my life to the will of my master and my sire, in order to protect everyone from evil. In doing so, I had to become; a Vampire." With that she reached into her jacket, and produced a small plastic medical bag with the words 'Pharmascience Corp.' printed on it. She attached a small straw to it as she began to sip at its contents. David could read the bag and see it said 'B-' on it. He decided he didn't want to question anything at this point, as more questions only distracted him further due to the answers they produced. But he looked to the steps and the doors. Where was the CBRN team? His mental question was cut short by the sudden coughing being made by Mark and Gabriel.

-

"Alright, lift!" Captain Karnel heaved with two other subordinates at the massive security bar that held the doors to the chamber tight. Carefully, he undid the locks on the door.

"Remember your training people, we go in, diagnose the chemical agent for thirty seconds, and then we leave. Not a second longer." Words of affirmation sounded out as he undid the last lock. Two of the lucky ones got to stay outside the doors, keeping them shut tight in order to prevent the gas from escaping. The Captain and 6 others made their way inside the chamber, the other four were milling around the rest of the building doing thorough checks to ensure the entire building hadn't been contaminated.

Stepping through, the chamber had become very dark, the gas hanging high against the ceiling. It wasn't dissipating due to the lack of air flow in the room. Looking on, Karnel spied a pile of bones, and the remains of one of the delegates. It was hard to make out the details, but he was a very old gentleman. He brought his attention back to his device, five seconds had passed. He tuned it, and waved it around, gathering the data. Others in his group were working feverishly, taking dust samples and putting them in stable environment bags, or using devices like his to try and get a reading on what kind of gas this was.

Fifteen seconds passed. His device flashed the screen red and the word 'ERROR' appeared. It chimed an awful sound that was suppose to indicate a positive identification of a gas, but it grew in pitch before abruptly stopping. Puzzled, he slapped the device once, then twice. It did not turn back on. He heard a distinct click from behind him, and turned. The sound made him sweat. Then another click and another. Then one reverberated from inside his own gas mask.

"The filter failed..." He said the words to his compatriots. For a brief moment, none of them did anything. Twenty five seconds passed.

They all began to move for the door, but the closest one collapsed. They began shaking and coughing, vicious wet coughs escaped them. Captain Karnel knelt down to their side and tried to look through their visor, yet all he saw was red. Then another fell, she was screaming while coughing. Another fell behind him. Then he began, at first it was soft, then it became nothing but a retching wet sound gurgling up and out of his throat as he stumbled over and into something hard. A chair maybe? He opened his eyes and saw that most of his visor was now covered in blackened red ichor, but he could barely see the doors. Twenty nine seconds. He crawled, pulling himself towards it in a defiant denial of the end that was surely coming for him. He gripped the red carpet as he pulled with what strength he still had within him. The coughing returned, but he would not stop crawling. He needed to say something to those left, if he could speak at all.

Thirty five seconds passed. The doors opened as the two looked on in horror at the sight of their friends, flailing around, hacking and coughing at blood stained visors they could no longer see through. Their bodies thrashing in wanton abandon and convulsing in abject pain. Captain Karnel looked to the two, and with the last of what energy he had left, he yelled out to them;

"Close the damn doors and burn this chamber!" He screamed as the coughing returned in force. He could barely hear as the doors were slammed shut and the security bar was shunted back into place. He hacked, harder and harder, something was choking him now, and he spat it out. What came looked like it shouldn't be on the outside of him. He began thrashing around, his voice lost as his vocal cords were destroyed by the gas and its destructive nature. The agony and pain was too much, and after a few minutes, his body stopped moving. And the chamber was empty of all life once more.

-

Billy had begun to cough up a storm. It definitely was not because he was dehydrated at this point. He took deep rasping breaths. It wasn't something he ate, it definitely was not his allergies, and it couldn't be the water he drank. He laid back against the stairs. He didn't see the paramedics come to his side. He couldn't really make out the questions being asked to him, as everything was more of a blur.

"Are you okay?" He heard that question, but before he could reply, he hacked. Something was definitely wrong inside him, he felt like he was choking for a moment.

"Okay lets get a stretcher, bring the ambulance over here we need to evac this one." Something was on his face, wiping at it. He tried to raise a hand but was pushed aside.

"Its okay, were not trying to hurt you just stay calm sir."

The next few minutes were difficult to process, the lights and sounds were too much. He did see a mirror for a brief moment, he saw his face. There was blood around his mouth. Was he... dying? His first big crisis and he was dying on the job. What would his parents think of him? He was in the good care of the medics now, and though he did not know it, the ambulance he was in was racing down the road to the nearest hospital.

-

Mark and Gabriel were still coughing as the Ambulance pulled away and sped out the gate, its sirens wailing and lights flashing as it roared down the road.

"Fuck! Its like I ate fuckin, wood chips or something. Kaff! Kaff!" Gabriel blurted out as the coughing ensued. Josephine and the others helped them lay down on the ground, trying to get them a little more comfortable. Other delegations had people coughing as well, some lightly, others just as fiercely as Mark and Garbriel. She turned to her principal, and David stood just fine, no coughs, not a stain on his suit, not a scratch in sight. She could at least say that she made sure he came back home unscathed. No doubt the President was throwing a controller at the TV and calling an emergency meeting of the Joint Chiefs of State and of the Military to review options on how to tell the public what had just happened back home. She wondered what her master would be saying.

"You! Stand and turn around." Someone behind her barked the order. She turned, David turning as well, just as surprised. Before them stood what looked like some GMAN Sergeant of the Guards that had arrived with the convoy.

"State your name and why you are here right this instant before I have you cuffed and thrown behind bars."

"Josephine Belmont. she is on the list for the Stallenbourgian delegation." David reached into his jacket and pulled out the list, handing it to the disgruntled man. His two guards stood aside him, sub machine guns across their chest. She was hardly intimidated by the sight. Crossing her arms, she waited as the GMAN Sergeant scanned the list. The last name on his plate carrier said "Jonas". She spat at the ground, rolling her eyes as she flexed her fingers.

"So you are. But you don't have a role listed. Just what are you doing here-" He stopped as he actually met her gaze, eye to eye with those red crimson beads. His entire train of thought collapsed as he mumbled gibberish, trying to say something but failing. Josephine made a wide grin, and that spooked the man as he jumped back, dread and fear wrought upon his face. His aides were confused and tried to hold him steady.

"Sir! Get a hold of yourself, whats happened?" They looked back to Josephine, and she gave them both a brief look that said more than enough.

"Gentlemen I hate to tell you this but she is charged with protecting my delegation, now you can either keep having a staring contest with her or you can keep looking for the actual perpetrators of this catastrophe. You aren't going to find them here I can tell you that much." David spoke, his voice calm but easily convincing to the three men, who just nodded and backed away, dragging their disheveled sergeant back to the steps so he could take a breath.

"Its like they saw a ghost." Josephine said, a smug grin across her features.

"I have barely known you for very long and yet the fact you are making jokes in a situation like this really says something."

"What, this?" She gestured around at the barely organized chaos of the lawn. "Might as well be another Tuesday."

[Iyum]

Yyanwylthe International City, Yyanwylthe International Zone

In the courtyard of the GMAN Assembly building, the Imperial Courts Guards protect and surround the Iumian delegates. Yermaz is calling the Imperial Minister of Intelligence, on any news coming out of the whole GMAN incident, then contacting his family to let them know he’s okay. Farelqin is contacting his clan about the situation, letting them know there’s been an incident.

Yshalūn, once she has calmed down from the panic. Looks down at her white Hermes back on the grass for the first time. She noticed that it was blood stained, she checked herself for wounds and found none. She approaches slowly, and opening it slightly, she discovers the head of Stöckler in her bag. Her eyes widen, her breath fastens. Then all of a sudden, the loudest shriek that any man can hear was let loose. She became the banshee in the courtyard. One of the Imperial Courts Guards looked inside her bag, and quickly tries to find one of the GMAN police officers.

Then, one of the Imperial Courts Guards begin to cough. Then another. "Shit, feel like it's burning my lungs from the inside out." One of them says.

Then Farelqin started to feel his chest getting a bit sore. "Your Excellency," he begins, his voice a bit raspy. "The situation is worse then what we thought. This isn't your usual bio-weapon."


Ro’an, the Iumic Imperial Domain

In the midst of finding the death of Bluewater’s CEO. The Mor’shen clan, who held 5% originally of all Bluewater stocks, began to try to buy the rest of the stocks, as the price per stock tanks, aiming to take 40% to 50% of the Bluewater stocks. At the same time, they begin to try to buy most of the stocks of Flax-Core, aiming to try to take 70% of all stocks. If they’re lucky, they can buy the entire company outright.

[Arseny-Sazikov]

Yyanwylthe International City, Yyanwylthe International Zone

There had been no small amount of debate, among the inner circle of the Arsenian Tsar's government as to whether or not his majesty would be willing to attend the "great anti-slavery bluster conference" being held in Yyanwylthe. It had been not one, not two, nor three, but four years since Tsar Alexei had been seen outside of the country on any sort official state business; his travel outside of Arseny-Sazikov had always been to Southwater or Phoenixia, but rarely officially, and never with much fanfare. On the other hand, Arseny-Sazikov had made her objections to slavery clear, having willingly committed men and materiel to the slapdash efforts that had previously been undertaken by an oddball coalition of Markish states to intervene in foreign affairs far outside of their native waters. One thing led to another, as was often the case with these sorts of quagmires. What existed now, was an opportunity to make the Holy Empire's position clear. In the past, she had not been one to engage with anything bearing the "GMAN" moniker beyond the absolute bare minimum required to keep her from acquiring the reputation of an isolationist pariah. The times it seemed, were changing. Quietly, Tsar Alexei had put in a request a few weeks prior to the Okhrana to prepare and brief a security detail for his travel to the International City; traveling with him would be Arsenian director of Foreign Affairs, the Countess-Director Nadejda Maximillianovna Belsky. The two of them being seen present together at an event outside of Pecherskystadt was nothing short of extremely rare. Still, the trip was kept to a bare minimum of ostentation. The Tsar and Countess were escorted by a relatively small entourage, mostly consisting of members of the Okhrana's Imperial Guard; men who had vowed to give their lives for the Tsar if ever there was a reason to do so. The main Arsenian contingent, was in fact hidden throughout the International City. Members of the Black Hundreds. Additional Okhrana agents. Numerous vehicles. Multiple ingress and egress points being watched, covered, waited upon. There were no less than seven aircraft on standby, various civilian transports that had been borrowed from various Arsenian airlines and placed on standby, ostensibly waiting for charter flights to nowhere. Contingency plan after contingency plan had been discussed, verified, rehearsed, and signed off upon. The security of the Tsar when he traveled outside of the Empire was no laughing matter, and this particular trip had been considered ill advised and risky by the Director of the Guard, one Count Platon.

Still, Tsar Alexei had gone; he had made up his mind that he was going to commit the resources of the Holy Empire of Arseny-Sazikov to this fool's errand. He was personally skeptical of the ability of the respective supporting nations to work together, and he was skeptical of their ability to project power halfway across the hyperearth in a decentralized multinational band of state-sanctioned corsairs. Nevertheless, there were certain things that he believed were self-evident, and the threat that faced them now was one such thing. Upon his arrival, he was greeted by many familiar faces. Southwaterians, Rhastovians, ChristBolians, Placeoderms, Rhamosians, and the like. It felt much as who's-who of friends and foes as ever he had previously seen, and the Tsar and Countess made an effort not to mingle with the others. Tsar Alexei, though a young man, felt especially old when forced to attend events such as these. There was always someone out there, hoping to scheme or set up a back-channel deal; others wanted an opportunity to judge the reclusive Tsar outside of his element, to "measure him up," or otherwise see what could be made of him in a setting where he did not hold the cards. He wasn't interested in that, not today. He and the countess spent the time before being called to the grand assembly hall and Herr Stöckler's speech, speaking quietly to one another.

"You could do to get out more, you look like someone dipped you in starch," the Countess chided, one of the very few in the world who could get away with doing so.

Alexei pretended to be keenly inspecting a bottle of water he had selected off of a nearby table, not giving her a reaction.

"I know you heard me, Alexei Feodorovich."

The Tsar sighed, uncapped the water bottle, and took a sip before responding.

"I was just thinking, Nadejda Maximillianovna, that the likelihood of any success enjoyed by this endeavor is going to be serious curtailed by the potential for infighting and logistical challenges, the likes of which our compatriots in Markion are not seriously equipped to handle. If we are lucky, this will become a joint venture between ChristBol, and Arseny-Sazikov."

He paused.

"And the idea of that makes me feel very tired."

The Countess was not able to respond, snide, comforting, or otherwise before the two of them heard the sound of Josef's assistant speaking, bidding them to the assembly hall. The Tsar adjusted his broadcloth coat, a black one with silver piping and various ribbons. It was an old coat, having once belonged to his great-great-grandfather; the sort that had once been the military officer's uniform worn by the Arsenian Army's generals and the like. It had been kept in immaculate condition since, and Alexei had taken to wearing it publicly. Stubbornness, and tradition. He believed that it befitted the dignity of the Crown, and the dignity of the discussion they were now having. This was the brink of a war, the likes of which Markion had not quite seen before. A united effort, a vanguard for the sake of all humanity; his mind swam through the current of implications that this brought up. He and Nadejda took their seats after introductions and pleasantry had been given its due diligence; for the life of him, Alexei could not remember if he and Stöckler had ever shared more than brief introductions before. He was sure they had, he just wasn't sure when. He had always thought the man to appear dignified, but harried. The sort of fellow who had been given a plate too big for his appetite, but forced to chew nevertheless; Alexei could appreciate that sort of soldierly bearing in a public figure. "The duty is ours, regardless of the consequences." The Tsar quickly decided that if nothing else, he would be able to work with Josef Stöckler. The two of them would have to set aside a time to speak in earnest, because if there was one thing that Alexei had a good eye for, it was recognizing the men and women of the world whom one had to talk to in order to get a proverbial ball rolling. When Stöckler spoke, at last, the Tsar had finally let his mood shift to one of tentatively pleasant apprehension.

It didn't last very long.

"They're already here."

The words didn't even have a chance to sink in, to register. The look of agony on Josef's face belied to the Tsar that something was wrong, but it came so abruptly, so quickly, that Alexei didn't have a chance to so much as raise his guard or surmise the meaning. The blast rang out in the hall, a sharp report that ran in Alexei's ears and for a few moments drowned out all other sound. He felt his heart skip a beat, the spike of adrenaline washing over his body immediately and fine-tuning his senses. He still didn't know what had happened, and barely could comprehend what he had seen. Northland hadn't even had a chance to grasp at his throat, before Alexei was on his feet; his personal Okhrana detail had been on their feet before even that. Someone grabbed him by the shoulders and the sleeve of his coat, in another second there was a mask over his head. He touched at it, it was a gas mask. He adjusted the straps on it, his own training and muscle memory kicking in. Before he had been crowned Tsar, he had served in the Arsenian Army. His father had insisted, Alexei had insisted. He took a breath in, checking the seal. There was a leak somewhere, it wasn't holding. He tore it off and tossed it, not checking the direction or where it had gone. He was being led out, quickly, with one of the Okhrana officers paving the way by bodily removing from their path, anyone who wouldn't move. Alexei didn't look back, though he very much wanted to. Focus. Point A, to point B. He felt his hand searching his waist, for the handgun that he knew was not there. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced for Nadejeda. She was there, and evidently her mask had worked just fine as she was still wearing it. Alexei could feel a sense of relief that did just a little bit, to inoculate more calm into the Tsar's mind.

"Volkosob, Volkosob, Volkosob," one of the Okhrana agents repeated the word three times, into a radio he had produced from the folds of his overcoat. It was the code for one of the contingencies that had been insisted upon by Count Platon, though Alexei couldn't remember which one.

People were panicking and pushing to get through doors in their egress from the building, as was so often the case in crises such as these. As they made it into the main lobby, Alexei estimated that only twenty or so seconds had passed since the explosion. One of the Okhrana agents tugged him towards a ground level window, briefly inspected it, and found that there was no latch or other way to open it. Instead, he grabbed the brass base of a rope partition that was tucked into a nearby corner, and swung it at the window which promptly shattered. The guardsman swept away the majority of the glass with the makeshift bludgeon, and the Tsar and his party were out the window and in the street directly. There were others out there now too, some had been able to exit the building in the initial wave of egress and hadn't been caught up in the crush. Alexei looked around him, catching his bearings, and saw emerging from the crowd the Earthly Voice from ChristBol. He blinked a few times, and the man asked him if he was doing alright. Alexei took a deep breath.

"I believe so. I hope you and your delegation are all unharmed. Kyrie eleison."

Somewhere form within the interior of the building, there was the sound of a loud gunshot, muffled somewhat by the building itself. Alexei waited for additional shots, but he didn't hear any; there were pistols in the hands of the Okhrana agents now and each one of them was checking a different angle with their eyes on the crowd, as Alexei was once again grabbed and pulled in another direction. They were jogging now, away from the building, away from the crowd. The agent with the radio calmly gave their location and direction of travel as the party put distance between themselves and the building. Maybe a thirty seconds, to another minute passed, and a large black SUV pulled up alongside of them. It was unmarked, and inside were masked men with 9x22mm PDWs of an Arsenian design, their guns were up, pointed in the direction of the crowd, with the windows cracked just enough for the muzzles to poke through. A door opened, Nadejda and Alexei were pulled in, and before they were fully seated and belted in the driver through the SUV into reverse and pulled a J-turn that sent them back in the direction from which it had come. They passed another SUV, that had stopped to pick up the agents that had been in the building with the Tsar and Countess.

Before Alexei knew what was going on, his coat and shirt had been torn off and a man was running his hands across the Tsar's body and shining a pen light in his eyes. He had been hooked up to an EKG machine, and someone had put a syringe full of something in his bicep. He waved a hand, plaintively.

"Khvatit, ostanovis," he attempted to insist that he was alright. He felt fine.

"Izvini, vashe velichestvo. Protokol." the response was gruff, and didn't leave room for argument.

Alexei sighed and sat back in the seat, as he was inspected for any signs of wounds or exposure to chemical or biological weapons. They were driving now, presumably to a safehouse. Or an airport. He didn't know which, and didn't plan on asking right now. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Countess, she was fussing with the straps of her gas mask, attempting to get it off of her head. After a few moments she did. Her forehead was glistening with sweat from the rubber mask, and her chestnut colored hair fell down over her eyes in messy strands which she brushed away. There was no expression on her face. Alexei looked ahead.

"Gavno." Alexei swore. Alexei never swore, was never given to bad language, but today the Tsar swore.

[Soveiniesberg]

By the time Marchtz had finished his cigarette, a burning sensation began to ensue in his throat, which he instinctively put his hand toward.

He looked around, seeing a few of the representatives doing the same, or coughing and sputtering.

His phone began to ring, which he picked up, seeing a familiar telephone area code, only to be met with the garbled speech which indicated something was happening.

Anschyise looked at Marchtz, then at Grüvere, who was clutching his throat with both hands and coughing hard.

“That’s not good. This isn’t good, at all.” Marchtz said, before feeling his phone start buzzing repeatedly as if everyone in the world had started texting him.

The other representatives did the same, except Grüvere who still seemed to be coughing and asphyxiating over by himself..

Before anyone could pull out a rescue inhaler, the low, loud, growling, thrumming sound of a massive Soveinian car is heard, far off, but rapidly getting louder and louder and louder.

All of the Soveinian representatives furrow their brows in concern, as the increasingly loud all-out engine noise is heard, over various sirens and assorted noises of chaos.

Two, absolutely massive, dark-colored, near-classic Soveinian sedans, with rusted rocker panels and wheel arches, come into view, having been obscured by some other building. The two cars effortlessly jump the curb, and speed down the grass, displacing it in arcing trails behind the rear wheels.

They aggressively slide to a halt near the Soveinians, who had immediately recognized the vehicles as being Soveinian…

Five truly scraggly looking security guards all chaotically emerge from the darkness that is these lumbering three-ton lumps of steel, but it is clear that more remain within the cars.

“Does anyone need medical attention?” One of the guards asks, before everyone pushes the coughing and hacking, panicked-faced Grüvere forward, and he is dragged into one of the cars, that then speeds off in the same manner, leaving another set of tire marks in the large lawn.

The other car’s trunk pops open, and one of the security guards begins to remove bottles of emergency oxygen, while the rest of the guards hurriedly surround the rest of the Soveinians, armed with battered-looking rifles and shotguns.

The Soveinians all help themselves to the emergency oxygen, now looking around…

[The Kingdom of Rhamos]

Son Altesse Royale, la Princesse Océane Alicidie Tinsley Villant, Première Princesse de Rhamos, Dauphine de l’Horizon et de ses Sphères Maritimes Souveraines, Gardienne des Détroits Trans-Régionaux-Océaniques, Protectrice de la Vice-Royauté d’Osiria.

The Darling of Rhamos

Alone and thousands upon thousands of miles from home in a foreign land, sitting on the front lawn of the GMAN summit in what was supposed to be her first attempt at reaching back out to the nations of Markion since SI.

She looked absolutely pitiful. Her arms were wrapped around her legs and she appeared to stare off into the distance past and through everyone. Her dress, face, and hair and various degrees gore splatter on them...or perhaps it was wine....or both. The rush out of the room had been a chaotic and frantic affair after all. The Princess hadn't even moved at first unsure if it wasn't some form of overly dramatic presentation, her security detail on the other hand had been far quicker to react and scooped the poor girl up like a football while bum rushing her out of the room.

She was surrounded now by an array of ill tempered plain clothes PSD gentlemen adorned in battlerattle, gas mask, and brandishing a mixture of SBRs, SMGs, and a cut down Ultimax that invoked the image of a modern Tommy gun. The PSDs were alternating between pulling security, running interference with any press that would attempt to get a shot at the poor girl, and running through decon on the princess and what remained of her party.

They were noticeably a few members short.

The girl herself though hadn't made a move or sound since reaching her current position. A haunting hole of silence and unresponsiveness.

Or so she was until her body was wracked with a fit of coughing that didnt seem to stop. In fact those Rhamosians that were present in the room all seemed to be doing it.

The PSD erupted into coordinated frantic chaos when they noticed blood on the corners of her mouth.

Their medic hurriedly administering a plethora of medicines in an attempt to counter act whatever shee had been exposed too, while another a fixed her with an oxygen mask. While a genuine sense of duty drove them to do everything they could for her, fear of what was going to happen when her two shadows returned from Wendler drove them even harder.

[Arakhkhar]

“I need 20 CCs of morphine-“

“Rush this tox-screen to doctor…”

“-I don’t need a casualty report right now, we’re still-”

A howl of agony rose, and cut short in a bout of chunky wheezing. Nothing stilled around that horrible noise.

“The ambassador’s lungs are failing-”

“We need to induce a coma-”

The shouting came overlapping, atop each other. Violent beeping, the rushing of gurneys as wheels clanked on tiled floor. Worst of all were the sounds of the groaning of pain, the horrible coughing that came one after another and yet all at once. Large groups wheeled gurneys between one room to the next, interns rushed to carry in bags of whatever was yet needed - and everything was needed, yet there was somehow never enough. Short supply was the only supply - blood, painkillers, atropine. Every member of staff had been called in, for this - paged from their homes from what was to have been a quiet evening or those still around, pulled from other patients. And more, and more, invariably, came in. Madness would be too short a term to describe the scene that had taken hold in the emergency room, and perhaps lacking - there was an ‘ordered chaos,’ so to speak. Most everyone knew where they needed to be, and yet it seemed everyone had to be everywhere at once, and for those who were there, there was no time even to process this tragedy that had just taken place, no time to mourn the dead nor to prepare for war - there was only this present moment of utmost urgency which thus seized those present. Even in those infinitesimal, brief moments of clarity which seemed to surge through, there was only a stark realization - “This is to be a long, long night.” Anyone who had worked an emergency room could tell you of that - though usually, not in this same manner. The worst most had to contend with would be particular nights, holidays wherein inebriation and related second-order effects would be the worst matter. Indeed, there was little they, that anyone could do to prepare for an attack of such magnitude in so short a time. The already chaotic scene had been rendered worse when considering that it all had to be done in CBRN gear - the creaking of thick rubber and the heavy breathing through gas masks made everything seem slower, everything to be seen with a sharp, red haze of the visors.

So they could say, there was little that could be done - and yet all had to be. The lives of so many of Markion’s leaders - no, of people depended upon that job they did. Sylvesteos Marin had this in mind as he rushed. There was a sort of state that an ER worker tended to get into - one wherein he did not think so much as he reacted; as if on instinct, knowing precisely what to bring and where and doing it almost subconsciously. There was no time, no room, for deliberation, so Sylvesteos felt. He was, himself, if one were to meander about him for some time, something of a Markish story that might make the papers - a Sylvarian refugee, a registered nurse from Havenbrook who fled during the war, who in his time in exile had come to find a job. A spendthrift, one might have said of him, for thus he seemed almost perpetually indebted to others for some reason or another - in friendlier times, he was the sort you might encounter once or twice, regaling you with accounts of some and grand new scheme assured to bring him wealth and success, and that on account of his good fortune you too might profit. Such little exclamations were rarely harmful, though they often depended that you knew little of the man or of his past, which decidedly he made of which very little to be clear. Somewhat fitting this ‘little’ness, he was not such a tall man, either, though there was great strength concealed within his smaller frame. Many could say they had spoken to him, even had been his acquaintance, but none at all could say they truly knew him - in each little interaction as thus befitted him he would always display some masque. Those who had such a pleasure - for he was not unpleasant - could say that despite any sense of amusement they had, one might gain a certain conviction that he was not to become important, a little man with little intelligence and little ambitions that underpinned any such lofty goals that he declared. But such, my friend, is hardly the portrait of a nurse so much as it is of a man, a man who elected with a clear conscience to become a spy.

Not a spy, per-se - he was not clearing buildings or photographing top-secret documents, but certainly he could be convicted of espionage. An informant is the classical term utilized for such a man, but to truly account for him, he was ever merely Tokol-623. In this regard he was maybe only known ‘truly’ by his section-chief, Cipher-109, who usually wrote of him only as a minor asset, the sort acquired cheaply and to account for cheap results. A mercenary spy, as thus his kind are called, one who would sell out just about anything for cash enough to purchase the next round of drinks, a real witless renegade. His ‘acquisition’ was more a matter of pricing than of any particular loyalty to the Empire - it could be said that he lacked loyalties whatsoever. His work as a medical technician at the emergency room within the International Zone placed something of a posting of ‘moderate’ importance for the sector - but this night was due to be one of quite rich rewards, so it seemed. On his scrubs, there was upon them a small, almost transparent camera embedded onto his collar - and of this night he would take pictures quite frequently. The actual matter of espionage had been, in many ways, streamlined down - one could report information and collect payment all online, through the joys of the internet and of a capability to use encryption. It would be only when he could find a small corner out of the way that he did dare send a message to his real employers.

Numerous delegates dead or injured. Some important. Full casualty list to be reported later, do not have all information.

Chemical/biological attack. Unknown aerosolized agent, attacks respiratory system. Induces hemoptsysis. Highly lethal. Will attempt to collect sample for analysis.

ER staff struggling.

The photographs would be attached, as would his usual credentials. He snatched his phone away and back into his pocket, careful such as not to be seen. It would not be a massive payment yet, for he knew what tended to make the most profit of this business of an espion - he had been a traitor long enough to know what pleased his Imperial masters. But even then, that motion and that little act of treason was dispelled in his mind as if he had merely ordered a pizza - so trivial, meaningless was the act. He rushed back into the chaos, and he heard himself shout -
“I need an EKG on patient-”
So he would shout, again and again, into the headlong night. It would be a long night to come.

[Takhur]

Yyanwylthe International City, Yyanwylthe International Zone

Just as Captain George R. Karnel and his troops were springing into action, a few blocks away another Captain and his firefighters were doing much the same though neither man knew yet that only one of them would be walking back out.

Captain Rafael Dern was a recent arrival in Yyanwylthe International City, having transferred to the Hazardous Incident Team only six weeks prior. A ten-year veteran of the Takhurian Fire Service, he had spent the better part of his career not in cities but in and amongst the oil and gas fields that stretched across the Takhurian interior, vast chemical complexes, and refineries. He had taken the prestigious transfer expecting quiet. Yyanwylthe International City was not a sprawling chemical plant or refinery filled to the brim with a witches’ brew of toxic chemicals waiting for one ill maintained pipe or valve to turn it into hell on earth. He was not expecting to see anything that would trouble a man with his experience, not in a city like this.

He and just about everyone else had been waiting with bated breath for the speech to begin and more importantly end, so that he could stand down from the high alert status they were on because of it. All of those thoughts had vanished from his mind when Stöckler had detonated in front of the assembled world and media. He had shot to his feet, while the rest of his firefighters sat frozen, eyes fixed on the screen.

"Did that just happen?" the youngest member of the company, a Rudon, asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

“On your feet, let's go!” bellowed his second in command, a Phonexian with a notoriously short temper.

"No, no, no," Dern murmured, as the station came to life around him and his firefighters scrambled to don turnout gear and mount vehicles. For the first time in his career, Dern was frozen in place. He stared at the television as the feed was cut and shocked newscasters tried to regain their composure and focus on the breaking story that had unfolded in front of their very eyes.

"Dern, we got to go!"

The shout from his second in command broke the spell. Before he moved, he keyed his radio slung around his torso.

"Control, Squad 1 and Engine 35 are we responding to the incident at the summit?"

"Squad 1, Engine 35, Control negative, I say again, negative." The controller paused before continuing. "The CBRN unit is first due. Stand to, however they may still need you."

With that radio exchange the brakes on this runaway train were applied, though not for long he knew.

"Come on, what are we waiting for, we have to go!" his second urged.

"Orders. We are waiting for orders," Dern replied flatly. His second swore in response.

"Everyone slow down and take a beat, check everything. If you think we are going to need it, grab it," Dern said, his eyes still on the radio. Compartments on both trucks were thrown open and quickly inspected, while others broke open equipment lockers and started loading spare equipment into any free space they could find. Just as everything was beginning to settle, a klaxon sounded and an electronic voice came over the loudspeaker: "Squad 1, Engine 35, respond immediately."

“Mount up!” Anton Andreov bellowed.

Within seconds they were all aboard, rolling into the early spring air, sirens screaming.

“Control, Squad 1 and Engine 35 requesting a situation report, what are we walking into?”

“Squad 1, Engine 35, Control, details sent to your boxes, not for broadcast.” His hand paused over the dashboard before he called up the message on the computer and read it aloud over the vehicle intercom: “Unidentified chemical agent deployed at summit chamber. GMAN CBRN entry team overcome, seven casualties confirmed inside chamber. Agent defeated both protective oversuits and detection equipment. Chamber sealed, ventilation isolated. Building in full lockdown. Delegates evacuated. Unknown number of personnel unaccounted for.”

“What the hell are we walking into?” Rhys Morgan asked no one in particular.

“Captain, you got the same message I did, what do you think?” asked his second.

“I think we are going to need the space suits for this one," Dern replied.

An audible sigh came over the intercom and then the radio from the second truck, "At least it's still technically winter, it should be slightly more comfortable though not by much.”

“We are coming up on the gate,” his engineer called. “All right everyone, mask up before we land,” Dern called out over the intercom and radio. As they reached the gate, they saw that the guards had long since abandoned any pretense of maintaining physical security and had pinned the gates open to make way for the parade of emergency vehicles responding to the summit.

As they rolled through the gates, what they witnessed wasn’t chaos, it was more like pandemonium. Some people were covered in blood and gore, some were coughing their lungs out, while others were just shell-shocked. But then what he saw caused his blood to boil. “Where is the god damn decontamination?” he exclaimed.

He keyed his radio. “All right everyone we need to divide and conquer, Squad we will handle the assembly chamber, Engine get decontamination setup, and decontaminate these people.” They rolled to a stop and began to dismount, masks already in place.

“Anton, go get those organized!” he snapped, pointing to the other firefighters standing idle. Anton moved off at as quick a pace as his heavy gear would let him.

He could just barely hear some complaining about chain of command from the other firefighters before a sharp "NOT ANYMORE" rang out. Dern allowed himself the smallest of smiles before turning back to the building. Around him a well-oiled machine was starting to unfold, yellow sheeting being laid out, pop up decon tents rising around them. Some of his firefighters were ushering the victims from the lawn towards the tents.

“We are going to need more of everything.” He keyed his radio. “Control, Squad 1, I need more ambulances, more personnel, and more decontamination and containment supplies. Send everything you have.”

“Squad 1, Control acknowledged, we are working on it”.

Just then, a GMAN police officer walked close by, talking into his radio. "A severed head?" He sounded incredulous.

Dern only just caught the exchange and called out to the man. "You there, what was that about a severed head?"

The officer quickly explained that one of the delegates had discovered Mr. Stöckler's severed head inside her handbag. Dern let out a slow breath. "Okay." He turned to delegate the task, only to be cut off by his engineer who had already grabbed a red biohazard bag and was heading off toward the Iumian delegation.

While he had the attention of the officer, he pressed him for a full picture of the scene. What he heard wasn't encouraging. No one appeared to be in overall command, every delegation, every security detail, every emergency unit was acting within its own structure with no central coordination. The scene wasn't contained. Several people had already been evacuated to area hospitals, and others had been spirited away by their own protective details before anyone could stop them.

His eyes bulged at that revelation and he finally lost his cool. "Idiots, are they trying to get everyone else killed?" He keyed his radio. "Control, Squad 1 this scene is not contained, I say again, not contained."

"Squad 1, Control acknowledged." The controller paused before continuing. "Nothing we can do about that at this time. Stay on mission."

Just then a senior police officer and one of the survivors from the CBRN team walked up.

"Are you in charge?" the officer asked.

"Not officially yet," Dern replied.

"Well, now you are. I do have a job for you though, we need Mr. Stöckler's notes for evidence, if you can retrieve them safely."

Dern turned to the man clad in yellow. Behind the visor he could see that he had been badly shaken by what had happened. He had been one of the door guards, one of the two men who had sealed the chamber shut after Captain Karnel gave his last order. Close the doors and burn it. An order they had not carried out.

The man began to speak, haltingly at first, then in a rush as if he needed to get it out. He relayed every haunting detail of the journey to the chamber, the gas hanging at the ceiling like a dark cloud that had no business being indoors. What disturbed Dern most was what came next. The agent had cut through their protective gear like a hot knife through butter. Thirty seconds. That was all it had taken. Thirty seconds before they were on the ground, coughing up blood through visors they could no longer see through. There was one final detail, crucially important. The first team had managed to take samples before they were overcome. That would make his job easier.

"Okay, I've heard enough. Let's get this over with." He turned to his team. "Break out the space suits."

Donning the heavy Level A HAZMAT oversuits took time, and once again everything began to slow down. In the background, order was beginning to take shape. Survivors were shedding their contaminated clothing and stepping through short decontamination showers before being given a shot of atropine and bundled into waiting ambulances. Their discarded clothing was being sealed into 55-gallon drums that had arrived for the purpose. The contaminated water from the showers was being pumped into others, both destined for incineration.

Finally sealed into his suit, Dern thought he really did feel like he was getting ready to walk on the moon. He had two tasks to complete before anyone went near those chamber doors. Anton was already moving toward the bomb disposal unit to requisition their robot to deal with any unexploded ordnance. Meanwhile their Albatanian colleague was setting up the ground station for the quadcopter outside. Another member of the entry team ran checks on the spool of fiber optic cabling that would keep them connected once the drone was inside.

"Okay, time to go everyone," Dern called out. It was only a short walk to the chamber doors but it felt like a mile in the heavy protective gear. Along the way they passed where someone had broken a window to escape, giving the broken glass a wide berth, even a stray shard could compromise their protective oversuits. When they finally reached the chamber doors they laid eyes on the security bar, affixed slightly askew. The two survivors of the entry team had beat a hasty retreat.

Having laid the cable as they made their approach, they were now in position. Taking a knee, one of the firefighters popped open a small black carrying case and removed the quadcopter, connecting it to the fiber optic spool. A crackle over the radio confirmed the ground station was live and he had a picture. Another firefighter had guided the bomb disposal robot to the chamber doors.

"Okay, on three we crack the doors."

“1”

“2”

“3”

With a screech the security bar was removed, then the doors were pulled open, and the drone and spool were set inside, before the doors were sealed once again. With a whirr the drone came to life and took up position in the middle of the chamber, just below the gas cloud. The scale of it was immediately apparent. Dozens of bodies were scattered throughout, workers, aides, journalists, delegates still in their seats or slumped across them. Captain Karnel and his men lay dead near the doors, scattered across the last few metres of red carpet. One of Karnel's team had died gripping it, fingers still curled into the pile, close enough to the threshold that in the drone's camera light you could see the drag marks where he had pulled himself forward. Karnel had almost made it. The samples they had taken and the monitoring equipment lay near where they fell. The drone moved on, sweeping toward the podium in search of Stöckler's notes. The Albatanian's voice came over the radio. There was almost nothing left of Stöckler. With no ordnance to speak of, the robot stood down.

[Christbol]

As the various delegates begin to get picked up by either their respective security details or arriving EMS the Christbolian motorcade arrives as well - a line of SUV's making very little noise and not exhibiting the overarching panic and urgency that some other national muscle appears to be having. Out of one of the SUV's comes a woman that only select few recognize as an officer for Christbolian intelligence. Jüri simply waves goodbye to whatever friendly officials are left and is helped by the woman, who's hand is rather cold to the touch, to get into the car, which is functionally a faraday cage from the inside. The Chairman of the Markion Internationale boards a different SUV, but travels with the Christbolian delegation.

"It went about the way we said it would." - The woman speaks up after a few kilometers of unnerving silence driving away from the scene. - "APOSTLE is still working as intended given that it predicted about 73% odds."

"The Christbolian government may have been sold on that pet project that strips away the humanity out of you all, but I haven't - a machine can't predict the future, even if it is a very "intelligent" machine." - "Who said anything about predicting? This so far has just simply been forecasting." - the officer barely stops herself from the off-handed comment that the machine actually predicting events isn't out for at least another half a decade.

The intelligence officer continues to sort some files on hand through a bionic contact lens allowing for a private virtual display while the Earthly Voice reaches for his canteen of liquor. He unscrews the canteen and prepares to drink before the circumstances of what happened moments ago and the general company he is in make him abandon all desire for booze. He screws the cap back on and they continue being driven for a few more minutes in silence before the Earthly Voice speaks up again. - "...What does APOSTLE say about the Arsenian Tsar?" - "He'll live." - "Based on?" - "The seating of the Arsenian delegation, what symptoms have been identified, the people already admitted to hospitals who sat near the Tsar, the spread of the particulates and gore and the man sitting in front of the Tsar who was a head taller getting splattered in enough particles that APOSTLE isn't giving him until arriving to the closest hospital to die. In fact-" - There is a brief delay in speech as her irises jolt several times looking at different points from Jüri's perspective. - "-that should've happened by now."

The Earthly Voice is then forwarded some articles and various other sources onto a screen inside the car, which the intelligence officer guides him through. - "MATO, KP, IA and Arcadian news - they're all reporting this, public attention to the story isn't much different. Some stock exchanges are tanking but they'll rebound likely by next week." - "Expectations?" - "Our expectations are the anti-slaver fleet is going to make a lot of new proponents and supporters by the end of the day. APOSTLE gives us a month to capitalize on this before the news cycle shifts and the narrative current evens out. It will do some good to send some gift baskets, APOSTLE says it'll improve public relations and reception to Christbolian diplomacy."

Jüri gives a minor grunt of disproval. - "I'm not going to send gifts to survivors just because some machine that people think theoretically doesn't even exist yet is looking at probabilities going up and down all day tells me it makes for good PR. It'd just be the right thing to do."

"Be as sick as you want about it, my Execrant." - The officers voice rings out, permeated by a lack of true concern for the matter and rather an overabundance of indifference.

The duo are driven all the way to an airport runway where they disembark from the vehicle. - "There won't be any other attacks here or while were on our way back?" - Jüri inquires. - "None that are as relevant to us." - The officer replies back.

[Southwater]

"Saddleflowers! What makes helethish satch? To wet the hackster's knife?" The Regent and his entourage had made it to the lawn without further incident. His quoting of old poetry showed his mind had disengaged from flight and observe mode. The regent removed his gas mask and his face appeared to be more sallow than usual. He immediately coughed, "Methinks nary a ward did his job. Even the most harebrained of footmen I thew with in Fushen would have built a greater stonewall against these knaves." GMAN personnel ran over to check on him. "Sir are you alr..." "Yes now..." The regent coughed mid sentence, he did not sound alright. "...now swind from my sight ye brainsick woodlice before I eftthink the firth of 1879!" While threatening to take the canal back over this fuckup was extreme, it was clear that the regent was pissed. The GMAN personnel backed off. He coughed again, looked up, scowled at the crowd and pulled the cowl of cloak over his head. "Friends, let us make hight back to Sudhaaren, it would do us good to go to a sickhouse in fastened lands at once." With that, the Koopish departed. The regent's haste was understandable on account of his age. He regretted not checking on a few other parties but the sudden burst of exertion and the wisps of gas that got barely touched him were doing a number on him. The regent steeled himself, "I am too busy to shee this life."

The Tristate delegation were feeling a bit off themselves but bar a few who were getting medical attention from some of the Huxlite specialists, most were walking around to check on their allies. Mr. Billings attempted to find the Arsenian Tsar. He searched for about 15 minutes to no avail. Next, he and Mr. Aldrich went to check on the Stallenbourgian delegates. Aldrich, while not necessarily a diplomat, was useful to have around as he was a bit of a renaissance man in terms of foreign affairs. A former mercenary with a degree in foreign affairs studies and fascination with emergency response plans, not to mention he was a bit of an SME on the badlands. "Mr. Aurellianus Mr. Montefullo I am glad to see you all have made it out." They spoke briefly and Mr. Billings was able to promise the delegation some beds and access to secure Huxlite medicine in Southwater if needed. "I can promise you our facilities in Walkerville are significantly more secure." said Mr. Billings bluntly. He had noticed Josephine but didn't speak to her directly, he was made a tiny bit uncomfortable by her presence but he didn't let it show, plus he figured she was some form of security.

Next, Billings and Aldrich went to go find their countrymen and his kitchen cabal. Monsieur Thibodeaux-Robichaux lit up as he saw the tristaters approach. "Mes amies! I was afraid you were goners! I apologize for not coming to look for you but my friends in security kept coming over to check on us! Them not knowing how far the kitchen is from the hall appears to be a blessing and a curse." Mr. Billings smiled, "I suppose it is a blessing since they can't raid the fridge?" Monsieur Thibodeaux-Robichaux laughed, "Exactly mon ami! My chefs can stay here, but I shall accompany you and Monsieur Aldrich while we are here." Monsieur Thibodeaux-Robichaux's face then fell, "Alas, I have no food for the delegates, but by what I've heard they need medical food, not the kind of food I cook. Our evacuation instructions alas insist upon us leaving the food. Merde, what a disaster this has been as a whole! I dare not think of how many died."

Intelligencia Flaco Huerta had received the report of the canyon wall body on his desk a mere 12 hours ago. Now, he was looking up at it in its grotesque form. The body appeared to be of the Honorable Senor Morazan. His body was nailed to a canyon wall. Above it made of the bones of unknown persons was what appeared to be "art" of a man serpeant holding a polearm with a non-bone blade off an old Aronkanyite weapon. "Zanhuitz..." Grumbled the Inteligencia. His disgust for the elusive Aronkanyite rebels was evident. The whole scene was unsettling as they had only reached this canyon at night, a nervous local had refused to leave as he was obviously afraid of what was out there. Flaco allowed him to stay but he was kept off to the side under the watchful eye of one of his entourage. The poor man was obviously not connected to the crime, he seemed too genuinely disturbed outwardly and the shaman Flaco kept in his retinue confirmed psychically the man was telling the truth.

4 hours earlier, the Honorable Senor Morazan had turned into a dancing visage of something horrifying in Markion. Except, that wasn't him, by that point he had already been nailed to this canyon wall. The remains of the dancing skeleton had dissolved into non-existence, there was no trace of him ever having existed. Two Texotli delegates died in the escape. One had tripped and fell being consumed by the gas, the other had been trampled by the Skeleton. Yet both of their corpses showed the exact same injuries, death by the gas. Something laughed within the hall. It was faint enough nobody heard it, did it even make a sound? In short order, Josephine had explained what she saw to GMAN personnel who could be trusted. Promptly, the surviving Texotli who appeared to be mourning their dead friends, were arrested. There was cursing and slurs shouted but the Texotli went willingly. From Josephine's word alone, they were very much potential suspects with the most evidence pointing to them. One of their own turning into an undead horror as the gas began to fill the room was certainly a sign. Even if it wasn't them, if one of their members could become an undead horror this easily, who was to say it wouldn't happen again.

Something communicated to Josephine out on the lawn. It appeared as a vague imprint of a sun with bloody rings swirling frantically, looking as if it was the afterimage of the sun that had burned itself into her eyes. It spoke, "Your word and the Texotli's words are all that remains, and they will not be believed as your word will be believed at first. For it was children of the scarmakers, the Texotli that did it. Nobody will believe you sooner if you flinch now. Yet, I have planted false prophets to prove it was a scapegoat, and soon, none will believe it was me by my actions. Soon, from my wound, legion will pour forth like puss and wings of red shall blot out the sun." The voice had been lying about the last part, realizing it was mistaken for a biblical demon, it had tried to throw out some imagery to continue that impression, yet, visions from demons would have been more subtle. Unbeknownst at this moment, the voice had lied about everything. It was simply a cancer piggybacking off the work of the true culprits.

[Union of Krastovian Socialist Republics]

A man in a space suit was walking towards them. Mihael had just burned through his thirteenth cigarette. For someone who never smoked in his entire life he was taking to it with passion, Gordan and Pavel observed.

"You three, your clothes are contaminated. Please follow me." With some reluctance the three got up and followed the man in the big suit.

"Right this way, talk to those two please, its for your safety."

"Names, Country, Seating position." The three responded as best they could, their heavily accented english made them have to repeat it a few times. The space man nodded.

"I need you three to strip down to your undergarments, and put your clothes in this drum. They will be returned to you after they have been decontaminated or will have to be replaced. After you do that I need you to step through that shower we have going. Hold your hands up and let the others do their job. You will listen to what is told to you on the other side." The three nodded and turned to the makeshift shower. The Fire engines had setup in such a way to make a corridor and sprayed water down. It was more like rain than a fire hose. After stripping down and tossing their clothes into the drum, they stepped into the cold water and were set upon by other space suited men with scrubbers, who did their best to clean them all down, removing any remaining particulates. The water helped to activate and quickly dilute the agent, with the contaminated water being sucked into another truck for disposal.

After the three had gone through they were given some temporary clothes and a pat on the back. Putting them on, they were a bit big but they were at least dry. They sat down on a nearby bench and waited.

"So... Chances of getting out clothes back?"

"Forget it Gordan. The state will likely ask for them to be burned just out of caution and concern." Pavel poised.

Mihael just sat, blankly staring forward, trying to process everything. He wanted another smoke but he also knew he shouldn't.

"By the Khagan's..." He spoke, harking back to the ancient times of his nation, before it had become a socialist state. He wondered if they had ever had to deal with monsters.

[The Kingdom of Rhamos]

The Rhamosian PSD were a group on edge

Turned out from the center, they formed a ring around their stricken charges. Their stances and mannerisms invoked the thought of a pack of lions protecting their cub. Shoulders hunched, muscles tightened, eyes scanning the chaos for the slightest hint of ill intent behind weapons at the low ready. An unfortunate kind soul who rushed up a little to fast to distribute water almost got completely bodied before they were able to explain past the language barrier what they had been trying to do.

The Princesses motorcades Medical Response Vehicle, an armored ambulance under the guise of a civilian van had been brought in. The poor girl was loaded up on a stretcher and made ready to move her into the vehicles cargo compartment. The Rhamosians had little confidence in their ability to fight back out the stream of response vehicles pouring in without causing another inter regional incident but at the very least she would be better protected and they would have more advance equipment to continue working on her.

As the Trauma team moved the stretcher towards the vehicle, a coordinated and well drilled dance played out. The PSD moved in synch around their charge maintaining their cordon at exact distance and shape. Each step a carefully picked and placed act, never leaving them on unsure footing. Fluid yet deliberate, the procession flowed to the van and as she was loaded into the back, they moved around. In the back the princesses personal trauma got to work.

Meanwhile, the medics began working on the rest of the delegation that had been in side, going through the same steps as they had with the Princess, administering drugs, oxygen etc.

[Stallenbourg]

Mark and Gabriel were still coughing when one of the men in a space suit came to the Stallenbourgian delegation. They had just finished a brief talk with Mr.Billings and Mr.Aldritch, agreeing to take them up on the offer while the Stallenbourgian Government worked away in the background. The arrangements will be communicated back to Stallenbourg, of which there was no doubt that they would agree to the arrangements.

"Okay who here has symptoms, I heard coughing." The man in the suit exclaimed, a small clipboard in hand. David spoke for them.

"Mark Ravensbow and Gabriel J. Horn. If the coughing is anything to go by. The rest of the delegation as you can see was hit by some of the spray."

"I can see that. Okay Mark and Gabriel will need to be transported on a stretcher to the tents, I'll have some others come and get them. The rest of you need to go through the decontamination process, go to that gentleman over there with the clip board and he will take your names and tell you what to do. Three at a time please."

"What about us sir?" Josephine asked bluntly. The space suit man looked at them both, no obvious signs of contamination.

"Let me get a tool." He left and moved to one of the trucks, they waited patiently as others came with stretchers and loaded Mark and Gabriel onto them, pushing them towards one of the tents. The man returned. He turned on the tool, it was some kind of detector from what they knew. He waved it around David first, over his head, around his face and chest, his hands. Nothing at all.

"Remarkable. Where were you in the chamber sir?"

"Before the bomb had gone off my guardian here pulled my chair out from under me and threw me under the desk. Then she basically carried me to the door, I might have been the first one out of the chamber thanks to her speed."

"I see. I hope you don't mind miss but I need to check you now." The man began to wave the device around her. It beeped around her Beret, and the top of her shoulders and around her chest.

"I am going to have to ask that you decontaminate ma'am. This way please." With some reluctance, she followed the suited man to the one with the clip board. The rest of the delegation had already gone through.

"Name, Country, Seating position." She gave him the information.

"I need you three to strip down to your undergarments, and put your clothes in this drum. They will be returned to you after they have been decontaminated or will have to be replaced-"

"Hold on. I need these clothes back as soon as possible. Is there anything you can do to make the process faster?"

"Ma'am I can try but-." He met her gaze, and she cocked her head to the side.

"Okay, okay. I can see what we can do, but you do need to strip down ma'am. J-just go through the system we have set up and cooperate please."

"Where can I put my rig?" She said as she undid the leather belt, the long holster making it very clear, even if there was no open threat, that she meant business.

"We can decontaminate it for you. We'll provide some cloths to clean your gun since you seemed to have been the one in the chamber that fired if my guess is right."

"Word travels fast." With that she stripped, practically naked before waltzing into the water.

She thought about the vision she had. The words unspoken in the air yet spoken through her mind. 'Children of the Scarmakers. Texotli.' The Texotli were the men who had been arrested, and they too came from the Badlands. But the skeleton thing. Did it come with them? What was their land like to be so tainted to have the dead rise as nothing but bones.

The men backed away as she rinsed herself and stepped through. A handful of clean clothes was offered to her, but she declined and walked to a spot of grass and waited. Her rig was returned to her in good order by one of the suited men with some cloths that had been soaked in some chemical.

"Use these gloves if you are going to touch those." The man said before walking back to his work. She put them on and pulled her gun out, wiping it down to clean any residual particulates of of it. Satisfied she returned it to the damp holsters and waited for her clothes. David walked over to her, observing the other scars present on her body. One beneath her right shoulder on her back, another down near her hip. She wasn't completely naked but the water did make it so anyone could see through her white shirt. She did at least wear spats to hide her dignity, but she didn't seem to care about what people saw from the way she sat.

"Well, now what?" She asked.

"I guess we have to wait." He spoke, as they looked on to the ambulances and motorcades coming in and out of the gates.

[Takhur]

Yyanwylthe International City, Yyanwylthe International Zone

“Boss, mutual aid just pulled through the gate, Villacadima Fire Brigade,” Anton called over the radio. “They've brought some serious kit.”

“Good, get them briefed and hand them the exterior. I need you inside.” Dern allowed himself a small measure of relief. Villacadima was a port city, and their HAZMAT component was no joke.

“You heard the man,” Anton said, turning to the crew. “Once we hand everything over, grab what we need to make entry into the chamber.”

The firefighters from Villacadima dismounted their vehicles, began pulling equipment, and upon seeing Anton and his crew, reached for Level A suits that, if anything, looked a generation newer than Squad 1's. They had numbers to spare, seeing as they brought two HAZMAT trucks, an engine, and a medical unit. Which was good. Rotations would be needed. Working in this gear was exhausting, and air supplies didn't last forever.

They also brought a battalion chief, which meant someone could take overall command of the incident, freeing Dern to focus on what was waiting behind those chamber doors.

Dern keyed his radio. “Anton, when you hand over to Villacadima, get their portable decon up to the corridor. We fall back once it's set up.”

“All right, everyone, out the way we came once decon is staged,” Dern called out to his team.

It took some coordination, but Villacadima were well drilled and after only a short delay inflatable decon sections lined the corridor, plastic sheeting sealed the walls and floor, and portable sprayer units stood ready on either side. They had transformed the corridor into something resembling the airlock of a spaceship. Moving like an assembly line, they had Dern and his crew scrubbed down in no time, along with the bomb disposal robot. Doffing the suits was a careful, practiced sequence. Dern watched each of his people through it. One wrong move and everything the decon had just achieved was undone. Once that was done, air bottles were replaced, everyone was briefed, and they suited back up, ready for what had to be done.

Dern led his team back toward the chamber doors, heavy duty work lighting in hand to supplement their headlamps and ensure nothing would slow them down once they were inside.

Reaching the door, they dislodged the security bar once more and finally made entry with a portable airlock at their backs. What he hadn't expected was how much more visceral the scene would be in person than through a camera lens.

The first thing he noticed was the drone sitting on an empty table, ready to be recovered and decontaminated or disposed of. Beside it one of his firefighters was already moving the fibre optic spool aside to make way for the work lights and their heavy duty cabling. Looking toward the podium, all he saw was a bloody mess of rubble, body parts and bones. He even saw a bone embedded in a desk.

A glint caught his eye. It took him a moment to recognise what he was looking at. Shell casings. He quickly counted three, reading the cartridge stamp at the base. .454 Casull. He said nothing, noted where he found them, and moved on doing his best not to disturb them. That was someone else's puzzle. His firefighters had positioned their powerful work lights around the perimeter of the chamber, turning the eerily dark room into something resembling day. The bodies were still and pale, the gas having done its work without mercy.

They split into two teams. Anton led his team toward the front, grabbing any and all paper documents they came across, and upon reaching the podium area located the notes they were looking for. The pages were scattered across the first few rows, some singed at the edges, some stained, some torn. A few were barely legible. But with the right software, someone might still be able to make sense of them. Into a biohazard bag they went. Once out of the chamber, the bag would be handed off to a team waiting in the warm zone with a disposable scanner. Each page catalogued, the scans verified, then the originals properly disposed of. The scanner would follow them into the drum.

Dern's team meanwhile moved methodically through the fallen, collecting every piece of monitoring equipment and every sample their comrades had managed to take before the end. Once everything they had come for had been accounted for, it was time to withdraw and work on identifying the agent before resuming recovery operations.

“All right, everyone, time to go,” Dern said. He and his firefighters exited the chamber, barring the door behind them one final time. They handed off their sealed charges to the waiting decon team and submitted to being scrubbed down. Squad 1 and Engine 35's part in this was done, for now. They could stand down and be relieved.

[The Green Union]

With dusk falling the GMAN headquarters lawn had become a veritable shanty town of ambulances, security vehicles, and hastily erected triage tents. The initial response may have been chaotic, but in the hours since security had finally slammed into place with those who had not slipped the gate immediately now being quarantined and processed agonizingly slowly through dozens of medical checks administered by almost alien-looking doctors and nurses wrapped in all manner of protective equipment. A growing mass of international and interregional press looked on, kept a good hundred metres from the scene by fidgeting armed guards. And all the while everyone baked under Yyanwylthe’s blistering March sun.

Every once in a while the parasitic paparazzi would be whipped into another feeding frenzy as the next corpse was carried past. Usually this was some hapless aide or worker, small fry for the leering cameras. This time, judging by the number of distraught looking Kendorian knights and how gleefully the lenses flashed, it was the president of Placeoderms. He had outlasted his Altaguayan counterpart by about ten minutes.

They didn’t know it now, but by the time all this was done a total of seventy nine people would have lost their lives. Hundreds more would struggle with the scars on their lungs and hearts for decades to come.


Pte. Matres, Steps of the GMAN Headquarters, Yyanwylthe International City, Markion

For now, though, Matres and her team had little time to mourn the politicians. They were on their way to attempt another entrance into the council chamber, this time getting all the way to Josef Stöckler’s corpse itself.

Beyond those hallowed doors the reception hall now held no dignitaries, save those being gingerly loaded into body bags. The only life left to be found was those inhuman, protective suit-clad visages continuing their macabre work under newly assembled floodlights. As gut wrenching as it was Pte. Matres wished she could stop here, but their gruff captain urged them onward. Capt. Madsen had ruffled some feathers when he joined the GMAN emergency response team. Most Markish recruits had scoffed at the idea of being placed under the command of a high born Emerstarian. And yet at a time like this Matres couldn’t think of anyone she’d rather be following.

Coming to those barred chamber doors, Capt. Madsen immediately had his team set about enacting the plan. Both he and Matres jumped to checking their monitoring equipment one final time, removing safety covers, taking initial readings, and calibrating accordingly. All the while their colleagues busied themselves securing harnesses about their waists, long cables running such that they could be quickly hauled back to safety if anything went wrong. Not that it was likely to matter much, as finally hurling open those doors revealed once again the hellish scene inside. Pte. Matres tried to not look at the corpses of the first team to attempt this as her captain waved them in, fighting back the thought that she too could at any moment die here, locked into her suit, drowning in bloodred vomit.

Step over step they went forward, the cords taut behind. First hurdle was to get over those contorted fallen yellow corpses, but gingerly, with care, they managed. Every pace towards the dais had their monitors screaming about the gas, practically begging them to turn around and run. And yet the Emerstarian remained steady, and so the Rudon did too.

Finally they made it to that place none of the team had truly reached, behind the dais with the horribly mangled corpse of its last speaker. The last group had almost made it this far, but only stayed long enough to grab his speech notes and go. Madsen and Matres would be at it much longer, the first real companionship Mr. Stöckler’s body would have in his lonely afterlife.

Despite coming so far, the hard part had only just begun. Madsen knelt close to the corpse, peering into each frothing cavity which had been opened by the bomb. What exactly that bomb was was precisely why they were here. The gas had so far proven elusive. No database in Markion or their partner regions could identify it. But identifying the explosive may prove easier, if only they could find some residue. If only there was residue. If only the assassins hadn’t been so clinical.

Seemingly getting impatient, Madsen suddenly thrust his hands forward into the corpse itself, a move which nearly made the young private hurl inside her helmet irrespective of the gas. This way and that he shifted the human jelly which was once someone’s father. And yet he was coming up empty. Matres turned her head from the scene, looking instead to the floor, the rafters, the lectern, anywhere else until . . . she saw it. There, on the mahogany podium, right where Stöckler’s stomach would have been as he stood, a blackened mark.

A signal to the captain and he was beside her, hands still dripping with indescribable material.

“Swab.” He barked, and she did so.

“Run it through. Quickly now. I don’t dare stay longer than we have to.”

With shaking hands Matres removed her field testing kit, dropping the swap into one of their several pre-prepared vials. The immediate reaction left little in doubt. Despite burning remarkably clean, there was indeed a small amount of explosive residue left in this scorch. Some mixing later and they had a match on the exact compound, a rare explosive only known to be used by the -

“Lirvittians?” Madsen peered across her shoulder, frowning at the result.

“No, sir. This looks like -”

“That’s not possible.” The Captain shook his head over the reference table, barely visible through their rapidly fogging hoods. “Must be defective. Run it again.”

Another test. Same result. “Faulty equipment.”

Then again. “Not them, surely.”

And again. “Our Father, who art in heaven . . .”

They went through seven vials before reality finally, painfully set in, both of them so sweaty and delirious that the support team was actively tugging at their cords in desperation to get them back. At long last, standing, the two locked eyes. The Captain opened his mouth as if to speak, but thought better of it. Matres did not.

“I really thought it was those purple bastards.”

“I know.”

“This is worse.”

“I know.”


Ambassador’s Suburbs, Yyanwylthe International City, Markion, Hours Earlier

The lights of Stöckler’s house had been switched off when he left to make his speech. He’d received reassurances that his family would be unharmed so long as he followed instructions and went to make his speech, on schedule and without trouble. He had also received the firmest warning that should he notify any of the authorities, his family wouldn’t see the next nightfall.

So with it, his grandchildren and their parents sat in front of the television, each of their faces illuminated by the glow of the TV, with their hands tied using heavy industrial zip ties and bound to their feet, cold hard plastic digging into their skin making their ordeal all the more uncomfortable. It was all they could do issue out the occasional soft murmur and whimpers for mercy, each of which were met with complete indifference. The family watched as the program progressed through flashes of photographer bulbs, dignitaries assembling in the room, the running commentary from the local news anchor detailing each leader, each diplomat and what they were wearing, who it was designed by, the rolling news kept updates flowing with each new person, some reporters hoping for a snippet of gossip, or some other news worthy story. It was exactly where they wanted Stöckler to be.

They watched as their grandfather, their father and father-in-law slowly climbed the steps. The children’s mother turned then and began to plead with the shadowy figure, “You don’t have to do this. Please if you let us go, nothing will be said. No one will come after you. Is it money you want? We have money. I’ll pay you whatever you need, whatever you want.” Tears streamed down her face and she sobbed as she spoke, her words going unanswered except for the cold silence . . .

Stöckler began to speak, his hands gripping the dias. "My friends," he began, his nerves starting to get the better of him, the news anchor quipping that it's quite a big moment for Stöckler and it is perfectly natural to be nervous, "before I begin, thank you once again for being here. When first I spoke out against the Lirvittian threat I feared none would listen. But when I set out to make this dream real you stood up to support me. I will never forget that . . . as long as I live. Together you can keep this and worse evils from Markion, and in time drive them back to the shadow."

There was then an audible click from behind Stöckler’s family. In real time they could see him freeze, tense, eyes go wide in panic as he spoke once more. “I’m sorry, They’re already here.” Then suddenly and instantaneously Stöckler was vapourised, a red mist of gore and ichor that showered the assembled delegates, there were a few seconds of stunned disbelief from the news anchor before the feed was cut short . . . “I’m sorry ladies and gentlemen, there appears to have been a terrible incident at the assembly building. As we get more information we will relay it to you, but for now we extend our immediate condolences to the family of Josef Stöckler.” That family was, in fact, not consoled. The children screamed and buried their heads. Parents choked, staring bug-eyed at the blank screen as if their loved one would somehow reappear.

The dark men simply continued, indifferent to what had just been done. A high powered field transmitter they placed onto the central table, its red glow coming from the console which illuminated the officer, a series of letters scrolled across the screen as the shadowy figure picked up the receiver. “It has been completed. The message has been relayed.” There was a pause before he responded with a curt “By your command.” He turned then to the crying souls.

“High Command has rendered Stöcklers family Surplus to Requirements.” The officer spoke, turning to the four armoured troopers stood at the edge of the room. Without hesitation the troopers moved from their position, their heavy armoured boots putting heavy footfalls into the wooden flooring. They drew their service pistols from the leather holsters and with a precise movements drew back the mechanism to chamber a round. The family began making as much noise as they could, screaming, crying for help. The children tried to get away while their parents wormed as if to shield them, but all were bound so tightly as to make movement impossible. A black gloved reached out and grabbed the first child, pulling them back up and onto their knees as one might lift a stuffed animal. They turned and looked at their assailant, the multiple red lenses glared at them with a cold indifference of a machine, the clicks of its rebreather the only sound it made as it placed the barrel against the back of the child's head and pulled the trigger, the Father and Mother screamed an unholy scream of terror, their faces streamed with tears as another black gloved hand grabbed the mother, she only had time to tell her husband she loved him before the trigger was pulled and her body slumped to the ground, another trigger was pulled and another body slumped to the ground until only the father, Ambassador Stöckler’s only son, remained. He was so broken by what he had gone through he wasn’t making any noise, just strained sobbing through gritted teeth. He knew what was coming. There was nothing he could do but wait for the inevitable. He felt the cold steel pressed against his temple but didn’t hear the click, his body dropping to the wooden floor with a thump. Dead eyes staring into the empty void of the fireplace, the troopers replaced their side arms in unison, one single action before they turned to leave the building . . .


Sir Roger ‘Rod’ Grodger-Drogger, Ambassador’s Suburbs, Yyanwylthe International City, Markion
(Suggested listening for this read.)
Old Sir Grodger-Drogger the Fushen war hero turned custodian of the Koopish ambassador’s house just next door, had been rather enjoying his morning. A fine farewell to the regent’s motorcade followed by some work among his petunias later, and ‘Rod’ as he was known to his army friends was just sitting down for some buttered scones when four terribly unsightly, yet unmistakably suppressed cracks echoed out from the Green Union house.

Sir Grodger-Drogger had been on the job here for forty years and never once heard a sound like that. Grabbing his hat, walking stick, and bandolier he leapt for the door with all the urgency which remained in his frame, making way as only an old soldier might through their shared gate to the Stöcklers’ front door. There he fished out the key which late Mrs. Stöckler had so kindly given him to ease the task of coming over for some biscuits, only to find the hall inside, far from the airy Rudon interior he had grown familiar with, was instead cramped and cold, the hall dark as pitch. Were the family’s fashionable Auerstenian drapes to be blamed? Surely the Stöckler clan had better sense. The gentleman took one step in, then two, fumbling for any switch. And then, eyes widening in horror, he stopped.

Deep in the house a door clicked, followed by the stomp of an inhumanly heavy boot making contact with the wooden floor. The armoured shin guard, followed by black steel plates around the waist with leather ammunition pouches mounted tightly onto a leather belt, stepped into the corridor and leveled its helmeted head towards the old man. And yet even as its huge armoured bulk filled the whole shadowy corridor, Sir Grodger-Drogger found himself staring at only one thing.

Those eyes. Those horrible, bright, multi-lensed crimson spider-like photoreceptors had locked onto him in an instant. It was a sight he had been subjected to only once before, in a far off land where good men had died.

The creature stepped forward and Rod stumbled, clutching at the wall. There was no way the things from his nightmares could be here. Not in Markion, certainly not in the international city. Yet as those shining eye clusters and black carapace loomed up there was no mistaking it.

Sir Grodger-Drogger’s weapon came up. And yet even before the first shot could ring out that glowing eyed steel mass was upon him. The service revolver his grandfather and father had passed down clattered onto the hardwood, the steady hand which wielded it crushed and shattered in a vice-like steel grip. The old man tried to fight. He really did, but with a swipe of the beast’s arm he found himself collapsed, clutching at his ruined right. The open door, with its gorgeous day over his tranquil garden, seemed so far away.

“Capper.” He croaked. Kraven had come for them at last.

It was the last thought she had before the Capitol Police Trooper once again drew its sidearm. In a swift motion it leveled the barrel towards him. It was all Sir Grodger-Drogger could do to meet its eyes before, with a final muzzle flash. By the time security troopers arrived they would find nothing but a charnel house, its butchers melting like wolves back into the wild.

Their message had been sent, and more than received.

Kraven Prevails
Unity Endures

[The Kraven Corporation]

Broadcast across all channels, all radio frequencies all across Markion in the hours after the attack.

The Unified Authority of The Kraven Corporation

To: The Nations of Markion
From: The Black Citadel of Fortress Norska

Our message has been sent and received. Your continent of Ionis is now forfeit and the time of Diplomacy has ended. All nations of Markion are ordered to comply, failure to do so will render your civilisations Surplus to Requirements in the coming days, Forces of the Capitol Police Military Arm will arrive to secure the continent, your culture and your people will be liquidated and remoulded into our image, Fortress Ionis rises in the East.

We will accept nothing less.

Kraven Prevails!
Unity Endures!

[Christbol]

Mars, Phobos, Reldresal crater, 41° 0′ 0″ N, 39° 0′ 0″ W, 03:21 (Phobos time), March 20th 2040 (Markion date)

Lemuel looks up from behind his security desk to see another unit of OMA troops depart for the spaceport. Although a more frequent occurrence in the past few hours, he thinks nothing of it. It isn’t until he sees another unit, and then another, followed even by a squad of nothing but pure OMA veterans passing by on their way to the spaceport carrying full combat gear and being followed by an assortment of technicians, equipment and even crates of anomalous artifacts as alarms begin to blare for not just his whole sector on the computer but the entire facility that he figures how something must be very wrong. He gets up from his swivel chair, nearly stepping and falling over a banana peel that he himself stupidly missed throwing into the trash bin near him just a little while ago, and passes through the reinforced security door to see what the fuss is about. Walking in the opposite direction of the spaceport to where admin is, more troops pass by carrying themselves in what is no longer a fast walk but a quick rush. Soldiers with super strength are even moving large assortments of field gear now, something that as a security officer Lemuel knows the safety guide for the base generally doesn’t allow for, and is actually one of the very few safety rules OMA troops take to heart following past incidents.

What truly sets Lemuel in a panic for the first time in a long time of being stationed in the rear end of nowhere overlooking a very real portal to Hell on Mars is seeing the Grand Master Ahio Kidane moving in the direction that Lemuel just came from, also in full combat gear, being followed by the Confessor-Warden, the Grand Prior and codename Matisse, effectively the four greatest soldiers among OMA forces on Phobos. Lemuel attempts to run with them in the same direction to question them. - “Grand Master Kidane what’s going on?” - He asks. - “Demons, a foreign attack, maybe Moslii intruders again?”

“Worse.” - The Confessor-Warden replies instead, with such contempt that Lemuel had a thought to wager how Satan himself and nothing but the highest legions of his minions were about to threaten the Phobos base, and therefore endanger all of Markion.

“Kravenites.” - This singular word escapes from the Grand Masters mouth, as if naming an unrelenting plague closer to a force of nature than it has any right to be a military force. - “They based themselves at Ionio. If we board the next away ships now we’ll make it to ChristBol before Weltholm and the Arcadian imperial capital are struck.”

“They’ve already made landfall onto ChristBol to strike at Weltholm!?”

The five of them reach the airlock gate to the spaceport. Lemuel cannot follow them past this door, but before they set out the Confessor-Warden humors Lemuel with a second response. - “No, but by the time we get there there is going to be plenty of opportunity for us to convince them it wasn’t the best possible idea.”

“But what about guarding the portal? It seems most of the knights are leaving, but the rest of us are technicians and regular security, we can’t fight off a demonic incursion!” - “Some knights and dames will stay with you along with Dame Commander Waris.” - “You can’t expect a handful of you to hold down a constantly spilling gate of-” - Lemuel doesn’t finish his sentence before immediately losing the courage to say something being stared down by the entire present squad. The group departs, leaving him to deal with the glaring lights and blaring alarm.

ChristBol, Weltholm, Office of the Earthly Voice, 05:45 (local time), March 21st 2040

The ringing does not end. It hasn’t ended from the moment that Jüri got off the plane, decontaminated and got back to his post to this very moment at the crack of first morning light. News channels are in chaos, social media apps are in chaos, banks are in a withdrawal scare, people are either protesting or preaching the end times outside of every Christbolian governmental building and, maybe once every 30 minutes to an hour, some administrative official in one of those buildings decides to jump through the windows to pursue a very adrenaline-inducing but ultimately short lived career in bungee jumping without a rope down onto the pavement in front of the abundant masses outside. After the fifth jumper, the EMS at Jüri’s building simply chose to stop responding, instead just paging the coroner service immediately. The only stores that have had some modicum of success since yesterday have been weapon and ammunition stores, which appear to have all seemingly sold out and closed early.

Jüri waddles defeated and makes circles around the room. He makes multiple laps pacing only forwards in a vaguely elliptical pattern, only stopping after the 8th or maybe the 9th lap at the drink cabinet at the right side of the room and leaning against it with his hands to stabilize himself and get a better look at the assortment of drinks. Every bottle is empty. For the first time since the Office of the Earthly Voice was founded, the Earthly Voice is genuinely drunk and his private office out of drink. There is a private tap of liquor feeding straight from a distillery in the other corner of the room, but whatever bewildering fuel mixture Christbolians produce to satiate the Earthly Voices thirst for alcohol has already numbed every single brain cell Jüri has that could’ve possibly thought of that option.

“APOSTLE…?” - It must’ve been nearly a whole day since Jüri spoke to anyone, and despite knowing no person is around him, he is at least aware of the AI unit connected to his room.

“Yes, my Execrant.” - The machine replies in a voice that is just a little ways off from sounding human, every word in the sentence being carried through the same octave, using a speaker connected to the Earthly Voice’s desk.

“You knew this was going to happen, why did you not brief me, or Christbolian intelligence, or anyone!?”

“Because, my Execrant…”

“They would have immediately put us to work calculating a solution to an issue we would not have had enough time to solve.”

Arseny-Sazikov, Capitol City, Pecherskystadt, Christbolian Embassy, 09:20 (local time), March 21st 2040

Ambassador Hali stares off into the distance looking at his window overlooking a prominent Arsenian theater. He has never seen the square and the surrounding area it sits on with Arsenian citizens occupied with doom and gloom, but it appears that in the face of the news that broke out just a little under a day ago that even this whimsical place that the Arsenian Tsar saw fit to decorate the Christbolian Embassy to Arseny-Sazikov with cannot escape everything simply becoming doomier and gloomier.

His assistant buzzes the intercom, quickly breaking the silence. - “Ambassador Hali, the gift to the Arsenian Tsar on behalf of Execrant Annor has arrived. It awaits among the incoming diplomatic mail. Would you like to arrange for a messenger?” - “No Orysya, that’s quite alright, I’ll deliver it myself.” - Hali stands up from his seat and moves out of the office, picks up the gift basket, and does an eye check to make sure nothing is awry, as well as feeling out the insides of the plushie that came in the gift basket for any sort of explosive inside the stuffing. After making sure there’s no further surprises Hali makes his way out of the embassy to walk to the state hospital hosting Tsar Alexei. Being a black man walking through the Arsenian capital he is afforded occasional stares, similar to his consulate work in Rhastov, but like in Rhastov he has made peace with it so long ago it has turned more into a sort of mild amusement.

Arseny-Sazikov, Capitol City, Pecherskystadt, state hospital, 09:50 (local time), March 21st 2040

Reaching the hospital Hali notices the security detail stationed around the whole building. He doesn’t really blame them - after the events of yesterday a malaise has seeped into the whole of Markion civilization.

The ambassador approaches the front entrance and passes through, he has been pre-approved to enter the reception (but only the reception) so the guards at the front pay him no mind. He arrives at the front desk managed by a nurse and being protected by another guard nearby. He attempts to speak to the nurse in Sazikovische while making sure that the guard also overhears. Butchering the Hell out of that he decides mid-through the next sentence that it would perhaps be better to leave his language practice for today at another time and speak to the nurse in Acadic. - “This is a gift basket from the Earthly Voice to His Imperial Majesty. I don’t think anything is wrong with it but make sure security does a check, after the events of yesterday morning I don’t even trust myself anymore, for all I know even my office could be rigged by the Kravenites to explode.”

Hali leaves and inside are four items. Most prominent among them is an excessively colorful shark plushie taking up most of the space in the basket, a model that grew popular in ChristBol. The second is an Akamer branded Christbolian dresswatch, clearly a luxury model that has been announced but not sold yet. The third is a bottle of Christbolian whiskey. The fourth is a handwritten note by the Earthly Voice, written in such a multiaxial form of cursive that the Tsar would have better odds understanding the Green Unions syllabarial writing system more clearly:

“Tsar Alexei,

I hope this letter finds you in good spirits. I have not felt so. The specter of evil now hangs over us all. I understand it is uncommon for you to receive best wishes from socialist heads of state, but it is also my understanding that an individual seeks strength in their hardest days from the most unexpected of people.

In my youth enrolled in a gymnasium I knew a few people that at the time I thought of as my enemies. Several hours into a school day I suffered falling into unconsciousness in the middle of a hallway - I had not eaten or drank much in earlier days due to carrying the weight of my family’s name and as a result collapsed from a lack of sugar. When I woke up I was surrounded by classmates, my classmates, but ultimately it did not feel like they cared about me so much as they reacted to the shock of what happened.

It was then that a classmate I considered an enemy, my sworn enemy, went ahead of anyone else to buy and bring back a drink to me. I would love to say it was expensive or something we were going through a lack of, but the truth is it was just plain orange juice. Oranges grow in ChristBol about as much as there are grains of sand in the desert.

Still that action shook me to my core. At the time I believed most conflicting interests were inconsolable, even a binary state. It is now that I am older, albeit not that much older, that in a time of great uncertainty for you and your people I wish for me to be that enemy to you.

I hope that when nicer days come or that when we are given the chance you allow the leader of Emerstari’s most rebellious daughter to join you in prayer.

Yours sincerely,
Jüri Annor”

[Rhastov]

Several hours had passed since ‘the incident’. The Rhastovian delegation had escaped physically unharmed, though deeply traumatized. The decision to return home was unanimous, and they boarded the presidential train earlier than planned.
Pulled by two Rhastovian high-speed steam locomotives, the train chugged along Takhur's tracks undisturbed before finally crossing the border into Rhastov, near the northern coast. The ride was silent, too silent. Everyone sat lost in thought, each trying in their own way to forget what they had just witnessed.

A telephone mounted on the wall rang. A young soldier from the security detail picked it up, listened for a moment, then walked over to Anton.

"Sir, it's for you. From Ranov."

Anton, startled out of a trance-like stare, reluctantly took the receiver.

"General Anton Dumitrescu speaking."

"Where the hell have you been, and what the hell were you doing?" the voice on the other end snapped, with no patience left for formality. "We've been trying to reach you since the report came in that you'd all been evacuated!"

"I... must have left my phone on Do Not Disturb. Why? What happened?"

"We've identified who planted the explosives inside mister Stöckler."

"Already? How? When? Was it the Lirvittians? It would make sense, given the speech was aimed straight at them. Or maybe terror-"

"No," the voice cut in. "Worse. Far worse."

"Who could possibly be worse?"

"Kravenites."

The single word drained the color from Anton's face. It unsettled him more deeply than watching a man explode into pink mist on stage. After a long, heavy pause, he finally found his voice again.

"Has the president been brief-"

"Yes. The Christbolians too. The Arcadians as well. Their intelligence reached us at almost the same moment we sent ours to them. We'll fill you in properly once you're back in Ranov. Until then, try to rest. The worst is still ahead of us."

Ranov, Rhastov, March 21st, 08:30 Local Time

The train pulled into Cotroceni station on schedule, just beside the presidential palace. The thick dark smoke pouring from the steam locomotives stood in stark contrast to the palace's pristine white walls. The delegation and their security detail stepped onto the platform and were quickly escorted to their waiting cars.

The drive through Ranov felt strange. An unspoken unease hung over the city, as though everyone was trying very hard not to acknowledge the doom closing in around them.

Back at the Ministry of Defense, Anton found a small mountain of paperwork waiting neatly on his desk. He took a swig from the flask he had smuggled into the building and began working through the situation reports: some from Christbolian intelligence, some from the Arcadian intelligence service, but most from Rhastov's own Department of State Security. Every report carried the same unwelcome weight.

Worst of all, Kraven's transmissions had reached the Rhastovian public before the DSS could intercept or censor them. The ultimatum quickly became the most discussed topic on social media and the front-page story in the Scînteia newspaper.

By nightfall, seven suicides in Ranov alone had been confirmed as related to the Kravenite ultimatum. More likely occurred nationwide but went unreported, to avoid stoking further panic. The military and gendarmerie were deployed into the streets to maintain order and protect key government buildings.

Cotroceni Palace, Ranov, March 22nd, 14:55 Local Time

The General Secretary of the Rhastovian Communist Party convened an emergency meeting of the Supreme Council of National Defence. The ministers, the prime minister, and the General Secretary himself took their seats, each visibly worn down from a sleepless night and propped up by more caffeine than was advisable.

The General Secretary opened the meeting.
"Comrades, you all know why we are here. A great evil has already arrived in Markion, preparing to drive its dagger into the continent of Ionis. This is not something we can afford to ignore, nor a moment where we can simply hope to go unnoticed. We will be next, and we must be ready."

The discussion that followed ranged widely: production capacity, transport logistics, available raw materials, export contracts, civil unrest, and overall military readiness, each subject debated in turn, often heatedly.

Several hours into the meeting, a sharp knock interrupted the meeting. A sharply dressed woman entered, walked directly to the General Secretary, and set a dossier down in front of him. She apologized briefly for the interruption, claiming it was urgent, before exiting and closing the door behind her with a loud clang.

The dossier bore both Christbolian and Arcadian stamps, a detail that immediately put the room on edge. The General Secretary opened it and began to read aloud, the document thick with the usual bureaucratic language of the major Markish powers. One line, however, made every head in the room turn:
"A decision was made by the Kingdom of ChristBol to lift the MATO-wide ban on new nuclear weapons development. The Federation of Arcadian States and Commonwealths have not yet given their full approval, but have not refused either. They wish to convene a conference to discuss the matter further."

The room went quiet.

"It really is the end," someone finally murmured, breaking the silence. It was the Minister of Energy, his eyes still fixed on the latest data on Rhastov's energy grid. "If they're letting us start a nuclear program now, after sixteen years of telling us we couldn't even build a commercial reactor for fear we'd secretly arm ourselves..."

The discussion resumed shortly after and continued late into the night.