Citizens of The Isles [IC, TWI only]

[Talvistova]

Ljustad City College Atomic Research Laboratory
8/15/26

For the first time in several weeks, Ljudmila Ustechenko was able to breathe a sigh of relief as she watched the news tick along the bottom of the TV in her office. The Lancia Reactor Fire was extinguished, and encasement work would begin, with its sarcophagus already under construction. As the head of the Atomic Research Laboratory, and, at least on paper, chief assistant to both of Ljustad's nuclear reactors the last few weeks had been massively stressful. First, she was tasked alongside scientists in Great Altera to help monitor and figure out the radioactive cloud emanating from Australis, only to then be immediately pulled off that to assist in spinning up the Atomic Cowboys, the much snappier title for the CBRN Emergency Response Task Force, who were deployed a few days after the news broke to assist in Greyhelm.

Then came her favorite part of her job, as the capitals foremost nuclear energy poster-girl: Press Conference. After Press Conference. After Press Conference. It was simple enough at the start, briefing Parliament, the crown, higher ups who had an idea of her job, how it worked, so on and so forth. Then, at the behest of the college, it was the press. Easy enough. Scientific journals were her favorite, since normally she didn't have to dumb down her job too much, and occasionally the writer was a former student of hers, which always proved a treat for her, and easy positive PR for the college. The regular news paths, the parliamentarian, Ljustad Journal, Capital Gazette, and what have you came after, and they went off without a hitch. Then after came her least favorite press conferences, and what had been keeping her stapled to her coffee machine for the past few days until the news rolled across her screen that morning. On the front steps of the lab building on the university campus, bullhorn in hand, talking to protestors.

It was already a headache when she'd get a question of the sort in class, or from passersby, or even from other department heads at the university. It was a cataclysm when it was close to 100 of them, all outside her front door essentially. And its where she had stood for several days, answering questions, babying them as much as possible. No, Ljustad wasn't going to explode. No, we don't have two nuclear bombs sitting around waiting to explode in the capital. No you aren't going to get some kind of super cancer from standing out here. She even joked the observation center was one of her favorite places to be in winter thanks to how warm it tended to be, a joke that was received as you'd expect. But now, after rewinding and rereading the ticker, and calling so many people, her nightmare was over. Of course, her work was not over. SHe'd continue working to assist mitigation efforts, and monitoring the cloud thats now reportedly moving south, but the hard part was, for now, in the past.

[Baqar]

Baqar, Madau, East Wing of the Cinnabar Palace, - August 21st, 19:54

---

“Your Excellency.”

The words bolted Mûsatê upright and almost had him from his chair before he registered their harmless meaning. The woman behind this meeting had entered the deserted conference room without so much as a creak from the door or a click from its lock.

“Oh, Madame–?”

“Daqêrahan.”

She extended her arm over the mahogany table, the movement as clipped as her tone, withdrawing it even before the president had quite returned it. Slightly disarmed, he watched as she tugged an unwieldy projection screen to the head of the room, aligning it with a slide projector, both dusty and rather neglected. They stuck out patently. Plastic, contemporary, and wholly foreign where the rest of the chamber was classical and largely Baqari in its trappings.

“I don’t believe we’ve spoken,” He tried.

“Yes.” She didn’t look up, focused instead on the projector, carefully feeding a stack of cards into the slot with a light flutter of clicks. “What of it?”

Mûsatê huffed. The President was annoyed, but the soldier, despite himself, was amused.

“I don’t know who you are, Ms. Daqêrahan. Explain yourself, please.”

If she was annoyed by his bluntness, she didn’t show it, calmly dimming the lights and seating herself opposite him. “I’m an intelligence officer. I’m currently aiding the IAGC in their recent efforts within the Senior Command of the Revolutionary Army.“

She placed a slim dossier on the patch of table at her front, gently running her finger along the repeated corners before pulling out a page. She pushed it to Mûsatê, who picked it up and gave it a quick once-over.

“Are you familiar with Lieutenant General Dalin Ta-Ranaqala, Mr President? I believe you two worked together for Exercise Danilahêyih.”

Mûsatê’s gaze flitted upwards from the profile, from its personal descriptions and creditings. “That was two decades ago, madame.” He tossed the document back to the table with a chuckle. “No, I’m not personally familiar with him. Why?”

Click.

The president winced slightly at the sudden beam of light before landing on the image pulled to the screen, grainy and quivering. Crowds of people shuffled along a dense street, slightly off-kilter by the curious angle. A lone silhouette, however, was circled in red marker. It was headed up a flight of stairs towards the concrete and brazenly utilitarian angles of a building. One he recognised.

“For the past month, Mr Ranaqala has been making semi-regular trips to the Embassy of the United Republic of Hareya, with the start of these visits coinciding with a request by the IAGC to submit material as a part of an investigation into an associate of his."

Click.

A new image, smeared by motion and taken from the ground, pushed the prior vignette from its tray. It was closer this time, nearer to the Embassy’s concrete walls. The encircled man was again ascending a flight of stairs, undeniably the Lieutenant General. A black fabric, too, was partially visible to the left of its entrance. Its specifics had been sanded away by the film.

"He claims he is assisting the Embassy with preparations for an upcoming cultural exchange, which the delegation’s Cultural Liaison and Security Attaché have later corroborated. I have yet to try contact Ambassador Hattuji on the matter.”


Click.

“They have also coincided with a not insignificant change in his conduct during the investigation. He’s grown more obstructionist, and has become more competent at it; the board of the IAGC is regularly being forced to reallocate more of its resources to his investigation. I will also note that there have been reports of a growing pattern of similar behavior among associates.”

Click.

A different angle, a different time, but still very much the same man entering the same building. A flag hung limp on its flagpole, motionless in the dead air. It had eight stars pinned to a black sheet. One at its centre, seven orbiting. The stars, he thought, were pointed directly at the lens.

“... Cultural exchange, was it?”

He heard himself say it before he’d decided to, the words faint. His hand had curled slightly without his noticing, and he made himself unclench it beneath the table where the woman wouldn’t see. One finger at a time, each holding an old tension.

“Yes. I hopefully don’t need to explain why this alibi is suspect.” She folded her arms neatly on her lap and watched the President clear his throat.

“…and you’re sure of this… conclusion, Ms. Daqêrahan?”

“No. But his records show no prior interest in international cultural exchange, and I find it very hard to believe he spontaneously developed a passion for the discipline in the midst of a potentially incriminating investigation.”

There was a short silence. Mûsatê found himself watching the motes of dust in the air, the ones caught in the projector’s light. He tried to push for further evidence, but he noticed his jaw was tight, and the effort died in his throat. Perhaps he already knew what he was yet to accept.

“Why are you telling me this, Daqêrahan?”

She did not hesitate to answer. “Because if my suspicions are correct, then we cannot afford to waste time waiting for this to filter through the commission’s bureauc–”

“Yes, but why not take this directly to the Chancellor?”

She paused for a moment, seemingly considering her choice of words.

“... It was my role to relay this to the appropriate authority, and I have done so, Your Excellency. This is no longer a matter of graft and therefore not a matter for the Chancellor’s commission.”

Her gaze lingered on the President a moment, yet it was the soldier that felt its scrutiny.

“You possess… applicable experience. You can speak to men like him in ways the Chancellor or I cannot.”

A moment longer, and she rose from her seat and pushed the dossier and slides to him, rounding to leave. “In any case, I would recommend acting as quickly and as quietly as possible.”

She was at the exit before Mûsate finally formed a response.

“I… Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Madame.”

She turned back, scanning him properly. Almost imperceptibly, she nodded.

“Good night, Mr. President.”

Click.

The latch clicked softly against wood, and she was gone, the President now accompanied only by the hum of the projector. Mûsatê moved to the machine, switching it off and finally letting the room fall to darkness.

In the black, he felt his hand slowly curl.

[Nueva Almeria]

[Nueva Almeria]

The red LIVE sign glowed above Camera Two.

The famous singer and songwriter Antonio Rahimin Virtanen sat opposite the presenter, still wearing the sweaty black collarless jacket from his performance.
The final applause had barely faded when Mireille Ferreira Darvishin turned from the stage toward him.

“Your tour sold out in eleven cities” she said. “The new album has already gone platinum. You must be pleased.”

“I am pleased that people listen” he replied. “I am less pleased that fifty-seven per cent of my income belongs to our Treasury.”

A few people in the studio audience laughed.

“That is not possible : The highest marginal rate is of 45 % here” she said carefully.

“No. Fifty-seven per cent was my effective rate after the final assessment. My accountant checked it twice herself.”

Someone in the control room spoke rather sharply into Mireille’s earpiece. She adjusted her papers.

“You benefit from public infrastructure like everyone else.”

“Certainly. I am not asking to pay nothing. I ask why the State becomes the senior partner whenever an album succeeds yet becomes a stranger whenever one fails.”

Antonio reached inside his jacket.

Mireille glanced toward the floor manager. “What are you taking out ?”

He placed a five-hundred-Rial banknote on the glass table on which a faint pencil line had been drawn vertically across it slightly beyond the centre.

“This is five hundred Réais” he said. “My own share is two hundred fifteen. Their share is two hundred eighty-five Réais.”

He produced a small lighter, visibly a very high value lighter which is odd enough already because everyone can testify he does not smoke.

“Antonio do not do that ...”

The lighter clicked.

A blue flame touched a corner of the banknote. For a moment nothing happened then rapidly the edge blackened, curled upward and caught with a dry orange flare.

The audience fell silent.

Camera Two moved closer by instinct whereas in the control room the director, stunned for a moment has ordered a wide shot but the close-up had already reached every television set in the country : Antonio holding the burning note between two fingers while the fire slowly consumed the printed surface.

One floor assistant has advanced with an extinguisher.

“Stay back please !” Antonio said without raising his voice.

The flame crossed the pencil line. Almost three fifths of the banknote had become ash when he plunged the surviving portion into Mireille’s glass of water.

There was a hiss. Black fragments floated across the surface.

Antonio lifted what remained. Water ran from the mutilated banknote onto his sleeve.

“There” he said. “Approximately sixty per cent destroyed. Fifty-seven would have been more accurate but taxation is rarely as tidy as arithmetic.”

Mireille stared at him.

“You have destroyed legal tender during a live broadcast.”

“I destroyed the part that no longer feels like mine.”

“Taxes finance hospitals and schools as well as transportation or national defence —”

“Then publish a clear account of every Rial. Do not merely send me a number with a deadline.”

The floor manager raised both hands. Behind Camera One, two studio security officers appeared beside the curtains.

Mireille looked directly into the principal camera.

“The ORTF reminds viewers that damaging currency or introducing an open flame into a television studio may constitute criminal offences.
The channel did not know that our guest had intended to perform this act.”

“Of course not !” Antonio said. “That is why I agreed to come live ...”

The commercial countdown appeared on the monitor.

Five.

Four.

Mireille remained perfectly still.

Three.

Antonio placed the wet remainder of the banknote beside her papers.

Two.

One.

The red light went dark. Advertising music replaced the silence across the country.

Everyone in the studio applauded.
The floor manager removed his headset.

“Lock the doors !” he ordered. “Nobody leaves until the Gendarmerie arrives.”

Antonio leaned back in his chair. The smell of burned currency hung above the table.

“I was not about to leave” he said.

[Nueva Almeria]

A Sopa das Couves

The film was set around 1987, in the final years of the dictatorship in a small hamlet called São Jeronimo das Pedras somewhere in the interior of the State of Eranshahr.

Almost everyone has already left for Rio de Junho, Santander or the industrial cities. Only two elderly men stubbornly remain.

Manuel “Nelo” Correia Farzan is a widower, cantankerous retired mechanic of the railways company enormously proud of his vegetable garden.
The closest friend is Antonio “Tonho” Vaziri Seixas, a former conscript who raises three goats as he repairs agricultural machinery, and considers bottled mineral water to be evidence of national and cultural decline.

Their daily ritual is sacred : cabbage soup with homemade bread and strong red wine as well as complaints about the Government.

One evening following an especially catastrophic digestive episode after dinner, new strange noises echo across the fields.
A small circular, metallic spacecraft lands beside Nelo's cabbage patch.

The pilot and lone passenger is a baffling humanoid extraterrestrial whom the men simply call O Visitante because neither wants to know his actual name.
That alien becomes obsessed with cabbage soup that

Not because it is delicious.

Because according to his species it contains a "stuff" capable of producing something their civilisation has almost completely lost : contentment ...

São Jeronimo is scheduled for demolition as part of an enormous dictatorship-era hydroelectric reservoir project : The ninth largest national dam.
Government engineers arrive with maps showing that the entire valley will disappear beneath sixty metres of water.
The inhabitants have already accepted compensation.

Nelo refuses : “My grandfather planted that pear tree even before their ministry existed !”

The local authorities regard him as an administrative nuisance rather than a revolutionary. Eventually even the Gendarmerie becomes exhausted by him.

Meanwhile, O Visitante keeps returning for soup.

He brings increasingly ridiculous extraterrestrial gifts in exchange for the food :
A self-heating saucepan
A device that makes goats temporarily fluorescent
A machine capable of perfectly predicting rain six minutes before it begins to rain

Nelo considers all of them useless : He wants a new pressure cooker.

The emotional core

The comedy slowly gives way to something much sadder.

Tonho admits that the village is already dead.

The school closed fifteen years earlier. The bakery disappeared. There are no children. The weekly bus now comes twice a month.

The reservoir is merely signing the death certificate.

O Visitante eventually offers the two men an alternative: leave Earth with him.

On his planet he recreated São Jeronimo from their memories :

Every stone wall.
Every fig tree.
Every crooked roof.
Even the village fountain.

Except there are no bureaucrats.

That convinces Tonho immediately however, Nelo hesitates because the alien forgot the cabbage patch of land.
The spacecraft therefore waits another week while they transplant the cabbages.

Final scene

Government demolition crews arrive at dawn : The two houses are empty and there is a curious saucepan sitting on Nelo's kitchen table.

Far above Nueva Almería, the alien spacecraft disappears into the stars.
Then the camera cuts to another planet.

Nelo tastes a spoonful of soup and he looks furious.

“The water isn't right ...”

Tonho automatically tastes it followed with a long silence.

“Then it's the altitude.”

[Nueva Almeria]

A Loucura das Grandezas

The film takes place in 1863, during the absolute monarchy of Nueva Almería when Rio de Junho is still the capital. Newspapers are ferocious yet immense fortunes andcourt patronage still determine who actually gets heard near the Imperial throne.

At the centre is Dom Balthazar Neves Farrokhzad, Chancellor of the Imperial Treasury.

Balthazar is rich and pompous, as spectacularly unpleasant as he is almost pathologically obsessed with collecting taxes.

Every morning his carriage crosses Rio de Junho accompanied by Treasury officers seizing unpaid property, livestock or jewellery and furniture.

Balthazar's favourite sentence was :

“The State has needs. Conveniently, those needs resemble mine.”

His personal servant is Bento Shirazi Coelho who is a clever, exasperated man who secretly despises his employer.

Bento performs almost everything for him : correspondence, accounts, speeches as well as insults and lies or even official excuses.

Balthazar merely takes credit.

The Crash

Balthazar's career suddenly collapses when auditors discover that he has been diverting part of a provincial emergency tax into accounts controlled by his relatives.

The Shah does not imprison him and something much worse happens : He is expelled from court.

His decorations are removed. His carriage licence is revoked.

His name disappears from the official social calendar.

Most devastatingly, Shahbanu Sorawa Darius Seixas wife of the reigning Shah publicly calls him :

“A provincial accountant wearing feathers.”

Balthazar becomes obsessed with revenge.

He decides to humiliate the Shahbanu by manufacturing a scandal involving an apparently irresistible young aristocrat.

There is only one difficulty.

Balthazar has no irresistible young aristocrat.

He has Bento.

From Servant to Prince

Balthazar therefore transforms his servant into the supposedly exiled aristocrat Prince Benedito of Salvadinha, alleged descendant of an obscure imperial branch.

Bento receives fencing lessons, Persian pronunciation lessons, ballroom instruction, expensive uniforms plus an absurd genealogy extending back eleven centuries.

His instructions are simple :

Seduce the Shahbanu.

Get caught.

Destroy her reputation.

Allow Balthazar to return as the man who “saved the Crown”.

Bento immediately identifies a problem.

“What if she doesn't fall in love with me ?”

Balthazar looks genuinely confused.

“Have you seen the uniform ?”

Unfortunately for Balthazar, the disguise works far too well.

Barons and bureaucrats

At court, Bento soon becomes enormously popular.

He speaks naturally to servants.
He remembers people's names.
He listens during conversations.
He even understands Government budgets because he spent fifteen years secretly preparing Baltasar's ones.

Members of Parliament begin consulting him.
Generals ask his opinion.

Newspapers describe him as “the modern aristocrat Nueva Almería has been waiting for.”

Balthazar watches his servant accidentally become a national political figure.

His revenge operation begins transforming into a nightmare.

Worse still Bento has absolutely no interest in the Shahbanu.

He falls hopelessly in love with Princess Laleh the Shah's widowed younger sister, who is intelligent enough to realise almost immediately that “Prince Benedito” has never lived inside a palace.

So instead of exposing him she finds the entire situation hilarious.

The famous tax scene

The centrepiece occurs during a meeting of the Imperial Council.

Balthazar, secretly hidden behind a decorative screen, feeds Bento instructions through a speaking tube.
Bento was supposed to persuade the Shah to impose a new tax on agricultural wells although instead as he was irritated by Balthazar's endless greed Bento announces :

“Your Majesty, perhaps we could begin by taxing people who own more than sixteen houses.”

Several ministers freeze : Balthazar, his secret boss owns seventeen houses.

The Shah considers the proposal.

“Excellent.”

Balthazar silently collapses behind the screen.
Within minutes Bento has accidentally created :

a luxury-property tax
an inheritance surcharge
an investigation into aristocratic land speculation
abolition of three obscure Treasury fees invented personally by Balthazar

The Shah congratulates him.

Balthazar almost suffers a stroke.

The assassination

The situation becomes completely chaotic when several aristocrats conclude that Prince Benedito has become dangerously influential.

They plot to kill him during an imperial hunting expedition.

Balthazar overhears them.

Initially delighted, he suddenly realises that Bento is the only person who knows where several incriminating Treasury documents are hidden.

He therefore spends the entire hunt desperately trying to prevent the assassination of the same man whose destruction he has spent the whole film organising.

A sequence follows involving runaway horses, an antique elephant gun, two Gendarmes, a ceremonial falcon plus Balthazar falling repeatedly into irrigation canals.

Bento remains almost completely unaware.

The revelation

Eventually the deception collapses during an imperial banquet.

Bento's true identity is revealed before the Shah, Parliament, aristocracy plus diplomatic corps.

Silence fills the hall.

Balthazar prepares to denounce him.

Then Princess Laleh asks:

“Did he perform his official duties competently?”

The Prime Minister reluctantly admits that Bento has been more useful during six weeks than Balthazar was during six years.

The Shah turns toward Balthazar.

“Then which of you was actually pretending to be a statesman?”

Balthazar has no answer.

The end

Bento is pardoned but stripped of his invented title.
He is appointed Secondary Director of Imperial Accounts : For him that was a respectable position with no aristocratic privileges whatsoever.
Princess Laleh continues seeing him creating a magnificent scandal that she appears to enjoy enormously.

Balthazar receives a punishment he considers worse than prison : The Shah appoints him Inspector of Provincial Tax Records in the remote interior of Karoo.

His final scene shows him travelling through endless dust in a tiny government carriage.

He looks through the window. A farmer waves.

Balthazar instinctively shouts :

“HAS HE PAID HIS TAXES ?”

The driver answers :

“There are not any taxes here, Excellency.”

Balthazar stares into the distance in horror.

[Ioudaia]

Great Rivers Times
News from the Cypharesseis, Aelo Rud, and Jolgeh Asvat

What the Younger Generation Thinks

Now that college students have settled in, we decided to see what was on their minds as they start their new academic year. We interviewed 60 students at Iamusikos College, and asked, "What are the top three things you're thinking about?". This is a representative sample of their answers.

Classwork was the most popular subject.

"People think being an art major is easy. 'Just draw some stuff, mess with clay, and you're done.' Wrong! I've got both mid-term and final projects in both of my art classes, and for sculpting, I have to demonstrate new techniques. None of the language arts majors have to learn to sculpt marble. They just have to read books and write about them. And I have to do that too. It's not like I just play in the studio all day."

"I'm pre-vet [veterinary]. All my biology classes have labs with them. Six to seven hours of class and lab three times a week. I don't know how I'll keep up."

"This is good year for me. I'm fourth year, and cruising through my Four Passages History program. It's work, but it's what I want to do."

"It's a mixed bag. I suck at math, and that's going to pull my grades down. I think I've got everything else under control, but I think I'm going to need to work part time. It should all fit together, but I'm not going to have much time for friends."

"I'm on the basketball team. Practice takes a lot of time. We're a Class 2 team, but it's still hard. Iamusikos isn't a sports team that pretends to be a school too, so I've got the usual classes too. But the shot at the pro leagues makes it worth it. Long shot, yeah, and if not, I still have the experiences."


Politics, as usual for college students, was a favorite as well.

"We should make college entirely free to all, not just the lucky few." (Iamusikos College offers full scholarships to one in 30 students who pass its entrance examinations.)

"I think half of the Assembly Members should be elected."

"Shouldn't we set term limits on the Kings? Maybe 24 years?"

"We have to fix the way we pay for medical care. It should just be guaranteed, like housing. Maybe not everything, but some things."

"We shouldn't have to put up with private insurance. The government should just run the health system."

"I think we should have more community gardens in neighborhoods, to grow food, flowers, and friendships. And more urban parks too."

"Ioudaia would be better off as a multi-party republic. The Kings can stay, just with term limits. They'll be the upper chamber of the legislature, just with unusual executive powers. But the Great King would be an elected prime minister."


We were surprised by the number of times the students mentioned housing.

"I think 15 square meters per person [housing guarantee] was fine 120 years ago, but now, people need more space. I think 21 is more reasonable. I grew up in a social apartment, so I know what I'm talking about."

"I'm sharing a big house with a bunch of friends, like I did last year. It's great! I think everybody should do that. A common living room and yard really bring people together. It's way better than dorm suites."

"The cities should impose housing price controls. Rent is getting expensive in Cypharesseis."


And the rest.

"This term I'm taking all the easy classes my program allows. Time to party! Also gaming and pick-up volleyball."

"My girlfriend and I are in the same suite, but our class schedules are completely different. That's going to strain things between us."

"I've worked Kabiruz jazz band into my schedule. So great!"

"I wish I had time to see the city, but it's so hard. Even getting downtown takes time. There's so much to see here, but finding time for it? I don't know."

"My family's in Fincarden. I'm going to miss them. FaceEra just isn't the same."

"I kept in touch with all my friends over the summer. We planned classes together, so we're taking some of the same ones. It's going to be so awesome!"

[Talvistova]

The clock on the wall kept ticking away obediently as Aleksandar Jarkoniemi sat at his desk, idly spinning a coin on his desk.

tick. tick. tick. tick.

He sipped his drink, a rare glass of gin he had allowed himself, and studied the picture on his desk. He smiled Ruefully. It was of him and his wife Ljudmilla, sitting in his old office in parliament, almost 30 years ago when they were newlyweds. He even still had a full head of hair back then. But, he lamented as he sipped his drink, 'back then' was growing further and further away. Over 22 years now he'd been prime minister. Nearly a quarter of a century. Longer than his political idol Per Oliver Christofferson. Hed even seen two kings. And he was, now more than ever, feeling it.

He had felt for a while now that running in 2024 had been jumping the shark. He had finally felt he picked a strong successor for him. Anya Borgman from his first term was too old to run for PM, and so he ran again, this time with Paavo Eskola. He was strong, firm in his beliefs, and a gifted orator, but he was too hardlined. He liked him, but he wouldn't be PM. But he felt he nailed it. Lars Axel Ersson reminded him of a younger him, and most of the party leadership agreed, but the hardliners dug in. They wouldn't support him on a standalone ticket, so term 5 it was. But he was tired now. Tabloids had been buzzing. He had been appearing less and less at extracurriculars. Something he had been known for in his younger years was now waining. They had been floating that he was going to resign, that Jarkoniemian dominance of Talvistova was coming to an end, and now, in his quiet office, staring out the window at the city lights, he wasnt sure that was entirely a bad idea.

[Ioudaia]

Great Rivers Times
News from the Cypharesseis, Aelo Rud, and Jolgeh Asvat

What the Younger Generation Thinks: A Continuing Story

Some of our readers asked for more information about our recent story on college students' attitudes. We're really pleased that people are interested, and we received lots of unexpected questions.

One of the big questions was what we meant by "representative sample" of quotations. In short, if we heard four or more students say essentially the same thing in different words, we took the idea as representative. We didn't alter anything any students said, but merely quoted one of the examples.

Some readers wanted to know if students at Iamusikos College are typical of Ioudaian college students, and the answer is that we simply don't know. Iamusikos College is the largest college in Cypharesseis, and that's solely why we asked them.

We hadn't expected such interest in such a short article, but based on reader interest, we're following the story up to learn more about what college students think.

[Ioudaia]

Great Rivers Times
News from the Cypharesseis, Aelo Rud, and Jolgeh Asvat

What the Younger Generation Thinks: Home Life

As part of our continuing series, we've dived deeper into how college students, graduate students, and recent graduates live. We asked students about who they live with, how many people lived in their homes, and why they live the way they do. We asked undergraduates, graduate students, and recent graduates (within two years of graduation) the same set of questions.

Undergraduates live in three kinds of situation: in dormitories, in apartments with other students, and with their parents and families. The last was surprisingly common, about 7% overall, and up to 9% for students living in Shariyath. The reason for that seems to be that Shariyath is Ioudaia's second largest city and has well-developed mass transportation, making commuting from students' family homes practical, even in the suburbs. The main reason students lived with their families was cost, though some said that they got along with their families, and didn't see a reason to leave yet. Others pointed out the convenience of having somebody else to cook and clean for them while they studied.

Students living in dorms tended to live in groups of two to four, which reflects the sizes of dorm rooms and suites. Only a few, about 4% lived in single rooms, and a little more than that, 5%, lived in suites with five or more people. In general (78%), though, for upperclassmen, the big groups tended to be all friends, and they lived that way by choice. Only a few tended to live in large suites with non-friends for cost reasons. Most undergrads (68%) live in dormitories, due to convenience to classes, financial aid paying for part of room and board, or because they don't want to deal with private landlords.

The situation for apartment-dwelling undergraduates was very different, however. Almost a fifth (19%) lived by themselves. They said they wanted peace and quiet, solitude, or just space of their own, having previously lived with their families or in dormitories. A little more than a third (36%) lived in pairs, either couples or people living with just one apartment-mate Only a few people (5%) shared an apartment with two other people, usually friends. The rest (40%) lived with relatively large groups of four to six people, with a very few (2%) living in much larger groups.

These larger groups proved to be a major surprise. They broke down into three types: ephemeral groups of mutual friends who live together for a year or two, student clubs and sports teams that provide housing for some or all of their members, local chapters of larger social or religious organizations, and a small number of independent self-sustaining cooperative groups.

Regardless of the details, most of these large groups have some expectation that their members will do some activities together. Typically, this was a regular group event or dinner, sometimes daily, sometimes once every foreign week, and sometimes for the new moon and full moon festivals. Attendance was either mandatory or heavy social pressure was placed on people to attend. Groups organized around a specific purpose, such as sports teams, expected more group participation.

Some of these groups also expected other sorts of community activity, such as maintaining their shared residence, or performing charitable jobs for their neighborhoods. All of these groups were just for young people, though some expected or allowed recent college graduates or graduate students to provide senior leadership for the group. None of them permitted people older than 28 to live with them.

Also surprising: recent college graduates and graduate students tended to live in very similar situations. Both groups tended to live in pairs (52%), either with a friends, in relationships, marriage, or with a single apartment-mate For the last subgroup, they felt that living with one other person was the sweet spot for lowering the cost of living and having companionship.

Roughly 40% of recent grads/grad students lived alone, for reasons similar to solitary college students. A few (3%) of recent grads/grad students had started families and lived with a romantic partner or spouse and their child. Only the remaining 4% lived in larger groups, including some who lived in groups containing mostly college students. The rest overwhelmingly had two or three apartment-mates, often college friends and/or co-worker friends.

The Great Rivers Times didn't try to survey people who didn't attend college, but were the same age as the other groups, simply because there was no good way to contact them. Colleges and universities permitted us to advertise our interest in surveying, as did alumni societies. We surveyed 300 students at each of ten colleges, five universities, and five alumni groups, for a total of 6,000 students and recent students.

[Ioudaia]

Great Rivers Times
News from the Cypharesseis, Aelo Rud, and Jolgeh Asvat

Communal Living and Businesses in Ioudaia

Our survey of what young people think has discovered that a few adults like living and working in groups. They seem to be a tiny minority, but we were surprised to find them at all. Here are their stories.

Sharitech Apple Orchard

In northern Shariyath, in the middle of blocks of townhouses, is the Shariyath Technological Institute Student Apple Orchard, 16 hectares of fruit trees. It's run by students of the university, with former students serving as advisors.

Hild Chaya Belford, a chemical engineering student, said, "We grow different varieties of apples, including the earliest and late fruiting ones. We harvest continuously from late spring until the first frost. So, unlike other orchards, there's a steady amount of work to do, picking apples, trimming trees, and like that. It's pretty mindless, but that's good, since classes are hard, and I don't want to think too much.

Kurshid Dov, one of the advisors, showed the Great Rivers Times the orchard's official history, including articles from the Shariyath Beacon, one of the Great Rivers Times' predecessors. "The orchard was founded during the Imperial War, when the government was encouraging more food production. Then, this was farmland; Shariyath was eight or nine klicks to the south.

"We typically have 30 to 40 students working on the orchard. They divide up the chores, and they share in the money the apple sales bring in. It's not a lot, but it's considered a good student job." Asked how the orchard was managed, Kurshid said, "The students have votes, and the three of us have votes, and majority rules. We usually try for a two-thirds consensus, though, to minimize bad feelings."

Premier Machinery Repair

Another Shariyath business, Premier Machinery Repair, is also jointly run by the four men and one woman who work there. They fix industrial equipment, "Everything from conveyor belts to hydraulics," said Liat Pari bat Simin. "The big companies have their own maintenance departments, but there's a lot of small businesses that don't. We serve them."

One of the founders, Feroze Shalev Kadarozhad, described the business' founding like this. "There were a bunch of us independent repairmen. We made good money, and our customers liked us because we did good work, better than the usual corporate repair places, but we were all struggling. When a machine breaks down, the company needs it fixed <i>now</i>, not when we could. As independents, it was hard to schedule both routine and emergency repairs. So, Sarosh Ziv suggested we get together, so somebody could always be available for emergencies.

"Back then, we took calls, and having somebody to always man the phone was big help. Now, of course, people get in touch with us online too. But still, working as a group makes a lot of sense for us and our customers." The Times' reporter asked Feroze about money, and he answered, "everybody puts a little into a common pool, to pay for our website, the rent, the days one of us is working the phone, and to cut risk in case of illness or injury, but otherwise, each of us keeps what he makes. There's working together and there's Larksism, and we don't want that."

"A Big, Friendly House" in Cypharesseis

Seven people, two married couples and three single people, share a 260 square meter mansion in the Palace District here in Cypharesseis. "Bito [Ganit bat Hila Doris], Tal Zubin, and Glauce Dafna all went to the University of Cypharesseis. I work with Tal, and we used to work with Nasrin Adi. We're all good friends. She married Itai Lampo, and Stentor Cham [ben Alon Xenophon] is one of his old friends," said Mirza Naftali. "I have one of the former servant's rooms, but it doesn't matter, because the place is huge. We even have a walled courtyard!"

Nasrin added, "We all have rooms: Bito and Tal have the original master suite, Itai and I have the largest guest suite, a bedroom, a bathroom, and a sitting room a little bigger than the bathroom. There's two kitchens and two dining rooms, one originally for just the family, and one for big occasions. There's a few other big rooms that we're not sure what they were. We can all do things together, or in smaller groups. I think it works great. It's a big, friendly house, filled with friendly people. There's always somebody around if you want to talk, and privacy if you don't."

The Times asked the group what they thought of people living by themselves. Tal said, "I think most people would be happier if they lived around more people. Maybe not exactly like we have, but I think people should try it." Everybody but Stentor and Glauce agreed. Glauce thought, "I think some people really want to come home from work and be by themselves. So this may not be for everyone... but I agree that people should try it and find out. Many people figure it out at college, if they want to live with people or not."

Shared Apartment Building in Ornemion

A larger group, eleven people, shares a four-flat in Ornemion. They asked to be given pseudonyms. Yadid said, "Each apartment was meant for four or five people; there's a master bedroom and two other bedrooms for kids. Also four living rooms and four dining rooms, so we can all be together in one place or be in small groups. But it's more flexible than four families living in their apartments and never seeing each other."

"Yeah, it's very different: who wants to be with whom on any given day changes," said Kerem. "Since we have so much space, we can throw big parties on the first floor. We invite lots of people, but it never seems crowded."

Maor added, "We try to have lunch and dinner together on the new and full moons, but it doesn't always work out. And there's a bunch of us that play games together, but mostly we're floating between groups."

The Times' reporter asked, "Nobody ever wants to be alone?" Yadid answered, "sometimes people do. There's always somewhere in the building to get some quiet time."

There was disagreement within the group over whether people should live by themselves. Most thought it should be an option, but four people thought it was 'unnatural'. Maor said, "people lived in villages for most of human history, and all the time before that. Living alone is a very modern concept. Until recently, it was pretty dangerous to live alone."

[Baqar]

Baqar, Madau,’il-Mêr Naqa Sanedayeh - October 21st, 14:28

---

A newswoman’s lips moved silently to an unheeding crowd, from a screen hanging awkwardly in the corner of the coffeehouse. Subtitles crawled up its left side.

‘...Economy Minister Ta-Hani was said to have commented that he was “pleased to see” the increased output from Qanêhûn West, further stating…’

Seated next to the window, Deputy Dêmani Ta-Huranêqah watched the woman with waning interest, his eyes tracking the tangled wiring that tethered the television to the wall. Each turn and knot was familiar; Huranêqah had frequented this Silahebat for years. It had seen many sides of him. Today, unfortunately, it would see the politician.

Huranêqah checked his watch, then settled his gaze back on the cup opposite, poured for the man he was meeting. It was getting cold. Movement at the entrance drew his attention, and a haggard student pushed through the door, a laptop nestled amidst the folds of her Rûlari. He huffed and stared back into his coffee. For fuck’s sake, where was he?

A moment longer, and he might have given up and stopped wasting his time; he should be preparing for tomorrow’s Commission. But a voice, low and crisp, sliced cleanly through the ambient chatter of the Silahebat.

“Ah, Dêmani. Thanks for coming.”

The deputy quickly smothered any resentment on his face with an extended hand and a polite smile. “Officer, it’s good to meet you.”

Dulaqemin returned the handshake and settled opposite, unbuttoning his jacket as he sat. He was unusually well-groomed for a BNRA man: clean-shaven, hair neatly styled, and clothes worn with a similar precision. “Sorry for keeping you. Something came up at headquarters.”

The deputy nodded. “No harm done. You must be a busy man, after all.”

With a laugh, the officer picked up the lukewarm coffee and drank, eyes still trained on Huranêqah. “Not as busy as you, so I’ve heard. I just shuffle paperwork.”

A twitch of his brow betrayed his surprise. “Oh? And what have you heard, Officer?”

“Good things.” Dulaqemin leaned back, an easy grin adorning his face. “The integration of the MAC in Biladêhapat, right? Great work, truly.”

Huranêqah took a long sip, buying a few seconds. The man had done his research. “I do only what is necessary to protect Baqari sovereignty”

“And, cosmos willing, may you succeed. Anyway, business.”

Reaching into his jacket pocket, the officer pulled out a Manila envelope and tossed it across the table. “A friend of mine – good guy, real straight shooter – wanted me to pass something along to you. It’s regarding the funding ordinance coming up.”

Huranêqah didn’t touch the paper. “The IAGC one? I wasn’t aware it was tabled yet. What does he want?”

“Well, he’s attempting to secure a veto from the Darat, to be blunt.” The officer pressed the heel of his hand to the table, idly rocking it to and fro against the plastic surface. “He would very much appreciate your colleagues’ support. And yours, for that matter. ”

He let the request hang. The deputy’s smile held, but his eyes turned to flint. “Would he now? It has been a while since I’ve cracked the whip. I could use the practice.” He idly swirled the coffee in his cup, letting out a dry, humourless laugh. “Although, I can’t say that would be very popular among my fellow deputies, Officer. If my memory serves, my party was elected on a strict mandate to root out corruption. In all its forms.”

Dulaqemin raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. Just doing a favour.” He leaned forward, voice low and conspiratorial.

“Honestly, I don’t like it myself. Have you seen the shit some of my *comrades* get away with? It’s disgusting. They’re an embarrassment to the Revolutionary Army.” He spat the words like they were bitter on his tongue.

He caught himself, realising he had risen slightly from his chair. He coughed, smoothing a fold in his shirt as he sat back down. “But the ends do not justify the means, as they say.” His fingers began a slow drumbeat against the plastic. “The Palace is circumventing the Darat, Dêmani. Plain and simple. An executive ordinance like this shouldn't be used to allocate funding, even for a good cause."

Huranêqah let out a soft, amused hum and took a slow sip of his coffee. “Well, well… I have to say I’m surprised to see the BNRA so concerned about the Mahûghat’s constitutional order. How very magnanimous.”

The slow drumming of Dulaqemin’s fingers stopped. He didn’t flinch, but the sarcasm had snagged on something beneath the surface. “They aren’t. I, however, am. And I believed you were too.”

The deputy felt a twinge in his stomach, even as he kept his expression steeled. “I am. I’m no fan of the Chancellor’s flagrant disregard of the venerable house. But forgive me if I’m sceptical of your intentions.”

“My intentions?” Dulaqemin’s gaze narrowed. “I’m doing a favour, as I’ve said. I’ve told you what he wants, and I’ve told you where I stand.” He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Look, I can’t force your hand. You can let this ordinance pass unopposed; I can't stop you. But it’d be done out of spite, deputy.”

Huranêqah was silent. His finger had moved unconsciously towards the brown envelope and had begun tracing its edge, his eyes not quite meeting his opposite. Dulaqemin sighed and began to button his jacket with that same precision.

“More details are in there, if you’re interested.”

Huranêqah looked up, holding the man's gaze. “Who’s your colleague?”

“Sorry?”

“Your friend, the one who wants my vote.”

Dulaqemin paused, hand resting on the back of the cheap plastic chair. “Lemûhan Ta-Ruliya, if you’ve heard of him. He’s another officer.”

“Tell him that he shouldn’t send middlemen. It implies dishonesty.”

Dulaqemin regarded the deputy, gaze thin, before offering a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll make sure to pass it along.”

With a polite nod, he turned away, and soon melted into the bustle of the Silahebat.

Huranêqah did not move. The ambient chatter of the coffeehouse rushed to fill the silence left behind by the officer. The newswoman continued her silent broadcast, and the people continued not to notice. The deputy's focus shifted down to the envelope, heavy in his hands. He turned it over, tracing the sealed flap and considering.

A moment, and he had decided. In one swift motion, he had tucked it deep into his breast pocket.