Markion Lore RP Thread[MARKION ONLY-IC]

[The Green Union]

Asenna Revolutionaries, Undisclosed location on the shoreline

A shaky video recorded on a shaky camcorder was sent to the Seveillian based Markion Daily News showing the captured crew tied to poles dug into the sand next to a coastline. The pirates could be seen beating one of the crew members, presumably the captain while another pirate excitedly shouted demanding a ransom of M50,000,000 or the crew would be left in the sun to bake unless they received their payment within the month. The video closed out with a video of one of the crew members being forced to recite the Salomus Mariners name and information while pleading for help in Markish. This video would air on the Seveillian MDN Network internationally on the afternoon news with the newscasters worriedly reporting on the small details of what was going on and pleading for the Salomus Mariner's owner to reach out to receive the tape.

The news of a Placeodermsian freighter crew being kidnapped off the coast of Arkmenistan has drawn rapid, if somewhat underwhelming response from the media and public back home. Most attention is still focused on the growing September Island crisis and more immediate existential dangers to the Placeodermsian homeland. However, many of the country’s federal politicians did offer their sympathies to the crew’s families and indicated they would be working towards their safe return.

The Placeodermsian Navy was also quick to take more concrete action, requesting permission from the Kamooko Pact to detach one Haikou-class light cruiser, the Sentinel, from the Amerian-led quarantine patrol around Rudony in order to investigate. After just a day of paperwork and bureaucracy the ship was dispatched, and is now making the journey to Arkmenistan.

[Emerstari]

Emerstari
Fishy Business: Part 1

Leather brogues sounded on a deck, an oaken door fell shut, a bell chimed above a sill. It was a raw sort of day in the sea country of northwestern Emerstari. A howling wind, like a wolf from the ocean, made landfall. It swept up a leaky drizzle of rain, making it to dance up and down stone-patterned streets. Father Brugge had come to Trølden’s Inn on the corner of Main and Bridge both to escape the elements and to have a pint or two before the day was done.

“Father! Hello!” called out Mr. Trølden from behind the bar. He grabbed a glass and said, “What can I do for you tonight?”

Father took a seat in front of Mr. Trølden. “A pint,” he said. “We’ll make it a Kælsten’s.”

“Sounds just fine,” said Trølden. “Anything else?”

Father looked at the empty fiddler’s chair, or so it was called by regulars. On happier days, Mr. Oskarsson might sit and play; sometimes, young Lars Mjølle would come with his guitar and his sister Margie would sing. Brugge turned back to Mr. Trølden. “What’s on Channel 5?”

The bartender slid the priest his pint and leaned against the bar as he turned on the TV. “Let’s see…” he said. “Looks like the Soren Gylfæg Show.” He set down the remote and looked back at Father Brugge.

But Brugge was looking at another man a few stools down. It was Mr. Eriksson, a grustly type; broad and stout; with a full, dark beard and little, if any, hair left atop his head. “How was the catch today?” Father asked.

“Catch’s good,” Eriksson answered. “Sale’s bad.” He put down his drink and muttered. “That's how it’s been some time now.” He finished the last gulp of the drink and growled. “That’s how it’s been since that conniving, little merchant moved in. Thinks he can undercut my prices, he thinks. Them’s his catch, he says. But I know what they are. I know they’re illegal imports. I seen his smuggling friends. Don’t even speak Emerstarian. If he looks at me with that smirk of his one more time, well, I coul’— I'll just bust a few of his pretty teeth ou—”

“Karl, bud, I think you’ve had enough tonight,” said Mr. Trølden. He took a second, still unfinished, glass from Eriksson. The fisherman tried to grasp for it but hadn’t the fight in him — and Trølden was too familiar, too friendly, a face to fight, anyway. “Why don’t you head on home and get some rest? I’ll take you.”

“Home? That money-grubbin’ con wants my home, too. I got a family I gotta feed. He’s got another woman every night, that son of a..." Eriksson had to stop to apply himself to get out of his chair, and Trølden came around the bar to help him. His daughter took up the apron and handed Father Brugge another pint. “Why,” muttered Eriksson, “if that two-tongued Mr. Smooth-Hands so much as looks at my little Katty, I’ll show him where the fish are. I’ll show him—”

“Easy now, Karl.” Trølden took his arm and began walking him out.

“He never even seen a livin’ fish! I know it! I know it…”

“I’m sure you do,” said Trølden. “But let’s get you home.” And the two left the inn. Shortly, a snarl was heard and a yell, but it quieted down. Then a new man came inside.

“What can I get ya?” asked Trølden’s daughter.

The newcomer sat down, took out his wallet, threw a few bills on the bar, and said, “A water.”

“Water’s no cost, Sir.”

“Think of it as a gift,” he said with smiling eyes.

Father looked at him from the side of his eye. “You’re a generous young man.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“Of course,” he said. “I can’t say I know your face, though. Are you visiting?”

“Nope. Staying. I’ve been here a few months.”

“Really? I don’t think I’ve ever given you the sacraments?”

“Oh, probably not. I go to St. Magdalena’s on the southside.”

“With Father Georgsson? He’s a friend. What brings you up to the northside?”

“Well, I'm staying with a friend. He lives on the southside, but I got a stall at the northside market.”

“Don’t you have to be a local to sell at the market?”

“Yeah. My friend put his name in, but I run the stall.”

“Ah. I see. Well, what do you sell?”

“Fish.”

“That’s a big business around here.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Say, if you bunk up on the southside, have you got yourself a boat? Wharf’s on the northside, after all.”

“Oh, yeah. I got a boat. I sent it in for some repairs, though.”

“Hm. Anna, why don’t you close up for the night? This gentleman and I will take a walk outside.”

“If you think so, Father,” said Anna. She walked around the bar and flipped the sign.

“Come on, let’s take a walk,” Father said to the newcomer. A frown came upon the man’s face. “Have a goodnight, Anna!” the priest said, and he was halfway to the door. The man slowly followed.

Once they were outside, Brugge asked, “So how has Insby treated you so far?”

“Very kindly.”

“That’s good to hear. How are you faring with the local fishermen?”

“Like who?”

“Oh, the Larsson brothers? Bernhard Martinsson? Eriksson? Olofsson and his girl? I always see them at the market. I baptized Martinsson’s new son not too many weeks ago.”

“They’re a nice bunch. I’ve fared well with them.”

“No one’s been giving you any trouble?”

“Nope. Nice folk up here.”

“Well, that’s good. Where do you—”

“I’d love to stay and talk more, Father, but I best be getting back soon.”

“Of course. Would you like to pray first?”

“Sure.”

“Sounds fine.” Father Brugge made the Sign of the Cross. Then he said, “O Father, we thank you for a good night and good drinks, for friends both old and new, all of which thou hast given us of thy bountiful goodness through Jesus Christ our Lord. We pray that through Him also, in thy Spirit, thou wouldst bless the fruit of the sea and multiply it many times over. May just, honest business prevail in this town. Amen.”

“Amen,” said the newcomer. And the two parted ways. The one, southward; the other, to his parsonage northward.

[Ekaterina-]

Catherine’s Palace
Ekaterina

The dark circles under Markus’s eyes had gone a shade darker since he started working for Queen Anastasia. His feet felt like iron beneath him as he tried to keep himself awake in the dead of night outside of Anastasia's chambers. The air in the large hallway had gone eerily still—quietness was something he wasn’t used to. Just before sleep had drawn him in, out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw a ribbon of a nightgown, a silver flutter underneath the moonlight. “Who’s there?” he took a few steps around the corner to see a figure that he swore was the Queen, “M’lady? Anastasia? Is that you?” The figure picked up its pace, and he followed, quickly turning into a brisk jog.

“Be careful, boy” A gruff, familiar voice echoed in his head. “The mind can play tricks on you during witching hour”

Though growing up these stories felt like wives tales, Markus’s heart couldn’t help but start racing when he saw the figure dipping in and out of the shadows. The figure’s long flowing hair had turned a sharp corner into a hallway he knew was a dead end but as soon as he finally thought he could catch up to her she seemed to vanish.

“What the hell?” He said in an airy breath. The air had gone still again. A cold shiver had shot up his spine. He noticed something weird about the end of the hallway. As he looked closer there was the outline of a door that was tremendously well hidden. Behind a small painting on the side after investigating around he found a knob, which when turned let the door creak open.

A warm light had smacked his eye and he managed to let out a few hard blinks before coming to grips to the scene before him.

Five young women in flowing night dresses and silky blonde hair were chatting silently with each other, each grabbing a piece of baguette that one of them had stolen from the palace kitchen. Every single one of them looked like a young Queen Anastasia.

“Oh my god. I must be having a nightmare right now,” Markus couldn’t believe in the slightest what he was seeing. “One of you—pinch me or something—what the fuck.”

The sound of his voice caused all five blonde heads to snap to him, their glimmering blue eyes widening in surprise. Markus’ heart leapt up to his throat, his lips turning to cement.

“Waitaminute, that’s the cute soldier boy I was talking about!” One of them exclaimed before the rest were about to scramble into hiding.

“How did he—Serina, you have to be more careful when sneaking out!”

“It’s not my fault he—” The girls started talking over each other, each with the same tone of voice as the rest.

Markus’ head was spinning. They all had the same eyes, nose, mouth; everything but the hairstyle looked exactly like Queen Anastasia. Panic rose in his cheeks as he turned to bolt out the door from this twisted hallucination he was having.

“Wait, stop!” One of the five called out, a delicate hand grabbing onto his uniform, pulling him into the room as the trick door shut before them and blended into the wall.

“Great going, Astrid. Now he’s stuck with us until the morning.” Another one complained.

“Come oooon, stay while—what’s your name?—we don’t bite,” another one of them spoke.

“I’m—uh—Markus. I really need to get back to my post.”

“Well Markus, the night is young. It’s only midnight and we can have you back at your post at two.”

“We were just about to watch a few clips of us! The Palace Media Coordinator made another compilation.”

The warm room they were in had a large projector on one side, as they huddled together on a bright pink couch on the other.

“Penelopi, grab the lights!” one said, getting herself positioned between seafoam green and sandy-colored pillows. The lights turned dim as the girls buzzed with excitement, watching a clip of Queen Anastasia stepping out of a limousine, a velvety veiled cap covering her eyes.
“That one is definitely Elya.” one explained.

Markus stood by the door watching the girls’ eyes glued to the projector when a soft hand had intertwined with his, pulling him over to the couch.

“No, I had a cold that day. Agraphina took over for me.” the one apparently called Elya said.

“And you didn’t tell Mata about that? Maybe Serina should learn from you.” All five of them giggled in unison.

“Well I can clearly do the best Elya impression, so it wasn’t too hard.” Agraphina retorted.

The film had continued to flicker on, each of them exclaiming who was who. But to Markus’ perspective every time he would see the screen he would only see, well, Anastasia.

“This one is my favorite,” one of the girls whispered in his ear.

The screen blinked to a red carpet event a year ago. Anastasia was wearing a long golden dress that seemed to melt into the floor. Every flash of the camera twinkled her perfect eyes. Markus’ breath caught between his teeth as the camera zoomed slightly to a gruff, older looking man in military regalia, his father.

“I loved that dress.” The girl continued. “I thought I looked so beautiful…” She whispered to herself.

“That was you?” he hushed back to her, looking down into her deep blue eyes.

She nodded politely and it got quiet again as the clip kept rolling. The camera zoomed closer to his father again. He had a slight, disappointed look to his face that made all of Markus’ muscles tense up.

“Hey, are you okay?” a hand slipped into his and he eased himself again. “Sorry for sneaking out. I didn’t mean to make your job harder.”

His heartbeat had calmed into her warm hands. His eyes flickered back and forth from the screen to her, noticing her individual beauty within that moment. “Uhm, yeah. I’m fine.” Tears welled up in his eye sockets, but he wouldn’t let them show. He hadn’t even seen the face of his father in a year, and on top of that he hadn’t felt the touch of a girl since he shipped out for the army. The whole moment was equally discomforting as it was therapeutic.

The hours felt like minutes inside the room. By the third clip most of the girls have drifted to sleep. Markus had thought he stayed up during the whole film, but a sliver of bright light burned his eyes. His hand had gone numb from still being intertwined with Serina’s as he rolled his neck up to check the time.


5:45am

Shit

[Tekatus]

“Almost there…”
A hand dropped the power wrench back into its space in the toolbox, reaching for the mini-welder next. The figure that was attached to the hand straightened up on it’s stool, igniting the welder before sliding around the workbench to begin welding another piece of metal to the machine that he had been working on for the past few days.
“I’m so excited, can’t wait to see how I look.”
“Well I might be biased.” The Figure said, adjusting his position before working again. “But I think, this might be my best work yet.”
Soon after, the welding was done and all that was left was to clean up and smooth out some rough spots. After that it was a simple matter of buffing the machine on his table till he shined and standing it up on its own roller wheels, pulling a mirror down on its articulated arm.

The machine was short and cylindrical, the metal parts a freshly shined chrome, including the big metal sheet ‘mustache’, cut and shaped to resemble the facial hair of a dapper human gentleman. The machine’s one optical sensor scanning over its reflection, deploying a freshly installed arm out of its side to touch at its face plate for the first time.
“I can’t believe it…I look fantastic!” The machine cheered, testing out it’s new arm, experimenting with it’s mobility and dexterity, imagining all the uses and applications, not to mention trying to comprehend how this upgrade would improve it’s everyday life.
“Slade Arbiterbuilt, you are an artist! And worth every Nova!” The machine said, excitedly reaching out to vigorously grip and shake the figure’s own mechanical appendage.
“Hah! Really appreciate it, Oswald. Starving artists like me don’t always get such high praise.” The figure said, pausing to wirelessly accept the invitation from the much simpler shaped machine. The funds were wired into Slade’s account securely, the agreed upon amount and a nice tip as well. “Always appreciated! Thank you.” Slade said standing up and flicking a switch, lowering the work table and allowing the machine to roll happily off and towards the door. “Now get out there and show those Gynoids the new and improved Oswald!” Slade shouted after him, with a wave, closing the door to his shop, a refitted cargo container.

Slade stretched, flexing his synthetic muscles and joints, making sure everything was still moving smoothly despite the hours of holding the same positions, taking a wire brush and scrubbing any metal shavings or other particals out of his joints and seams. The more humanoid robot simultaneously putting the day’s payment where it needed to go, rent, bills, and fees, calculating whatever was left over as disposable income. Slade had just shut down his Workshop’s equipment when a tiny knock on the container doors grabbed his attention next.

Once more unlatching the door, Slade gave the door a shove, already knowing who it was on the other side as another small, though humanoid robot marched inside, walking neatly between Slade’s far longer legs. “Slade! Buddy! Have I got a proposition for YOU! My big independent business owner, you!” Otto exclaimed, his Display screen face showing an overly excited smiley face. Slade shut the door with a sigh, rolling his own optical sensors in their sockets. “No, please, come in, make yourself at home…” he muttered half-heartedly before sitting down heavily on his cot, tucked neatly in the far end of the container, his ‘home’ set behind all of the engineering equipment that surrounded the work area of his Body-Mod shop.

Otto paid the comment no mind, seemingly unaware of its existence at all as he slid the stool over and hopped on top of it. “Now, I’ve already talked it over with Egeria and she’s already onboard so you are basically outnumbered and outvoted, this is really more of a formality, but We are going on VACATION!” Otto exclaimed, throwing his small arms into the air, his face flashing with digital fireworks and confetti, Smiley Face frozen and waiting for Slade to respond with the same impossibly high enthusiasm as him. Slade smiled inwardly, his face lacking the same ability to display such emotion, though taking amusement at Otto’s own disappointed expression. “Oh c’mon dude!” Otto whined. “You are literally your own boss, you can’t take just a couple days off to go exploring and see cool stuff?”
Slade shook his head. “It’s not always like that, if I don’t work, I don’t get paid, and rent is still due no matter what.” He tried, looking off to the side.
Otto stared angrily, his hands on his hips, determined. “Well are you behind on rent?”
“Well no, but-“
“Ah-ha!”
“Okay but-“
“No buts! What’s the point of owning your own business and saving up the money if you don’t get out and spend it, might as well be a factory drone. Just weld your feet to the Assembly line and forget having a mind of your own.” Otto reasoned.
Slade sighed and shook his head. “Fine…Where are we goin’?”

Otto was overjoyed. “I have NO IDEA!!!”

[Iyum]

The Ium News Network

---

Damari Ushon, a well-known and widely respected politician, has announced that he will not seek another term as the Prime Minister of the Iumic Imperial Domain. Ushon's decision not to run for re-election has come as a surprise to many, as he has been the most popular prime minister amongst the public in recent years.

During his time in office, Ushon has implemented a number of popular policies, including initiatives to boost the economy, increase access to education and healthcare, and promote environmental sustainability. He has also been a strong advocate for civil rights and has worked to promote greater inclusivity and social justice.

Ushon has been a strong advocate for commerce, recognizing its importance to the overall health and growth of the economy. To this end, he has implemented a range of policies aimed at supporting businesses and entrepreneurs, including tax incentives for small and medium-sized enterprises, funding for research and development, and support for innovation and technology.

Ushon has also been a vocal proponent of international trade, working to strengthen ties with key trading partners and increase exports. He has supported the development of new markets for the country's goods and services, recognizing the potential for increased economic growth and job creation.

Despite his successes, Ushon has faced criticism from some quarters, with some arguing that his policies have not gone far enough in addressing inequality and that he has not done enough to combat corruption within the government. Nevertheless, his popularity has remained high, and many have expressed regret at his decision not to seek another term.

As Ushon steps down, speculation is mounting about who will take his place as the country's next prime minister. A number of high-profile candidates have already announced their intention to run, and the coming months are likely to be marked by a fierce contest for the top job.

Overall, Ushon's decision not to seek re-election is likely to have a significant impact on the political landscape of Iumia, and his legacy is likely to be felt for years to come.

---

[Emerstari]

Oratansborg, Kophavien
Erik XII George and Johannes Ljundstrom

Horses' hooves clobbered upon an old cobblestone street, a team of four with a carriage in tow. From up above, a gentleman arrayed in white and gold reigned the horses in, and everything came to a stop. Then out stepped Erik, the Emerstarian king. Men in similar dress to the previous one escorted him down the remainder of the street, which led into Huyakari Palace -- one of the residences of the five native royal families of Kophavien. Before the island was united by the Emerstarian-backed Oratana clan in 1555, Kophavien, known as Horugana, had been divided between these five clan-kingdoms -- at times more united, and at other times less so. But from then until now, while Horuganish princes made voyages to Emerstari, no sitting Emerstarian monarch had made a state visit to them.

Erik walked alongside the royal governor, Johannes Ljundstrom, a nineteenth-generation descendent of the explorer, who served as the first governor. And on his way, Erik greeted some of those who were gathered in the crowd: he extended his hand, they took it up, and kissed his ring. A little bit behind him a cleric received similar treatment. But from somewhere in the crowd there rose a shout: "Fat pig, you eat the whole farm!" The king hardly noticed it given all the other talk that was going on, but Johannes looked around. He couldn't find the source, but he swore he'd heard it. He looked to the cleric to see if he'd heard it, but he was too distracted as well. And he looked about the crowd, but no one was noticeably disturbed as he was. So, the train came up to the palace.

"Greetings, Your Majesty," said one of the guards, perhaps the chief.

"Thank you," Erik replied.

And the king was brought into a grand hall of sorts, where the Prince of Oratana waited. He bowed upon the Emerstarian's entrance and recited some words of fealty which he first said many years ago: "Your Majesty, my King, to whom, in Christ, I devote my sun and moon, my morning and evening, my life and death -- welcome to my family's home." He bowed.

The king motioned the prince closer, embraced him, and kissed the side of his face, whereupon the prince kissed the king's ring. "You're very kind," Erik said. Then the prince nodded to the governor and to the royal chaplain, and backed up towards another room.

"Shall I show you the trophy room?" he asked.

"Lead the way," answered the king. "I'd be delighted."

The four entered the trophy room, and all looked around with wonder except the governor. Johannes looked this way and that way, looking for some danger hidden in the seeming security of the palace.

"Here is a lion's head," narrated the prince, as if they were on a museum tour. "It was given to my family by merchants from the west many generations ago. They say it was from the largest lion in their land and that it took an army of men to bring it down. My grandfathers -- some of them -- would wear it on their crown as a jewel and a symbol of their justice. Others would wear this," he added, pointing to an old owl's head, "as a sign of their wisdom."

"What do you wear?" Erik asked.

"I wear the head of the beaver," said the prince, "but it is carved of wood. This is why I took the name Ilohanu Aku, which means Wooden Beaver, to rule."

"What does it symbolize?"

"Diligence, as the beaver works with diligence all day to build his home -- trunk by trunk. I hope to be diligent in my reign like the beaver, working to build my home as well as you build yours."

"You're too kind, my friend."

"I think it's only true. But my son, he'll have to take the serpent's head. He's always got a trick up his sleeve. I'll bet you he's hiding now. Let me find him, and we'll have drinks." The three Emerstarians smiled at his jest and nodded.

"Father, will you excuse us for a moment?" asked Johannes.

Erik stayed the priest who began to turn. "Surely whatever you must tell me, you may tell this man of Christ as well. He knows my mind one way or another."

"Well," Johannes began, "you may have trouble to believe this. I think your life is in danger."

"What do you mean?"

"There's an old story among the Horuganish about this old man's farm. They say that one day this old man came to his estate with each of his animals and allotted them each a share of the land. To the fish he gave the pond, the ducks the shore, the cows the field, the pigs the mud, and so on. He says that each animal will have enough to feed himself and more, but when he goes away, the pig grows tired of his muck and tells the cow that he's lost all his food. So, the cow gives him his food, then the ducks, then the fish, and so on. Eventually, the pig eats the whole farm, until he is so full that he bursts."

"I don't follow, Johan."

"When we were outside, someone called you the 'fat pig, who eats the whole farm.' Something about it worries me."

"There were quite a few people there. I don't know what this one person could do."

"I suppose you're right. Maybe I'm thinking too much of it."

"Thank you either way," Erik said. At that moment, the prince returned and announced that his son was ready with the drinks in the parlor.

[Phoenxia]

Vietian Palace
Kassau, 2053

It was a particularly cold day in April, Patriarch Iljavič had come over to the palace bundled in heavier robes than he would normally this time of year. Greta was waiting at her desk for him, not particularly interested in religious matters at this point aside from everything she needed to do to appease her more religious subjects. “What have you come to me with today?”

He paused before the first word came out, “Ehm, my seminarians have been digging through the old charter records at the cathedral, and it would appear that you are about seven years past due to hand the crown to your nephew, Karl.”

“Oh, I know, but it wouldn’t be politically wise to hand the crown to a man actively in contact with the KP. Is that all?” she cupped her hands upon her desk and pursed her lips. The crows feet around her eyes crinkled as she gazed at the cleric in front of her; unlike her sister, the years of parenthood had not been kind to her.

“Your Majesty, this is not a matter of politics, it’s a matter of God. It is your nephew’s divine birthright to claim this throne from the moment he turned sixteen,” he slammed the tip of his cane on the ground and raised his voice.

“You’re just mad that there is a woman on the throne—”

“I would frankly rather have your elder sister wear the crown because she has a kind soul and holds Jesus in her heart.”

She boiled at just the mention of Etschelena. She left seventeen years ago and people still compared the two of them. “Get out of my palace until you learn to hold your tongue.”

Saint Xenia’s Cathedral, Pecherskystadt, Holy Empire of Arseny-Sazikov

The cloying scent of incense hung in the air faintly, and combined with the ambience of flickering candlelight leant an otherworldly presence to the Patriarch’s office; ancient icons hung from every wall, paying homage to past Saints of Arseny-Sazikov and elsewhere. Patriarch Seraphim sat quietly, serenity exuding from his kind features. He was in the presence of his King, Tsar Alexei, and a visiting patriarch from abroad. He had facilitated the meeting between the two and had reason to believe that it was to discuss a matter of grave importance. Serious or not however, nothing seemed to disturb the stately man. He poured tea from an ancient iron pot that had once belonged to his predecessor, offering cups to either man seated with him.

“Thank you, Brother Seraphim,” Iljavič gingerly grasped the cup and moved it to his lips. “Patriarch Seraphim has been notified already of the reasons I am here, but to you, Your Majesty, your cousin in Phoenixia, Greta, has caused a bit of a stir with the Phoenixian laws of succession.”

Alexei had suspected, although had not been certain that this had been the topic that the Patriarch had come to discuss. It was something

that he had been aware of for some time, though hasn’t been sure how to address without walking headlong into a very messy political quagmire. Now that it was being brought before him by the Patriarch, he very much wondered what the Bishop was going to suggest. “I am aware of what you’re referring to, your eminence. The way things have been handled in Phoenixia have been…non-traditional, to put things charitably.” He cleared his throat, and shifted in his seat. “Those of us familiar with the old laws and tradition know that the throne should not be hers any longer. Her insistence upon remaining queen is inappropriate.” He spoke boldly and frankly. He wondered if he had perhaps gone too far, but the Tsar of Arseny-Sazikov was free to speak his mind in Pecherskystadt if he was free to speak his mind anywhere.

“And that is the direction I was going, Your Majesty. Only a few days ago she sent me from her office for challenging her claim. I have sat idle for too long, but she is committing sacrilege now.” He held a calm composure and sipped upon his tea as he spoke a clear and concise Church Narodic, sculpted by years of liturgy in the cathedral. “There are few allies of the church now in Phoenixia, and I believe you are one of few friends I can turn to, Alexei.”

Alexei raised an eyebrow at the mention of sacrilege, and Patriarch Seraphim asked the question that seemed to be implied by the Tsar’s expression.
“Sacrilege? That’s a very concerning and dire accusation to render upon the queen. What exactly do you mean?”
Alexei nodded and responded in practiced Church Narodic, “I too would like to know exactly what it is that she did. It’s concerning enough that she turned you out of her office. As far as being a friend is concerned, yes, always. I am at the service of Christ’s church. Here or in Phoenixia. Always.”

“For the last seven years, she has not replied to my formal letters to hear her case in favor of continuing regency. She only attends liturgy when the cameras are on, that being on Easter Morning or Christmas Eve. The Queen Greta has slipped away from what she had been raised upon. I find her pride and greed very concerning to the health of the country. So I would just say that her sending me out of her palace is the last straw,” Iljavič pushed his glasses farther up upon his brow.

The Tsar exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound was one of exasperation and perhaps resignation as well. He was not quick to respond to this, and moments hung heavy in the air as he chose his words carefully. When he spoke at last it was steady, measured. “I understand and share both your concerns and your frustrations, your eminence. She has moved away from the precepts of our faith, that much is apparent. It is a terrible example to set, especially in this era of ever growing secularism and atheistic thought. Going down this rabbit hole only shows the common man that it is okay to turn his back on God. As royalty, it is up to us to set an example for all of our subjects. A good example. I have done my best to do this for Arseny-Sazikov, as my father did, as his father did.” He paused and sighed, “But I suppose I had better cut to the crux of the issue. What is it, you would like me to do?”

“It’s really quite a simple request. I would like for you to send for your younger cousin in Emerstari. I would go personally, if I wasn’t at risk of being hung for treason by her. Many monks have disappeared in the past years for speaking out,” he looked at the Tsar with tired eyes. “I believe you are the last hope for our church, Your Majesty.”

“Send for him?” Alexei asked, eyebrow cocked, “And bring him here, or what, may I ask?” He frowned, “I wasn’t aware that the monasteries were under threat. Are they being imprisoned?”

“I haven’t a clue, your majesty, we were mainly left to our imaginations, but I ask urgently that whence you have an opening, you tell him that the Vietian church supports his bid, and if you can, bring him here.”

Alexei pursed his lips and tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair upon which he sat, he glanced at Patriarch Seraphim, “And you, your Eminance. What are your thoughts? Do you support this?”

Alexei would scarcely do anything without the support of the Church in his own empire, this much was certain. He was relatively certain that Patriarch Seraphim would approve, but nevertheless a united front was necessary. The venerable elder man nodded, thoughtfully.

“Of course. I should imagine that the young Prince would benefit from your instruction. Perhaps in coming here, he could also be instructed in matters of faith. We could see if there are lapses in his knowledge, at any rate.” The subtext was unmistakable, at least to the Tsar. The patriarch was curious and wanted to vet the boy. He returned the nod.

“Very well. Your eminence, I will send for him. I will do it in a public or semi-public fashion, to avoid any chance of my request being denied or otherwise meddled with. We will see what comes of this.”

[Sevevill]

On the set of Aggravated Money with Shawn Frank, 499 W Media Court Seve City.

The light on the camera came to life as the shows intro sequence started in the background. The set showed the shows host sitting in the center of a maze of monitors displaying various stock information from around the country. One of the producers slowly started counting down on his fingers and Shawn stopped smiling and started talking.

"Good morning on the markets with the Dunn Industrial Average up around seven percent as the markets open. SG Worldwide Corporation, ticker symbol SGC on the SCSE, is up big moving from 85 Seves a share to 155 Seves a share after their quarterly earnings report shows exponential growth in multiple sectors including their major subsidiary SG Aviation introducing their newest product a heavy civilian jet to be known as the SG-180 as well as Sevoil announcing a large deal with the small country of Maun to start a joint extraction and processing operation in a statement Sevoil said that 'they are excited to work with Maun and ready to provide opportunities to residents...'" he was cut off momentarily by something behind the camera "wow... are we sure?... Okay. Well I have just received some news that ticker symbol: HAI on the SCSE or Hattori Industries a well known energy company and brokerages main offices have been raided by the Imperial Finance and Trading Commission with what looks to be the Imperial Investigations Bureau. We are not entirely sure of the nature of this investigation but as of now their shares have fallen around 20% as traders move to offload their shares... Aggravated Money will return in a moment with more information." He smiled as the screen faded into a commercial for the newest SMC Emotion.

A few blocks away

Special Agent John Redding. Imperial Investigation Bureau. Hattori Building, Seve City

He enjoyed giving the white collars the spook. Nothing like raiding an office building fully armed. But this time it was different a bit. This time it seemed like what they were doing involved less justice and more people coming up and telling him there would be repercussions for this. Somehow he knew there wouldn't be he had followed the book. This company had been defrauding investors... well really everyone for decades... a multi billion dollar company that traded in hopes and dreams... what a world.

"Hey uhh sir they got some reporters out front trying to figure out what's going on what should we tell them?"

"Nothing just tell them its classified" he zoned back into the scene that lay in front of him as swat teams escorted the employees off of the trading floor. Agents in the background unplugging computers and removing files. On the floor lay a piece of pink paper... a trade slip handed out to the traders at the start of the day with all of the companies 'predictions'... he then unfolded one from his pocket dated the day before that had been provided by a whistle blower. Sure enough they were the same in every way but the date. "Make sure they get all of the pink papers we will need them for the investigation." He walked up to the quite angry Henry Hattori who was the current CEO of the Hattori Industries trading firm.

"You might have a warrant but you wont get anything useful out of it" he said while glaring at John.

"Yea yea... Imma borrow some of your traders for today... also I would call daddy and a lawyer." He said as he walked out of the building.

[Phoenxia]

~snippysnipsnip~

Ekkesburg
Mikaelssen Household

It was a particularly sunny June morning in the Ekkesburg basin, and a soft moisture rose off the soil. It seemed as if peace had finally reached the house again. Etschelena was tending the vegetable garden while Ulrik was off at the school training the kids for Arda’s cadet and junior championships; Lars had decided to start training greco as opposed to freestyle, and Zina decided to put more effort into wrestling instead of softball. The house was also more clean than usual, as she had been expecting a special visit from family.

It had been some time since Alexei had been at liberty to take time for himself away from official state business, let alone leave the country for anything other than official purposes; however Alexei had finally carved out a few days to spend away from the palace and the endless issues needing his attention. It was one of those rare moments away from his wife and children as well, and he had decided to spend it visiting his extended family - what was left of it, at least.

Riding through the countryside in a blacked out SUV, he still couldn’t manage to get away from his escort. The Okhrana had come with it, albeit a small chosen few. It was to be expected, though he reflected that it would have been nice to be away from them as well. He was in his middle age now, the spitting image of the father he had lost at a relatively young age. It seemed to Alexei, that both sides of the family had been on the receiving end of a streak of bad luck or perhaps fate that they had never quite gotten away from. He prayed that his own progeny and that of Etschelena would be spared from it all; though if you had asked him, a life of anonymity would have been the only way to get away. Unlikely.

They were nearly there now, and he could see the driveway leading up to the house. He already felt at peace. It was a long awaited diversion.

When she heard the car roll up, she ran out to the front with an ear to ear grin. As her cousin stepped out, she felt free to finally unleash her mother tongue again for the first time in years, ”Zdravoj, Alexei! Vitejca!”

Alexei smiled as he got out of the car, hearing a voice that he has not heard in some time. He opened his arms, offering an embrace to her.

”Privjet. Eto bylo davno! Tebe khorosho?”

”Da,” she giggled as she met his embrace. “Where’s the family?” she tugged his shoulder and offered him his way inside.

He followed her, motioning for the Okhrana guards to gather his belongings from the SUV and hopefully make themselves scarce afterward. He took in his surroundings, eyes attentively scanning everything around him.

”The children are with their mother, visiting relatives. I’d have liked them to be here too, but it was a fleeting opportunity. I couldn’t go, and when I was free, I realized that it had been a long time since I had seen you and your family.”

He chuckled,

“So here I am.”

“How long has it been since you last saw me and Ulrik? Back right after Lars was born? Sixteen years?” She went into the kitchen to fix appetizers to tide until the family was all together. “Also, Ingrid and Friedek’s kids are supposed to come over for dinner—if I could even call them kids anymore.”

He nodded,

“At least that long, I think. Affairs of the state and wars are unfortunately very labor intensive and…well, distracting. I should have liked it to not have been so long.”

He shrugged,

“I’d just as soon have you all live in Arseny-Sazikov, though I could see how it might be a non-starter. Alas, I’m here now, and I do think we can avoid it being another sixteen years til next time. Maybe you will all have to visit Pecherskystadt.”

“The offer to move is appealing, but what will I do with a degree and certification to teach Emerstarian Literature?” She ducked her head out of the kitchen and appeared with her a nicely stocked charcuterie tray. The sound of another vehicle arose outside, unmistakable as Ulrik’s truck accompanied by slamming doors.

“Ha! I’ll be first to the shower!” Lars barged through the foyer door, ahead of his sister and father.

“Lars!” Etschelena called, only for him to peek his head into the dimly lit dining room. “I don’t think you remember meeting Cousin Alexei. He met you when you were a baby.”

“Erm—” the teenager paused awkwardly, almost bathing in wrestling sweat where he stood. The man before him looked familial, but still distant, and he just couldn’t put his finger on what to think.

Alexei snorted and shook his head,

“You know, contrary to what you may have heard, we actually have a rather lovely and prestigious university in Pecherskystadt. One of the oldest in Markion to have continuously operated, or so I am told. Though perhaps you’d prefer to be a vegetable farmer.”

Alexei was somewhat amused by the lad’s awkward reaction to his presence. He was quite used to a certain typical decorum exercised by those in his presence, something that had become the norm to him as the Tsar and even before his ascension. He imagined that his arrival was something akin to the arrival of a cryptid to the teenager; something not easy to find the appropriate reaction to. It however, bothered Alexei very little if at all. He held his hand out to Lars. He spoke to him in Emerstarian, though he could not ever quite manage to shake his strong Arsenian accent when he did so.

“When I last saw you, you were perhaps as tall as a chicken. Now you are a giant. What they must feed you here.”

“I’m grain fed, sir,” Lars chuckled as he shook his hand, “I’ve gotta go shower though, I’ll be right down.” He turned away with a slight bow and sprinted up the stairs.

Ulrik and Zina turned in now to see what the commotion was, curiosity piqued in both of their eyes. “Ah, Alexei. It’s been a good hot minute since I last saw you in the flesh. I presume you’ve never met our daughter, Zinaita. You missed her by a couple of years last time.” He dragged Zina forward with him to take a seat.

“No, I haven’t had the pleasure. Very nice to meet you. And it is good to see you as always, Ulrik.”

He smiled at the two of them, feeling somewhat self aware of the time it took him to find his words when he spoke. He made a mental note to brush up on his Emerstarian, if the time ever came to him to allow it.

Evening

Etschelena had prepared a leg of lamb dinner for tonight, with a lemon glaze, mashed potatoes and asparagus on the side. Conversation found itself fruitful, with Etschelena discovering the goings on and familial drama within Markion, and the discourse occasionally slipping into Phoenixian, Arsenian, and even Church Narodic if the situation would allow it. “Alexei, pray tell, how is my dearest sister?” Etschelena wiped the corner of her mouth with a napkin as she spoke.

The evening had been going rather well; dinner had been lovely, and Alexei savored the departure from the food he was accustomed to for something out of his typical culinary wheelhouse. It was quite enjoyable, and the conversation had flowed easily and naturally up until this point. However he now found himself once again in the position of diplomat, somewhat against his will. He wondered if it would be best to just deflect the questions away from the topic of family. He detested talking about family, it always felt so…contentious. Still, he’d be a sport.

“I really couldn’t say. I’d have assumed that you’d know better than myself, no? I wouldn’t go as far as to say that we are in constant correspondence.”

“She just recently came up in family conversation, so I’ve been curious,” she folded another piece of asparagus and placed it into her mouth.

Lars spoke up, more or less out of turn, “She’s the reason I can’t wrestle in Markion.”

Etschelena stared daggers at him, and he looked like a deer in headlights. He knew it wasn’t his place to speak in vain.

The corner of Alexei’s lip curled ever so slightly in the phantom vestige of a smirk. Both at Lars’s comment, and Etschelena’s expression.

“You certainly can wrestle in Arseny-Sazikov to your heart’s content, for what it is worth. As far as Markion from sea to shining sea is concerned? I have less sway elsewhere. But perhaps we could look into…a way to work around that.”

He paused, and frowned.

“I do not like deviations from tradition and order, very much. They’re threatening to the safety of us all. But I digress. I don’t have much to say.”

Lars smiled at his cousin’s assurances, albeit with a small bit of confusion, “I appreciate your offer, I really do, I don’t even speak Arsenian, though.”

Ulrik cut in now, with maybe a little less cordiality in his voice, “FLM allows you to get a card as long as you can prove citizenship.”

“Wouldn’t I have to move there, though? I still have to finish school,” he furrowed his brow and picked more at his plate.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t have terrible difficulty picking it up. It would go without saying that you’d be provided a tutor,” Alexei shrugged, “It would likely necessitate living in the country. At least for part of the year, anyway.”

“That’s really cool!” Lars lit up as he looked between his parents and his elder cousin.

Etschelena took her chance to re-enter the conversation, “Anyways, Alexei, your visit was on somewhat short notice. I’m assuming there was some sort of preemptive business in the country?”

Alexei cleared his throat and nodded, not sure how much he wanted to divulge. Still, he was loathing to lie about anything. The truth was generally the best policy, even if it wasn’t necessarily the full truth. “Yes, I do have a pretense to coming. I have to go meet with Karl in a few days.”

“That’s very nice,” she quipped, “We just recently visited Cousin Karl at Koborg. Lars missed it, however, as he was working for his great grandfather in the countryside.”

He smiled, although the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him too. I wish that it was under better circumstances, unfortunately it’s a matter of business, but I’ll be excited to see him nevertheless.” Alexei yawned, the difference in time zones starting to wear on him slightly, “I wish I could just visit our family because I felt like it. It seems that’s rarely the case, but what can you do? There’s always work to be done.”

Ulrik toasted and chuckled, “My grandpa always says that idle hands make the devil’s workshop. At 88 years old, he is still turning out the heifers every morning.”

Storskog at Koborg

Karl Mausen stirred his morning tea as he looked out the window of his drawing room onto the drive around the pond where swans and geese fed on the cracked corn which was thrown in by groundskeepers. Inge walked into his room in a neat floral sundress, ready to go out for the day, “Brother, I believe I may go down to Ekkesburg to spend the day with our younger cousins.”

“That’s very nice, Inge. I do hope you get some pictures for the family scrapbook,” he smiled curtly as a convoy of SUV’s with Arsenian state insignia rolled into his driveway. “Well, it looks as though Cousin Alexei is paying us a visit. That’s quite nice.”

Alexei’s door was open by one of his guards, and he stepped out of the SUV, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the light. It had been a long time since he had been to this property, and the sights were less familiar than he had remembered. Change was certainly the most constant thing in life, he reflected. Change was coming. He wasted no time in making his way to the front door of the manor house, and upon arriving one of his guards knocked at the door.

“Welcome, Cousin. It’s a pleasure to have you here once again,” Karl opened the door and placed a hand on Alexei’s shoulder and guided him in the door. “I have tea made upstairs in the drawing room, and you’re catching Inge just before she leaves. How have you been?” The young lord smiled, and looked into his elder cousin’s work-worn eyes.

Alexei returned his smile, “I am well. Tea sounds absolutely lovely, thank you very much.” He followed Karl as the two walked in the direction of the drawing room, “I’ve been busy, but that’s nothing new. And you and your family? I trust that everything is well?”

“My mother is doing as well as ever, Henrik and Inge are both now seeking courtship, and I have done some work on the estate, as you can see. The pond is now stocked well with pike. I suppose that I also cannot leave out the fact that I personally am also seeking courtship,” he chuckled.

Alexei chuckled, “Well, we certainly dare not to neglect the pike. The fishing season must always be given its due consideration. You know who you’d get along with? The Duke of Southwater. Talking about a man who could hold a conversation about fish.” Alexei helped himself to a seat, “Seeking courtship, hm? That’s good. You should be.” He flashed a mischievous grin, “Do you have someone in mind? Or should I find you one?”

"Ah, you're a quick one to catch on, cousin. There are possibly thousands of girls from the nobility chomping at the bit to court a grandson of the Duke of Koborg and a Prince of Phoenixia, but I am firstly a believer in true love and secondly in the belief that House Mausen should keep to its Narodic roots. Henrik is not in a boat much further from my own, as he is receiving many letters of invitation to balls and galas to places as far away as Rogaland, but he is not convinced that many women have feelings of true love for him," he pulled a traditional Vietian smoking pipe from his drawer and began packing it with Aguas-Rican sweet tobacco. "I have no fears for Inge finding a husband, however, as I believe there are many fine young men for her in the local nobility."

Alexei nodded, still grinning, “Ever the romantic. There’s no shortage of perils for those of us foolish enough to seek out true love, especially in offices such as the ones we occupy. Still, I believe that it is a noble thing. Who we choose to marry says a lot about ourselves, and marriage is not to be taken lightly. It’s a sacrament, just like the path of monasticism. One of the two paths in life, and for us, the only path, really.” He sighed, “I think I’d have liked to have been a monastic and not a Tsar. Maybe one day when I have a grown son to pass the crown to, I’ll retire to a monastery never to be seen again. That reminds me, I ought to give you a copy of Saint John Chrysostom’s treatises on marriage; I think they could be of use to you.” He took the liberty of pouring himself some tea from the pot that Karl had mentioned previously, “That smells pleasant, I didn’t know you smoked.”

"It's a recent habit, I picked it up on a holiday to the tropics," he struck a match and lit the sweet smelling tobacco in his bowl before shaking the match out and laying it in his ashtray. "I must say though, I'm a bit jealous of my younger cousin, Lars. I don't know if Etsch told you, but he found a courtship while working for his grandfather north of the city," Karl rolled his eyes back and forth as to contemplate whether he should begin talking business. "I'd hate to interrupt the pleasantries, but as busy a man as you are, there must be some reason for coming without telling months in advance. That isn't to say I wouldn't love to have you simply as a guest."

“Some people have all the luck, don’t they?” Alexei teased. He took a sip of his tea and sat back in his chair. “I suppose that there’s some law, stating that a man cannot visit his relatives unannounced? I can’t just set aside what I’m doing and leave the Holy Empire because I feel like it?” He shook his head and sighed, “No, you’re right. There’s a pretext to my visit. It has to do with your birthright, and the crown. I’m not eager to speak on the issue, as contentious as it is, but I have to. Patriarch Iljavič and Patriarch Seraphim wanted for me to speak to you, and I agree with them that it’s important that we talk.”

"I'm guessing that it pertains to Aunt Greta? What has she done this time?" He dragged long on his pipe, and sighed as he exhaled a long cloud of smoke, "Would you like some?" He offered the intricately decorated smoking piece to the man across him.

Alexei considered the pipe before him for a moment before accepting it. As a general rule he didn’t smoke, he found that he enjoyed it too much, but this was a special occasion. He took a few puffs, allowing the fragrant sweet smoke to escape his nostrils in tendrils before he handed it back and spoke. “Yes, indeed. She recently had Patriarch Iljavič removed from her office for speaking out to her. Additionally, there are rumors that I’m having the Okhrana l in ook into, that she has been having monastics imprisoned for various imagined offenses. The state of the church is perilous in Phoenixia, and it seems that she has determined to keep it firmly under her thumb. This is of course, not to mention the fact that she does not seem interested in actually being an Orthhodox monarch in the traditional sense. A monarch, yes, but one who uses the church as a tool rather than seeing its natural place as the soul of the nation; to be guarded at all costs, and its counsel revered.” He clicked his tongue, “It’s not good, Karl. How can our own monarchs be in open opposition to the church?”

"I should think that my grandfather and father are turning in their graves, but I can't say I'm surprised. Before I was quietly banished, she always seemed like she was more interested in the lifestyle than the job," he grumbled and rolled his eyes with a glance. "So I don't suppose this is as close to an official endorsement as I'm gonna get from you? I'd be more than happy to visit the father country, my schedule is almost too open."

“I’ve thought about it Karl, and, well…” Alexei paused and cleared his throat, “You need to be the one on the throne. Sooner rather than later. I’m loathe to intervene in the affairs of Phoenixia, but I don’t think we have much choice. This has become a moral imperative. It’s more than an official endorsement. I am prepared to do whatever it takes to see you King. I want you to come with me to Arseny-Sazikov first, for us to plan, but I intend to see you on the throne.”

Tears welled in Karl's eyes as he stared intently at his cousin, "I've dreamt of this moment for so many years, Alexei. To finally have the meaningful blessing of a family member to take the throne. I remember, when I was a child, my dad would always tell me that I would be a king someday. Now I can take the steps to live up to his word."

Alexei smiled, albeit solemnly; there was much work ahead of them, this much he knew. “Soon it’ll be a reality, Karl. We’ll make sure of it.

[Christbol]

“Have you heard about the newest War Thunder leak?” - an intern asks one of his aerospace engineer friends as they both sit down to enjoy their lunch break - “Who the fuck starts a conversation like that? We just sat down. I don’t even *play* War Thunder!” - clearly, this isn’t the first time this intern has asked an aerospace engineer if he’s kept track of War Thunder leaks.

“But it’s big this time! Local! Recently they added the newest Rhastovian plane, the S-35, as a 150 Christcoin tier 10 premium, and one of the pilots, disgruntled with the accuracy of the model, leaked classified documents of it! It has an alcohol-cooled engine! How cool is that!?”

The engineer quickly goes from casually eating his burger to mouth wide open, as the words “Alcohol-cooled engine” immediately sparks several neurons throughout their brain. - “...you’re kidding.” - he states, clearly in shock at the idea. - “I’m being very serious. It’s impressive! It even cools the aircraft better than regular water!” - the intern replies.

The engineer jumps out of his seat leaving most of the meal unfinished, running at breakneck speeds to the R&D lab. He knows *exactly* what he needs to do now.

Walking past the main lab he rushes up the stairs to the project managers office, completely ignoring the secretary in front of the doors and giving her his favorite finger as she demands for a listed appointment first. The force at which he opens the doors nearly sends one of them flying off its hinges. - “Mister Sarin! I have something you might want to look into!”

The director of the Satoka Engine Factory receives an unusual call, the number’s prefix was from Christbol.
“Hello?” answers the director, a little curious. “Who is this?”
“Hi, this is Viktor Sarin, from a research and development laboratory in Christbol. We called about the uh…. the thing. You know, the one that got leaked on the uhh… that one video game forum a few days ago.”
“Is this a prank call? Are you one of those SG representatives that called the other day? I told you multiple times that the company is not for sale!” says the director disgruntled.
“No, please! Don’t hang up! We’re really from Christbol! A colleague of mine brought something to my attention earlier today and I just wanted to confirm the news because we’re interested in its implementation!” - replies the voice on the phone.
“This is a matter of national security. You will have to take it up to the Ministry of External Affairs if you want to get anywhere with this.” replies the director and promptly hangs up.

For the next several weeks, the Christbolian R&D lab takes turns taking their request up from the Rhastovian Ministry of External Affairs, to the Christbolian trade consulate, to then the Christbolian embassy in Rhastov, which tells them to take it up with the Rhastovian Ministry of Defense, who in turn just directs them back to the director of the S-35 program, thus starting this whole loop all over again, showing once again the sheer clusterfuck that is socialist bureaucracy. After the second loop, the Christbolians just say fuck it and take one of their confidential K-13 fighter prototypes out of development and slip it through Rhastovian customs by bribing the border guards with Christbolian alcohol.

One morning, Petru Andrei - the director of the Satoka Engine Factory in Rhastov - arrived to the factory only to notice a giant wooden box, with a big, red, ribbon on top and the Christbolian coat of arms stamped on one of its sides. Assuming its some sort of threat he immediately contacts the Department of State Security to let them know what just happened. In just 10 minutes the mysterious wooden box was surrounded by the head of the secret police, the air force general, the director of the factory, 50 soldiers and 25 bomb squad members, all staring at the box not knowing what to do.

“I think we should open it.” says the general. “It may be a bomb, which is why I think we should let the bomb squad open it.”
“Yeah probably, what’s the worst that can happen? The factory blows up?” asks the director, clearly sarcastic.
The bomb squad quickly moves in and, careful not to destroy anything but the wooden box, open the package. Inside, there was something they couldn’t believe seeing
“ITS AN ALIEN SPACE SHIP!” says one of the bomb squad members, holding a crowbar.
“NO ITS A PLANE!” says the air force general, flabbergasted at the design.
“It looks like a dildo… with wings…” says the head of the secret police, pulling out his flask of high quality rum smuggled from Christbol.


The bomb squad quickly notices a separate, small transparent package laying in front of the plane, clearly taking into account the Rhastovian secret police’s… attitude, towards unknown packaging. It looks to contain some papers and two bottles of Christbolian Raakii, unopened.

Upon further inspection, now with everyone’s tension significantly lowered, one of the bomb squad members begins reading the notes:

“Salut, our Rhastovian comrades! This is Earthly Voice Juri Annor writing to you! I’ve been told by one of our research heads that you’ve been developing an alcohol-cooled engine on one of your newest designs! Given that our engineering heads for our next generation fighter program has gained interest in your work (and more recently, the top brass at Christbolian high command), we’ve decided to ship a prototype of our future aircraft, the K-13 ‘Beleth’, over to your state manufacturer. We’ve tried going through official channels, however the Ministry of Defense has, in more polite terminology, told our delegates to go fuck themselves. Having no other alternative, I’d like to apologize on behalf of all of Christbol for shipping this aircraft to you illegally like this. The next set of notes are from our K-13 R&D project head Viktor Sarin, who wished to write to you personally. Along with the notes and the plane I have also packed two bottles of Raakii from my own personal supply, belonging to my grandfather. I hope you read what Comrade Sarin has to ask of you and I hope you enjoy the liquor!” - at the bottom of the note is the Earthly Voices genuine signature.

“Liquor? As a gift? This could be a trap to poison one of us!” says the head of the secret police, eyeing the two bottles of Christbolian Raakii.
“Or it could be expired…” says the air force general, who for some reason does not drink alcohol.
“Well if you are all so concerned about the two liquor bottles I’ll sacrifice myself for Rhastov and the Rhastovian proletariat and taste test them!” says one of the members of the bomb squad
“Oh no no no no no! No one is potentially dying on my watch. I will taste them myself! For uhh… the good of the country!” says the head of the secret police, visibly upset. “Give me those!” He opens the first bottle and sniffs it before taking a sip and whispering to himself “damn this is good…” he then stuffs the bottle in his coat and says “I will be taking this to a lab for uhh… testing. Yeah, testing!”

After the fate of the bottles is sealed, the bomb squad member begins reading the second note. It details the project managers phone number, as well as a step by step request that basically boils down to “Could you help us fit alcohol cooling onto the fighter?”. The note also states they’d be willing to provide engineers who’ve built the jet to Rhastov should director Andrei accept the offer, as well as financial motivation to seeing the project through.

“What should we do with this thing?” asks the director of the factory
“Well I say you should send a telegram to the Ministry of National Defense and wait for further instructions” says the air force general
The head of the secret police was in his car staring at the two bottles of Raakii from Christbol, completely ignoring what was going on just outside his car.
“I think we should move it inside, there’s an empty warehouse perfect for storing this” says the director
“It’s probably for the best, the plane will be protected from the elements, after all it’s not ours so we cant abuse it like we did with the S-35 prototypes” says the air force general
“Fine, i will tell someone to bring a tractor and tow it inside” says the director, visibly upset, knowing very well he will be drowning in paperwork, reports and investigations from the secret police for the next five months.
About an hour later the crate is slowly towed inside by the tractor. The pallet the plane was sitting on was sliding on the asphalt, with a rope tied to the tractor pulling it, as a crane and a flatbed trailer were not available.

“You should contact the Ministry of Defense, we need to know what the hell we should do with this plane” the director told the general
“Well obviously I think we should reverse engineer this! This is a great opportunity to increase our power even more, as if the S-35 wasn’t enough!” says the general, enthusiastically.
Meanwhile a small crowd of engineers from the factory has gathered around the plane to see what the fuss was all about. After staring at the plane, not knowing what anything on it is supposed to be or how it’s supposed to function, one of them makes a call to Okhotnik to send some engineers all the way from Gomel to figure things out.

Outside, the head of the secret police was in his car, inspecting the two bottles of Christbolian alcohol thoroughly, before giggling to himself “This will make a fine addition to my collection”. He rolls down the window
“I will be taking these two bottles back to Ranov for uh.. testing and write a report on the matter to the Ministry of Defense.” says the head of the secret police to director and the general.

A few hours later, the engineers from Okhotnik arrived in Satoka, all the way from Gomel. They make their way into the warehouse where the K-13 was stored until further notice, where they find half a dozen engineers staring at the plane and furiously taking notes and photographs.
“What is this thing?” asks one of the engineers from Okhotnik
“This is apparently a prototype plane sent by Christbol” replies one of Satoka EF’s engineers
“Why did they send us a prototype? Are they trying to play us a prank?”
“I don’t think it's a prototype” says one of the engineers from Okhotnik “It looks way too finished to be a prototype. And the technology on it is so modern… Are you sure this is not a UFO or something? I have read dozens of books on aerospace engineering both from Rhastov and other countries but never have I seen anything close to this...” he adds.

[Sevevill]

- snip -

The Seve City Times

Tuesday Edition

Markets

---

Hattori Industries Charges Brought by IIB, Possible Sevbank Takeover

Opinion, By Frank Mornwell

Hattori Industries (Ticker HAI trading firm known as Hattori Markets LLC has recently had charges of insider trading and fraud brought against them, the group of companies neutorious for reported miss-use of land brought by Vilhallan mining companies in the Green Union through their subsidiary Hattori Heavy Industries and Hattroi Sciences is now battling the Sevevillian government after a recent raid by the Sevevillian Imperial Investigation Building on a warrant in their headquarters. The head of the White Collar Crime Devision Robart Wallart III says they have comprehensive evidence against Hattori Markets LLC including Whistleblower reports, Fraudulent Pink Slips and what appears to be laundering client money through Cryptocurrency. He also reported that there could potentially be more investigations ongoing into other devisions of the Hattori Industries.

Adding to this reported chaos International banking conglomerate Sevbank LLC (Ticker SB) Owned by well known SG Worldwide Corporation has offered to buy the now struggling firms Heavy Industries devision for a proposed §25 a share pending ITC approval. In their proposed plan Hattori Heavy Industries (HAI) would become an operating branch of SG Worldwide Corporation once more attempting to breach that market after the public seperation of SG Corporation and their former subsidary SG Heavy Industries, now SGHI Group in the early 90's. Opponents to the deal say if this deal went through it would make SG Corporation the monopolistic business the government had sought to stop when they originally sperated SG Heavy Industries from SG. But now we all must ask ourselves. with a failling parent company will Hattori Heavy Industries and the nearly 135,000 global jobs they supply every year be able to survive without a healthy parent like the SG Worldwide Corporation? We have seen similar situations before like in the early 2000's with the failed acquisition of E.D.S Heavy Industries by the Sevevillian Steal Company while E.D.S went into chapter 7 bankruptcy causing the transaction to be blocked by the ITC. E.D.S Heavy Industries today DunCorp was left in shambles being nearly entirely liquidated in an attempt to bail out their parent companies debts in a shell of its former self even decades later. Had that deal gone through they could today be one of the largest mining and manufacturing companies in Sevevill. Either way we will have to sit back and see the fate of the remaining gem in the bonfire of Hattori Industries and weather or not SG and Sevbank are allowed to save it.

[Auersten]

[align=center]230km off the Coast of Auersten
MZK. Laurenz Goss, Deployable Operations Group
01:05 July 7th 2036

The storm off the Eder islands was getting worse, Luarenz looked out the open door of the helicopter as rain fell nearly sideways. The seas were rough and an hour ago they received a distress call from the center of the storm and they were called out to assist the Merchant Marine in the searches. Laurenz hugged his seat as the winds shook their helicopter as he looked out at the dark night and the much darker seas below. Laurenz turned to his friend Kilian, a man whom he's known since selections who was monitoring for the distress beacon, and asked "Any closer to pinpointing it out?" Kilian looked up to him and shook his head before looking back to his screen. Laurenz undeterred from his friend's silence asked again "So does the marker say what country the ship is from?" Before Kilian could muster a response their newest member yelled out "I found it port side!" Kilian looked out with the rest as Laurenz cranked his neck only seeing his fellow section members look out the other side.

The helicopter soon moved over the ship, and their section officer ordered them to drop the ropes. Laurenz grabbed the rope on his side and ensured the rescue harness was attached and threw it over the side and the section sergeant ordered the team in. He and Kilian as well as two others began to slide down the rope down to the ship below as it was thrust between the waves. The insertion team wore their signature OD green uniforms with ballistic vests, and their MP5s slung, their job was simply to help those aboard the boat and get the injured to shore.

The top deck where they had landed on the stern of the boat, and it was empty with the lights of the ship off. As the section officer slid down he spoke as soon as his feet had touched the deck "The nearest vessel is 30 minutes out, the birds turnin' around they need to refuel." They turned on their flashlights and moved to the cabin of the ship, and Laurenz grabbed the door in one hand as his other tightly gripped the flashlight and twisted the handle and swung the door open, and announced "Royal Merchant Marine! We are here to help" and just as he turned into the room he was met by the scent of something foul, something he couldn't place his finger on. Like the outside the lights were off, and the team moved in and was ordered to split into two-man teams. Laurenz and Kilian moved down the hall and began up the stairs to the second floor, as the section officer and the new team member searched the floor they initially entered.

As they moved up the stairs they saw burn marks on the wall in erratic patterns. Kilian moved in front of Laurenz and opened a door near them and said "Hey Laurenz you'll want to see this." Laurenz moved to the room and saw the corpse of a young woman, he knelt beside her and took off his glove feeling her temperature, and looked to Kilian and spoke "She's still warm." Kilian responded in a stressed manner "How the fuck is she still warm! Look at her legs!" Laurenz turned his head as Kilian said that and his weapon was already unslung and he soon turned to her legs which were a mangled mess. He stood up as Kilian was already on comms reporting his findings to the rest of the section onboard the ship, many already seeing signs of life, fresh signs of life. Laurenz stood up and unslung his rifle and continued with Kilian room to room some rooms still were maintained as if the crew still lived in them although many of the appliances were dated, to say the least. As they approached the bridge their section commander reported up "Everyone be ready for anything, we had just reached the berthing, and it's a blood bath down here."

Laurenz stacked up on the left side of the door and Kilian on the right and Kilian nodded to Laurenz as they entered the bridge and saw three dead crew members mangled belong belief. The man at the helm of the ship was still hunched over, and Laurenz pulled him back and looked at the man's corpse face and saw what would stick with him for the rest of his life, the captain's face was a strong shade of grey with his face shriveled, and missing both his eyes and tongue. He reported it and it seemed to match the carnage encountered by the other two teams. Kilian yelled, "Hey I found paper logs, but there's something off about this." Laurenz looked up as Kilian had the notebook in one hand and his flashlight in the other and continued "All these logs are dated to 1978, this ship was a cargo vessel from Christbol." Laurenz asked, "Maybe they got the dates wrong?" Kilian retorted "Every fucking page, I wiped nearly a pound of dust off this book, look around aside from the bodies everything is covered in dust, the equipment on the bridge is still analog as all the appliances look like it was in my great grandparent's house!" Luarenz asked him "How do you know its not an old log?" Kilian responded, "I know this sounds crazy but I have a bad feeling about this."

[Emerstari]

Emerstari
Erk, 1972

For a brief moment, the spirit of Mancinian music possessed the streets of Erk as it processed from Grenlof's Restaurant, whose atmosphere it filled. At this moment, Dr. Larson entered the distinguished establishment and approached a table whose party awaited his arrival. There he was met by welcoming words, and acknowledging these courtesies, he took his seat opposite a man about his age and a woman somewhat younger, who with him were as finely made up as was expected of a patron of Grenlof's. More pearls were present in the dining room that evening than are present in many parts of the ocean.

"I took the liberty to order you the same dinner as myself, the lamb roast," forewarned the man. "I hope that'll be alright, Doctor."

"That's quite alright," the doctor assured his table companion. "That's one of my favorites."

"Well, all's well that ends well," the man affirmed. Then he continued, "I suppose I owe it to you and your new translator to introduce the two of you to each other." He gestured towards the young lady beside him. "This, Doctor, is my sister, Henrietta. She made it her life's work what seemed until now to be an unapplicable profession, but as they say, 'All chance, direction...'"

The doctor smiled about the brother's jest and shook his sister's hand on her extending it. Meanwhile, the man completed the introduction: "And this, darling sister, is Dr. Andreas Larson. He's the father of our feast, as it were. We have him to thank for the whole project."

"You're too kind, Martin," conceded Andreas. "It was as much of you as of me, if not much more, and of course, we have Shun to thank as well."

"I don't think he is so kind," chimed in Henrietta.

The doctor interrupted, "Seeing what words he had about you, perhaps not!"

"Yes!" agreed the lady. "But what I was getting at is that your reputation precedes you by miles. My brother only relayed what the birds have long been chirping, to use an old phrase."

"Well...I appreciate it. You might put a tear in my eye if dinner doesn't come soon."

"No need to worry, Doctor," Martin assured him. "I'll get down to business."

Markion
Outside Østhafven, The Next Week

Far away from the fine streets of Erk, a small plane descended on a tarnished tarmac in the Emerstarian exclave north of Christbol. In the distance, the exiting bunch could begin to see the stone walls of colonial Østhafven, but their business was westward to the country, where the fourth and final member of their flock was to be found. The three, who had last gathered for dinner at Grenlof's, having made their way from the tarmac to what there was of a terminal, afterwards arrived at a telephone booth.

"Hello," said a woman on the other end of the line, when Larson had dialed.

"Yes, Operator," began the doctor, "would you connect me to post office in Abruk?"

"Of course. Just one moment."

"Hello, you've reached the Abruk Post Office. How can we help you today?"

"I'd like to dispatch a letter," the doctor continued.

"Sure," replied the secretary. "To what address?"

"To the red house by the docks."

"Okay. Please state the message."

"At Østhafven, awaiting you -- Larsen, et al."

"Is that all?"

"Yes."

"Alright, I'll hand it to the postman when he leaves."

"Thank you. God be with you."

"And with you." There, the call disconnected.

Henrietta -- or, simply, Etta, as the doctor had learned -- remarked, "This guy's easy enough to reach."

"He's an old friend but something of a recluse, to be sure," Larson answered. "But shall we go to town?"

"I think we should," said Martin.

As they walked the road to Østhafven, and the occasional car passed by, Martin addressed Larsen, "Doctor, tell us more about this recluse friend of yours."

"Well," said the doctor, "I met him some twenty years ago in Asurland. I was there for research at some tombs. He was there off work from a tobacco ship. It so happened that I needed a ferry down the river, and he needed work. Nowadays, he makes a living off fish, but he's about the only fellow I'd trust to navigate us over the reefs this time of year."

"What's his name, again?" asked Etta.

"Shun, I call him. Shun-Lei Haragana"

"Kophafner?"

"Spot on. The tobacco lanes run through Kophavien on their to Emerstari. He's as familiar with the waters of Markion as about any you can find."

When Martin, Etta, and the doctor reached Østhafven, they sat down outside of an import shop by the pier, where Larson assured his companions that Shun-Lei would find them. Then he stretched a map across the table, and Martin's finger fell upon a certain island.

"There it is," he announced.

"Rønlingen's wreck," Etta said.

"Indeed," the doctor added.

[Phoenxia]

Urilas Straits, 1952

Zema was a 17 year old Vietian socialite, of the esteemed House Verevodić. Before the communists took over, she was destined to be the shining star of Wetsche ballrooms, but the sneering Kustanhists tore their estate and all others within 100 miles down, many were not as lucky as the Eračinovo Verevodićs to catch a ship far, far away.

It was a peculiar thing to see a girl as beautiful as her on the deck of an eastbound ship, under normal circumstances at least, but now half of the manifest was made up of Vietian aristocrats and wealthy catholics, who would normally be at each other's throats, but these were extraneous circumstances. Their destination was Erk, a beautiful and historical city, a large Port and center of commerce for Emerstari.

Passing through the Straits of Urilas, Zema and her friend Tara looked off the side at the iconic bright blue waters that marked 'the gates to the west.' She began softly singing in Emerstarian, with a slight tinge of laughter as they saw the island of Sansora peak just over the horizon off the port side, "Var kapten for Galanden, Tvitjån ok en dagar frå Køp' i Kol"

Tara laughed eloquently in response, with the setting sun shining down on her golden blonde locks, "Kunne lyka þem blommar af Sansoren Nær dóe af norsten ref inn kal!"

"Your Emerstarian is getting better, Tara!" Zema nudged her friend and grinned, switching back to Phoenixian.

"Don't tell my dad, but I've been hanging around the Catholic boys, they all speak it as a first or second language," she cupped a hand over her mouth and giggled.

"We've still got three weeks on this ship, he'll find out at some point," Z's jaw dropped. "Your granddad would be turning in his grave. Just wait till we get to Erk."

"And how many of the boys in Erk will be Vietian Orthodox, Zema?"

"Please, I'll marry a Lutheran if I have to, but those Catholics are always up to their dirty tricks," Zema scoffed as she turned her deep green eyes away and down towards the water.

"What do you mean about us and our dirty tricks? I'm curious," A very jovial voice came from behind the two, belonging to one Mikhail Svenssen, a bourgeois Vietschen playboy.

"Ješu Khristas, sin na mi Bog, toj szo povorshu iz dukha svetu, what the hell do you want?" Zema looked behind now in disgust.

"Oh, you western girls have a harsh bite," he laughed it off. "I'm getting fresh air, and it would be a bore to stay and talk with people who I already know."

"See what I mean, Zi?" Tara looked him up and down and smiled, biting the corner of her lip in the process. "Catholic boys are fun."

"I have a feeling that you two have acquainted yourselves already," Zema crossed her arms now to face the platinum-blonde easterner in front of her. "What's your game, Mr. Svenssen?"

"To further acquaint myself with beautiful Vietian ladies such as yourselves. I am more of a gentleman than my appearance leads you to believe," he did a slight bow with a quaint smile that could charm an eel. "We may have our differences, but we are all Phoenixians, and we are all being persecuted by the communists." He got down on one knee and held out a hand, "May I?"

Zi obliged and held her hand out to his, on which he bestowed a light kiss. "I still don't fully trust you," she gingerly pulled away. "There is still a birth rite that separates us."

"You would have no birth rite if your great great grandfather hadn't started a mercantile company, Zema Verevodić. If I am to be entirely honest, your family lost their birth rite whence the Arcadians took over in 1627. Therefore, none of us really are of noble birth, all merely the Bourgeoisie of Phoenixia," Mikhail slightly laughed. "I hear they are having a waltz tonight on the mess deck. I would be honored to have your hand for the opening dance.”

"Why would I, given that you backhandedly insulted my family name, accept your offer? Scatter off," she shooed him away.

"Fair enough. I hope to talk again, Zema."

"In your dreams, Mikhail. Körwa jebacu."

He walked off to the other catholics on the opposite side, who were having a hoot of a time. Tara frowned at her friend, "Why'd you have to scare him away, Zi?"

"I know his type. Bad news," she slowly turned back to the railing, and gazed towards the golden shoreline of Sansora.

[Rhastov]

“Have you heard about the newest War Thunder leak?” - an intern asks one of his aerospace engineer friends as they both sit down to enjoy their lunch break - “Who the fuck starts a conversation like that? We just sat down. I don’t even *play* War Thunder!” - clearly, this isn’t the first time this intern has asked an aerospace engineer if he’s kept track of War Thunder leaks.

“But it’s big this time! Local! Recently they added the newest Rhastovian plane, the S-35, as a 150 Christcoin tier 10 premium, and one of the pilots, disgruntled with the accuracy of the model, leaked classified documents of it! It has an alcohol-cooled engine! How cool is that!?”

The engineer quickly goes from casually eating his burger to mouth wide open, as the words “Alcohol-cooled engine” immediately sparks several neurons throughout their brain. - “...you’re kidding.” - he states, clearly in shock at the idea. - “I’m being very serious. It’s impressive! It even cools the aircraft better than regular water!” - the intern replies.

The engineer jumps out of his seat leaving most of the meal unfinished, running at breakneck speeds to the R&D lab. He knows *exactly* what he needs to do now.

Walking past the main lab he rushes up the stairs to the project managers office, completely ignoring the secretary in front of the doors and giving her his favorite finger as she demands for a listed appointment first. The force at which he opens the doors nearly sends one of them flying off its hinges. - “Mister Sarin! I have something you might want to look into!”

The director of the Satoka Engine Factory receives an unusual call, the number’s prefix was from Christbol.
“Hello?” answers the director, a little curious. “Who is this?”
“Hi, this is Viktor Sarin, from a research and development laboratory in Christbol. We called about the uh…. the thing. You know, the one that got leaked on the uhh… that one video game forum a few days ago.”
“Is this a prank call? Are you one of those SG representatives that called the other day? I told you multiple times that the company is not for sale!” says the director disgruntled.
“No, please! Don’t hang up! We’re really from Christbol! A colleague of mine brought something to my attention earlier today and I just wanted to confirm the news because we’re interested in its implementation!” - replies the voice on the phone.
“This is a matter of national security. You will have to take it up to the Ministry of External Affairs if you want to get anywhere with this.” replies the director and promptly hangs up.

For the next several weeks, the Christbolian R&D lab takes turns taking their request up from the Rhastovian Ministry of External Affairs, to the Christbolian trade consulate, to then the Christbolian embassy in Rhastov, which tells them to take it up with the Rhastovian Ministry of Defense, who in turn just directs them back to the director of the S-35 program, thus starting this whole loop all over again, showing once again the sheer clusterfuck that is socialist bureaucracy. After the second loop, the Christbolians just say fuck it and take one of their confidential K-13 fighter prototypes out of development and slip it through Rhastovian customs by bribing the border guards with Christbolian alcohol.

One morning, Petru Andrei - the director of the Satoka Engine Factory in Rhastov - arrived to the factory only to notice a giant wooden box, with a big, red, ribbon on top and the Christbolian coat of arms stamped on one of its sides. Assuming its some sort of threat he immediately contacts the Department of State Security to let them know what just happened. In just 10 minutes the mysterious wooden box was surrounded by the head of the secret police, the air force general, the director of the factory, 50 soldiers and 25 bomb squad members, all staring at the box not knowing what to do.

“I think we should open it.” says the general. “It may be a bomb, which is why I think we should let the bomb squad open it.”
“Yeah probably, what’s the worst that can happen? The factory blows up?” asks the director, clearly sarcastic.
The bomb squad quickly moves in and, careful not to destroy anything but the wooden box, open the package. Inside, there was something they couldn’t believe seeing
“ITS AN ALIEN SPACE SHIP!” says one of the bomb squad members, holding a crowbar.
“NO ITS A PLANE!” says the air force general, flabbergasted at the design.
“It looks like a dildo… with wings…” says the head of the secret police, pulling out his flask of high quality rum smuggled from Christbol.


The bomb squad quickly notices a separate, small transparent package laying in front of the plane, clearly taking into account the Rhastovian secret police’s… attitude, towards unknown packaging. It looks to contain some papers and two bottles of Christbolian Raakii, unopened.

Upon further inspection, now with everyone’s tension significantly lowered, one of the bomb squad members begins reading the notes:

“Salut, our Rhastovian comrades! This is Earthly Voice Juri Annor writing to you! I’ve been told by one of our research heads that you’ve been developing an alcohol-cooled engine on one of your newest designs! Given that our engineering heads for our next generation fighter program has gained interest in your work (and more recently, the top brass at Christbolian high command), we’ve decided to ship a prototype of our future aircraft, the K-13 ‘Beleth’, over to your state manufacturer. We’ve tried going through official channels, however the Ministry of Defense has, in more polite terminology, told our delegates to go fuck themselves. Having no other alternative, I’d like to apologize on behalf of all of Christbol for shipping this aircraft to you illegally like this. The next set of notes are from our K-13 R&D project head Viktor Sarin, who wished to write to you personally. Along with the notes and the plane I have also packed two bottles of Raakii from my own personal supply, belonging to my grandfather. I hope you read what Comrade Sarin has to ask of you and I hope you enjoy the liquor!” - at the bottom of the note is the Earthly Voices genuine signature.

“Liquor? As a gift? This could be a trap to poison one of us!” says the head of the secret police, eyeing the two bottles of Christbolian Raakii.
“Or it could be expired…” says the air force general, who for some reason does not drink alcohol.
“Well if you are all so concerned about the two liquor bottles I’ll sacrifice myself for Rhastov and the Rhastovian proletariat and taste test them!” says one of the members of the bomb squad
“Oh no no no no no! No one is potentially dying on my watch. I will taste them myself! For uhh… the good of the country!” says the head of the secret police, visibly upset. “Give me those!” He opens the first bottle and sniffs it before taking a sip and whispering to himself “damn this is good…” he then stuffs the bottle in his coat and says “I will be taking this to a lab for uhh… testing. Yeah, testing!”

After the fate of the bottles is sealed, the bomb squad member begins reading the second note. It details the project managers phone number, as well as a step by step request that basically boils down to “Could you help us fit alcohol cooling onto the fighter?”. The note also states they’d be willing to provide engineers who’ve built the jet to Rhastov should director Andrei accept the offer, as well as financial motivation to seeing the project through.

“What should we do with this thing?” asks the director of the factory
“Well I say you should send a telegram to the Ministry of National Defense and wait for further instructions” says the air force general
The head of the secret police was in his car staring at the two bottles of Raakii from Christbol, completely ignoring what was going on just outside his car.
“I think we should move it inside, there’s an empty warehouse perfect for storing this” says the director
“It’s probably for the best, the plane will be protected from the elements, after all it’s not ours so we cant abuse it like we did with the S-35 prototypes” says the air force general
“Fine, i will tell someone to bring a tractor and tow it inside” says the director, visibly upset, knowing very well he will be drowning in paperwork, reports and investigations from the secret police for the next five months.
About an hour later the crate is slowly towed inside by the tractor. The pallet the plane was sitting on was sliding on the asphalt, with a rope tied to the tractor pulling it, as a crane and a flatbed trailer were not available.

“You should contact the Ministry of Defense, we need to know what the hell we should do with this plane” the director told the general
“Well obviously I think we should reverse engineer this! This is a great opportunity to increase our power even more, as if the S-35 wasn’t enough!” says the general, enthusiastically.
Meanwhile a small crowd of engineers from the factory has gathered around the plane to see what the fuss was all about. After staring at the plane, not knowing what anything on it is supposed to be or how it’s supposed to function, one of them makes a call to Okhotnik to send some engineers all the way from Gomel to figure things out.

Outside, the head of the secret police was in his car, inspecting the two bottles of Christbolian alcohol thoroughly, before giggling to himself “This will make a fine addition to my collection”. He rolls down the window
“I will be taking these two bottles back to Ranov for uh.. testing and write a report on the matter to the Ministry of Defense.” says the head of the secret police to director and the general.

A few hours later, the engineers from Okhotnik arrived in Satoka, all the way from Gomel. They make their way into the warehouse where the K-13 was stored until further notice, where they find half a dozen engineers staring at the plane and furiously taking notes and photographs.
“What is this thing?” asks one of the engineers from Okhotnik
“This is apparently a prototype plane sent by Christbol” replies one of Satoka EF’s engineers
“Why did they send us a prototype? Are they trying to play us a prank?”
“I don’t think it's a prototype” says one of the engineers from Okhotnik “It looks way too finished to be a prototype. And the technology on it is so modern… Are you sure this is not a UFO or something? I have read dozens of books on aerospace engineering both from Rhastov and other countries but never have I seen anything close to this...” he adds.

For the next several months, the Rhastovians, after the initial shock of the sheer audacity of Christbolian border smuggling, begin trying to reverse engineer the plane. After all, the plane was there with them, and what the Christbolians don’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

“So what should we do with the plane?” asks the director of the factory, still confused and very annoyed by the mountain of paperwork he had to go through because of the incident.
“Well the ministry of defense gave us an order to try and reverse engineer the plane, see what’s inside, what we can copy and what we can counter and how” says one of the air force’s generals
“I’m pretty sure Christbol would get pissed at us for trying to copy their technology” replies the director
“How would they even know? The plane is here, they aren’t. Besides, how would they even find out?” says the general
“Do you seriously think they wouldn’t smuggle in a spy or two along with the plane?” replies the head of the secret police after taking a sip of high quality Christbolian raakii, disgruntled. “They have the money and brain power to make a UFO-like jet and smuggle it into Rhastov unnoticed by my highly skilled men. Do you think they didn’t have the capacity to smuggle in a spy?” he adds before taking another sip from his flask.

Initially, the first major issue was trying to just reveal what was underneath the body itself. The jet, having been almost one solid piece composed out of carbon fiber, while light as a feather compared to most anything else, proved itself more stubborn than a Rhastovian mule to take off. Whatever kind of carbon fiber it was, it was clear immediately that the Christbolians did not want any piece of it to be taken off. Engineers from Okhotnik described it as “Basically superglued to the chassis.”. It did not possess any tears or seams, and it was questionable at multiple points if the body was even meant to be taken off.

Around the plane was a team of the best aerospace engineers in Rhastov.
“I think we should open it up, see what’s inside” exclaims a member of the crew.
“Okay, how would we go about doing that? Look at this, it’s made from one piece. No seams, no rivets, no weld marks, nothing. It looks like they just casted the plane around the engine and electronics” replies another.
“What is this made out of, anyway? This doesn’t look or feel like aluminum to me. It feels so light…” says one of the engineers, knocking against the plane’s fuselage.
“This is obviously carbon fiber, not that you’d know anything about anything that isn't metal, Marian” says another member of the crew, leaning against the front of the plane with a smug look on his face. The aircraft, being so light, moves to the side causing the engineer to fall and look goofy.
“Looks like I'm not the only one that knows nothing about non-metals” exclaims Marian, trying not to laugh.
“Enough with the bullshit and goofing around, we have a job to do. How should we get into this thing without cutting it open with a saw?” asks another engineer, who just wants to go home and with no stiff drink unlike the chief of the secret police to drown himself in.
“Fine, fine.” says Marian with a sad look on his face. “I don’t see any hatches or rivets on this side. Maybe there are some at the bottom, on the other side? It would make sense, since that would be easier for the ground crews to access.”
“Yeah we should probably flip it over with the crane, maybe that will work.


Multiple times while trying to take off the body from the bottom up rather than the top down with the plane flipped over, the engineering team was still met with no luck, since there are no hatches on the bottom either. In fact, it seems like the entire body is one cast piece over the entire plane, and the only way to actually get into it is through the cockpit, but for such a thing to happen the engine needed to be turned on.

“Where are the fucking hatches?!” exclaims one of the engineers “How the hell do they get into this thing for maintenance? Do they all just throw them out and buy new ones once a small defect is detected?”
“There must be a way to get into the guts of this frying pan of a plane. I’ve seen this video on Tik Tok where some guys made very high precision cuts in metal using a technique called “wire EDM”. Maybe Christbol did something similar with their plane’s hatches? We just need to find them”
“Wire what now? I don't believe you. And even if it’s a real thing, this still wouldn’t work because the plane is made out of CARBON FIBER, which is NOT a metal, Marian!”
“Hey I'm just trying to help, unlike you, Andrei. What the hell have you been doing ever since you got here anyway? Just yell at me about metals? What? Did your mother feed you iron instead of milk as a baby?” exclaims Marian, in anger.
“At least my mom didn’t have to sleep her way through the ministry of education AND the ministry of defense to get you in this position!” barks Marian back.
“Cut it out you two. Why do you have to act like monkeys all the damn time? Are you THAT childish?” exclaims one of the other engineers, who is still waiting to go home.
“He started it!” yells Andrei.
“Well he’s being a pain in the ass so it’s only logical I wouldn’t like him” yells Marian.

After several more minutes of bickering, the group do eventually get their act together, and start banging down on various parts of the plane to see if Marian’s theory is proven right. Andrei of course did not participate, choosing to stay back with his hands crossed, because, as he said before, it is CARBON FIBER and not metal.

“Well well well, to nobody’s surprise, after a few minutes of slapping the plane like the minister did your mothers ass, we’re back to square one.” says Andrei.
“Screw you! Do you even have any ideas or are just here to complain?”
“Yes! What if the hatches are electronically operated and require the power to be turned on? After all, you wouldn’t expect an alien looking plane pulled straight out of Star Wars to require brute force to open it for maintenance, would you? We should maybe try to turn on the power instead of banging it like your mom.”
“Enough with the mom jokes. How do you think we should turn on the power? We can’t even find the cap to the fuel tank.”
“It’s… right here, next to one of the hard points… Did you guys not see it?”
“No? We were too busy banging on the fuselage to get something to open.”
“Well what are we waiting for? Let’s get it fueled up.”

The team proceeds to bring in a tanker truck with kerosene to pour into the plane. As the tanker is arriving everyone joins in to greet it except Marian, who in turn stays with the upside down plane and kicks it one last time at the back near the engine in a fit of annoyance. - “Stupid, dumbass plane. Christbolian piece of crap!” - he says as he bashes his leg into it at half-force, which reveals a small hatch opening up at the rear end of the plane right below the engine. After a brief investigation the only conclusion Marian can come up with is that this in fact must be the auxiliary engine start that they’ve been desperately bashing their fists on the fuselage all afternoon like idiots in an effort to find. As Marian finishes his investigation of the new button controls, he turns to see his colleagues walking back with him getting ready to flip over the plane to hook it up with fuel.

“I’ve found the auxiliary engine controls while you guys were back there doing nothing.” Marian says, pretending to sound as confident as possible in order to play it off as if this was somehow his master deduction all along and not just an accident.
“Well, acting like an ape does sometimes have its benefits, right?” says Andrei with his typical smug look.
“What are we waiting for? We should turn it on!”
“Upside down? Seriously? We should at least flip it back up”

The team takes a crane and flips the plane back up. After some brief refueling process they move towards the auxiliary engine controls. Pressing the button, the gigantic engine turns on and the cockpit latches gently give away, with the engine roaring with a howl aggressive enough to make the hangar visibly shake and potentially give some of the team hearing problems if not for the hearing protection on their heads.

“THE CANOPY JUST OPENED!!” exclaims Marian all excited
“WHAT!? I CAN'T HEAR YOU!”
“WHAT?”
“WHAT!?”
“SCREW THIS I’M GOING TO OPEN THE HANGAR!” yells Marian while pointing at the giant hangar doors
“WHAT?”

Marian goes to the other side of the hangar and presses a button near the hangar bay doors that opens them up. The area becomes a little easier to talk in now with the engines roaring far outside the hangar. He then comes back and stands near the canopy to lift it up and reveal a glass cockpit, similar to what you might find in an F-35. Outside of that, much of the screens and switches are not dissimilar to Rhastov’s very own S-35, with the main difference being that the words and everything are in Christbolian and it has that distinct, high tech feel of the rest of the plane.

“Great, the one part of the plane we *can* actually manage to look under and it means fuck all.”
“What? Just because the words are in Christbolian? We can just use Google Translate for that!”

For the next hour the team goes through various translations of Christbolian words on the internet, filtering their meaning by context, wondering if their very next switch press won’t just cause the plane to pump fuel into the engines or self-destruct.

“Is polttoaineen meant to mean fuel pump or table salt?”
“Why would the Christbolians need a button for table salt?”
“Maybe to season their food on long flights? People get hungry sometimes, you know?”
“Marian… shut up.”
“You know I’m not wrong! I once flew from Ranov to San Foca all the way in Ionio, which is like a one hour and thirty minutes flight and I got hungry halfway through!”

Managing to turn on the plane, they start hearing a barrage of frequent, mechanical clicking sounds from behind the seat. Aside from that they hear nothing else so they think nothing of it. They shut off the engine since its task of opening the cockpit has been completed and, looking for a way to open up the hatches, they finally spy a button that roughly translated may have something to do with maintaining the aircraft and opening up the frame. This excitement is cut short by the fact that the entire aircraft seemingly just dies out of power. The battery had died seeing little to no use in the days leading up to ChristBol shipping the jet to Rhastov.

“What the hell happened? We just got it working.” says Marian, sitting in the cockpit.
“It certainly can’t be a lack of fuel, we topped it up a couple hours ago and had it running for like 15 minutes.” says another engineer, standing in front of the plane.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have banged it like a bunch of apes…” mumbles Andrei to himself. “Maybe the battery died? We could try to replace it and start it up again.”

They first decide to replace the battery. Marian opens the hatch labeled “Battery” next to the auxiliary engine control hatch, and picks it up. He giggles to himself and says “Off in the ocean you go!” before chugging it across the hangar. There was one problem with this whole process: the Christbolians use a completely different battery standard than Rhastov, meaning that the only way to replace the battery is to import one from Christbol, which would raise suspicion.

“Well this might be a problem… The battery slot is a lot smaller than the ones we have”
“How small are we talking?”
“About a quarter of what we use.”
“Well obviously we should just cut the battery in four equal squares and insert one of them into the slot!” says Andrei sarcastically.
“Be serious for a second or I’m shoving this wrench up your-”
“WHAT IF, and hear me out on this one, we try to apply an electrical current into the battery slot?” says another engineer.
“That might just be the dumbest idea I have ever heard and I have been working in this field for the past 20 years” says Andrei.
“LET’S DO IT!” exclaims Marian, all excited, running out to get the tractor and tow the generator inside the hangar.

Marian brings in a large diesel generator roughly the size of a large diesel generator on a flatbed trailer, and positions it near the plane. He then connects the cables to the terminals of the battery slot and, after consulting his colleagues trying to convince them how this is in fact the only option available to them right now, turns on the generator.

“Are you nuts? You’ll fry the whole plane if you turn that thing on!”
“It’s completely safe, trust me, I’m an engineer. If we keep the voltage and amperage to the same level as stated on the Christbolian battery, we will be fine!”
“The Christbolian battery outputs DC current, this generator was made for AC current. Did you not learn how to read, Marian?” says Andrei, reading the label on the battery.
“The generator can also output DC power by flipping this switch here. See?” Marian says while flipping a little switch from “AC” to “DC”
“Okay, fine. But if you break anything I'm testifying against you. I’m not sacrificing my future for country boys like you who bribed their way into the defense industry.”

How the jet would react to this was anybody’s guess, but the first thing that happens is that the area around the hardpoints and the bottom of the plane start rapidly moving and deforming. Seemingly, much of the wings and the bottom of the plane start acting out as if they’re alive, with a handful of spots opening and closing in rapid succession like some large jaws, which briefly allows for the engineers to see the components inside the wings and bottom, but not really long enough to catch a good glimpse of it. The shock of the action makes them move back and Marian slams onto the button to turn the generator off before jumping off the generator and ducking for cover as if he’s expecting some sort of explosion to follow up.

Of course, to a more up-to-date and trained professional eye, this might be an indicator of the use of claytronics within the airframe, also known as programmable matter. To the engineers of Rhastov inside the hangar with the K-13, this raised a handful of more primitive conclusions.

“Th-The… plane is…. sentient!? Did that just hurt it?!” - replies Andrei in shock at what just transpired.
“THE PLANE IS POSSESSED BY A DEMON!” cries Marian from behind the generator.

[Iyum]

Somewhere within the Southern Sea, three countries, the Duchy of Southwater, the Kingdom of Christbol, and the Iumic Imperial Domain, will be participating in a joint naval exercise. The exercise will be led by Rear Admiral Halaman Kornena, a naval officer with experience in coordinating naval operations and a veteran of the September Island crisis.

During the exercise, the three navies will participate in coordinated operations aimed at protecting commercial ships and shipping routes, seizing criminal organization naval vessels, and conducting anti-piracy operations. The exercise will involve a series of simulated or live-fire training scenarios designed to test the readiness and effectiveness of the participating naval forces in conducting these types of operations.



OOC: This post is in cooperation with Southwater and Christbol. The exercise is held months after the SI crisis.

[Sevevill]

Quashmar, Capital City of Diyaristan Provence, Sevevill

President Harmana. Speaking in front of a IDF/IAF board

He took a sip of the tea sitting in front of him. His attire had changed significantly since the resolution of the Diyaristan conflict going from military fatigues and sweats back to a tailored suit and tie. But today he risked plunging his province back into war with the possibility of getting little support from the Imperial Armed Forces as they seemed to have bigger things on their plate.

"Gentelmen... I thank you for traveling out here to meet with me today. I have been long plagued with revolutionists holding on to our territory to the west. I would like... with your blessing of course to combat this threat. I have followed orders and effectively cut them off from any kind of support but I do think it is time to finish them off. We will be requiring support from the ISAF and Army forces as I am still not one-hundred precent sure that the IDF forces here are entirely capable of doing this job alone..." He said having momentary flashbacks to their horrific defeats in the region that had been named the black mountain by the locals after thousands of their soldiers had been mercilessly killed during the fighting not long before. "But I think as they have been fighting amongst themselves with a lack of equipment now would be the opportune time for a strike in their weak state. As my command staff has informed me their supplies are low and quick bombardment of strategic targets. The Dayari Rebel Government, PAG and MKAZ must be returned to control of the provence and the empire for the betterment of the civilians living under this barbaric rule." One of the IAF generals in attendance started

"Im not sure I can spare any marines... but perhaps the army would be able to come in and help secure citys with your men..." He was cut off by the ISAF general.

"We can spare jets and logistics capability but we have to be assured losses will be minimal. This was a devestating campaign and shutting down that airspace has already been difficult as arms runners are jumping at this opportunity pretty significantly."

"Well then it seems we are at an agrement of sorts. Get together with IDF staff and see what we can do in an attempt to sort this out.

Days Later.

Lt. Rod Wagner. 57th Air Assault. SG-87 "Electric Thunder" Yariaq Airbase

The sun slowly rose above the desert as his wing readied their fighterbombers. This morning across the country multiple wings of jets were being sent on bombardment missions... This was the first time he had had to bomb something inside of the empire but that did not change the orders. Their goal was MKAZ fuel stores and if the munitions were left a small ammo dump inside of the administation zone.

"Eagle one Mic check." rang across the headset as the other five planes in the flight started echoing off their callsigns. Something felt wrong about joining into the conflicts between these rebel governments but there was also something therapeutic about blowing up fuel stores... the quick cloud of fire that always erupted from them was always fascinating. His thoughts turned back to taxiing the jet. Just before takeoff his copilot Jack Triton tapped him on the shoulder.
"Did we miss them brief anti air or do those numbskulls just not know?"
"I dont think they know anything more than we do... MKAZ has been a shutout compared to their frinds in Grazil and the DRG that just seem to cause problems for everyone."
"Great... well at least these fools weren't able to aim before... hopefully they still cant."
As they finished their light conversation while still going through pre takeoff checklists they pulled onto the runway and took off joining the formation set off towards MKAZ.
"I more prefer shooting down C172's trying to smuggle weapons in than getting deep in the shit so to speak."
"well at least we can hit them where it hurts. The locals have started calling this area the black mountain because the IDF basically got massacred here during the insurrection... Id be willing to put money on the IAF not doing much better in the first assault."
"Fair enough but at least Harmana thinks they got something going now after basically being at war amongst themselves for the past few years."
"Shoulda left it that way."
"Eagle One, Nearing Target turn your lights off and look for your targets."
"Rodger Eagle Five breaking off" Rod tipped the wings of his jet and dove off from the formation looking for the fuel processing plant while turning off the aircrafts nav lights and beacon.
"Target spotted, We should drop a bit lower... say FL150 to confirm"
"Roger" He spun 15000 ft into the aircraft autopilot system looking for the bead on his display.
"Looks like it to me"
"Same... Eagle Five to Leader Cleared to Engage?"
"Eagle One, Confirmed fire at will"
"Roger E...." As he said that strobe lights started lighting up the sky looking for the aircraft which had been heard from the ground below. A radar lock warning started sounding throughout the cockpit. "Ready with the chaff... lets get ready to fire." A stream of anti aircraft fire started streaming up around the aircraft tracers lighting up the sky. Clearly looking to hit the entire flight... not to mention him.
"Got a solid lock on a main silo... I am ready to fire"
"Than fire dumbass you dont need my permission" As he said that two of the aircrafts missiles departed the wings... as they left the aircrafts missile warning system started sounding franticly. "Inbound"
"Deploying Chaff." Behind the aircraft a explosion could be heard as the missile hit the chaff just as it was departing the aircraft lodging shrapnel into the aircraft rear fuselage and cockpit. Jack looking behind him could see fuel streaming out of the aircrafts number two engine. "Engine two got something coming out of it... seems that missile was closer than we thought!" He screamed over the internal radio as buzzars continued to go off throughout the cockpit.
"Got it lets drop the rest of the payload and bug outta here" He banked the plane back around towards their target.
"You sure I dont really feel like getting beheaded this morning."
"We will be fine nothing seems out of the ordinary." They took another run at the target launching the rest of their missiles into the fuel depot.
"Eagle five sustained damage RTB"
"Eagle One Ro..." the transmission cut out. Across the sky a fireball could be seen as what appeared to be an aircraft met with a line of Anti Aircraft fire
"Eagle One down... I can only see one brolie out the window... Eagle Two RTB target destroyed" A hour or two the four aircraft returned to Yariaq. It seemed as if the strikes on Grazil and Karbek had gone similarly well... only one aircraft left... they had underestimated what MKAZ had where in the cities it seemed as the rebel governments were fairly unprepared for the air raid as the ground battles had warn their forces down significantly.

Imperial News Network

ISAF Bombings in Disputed Diyaristan, Pilots Presumed MIA

---

Early this morning a multiple groups of Sevevillian bombers were seen departing from airforce bases around Diyaristan on what the ISAF touts as a sucessful bombing campaign on the three rebel governments of Diyaristan. Though one strike on fuel depots inside of a administration zone originally set up by the Kamooko Pact has reported that two pilots were lost, presumed missing, after their aircraft was destroyed in the attack. Provincial President Harmana told reporters for the INN that 'his condolences go out to their family members but the IDF would stop at nothing to recover the pilots'. Not much else is known at this time.
The Imperial President was reached out for comment but as of the writing of this article was not available for comment.

https://forum.nationstates.net/viewtopic.php?f=5&t=464909

[Phoenxia]

Vietschen International Airport - Gate 23
September 19th, 1995

Ked walked through the Sevavia Arrival Lounge, his suitcase rolling behind him in tow. Looking out the window, he could see airliners taking off and landing in the distance, a smoggy haze obscuring the lightly populated suburbs to the north of the airport grounds. In the newly built terminal, you could hardly tell you were entering a former communist country. The newspapers all seemed to universally call the growing nation an “unstable democracy”, but for Ked Mocatta, Senior Fund Manager of Trachtsch investment firm AhaBank, it was a land of opportunity, and most of all, money.

Outside the baggage claim was a smog filled canopy occupied by disorganized cabs, private chauffeurs of businessmen, and disgruntled drivers everywhere in between. One such limousine was accompanied by an anxious young aide holding a sign inscribed with “Mr. Mocatta.”

“Please, the only people who call me that are my Podiatrist and my Ex-Wife’s lawyers, Ked is fine,” he explained, patting the young man on the back and gesturing toward the car. “This one, I assume?” he asked, placing his bag in the trunk and opening the rear door.

“Yes, sir. I must say, Mr. Tčoković is very excited to see you. If you have any questions about the country, I would be more than happy to answer them,” the assistant smiled graciously as he stepped into the seat across from the Trachtsch businessman.

Reaching into the breast pocket of his double-breasted pinstripe power suit, Ked retrieved a set of large designer sunglasses, which he then placed on his face. “As a matter of fact kid, I think I’m ready to head straight to the office, I like to get straight to work if you know what I mean,” Ked asked with his mouth slightly occupied, his hands lighting a cigarette in the process.

“Well luckily for you, sir, so does my boss. It’s not a long drive up 106 to the office,” he kept the same quaint smile. Something was off, though, as if this was all some predetermined tour.

(Thirty Minutes Later)

KreditViën Headquarters

Ernst looked up from his desk as he began puffing on a short cigar, and the largest shit-eating grin fell upon his face, “Ked, is it? What a fucking pleasure it is to finally meet you! I trust the flight and drive here were enjoyable?” His glass desktop was somewhat of a catastrophe, with papers strewn in their own pile, and the rest with miscellaneous treasures like emptied bottles of high end whiskey and mysterious white streaks near and dear in position to himself.

Dropping his bag, Ked extended his arms widely, his gaping smile of gold teeth reflecting the outside light. “Ernst, so good to see you, so good!” he remarked, coming in for an energetic hand-shake. After some quick pleasantries, the two men sat down. “I must admit, when my assistant received your call, I wasn’t sure what to make of it. She said you found something interesting, too important to mention over the phone. If it were anyone else, I would’ve thrown their number away, but Ernst Tčoković? No…when you say you find something interesting, we all end up making a fortune,” Ked explained excitedly. “So, what do you have for me?”

“Well, I’m flattered, first of all, but here’s where we’re at. When I said it was too important to explain over the phone, I meant it. We’re not talking millions of marks here, right? We’re talking billions,” he chuckled with a cocaine twinkle in his eye. “So you already know what a CDO is right?”

Ked nodded slowly.

“We take these Vilhalan labor contracts and their termination clauses, what do we get?” he grinned wider, “We get the title for a fucking worker.” Ernst’s voice was so oddly jovial for such a morally gray matter, but money has no ethical bounds according to him.

Ernst had Ked’s attention. He shifted forward in his chair, trying to comprehend the concept. “Wait, so you’re saying we should…back securities, but instead of your typical pool of shitty reverse-mortgage debt, we’re…backing them with labour itself?”

“We’re backing them with the value of the contract,” he nodded his head rhythmically, “The best part is…that it doesn’t even have to be a good security, because if the bond fails it’s because of the company, not the worker, and we still have the contracts. We make up for whatever bullshit CDS losses we have on them by selling the contracts themselves to other companies.”

An assistant comes into the room, setting a martini beside Ked. But Ked is too riled up to drink. Ignoring it, he starts scribbling on a napkin.

“Say that again, say that again. So even with rising default rates, we would assume no risk for the bonds themselves?”

“Exactly. It’s a win for us and a gamble for them. It’s a tight horse race and we’re betting that they kill the horse.”

Ked is feverishly trying to write down what Ernst is saying. He is completely disheveled, tie loosened, and sweat dripping down his face.

“And you can just build a CDO up with the opposite side of the bet you make with a routine swap?”

Ernst nods amusingly. Ked is losing it.

“Okay, and if you’ve got a pool of say, 50,000 contracts, how much could we be betting on it through that fucking synthetic CDO or swap or whatever?! Right now?!”

Ernst shrugged, “Around 200 mil…safely. Depends on the kinds of contracts in there.”

Ked looks up at Ernst, revealing his disoriented expression.

“A billion…” Ked let out softly. Jumping up from his chair, he grabbed Ernst by the collar. “A BILLION! And we start now damnit! Who else have you told about this?!” Ked asked, the dollar signs practically emblazoned on his corneas.

“You’re the first one, Ked,” he smirked as he stood up from the chair to shake hands. “How about a deal between two devils?” He grinned and puffed on his cigar.

“Get some champagne, we’re celebrating tonight,” Ked sang as he began scribbling contact numbers on the chalkboard of potential clients who might be interested. Outside the office, on the terrace, you could hear the sound of music as brokers began carrying boxes into the room, inaudible orders being shouted as the smoggy skyline of construction bustled in the distance.

***

If the flawed labour contracts that Ernst Tčoković discovered were the match. And the LCBO’s that Ernst and Ked built were the fuel-soaked rags, then the synthetic LCBO’s that Ked would build simultaneously and subsequently bet against were the hydrogen bomb. Of course neither Ernst, nor Ked, realized that what they were doing was about to derail the entire World’s economy.

Made in conjunction with Trachtenberg

[Christbol]

-snip

The Christbolian embassy in Rhastov had finally received the call their delegation had been told to wait for since the K-13 prototype had been delivered into Rhastov: after months of waiting, it appears the engineers in charge have demanded help from ChristBol. The Christbolian ambassador rushed to contact his associates in ChristBol to let the R&D lab in the Christbolian city of Kon know that the request for assistance had finally arrived and that they may send some staff over.

Viktor Sarin is Kon’s most notable and busiest person. Hailed as a prodigy in aeronautics from a young age, he spent most of his life working in the small town, which became known as one of ChristBol’s chief locations for conducting research into aircraft, both civilian and military for the better half of the 21st century. Originally fleeing from Anavokya in the 80s, he settled into ChristBol and gained full citizenship thanks to the CBIA (a detachment of it that now forms the modern day R.E.D. of the intelligence agency), going on to construct many of his originally Anavokyan aircraft projects for the Christbolian government instead. In most of the 2000s however, he hit a bit of a block with military jets upon encountering fierce disagreement between himself and the Christbolian air force on the direction that military aircraft should take, himself being a staunch proponent of stealth technology and most of the Holy Red Air Force’s top brass being anything but. In recent years though a middle ground was ultimately reached when drone technology rendered itself cheap and advanced enough to where stealth could be replaced with a robust system of AI driven drones accompanying aircraft, thus achieving the desired “stealth” through sheer radar overstimulation with targets mixed with the terminal lack of missiles 5th generation fighters must carry, accompanied by the abundance of firepower and greater performances that ChristBols air force brass wanted. Thus, the K-13 project was born and began in the early 2020s.

Though nearing 65 years old now and humorously dubbed “The Guard of the Old Guard” by newer aircraft designers fresh from engineering courses, Viktor never shied away from the opportunity to learn how to improve his craft nor made life difficult for new blood based on veterancy, provided they knew how to at least work a spanner. The K-13 is a manifestation of this goal to constantly learn upon his experiences with time, blending the tested methods of his own generation back at a time when 3rd and 4th gen fighters roamed the skies together with some more untested but likewise intriguing ideas for the future of military jets, such as transformative matter, drone technology, artificial intelligence and materials that in his time and over ChristBol’s more economically destitute moments were more sci-fi fiction than grounded reality. The K-13 is supposed to be his last dance in the field of aircraft development, and he wants to make sure he retires on a high note, whether it turns out to be something hailed as an overengineered 4.5+ gen or a design equaled to this mythical 6th generation aircraft that has eluded the
region for over a decade, he has made peace with the fact that whatever it may be it will certainly be the most calculated effort of his career.

Despite this and surprising everyone each time it is brought up, Viktor does not like traveling by plane. While most of the engineers in his department find it unimaginable, Viktor himself likes to equate it to a good chef who never likes eating meals his own customers ask for… so when his contacts from the Christbolian government notified him that he would have to make a plane trip to Rhastov, his stomach churned, requesting some of his more expert staff fly instead as a vanguard party while he arrives later, possibly by boat. Two of his colleagues, a man named Ksjall and a woman named Sela, the former of which a young man in his late 20s responsible for much of the theory regarding claytronics on the jet and the latter of which in her late 30s responsible for the ship’s on board artificial intelligence, both heed the call and travel ahead of him, packing immediately.

Two of his colleagues, a man named Ksjall and a woman named Sela, the former of which a young man in his late 20s responsible for much of the theory regarding claytronics on the jet and the latter of which in her late 30s responsible for the ship’s on board artificial intelligence, both heed the call and travel ahead of him, packing immediately and notifying the rest of the project division heads: Laroi, the fuselage and engine specialist, as well as Ranni ‘Tails’ Vaaljeksa, the female pilot who’s been doing most of the test flying. The group finished packing from their homes and set off for the nearest airport to fly a business class commercial flight to Rhastov. Ranni and Ksjall pack light clothing for themselves in despite Rhastov’s cold climate conditions in contrast to ChristBol; Ranni because she initially doesn’t believe the climate will affect her and Ksjall because the excitement of this being his first visit to a foreign country as a sort of Christbolian dignitary had him drink 6 cups of black coffee during the night to overprepare, only to never pack some warm clothing in the first place, aside from a single loose-fitting hoodie.

It was a cold December morning, and Air Rhastov Flight 7623 commenced its descent towards the “Maria Ivanov” International Airport, in Ranov. Inside the Boeing 747, the pride of Air Rhastov’s fleet, was the Christbolian delegation of engineers sent to aid in the development of the K-13’s experimental alcohol cooling system. The plane touched down on the runway and proceeded to taxi to its terminal.

Inside the airport, five officers and about a dozen soldiers were awaiting the delegation to arrive. One of the officers was holding a plate with a loaf of bread and a small bowl of salt to welcome the Christbolians to Rhastov, an old Rhastovian tradition.

The Christbolian team of engineers was surprised to see the Rhastovian officers and soldiers dressed in thick winter coats, and the Rhastovians were equally surprised to see the Christbolians in thin, summer clothes, despite the freezing temperatures outside. After introducing themselves and kindly accepting the Rhastovian bread and salt, they were escorted outside to begin the trip to the city of Satoka. As the delegation was being escorted, one of the officers starts talking with one of the women.
“Hi, I’m Mihai. Nice to meet you”
“I’m Sela, nice to meet you too.”
“So… what brings you all the way here?”
“Work.”
“Can’t catch a break, huh? What do you do? Since you’re here for work, I assume it’s something pretty important.”
“Computer engineer, I’m responsible for the computer inside that plane Christbol sent here.”
“You must be the best engineer in Christbol if they assigned you such an important job, then…”
After a little more chit-chat, the officer gets a little more personal.
“So… Are you married?”
“Yes, thirteen years, almost fourteen in march.”
“That’s great. What does your husband do?”
“He’s a chemistry teacher at a highschool.”
“That must be fun…”
“Yeah it usually is.” after a little pause she says “This airport is really big… it seems endless.”
“I know that being far away from home and your family can be very difficult and can get very lonely at times, so if you need some company you can call me, I’m stationed in Satoka. Heh, the party actually gave me this beautiful apartment close to the beach. I can see the sun rise above the sea every morning before I head to base.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine. Thanks for the offer but I think I won’t need some kid in a military uniform to keep me company any time soon.

Outside it just began to snow. Waiting for the team of engineers was a black BMW, with four military SUVs parked in front and rear of it. After the group got inside the BMW, the soldiers and officers entered the SUVs, preparing to drive off.

“Pe bune Mihai? Femeia asta e aici de jumatate de ora si deja ai incercat sa te dai la ea?”
“Really Mihai? She’s been here for 30 minutes and you already tried to hit on her?”

“Nu-i vina mea ca e asa de frumoasa si desteapta, Vasile.”
“Not my fault she’s so good looking and smart, Vasile.”

“Da. Cam prea desteapta pentru tine. Ti-a zis deja ca e maritata si tot tot ai incercat. Chiar si daca te place, cristbolenii nici nu pot divorta. Realizezi asta, nu?”
“Yeah apparently too smart for you. She told you she was MARRIED and you kept pushing it. Even if she liked you back, Christbolians cannot even divorce. You do realize that, right?”

“Da, dar…”
“Yes, but…”

“Tu iti dai seama ca ai incercat sa flirtezi cu o femeie din familia Niixa?”
“Do you realize you tried to flirt with a woman fromt he Niixa family?”

“Sela e o Niixa?”
“Sela is a Niixa?”

“Da. Nu te-ai uitat pe documente inainte?”
“Yeah. Did you not read the documents beforehand?”

“Sa mori tu! Barbatu-so sa fie din acea familie Niixa si sa fie profesor de chimie? N-are cum.”
“You’re joking! Her husband to be part of the Niixa family and be a chemistry teacher? Can’t be.”

“Jur! Si tu ai fost un tampit sa te dai la ea.”
“I swear! And you were a moron for trying to hit on her”

“Pai am crezut ca… doar condu.”
“Well I thought that… just drive.”

“Ma indoiesc ca te-ai gandit la ceva. Trebuie sa nu mai gandesti cu-”
“I highly doubt you thought of anything. You need to stop thinking with your-”

“Anaconda, receptionezi?”
“Anaconda, do you copy?” the intercom inside the car interrupts the two. It was the leading vehicle of the convoy.

The convoy drove calmly through Ranov, to the train station, as snow slowly continued to lay on the road and sidewalk.
Inside, the station was bustling with people going on holiday or visiting their family and especially soldiers returning home on leave, or on their way back to their bases.
“You’re going to take the train to Satoka. It’s both a lot safer and faster than traveling all crammed in a car for 4 hours in terrible weather like this.” says the driver of the black BMW.
They all quickly move into the station, apart from the drivers of the vehicles. Arriving on the platform, one of the soldiers checks the train schedules.

“1895 are intarziere o ora!"
“1895 has a one hour delay!” yells the soldier.

“O ora? De ce? Ar trebui sa plece direct din Ranov.”
“One hour delay? Why? It’s supposed to leave straight from Ranov.”, replies one of the officers, disgruntled.

“S-a stricat locomotiva unui tren la cateva statii de aici”
“Well the locomotive of another train broke down a few stations away from here.” says a railway worker who overheard the conversation.

“Minunat. Si acum ce ne facem?”
“Great, so what do we do now?” says one of the soldiers, dissapointed.

“I say we go to the cafe to waste the hour. And you four go and buy yourselves some winter clothes.” replies one of the officers, looking at the team of engineers.
About 20 minutes pass, everyone was in one of the cafe’s in the central station, talking and telling jokes, apart from Vasile and Mihai, who were on the platform looking over at the cafe.

“Ce crezi de blonda? Crezi ca ma va placea mai mult decat Sela?”
“What do you think of the blonde one? Do you think she’ll like me more than Sela?”

“Pentru numele lui Dumnezeu, Mihai… Taci din gura si nu te mai gandi la femei care nu-s de tine. Sela probabil le-a zis tuturor despre tine deja, cand am trecut prin oras.”
“For the love of God, Mihai… Shut up and stop thinking about women who are way out of your league. Sela probably told everyone in that group about you, already, while we drove through the city.”

“O, haide, nu poate fi chiara asa de rau, nu? O scot la un suc, si vad unde ajungem de acolo.”
“Ah come on, it can’t be THAT bad, can it? I’ll buy her a drink, and see where that takes us.”

“Ce zici sa nu faci asta si in schimb sa iti faci treaba? Deja te-ai facut de ras o data, sper ca nu esti destul de prost sa vrei sa o faci din nou”
“How about you don’t do that and instead do your job? You already got embarrassed once, I hope you’re not dumb enough to want to try it again.”

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, everyone boards the train to Satoka. The coach they boarded was First Class, with large, comfortable, leather seats, divided in compartments of six seats each. Despite the freezing weather outside, the interior was very warm, each compartment having its own thermostat.
“All of this vegetation is so nice… as dead as it is. So much better than back home, in the desert…” says Sela, looking out the window.
“I agree, imagine how beautiful this entire place must look during spring or summer, full of life and color.” replies Ksjall, pulling out his laptop.

After about two hours, the train arrives in Rostograd where it makes a 30 minute stop to replace the electric locomotive with a diesel locomotive, as the line from Rostograd to Satoka is not electrified.

“The train is changing locomotives, so you have about half an hour to walk around the station if you want. There’s a bunch of stores that sell all sorts of stuff, if any of you are interested” says one of the officers, on his way out to buy himself a snack.
“I’m kinda hungry, so I’ll go get something to eat.” says Sela, grabbing her purse.
“I’m not hungry, but I’ll go see if there’s any interesting magazines or books to buy.” replies Laroi putting his new jacket on.

“I’ll stay here, I’m not in the mood to step in the freezing cold.” says Ksjall, reading the local news on his laptop.
“Well okay if you want to sit here and be grumpy, go right ahead. There’s apparently a hobby store here. I hope they have something cool.” says Ranni, all excited, grabbing her coat and hurrying out the door.

Looking through the shop window, Laroi can hear the voice of a little kid behind him.
“Mommy, why is that man colored like chocolate?” asks the little kid, pointing at Laroi.
“Well… uhm… he probably drank too much Coca Cola as a kid” replies his mother.
“So that’s why I’m not allowed to drink Coca Cola?”
Laroi, while not fluent in Rhastovian in any way, can piece two and two together and still figure out what the kid was saying through context: presumably ciocolată means chocolate and the pointing can only be directed at him. Holding back his laughter, he turns around and replies to the mother in Markish, hoping for her to translate the answer to her child:
“Actually it’s because I ate a lot of chocolate when I was a kid.”

After a while, everyone was back in the compartment, talking about what they found in the stores. Sela was too busy eating a bagel to talk.
“I found this magazine about cars in a kiosk.” states Laroi, looking through it briefly. “It even has diagrams of the internal components.”
“I found something truly unique. Rhastovian aircraft models! This is of a MiG-29, look how cool it is. I’ve never seen one like this anywhere else.” says Ranni, examining the little aircraft model “I can open the canopy, the missiles can be slid off the rail, even the landing gear can be retracted” she adds.

The train continues its journey across Rhastov’s southern coast, finally arriving in Satoka, where another small convoy was waiting for the team, except this time instead of a black BMW, it was a gray Škoda.
“What’s that over there?” remarks Laroi, pointing at a couple of smoking chimneys
“Oh, that’s the heating plant of the city. It provides heat and hot water for the city.” says the driver.
“No no, I mean those chimneys over there” he says, pointing at 2 smokestacks down the boulevard, calmly puffing white smoke.
“Oh, that. That’s the brewery. Delfinul. It’s the largest in the country and the size of an entire city block. In fact, the entire neighborhood it’s in is called “Brewery’s” because of it” replies the driver. “They make some really good beer, you should try it out if you can.” he adds.

Eventually they arrive at hotel Cleopatra, a 5-star hotel near the beach, overlooking the sea on one side, while from the other side the entire city could be seen.
“This is where you will be staying for the duration of your visit to Rhastov. Hotel Cleopatra. Head to the reception to get your room keys.” says the driver.
The engineer team heads inside the hotel, with Sela heading straight to the reception. The reception exudes elegance and comfort, with plush seating arrangements, beautiful pieces of furniture, carved from Rhastov's highest quality wood, and tastefully chosen decor pieces. The lighting is carefully curated, with soft ambient lighting that creates a warm and inviting atmosphere. To top it all off, subtle, soothing melodies play in the background, enhancing the overall experience and adding to the sense of relaxation and refinement.

“Hi, welcome to our hotel. How may I help you?” asks the receptionists.
“Hi, we were told to head to the reception to get our room keys. Uhh, we come from the Kingdom of Christbol” replies Sela.

“Ei sunt VIP-urile de care v-am informat acu’ cateva zile.”
“They’re the VIP’s we informed you about a few days ago.” says Vasile, who went inside beforehand.

“Ah, the Christbolians. Yes, yes, yes. Alright, your rooms are 104, 105, 106 and 107. They’re all singles. Two of them are facing the sea, and the other two are facing the city. Just take the elevator to the eleventh floor and walk to the end of the hallway. You can’t miss them.” says the receptionists while taking the keys off their hooks and placing them on the desk. “I just need your full names real quick” he adds.
“Laroi Narodin, Ksjall Noct, Ranni Vaaljeska, and I’m Sela Niixa”
“Wait… Sela Niixa? From the Niixa family of philanthropists?” asks the receptionist, taken by surprise.
“Uhm.. yes, that Niixa” she sighs.
“The Niixa family accumulated a lot of loyalty points before the communists took over. I can upgrade your room to a penthouse suite.”
“Well I don’t need a penthouse suite. Would anyone like it instead?” she replies, sarcastically.
“Me me me me me me me!” answers Ranni, running up to the counter all excited.
“Okay. The penthouse is on the same floor, room 100.” says the receptionist. Just sign here, all four of you, to have evidence you received the keys and you should be done.”
“Okay, that’s great, thank you!” replies Sela, grabbing a pen.
“The package is all inclusive. We left brochures with all of the services that are part of the package in each of the rooms. You have free Wi-Fi as well, the password is on the back of the router in the room.”
“That’s… really fancy for just a bunch of engineers.” says Laroi, a little surprised.
“You must be some really important engineers if the state dedicated so many resources just for you four. The military escort, being accommodated in the fanciest hotel in Rhastov… Those aren’t cheap!” replies the receptionist.
After Sela, Ksjall, Ranni and Laroi all sign and grab the keys, they start heading for the elevator, where one of the employees was already waiting with the luggage cart.
“Enjoy your stay and have a wonderful time in our country!” exclaims the receptionist before returning to his computer to update the database.
When they get to the elevator, they meet the porter, pushing the luggage cart with their bags into the elevator.
“Hi, my name is Daniel, I’m the porter. I was just about to take your luggage to your rooms.” he says.

On their way up to the 11th floor, Daniel started talking about the hotel and its history
“This hotel was built in 1984, but back then it had a different name. It was originally called Saturn, before another company bought it in 2000 and renamed it to Cleopatra. After the communists took over in 2024, there were plans to change the name of the hotel to something more communist themed. Quite ironic for a five star hotel, right?. Anyway, they didn’t, because the hotel is quite an important landmark and pretty much everyone in the city knows its name, changing it would just lead to a lot of confusion.”
“You seem to know a lot about this place. How long have you been working here?” asks Ranni, curious to know everything about the new country she’s in.
“Since 2016. It was kind of hard to get this job because you need to speak at least an international language like Markish, and you also need to go through a special school.”
“Special school? To be a porter?” replies Ranni, all confused.
“Oh yeah, they teach you all sorts of customs and procedures, how to greet people, help them out and so on.”
“That’s pretty cool. I’m glad to know that we’re in good hands, at least” she says, giggling a little.
“So, what brings you to Satoka at this time of year? This isn’t exactly a winter resort.”
“We’re here for work.” replies Sela.
“What do you do? If you don't mind me asking, of course.”
“Well I’m a computer engineer, Laroi is a specialist in aircraft fuselages and jet engines, Ksjall is a materials engineer. And Ranni is-” Sela couldn’t finish her sentence, being interrupted by Ranni.
“And I’m a fighter pilot!” exclaims Ranni, incredibly excited.
“A female fighter pilot? I’ve never seen that before. How old are you even?” replies the man, surprised.
“I’m twenty three!”
“My daughter is around your age, she’s studying medicine in Ranov.”
“That’s great! I bet she’ll become a great doctor. What does she want to specialize in?” asked Ranni.
“She wants to be a pediatrician, to work with kids”
“Aww that's really sweet. I’m sure she will be great.”
“She will, she’s a really smart and hard-working girl. Anyway these are your rooms. The ones with even numbers face the sea and the ones with odd numbers face the city.”
“I’m taking the one facing the sea!” says Sela, all excited.
“You can say that again!” exclaims Ranni grabbing her bag and walking to room 100.
“Well, Laroi, looks like one of us has to face the city.” mentions Ksjall
“Yeah I guess so. Better than staring at a desert or skyscrapers like we do in Kon, at least… I still want to face the sea though.”
“Ah come on! I lived my entire life in the desert that is Christbol and I can't even enjoy the sunrise over the sea?”
“Come on, I’m close to retirement anyway. You’ll get to travel on a lot of journeys like this in your lifetime.”
“Fine, fine. You can have the room facing the sea. I’ll go stare at the chimneys.”

Inside their rooms, everyone starts checking the amenities they were provided, and checking the brochure placed on the nightstand listing all of the features their all-inclusive package includes. The brochure was a long list of features such as a spa, indoor pool, restaurant, cafe, bar with drinks from all over Markion, daily bedsheet changes, and free Wi-Fi.
It was already dark outside by the time everyone had unpacked and made themselves comfortable. Laroi took advantage of the free Wi-Fi and started playing video games, Sela began reading a romance novel, and Ranni decided to watch a movie called The Priest's Children on TV, about a priest poking holes in every condom in his town, to spur people into marrying because of kids in order to save his church from being unused (yes, this is an actual movie. Go look it up). Ksjall, on the other hand, started going through the minifridge.
“Let’s see what we have here… Pepsi, Sprite… What the hell is Cico? Some sort of off-brand Fanta made in Rhastov? Hammer and sickle vodka… also made in Rhastov… and that Delfinul beer the driver told us about…”

[Republic of Altos and Stratis]

ABG News Bulletin

International

Ameria announces plan to depart from the Kamooko Pact on January 1st, 2039, stirring geopolitical speculations.

The Republic of Ameria dropped a geopolitical bombshell today as President Amelia-Rose Hamilton announced the nation's intention to withdraw from the Kamooko Pact, a regional alliance that has been instrumental in shaping cooperation and security in the area for nearly half a decade. The decision, set to take effect on January 1st, 2039, has sent shockwaves through the international community, leading to speculations on potential impacts on regional stability and diplomatic relations.

The Kamooko Pact, established in 2034, aimed to foster cooperation, economic growth, and mutual security among its member states.
President Hamilton cited several reasons for Ameria's decision to withdraw from the alliance. In her address, she asserted that the geopolitical climate had evolved significantly since the formation of the Kamooko Pact, and Ameria's interests were no longer fully aligned with those of the other member states. She emphasized the need for Ameria to pursue a more independent foreign policy that could better address its unique national security concerns and economic ambitions.

Furthermore, President Hamilton expressed her belief that the Kamooko Pact's internal decision-making processes had become increasingly convoluted and hampered by conflicting interests among its members. Ameria's exit from the alliance is intended to provide the nation with greater flexibility to forge new strategic partnerships that align with its priorities and values.

The Kamooko Pact has responded cautiously to Ameria's decision. Leaders of the remaining member states have asserted that the Kamooko Pact will continue to function effectively and work towards achieving common goals despite the absence of Ameria.

The Republic of Ameria and The Federal Republic of Takhur forge a historic mutual defense and cooperation treaty.

In a landmark move to strengthen regional security and foster diplomatic ties, The Republic of Ameria and The Federal Republic of Takhur have officially signed The Takhur Ameria Relations Act. This historic agreement was formalized during a high-profile ceremony held in Aradad and witnessed by dignitaries from both nations.

The treaty marks a significant milestone in the relations between Ameria and Takhur, as it solidifies their commitment to supporting each other in times of need and promoting cooperation across various sectors. Both nations have expressed optimism about the potential for peace and prosperity that the accord can bring to their respective regions.

Among the treaty's key provisions are mutual defense obligations, where each nation pledges to aid the other in the event of an armed attack or threat to their territorial integrity. This alliance is expected to enhance the security landscape in the region, promoting stability and deterring potential aggressors.

Furthermore, the treaty lays the foundation for robust cooperation in various fields, including but not limited to trade, technology, culture, and academia. By fostering greater collaboration, Ameria and Takhur aim to harness their respective strengths and resources for mutual growth and advancement.

In his address at the signing ceremony, the President of The Republic of Ameria stated, "Today, we take a significant step towards ensuring a safer and more prosperous future for our nations. This treaty reaffirms our shared values and commitment to regional stability. Together, we shall face the challenges of the 21st century with solidarity and determination."

The President of The Federal Republic of Takhur responded in kind, expressing his country's eagerness to forge a strong bond of friendship with Ameria. "The signing of this treaty is a testament to the power of dialogue and cooperation. We are excited to explore new avenues of partnership that will benefit both our peoples and contribute to peace and development in our region," he said.

[Arcadian States and Commonwealths]

The Arcadian Federation has just voted to declare war on Rhastov, to free the liquor from the communists, nuclear weapons are on the table

[Rhastov]

The Arcadian Federation has just voted to declare war on Rhastov, to free the liquor from the communists, nuclear weapons are on the table

In a desperate attempt to not let the vodka fields fall into arcadian hands, the Rhastovian Ministry of Defence ordered the vodka fields to be burnt. "If we cannot enjoy the vodka, no one shall" was the official statement by the minister.

[Soveiniesberg]

Turn Me Loose

The date is February 19th, 1996. The Soveinian shrimp trawler Receptacle piloted by the young Meinhard Konrad Seitz, despite being the
only person on board, was doing his last shrimp run of the day, in the turbulent ocean as the sun set and billowing dark clouds rolled in, just northeast of Marrakai in the Still Sea in Markion. He tugs on a net full of shrimp, pulling it from the outriggers off into the boat's stern. A wave crashes over the bow and over the cabin, soaking Meinhard. He pulls it on the deck of his boat and wheezes. He gets back into the cabin and closes the door, preparing to start the engine. He grabs his key and pops open the door, being soaked again by a huge wave that slams him to the deck. The boat leans down and to the left and he raises an eyebrow as another wave comes exploding over the bow, and it sinks lower. He scrambles up, and quickly slides over to the two large outboard motors, turning both on in time to realize what was going on to the front of his boat as yet another wave comes beating on his boat, over the side and front of it as the boat is turning against the waves now. Meinhard groans and runs over to the bilge compartment, tugging on the hatch. He groans and runs to the cabin, grabbing the bilge hatch keys. He scrambles as a wave slams him to the deck and he slides towards the front of the boat. He clutches the railing and looks back as a huge wave splashes over him, sinking his boat further down. He inserts the keys into the bilge hatch lock and twists clockwise twice, the brass keys dull and worn. He grabs the handle and opens it, seeing nothing but water. Must've leaked in, Meinhard thought. He rips the old key out of the lock, and inserts the other key on the metal ring into the aging bilge pump, and turns the key. It won't start after he flips the switch. Must be toasted, he thinks.

He calmly yet quickly radios Soveinian coast guard... They say it'll be awhile before they'll be able to rescue him so he'd better get floating...

He grabs the self-inflating yellow liferaft and unzips the bag, throwing the bag on the ground and unfurling the plastic yellow lifeboat on the deck of the ship. He groans as he is splashed by a wave. He runs into the cabin. He unlocks a locker and places his hand on a very old Telerov C-Frame "Continental" revolver. He breaks open the revolver and sees that 5 unfired cartridges remain. He spins the cylinder, and, waiting for it to stop spinning... he closes it, tucking it in the front pocket of his waterproof overalls.

The yellow liferaft is dull and old, probably was bought with the boat back in 1952 back when his grandfather first bought the trawler. He tugs on it, dragging it with the energy he has left into the water before realizing he missed something. He quickly runs back in the cabin, now that the cabin is starting to flood with water he splashes in, turning around and grabbing an aging solid wooden oar. It's clearly seen some use as it's covered in scratches and there's places where the finish has worn away and the wood is starting to deteriorate. He grips it firmly in his hands and sprints back out, jumping into the liferaft and starting to paddle away from the sinking trawler... He cries as it slowly disappears beneath the stormy ocean waves. The rain washes his tears away and he groans. He lays back and lets the waves take his liferaft. He attempts to keep himself awake into the night, looking for any sort of rescue... but he eventually falls to the tiredness that comes with being sloshed about in sea.

Part one of two(?)

[Rhastov]

The Christbolian embassy in Rhastov had finally received the call their delegation had been told to wait for since the K-13 prototype had been delivered into Rhastov: after months of waiting, it appears the engineers in charge have demanded help from ChristBol. The Christbolian ambassador rushed to contact his associates in ChristBol to let the R&D lab in the Christbolian city of Kon know that the request for assistance had finally arrived and that they may send some staff over.

Viktor Sarin is Kon’s most notable and busiest person. Hailed as a prodigy in aeronautics from a young age, he spent most of his life working in the small town, which became known as one of ChristBol’s chief locations for conducting research into aircraft, both civilian and military for the better half of the 21st century. Originally fleeing from Anavokya in the 80s, he settled into ChristBol and gained full citizenship thanks to the CBIA (a detachment of it that now forms the modern day R.E.D. of the intelligence agency), going on to construct many of his originally Anavokyan aircraft projects for the Christbolian government instead. In most of the 2000s however, he hit a bit of a block with military jets upon encountering fierce disagreement between himself and the Christbolian air force on the direction that military aircraft should take, himself being a staunch proponent of stealth technology and most of the Holy Red Air Force’s top brass being anything but. In recent years though a middle ground was ultimately reached when drone technology rendered itself cheap and advanced enough to where stealth could be replaced with a robust system of AI driven drones accompanying aircraft, thus achieving the desired “stealth” through sheer radar overstimulation with targets mixed with the terminal lack of missiles 5th generation fighters must carry, accompanied by the abundance of firepower and greater performances that ChristBols air force brass wanted. Thus, the K-13 project was born and began in the early 2020s.

Though nearing 65 years old now and humorously dubbed “The Guard of the Old Guard” by newer aircraft designers fresh from engineering courses, Viktor never shied away from the opportunity to learn how to improve his craft nor made life difficult for new blood based on veterancy, provided they knew how to at least work a spanner. The K-13 is a manifestation of this goal to constantly learn upon his experiences with time, blending the tested methods of his own generation back at a time when 3rd and 4th gen fighters roamed the skies together with some more untested but likewise intriguing ideas for the future of military jets, such as transformative matter, drone technology, artificial intelligence and materials that in his time and over ChristBol’s more economically destitute moments were more sci-fi fiction than grounded reality. The K-13 is supposed to be his last dance in the field of aircraft development, and he wants to make sure he retires on a high note, whether it turns out to be something hailed as an overengineered 4.5+ gen or a design equaled to this mythical 6th generation aircraft that has eluded the
region for over a decade, he has made peace with the fact that whatever it may be it will certainly be the most calculated effort of his career.

Despite this and surprising everyone each time it is brought up, Viktor does not like traveling by plane. While most of the engineers in his department find it unimaginable, Viktor himself likes to equate it to a good chef who never likes eating meals his own customers ask for… so when his contacts from the Christbolian government notified him that he would have to make a plane trip to Rhastov, his stomach churned, requesting some of his more expert staff fly instead as a vanguard party while he arrives later, possibly by boat. Two of his colleagues, a man named Ksjall and a woman named Sela, the former of which a young man in his late 20s responsible for much of the theory regarding claytronics on the jet and the latter of which in her late 30s responsible for the ship’s on board artificial intelligence, both heed the call and travel ahead of him, packing immediately.

Two of his colleagues, a man named Ksjall and a woman named Sela, the former of which a young man in his late 20s responsible for much of the theory regarding claytronics on the jet and the latter of which in her late 30s responsible for the ship’s on board artificial intelligence, both heed the call and travel ahead of him, packing immediately and notifying the rest of the project division heads: Laroi, the fuselage and engine specialist, as well as Ranni ‘Tails’ Vaaljeksa, the female pilot who’s been doing most of the test flying. The group finished packing from their homes and set off for the nearest airport to fly a business class commercial flight to Rhastov. Ranni and Ksjall pack light clothing for themselves in despite Rhastov’s cold climate conditions in contrast to ChristBol; Ranni because she initially doesn’t believe the climate will affect her and Ksjall because the excitement of this being his first visit to a foreign country as a sort of Christbolian dignitary had him drink 6 cups of black coffee during the night to overprepare, only to never pack some warm clothing in the first place, aside from a single loose-fitting hoodie.

It was a cold December morning, and Air Rhastov Flight 7623 commenced its descent towards the “Maria Ivanov” International Airport, in Ranov. Inside the Boeing 747, the pride of Air Rhastov’s fleet, was the Christbolian delegation of engineers sent to aid in the development of the K-13’s experimental alcohol cooling system. The plane touched down on the runway and proceeded to taxi to its terminal.

Inside the airport, five officers and about a dozen soldiers were awaiting the delegation to arrive. One of the officers was holding a plate with a loaf of bread and a small bowl of salt to welcome the Christbolians to Rhastov, an old Rhastovian tradition.

The Christbolian team of engineers was surprised to see the Rhastovian officers and soldiers dressed in thick winter coats, and the Rhastovians were equally surprised to see the Christbolians in thin, summer clothes, despite the freezing temperatures outside. After introducing themselves and kindly accepting the Rhastovian bread and salt, they were escorted outside to begin the trip to the city of Satoka. As the delegation was being escorted, one of the officers starts talking with one of the women.
“Hi, I’m Mihai. Nice to meet you”
“I’m Sela, nice to meet you too.”
“So… what brings you all the way here?”
“Work.”
“Can’t catch a break, huh? What do you do? Since you’re here for work, I assume it’s something pretty important.”
“Computer engineer, I’m responsible for the computer inside that plane Christbol sent here.”
“You must be the best engineer in Christbol if they assigned you such an important job, then…”
After a little more chit-chat, the officer gets a little more personal.
“So… Are you married?”
“Yes, thirteen years, almost fourteen in march.”
“That’s great. What does your husband do?”
“He’s a chemistry teacher at a highschool.”
“That must be fun…”
“Yeah it usually is.” after a little pause she says “This airport is really big… it seems endless.”
“I know that being far away from home and your family can be very difficult and can get very lonely at times, so if you need some company you can call me, I’m stationed in Satoka. Heh, the party actually gave me this beautiful apartment close to the beach. I can see the sun rise above the sea every morning before I head to base.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine. Thanks for the offer but I think I won’t need some kid in a military uniform to keep me company any time soon.

Outside it just began to snow. Waiting for the team of engineers was a black BMW, with four military SUVs parked in front and rear of it. After the group got inside the BMW, the soldiers and officers entered the SUVs, preparing to drive off.

“Pe bune Mihai? Femeia asta e aici de jumatate de ora si deja ai incercat sa te dai la ea?”
“Really Mihai? She’s been here for 30 minutes and you already tried to hit on her?”

“Nu-i vina mea ca e asa de frumoasa si desteapta, Vasile.”
“Not my fault she’s so good looking and smart, Vasile.”

“Da. Cam prea desteapta pentru tine. Ti-a zis deja ca e maritata si tot tot ai incercat. Chiar si daca te place, cristbolenii nici nu pot divorta. Realizezi asta, nu?”
“Yeah apparently too smart for you. She told you she was MARRIED and you kept pushing it. Even if she liked you back, Christbolians cannot even divorce. You do realize that, right?”

“Da, dar…”
“Yes, but…”

“Tu iti dai seama ca ai incercat sa flirtezi cu o femeie din familia Niixa?”
“Do you realize you tried to flirt with a woman fromt he Niixa family?”

“Sela e o Niixa?”
“Sela is a Niixa?”

“Da. Nu te-ai uitat pe documente inainte?”
“Yeah. Did you not read the documents beforehand?”

“Sa mori tu! Barbatu-so sa fie din acea familie Niixa si sa fie profesor de chimie? N-are cum.”
“You’re joking! Her husband to be part of the Niixa family and be a chemistry teacher? Can’t be.”

“Jur! Si tu ai fost un tampit sa te dai la ea.”
“I swear! And you were a moron for trying to hit on her”

“Pai am crezut ca… doar condu.”
“Well I thought that… just drive.”

“Ma indoiesc ca te-ai gandit la ceva. Trebuie sa nu mai gandesti cu-”
“I highly doubt you thought of anything. You need to stop thinking with your-”

“Anaconda, receptionezi?”
“Anaconda, do you copy?” the intercom inside the car interrupts the two. It was the leading vehicle of the convoy.

The convoy drove calmly through Ranov, to the train station, as snow slowly continued to lay on the road and sidewalk.
Inside, the station was bustling with people going on holiday or visiting their family and especially soldiers returning home on leave, or on their way back to their bases.
“You’re going to take the train to Satoka. It’s both a lot safer and faster than traveling all crammed in a car for 4 hours in terrible weather like this.” says the driver of the black BMW.
They all quickly move into the station, apart from the drivers of the vehicles. Arriving on the platform, one of the soldiers checks the train schedules.

“1895 are intarziere o ora!"
“1895 has a one hour delay!” yells the soldier.

“O ora? De ce? Ar trebui sa plece direct din Ranov.”
“One hour delay? Why? It’s supposed to leave straight from Ranov.”, replies one of the officers, disgruntled.

“S-a stricat locomotiva unui tren la cateva statii de aici”
“Well the locomotive of another train broke down a few stations away from here.” says a railway worker who overheard the conversation.

“Minunat. Si acum ce ne facem?”
“Great, so what do we do now?” says one of the soldiers, dissapointed.

“I say we go to the cafe to waste the hour. And you four go and buy yourselves some winter clothes.” replies one of the officers, looking at the team of engineers.
About 20 minutes pass, everyone was in one of the cafe’s in the central station, talking and telling jokes, apart from Vasile and Mihai, who were on the platform looking over at the cafe.

“Ce crezi de blonda? Crezi ca ma va placea mai mult decat Sela?”
“What do you think of the blonde one? Do you think she’ll like me more than Sela?”

“Pentru numele lui Dumnezeu, Mihai… Taci din gura si nu te mai gandi la femei care nu-s de tine. Sela probabil le-a zis tuturor despre tine deja, cand am trecut prin oras.”
“For the love of God, Mihai… Shut up and stop thinking about women who are way out of your league. Sela probably told everyone in that group about you, already, while we drove through the city.”

“O, haide, nu poate fi chiara asa de rau, nu? O scot la un suc, si vad unde ajungem de acolo.”
“Ah come on, it can’t be THAT bad, can it? I’ll buy her a drink, and see where that takes us.”

“Ce zici sa nu faci asta si in schimb sa iti faci treaba? Deja te-ai facut de ras o data, sper ca nu esti destul de prost sa vrei sa o faci din nou”
“How about you don’t do that and instead do your job? You already got embarrassed once, I hope you’re not dumb enough to want to try it again.”

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, everyone boards the train to Satoka. The coach they boarded was First Class, with large, comfortable, leather seats, divided in compartments of six seats each. Despite the freezing weather outside, the interior was very warm, each compartment having its own thermostat.
“All of this vegetation is so nice… as dead as it is. So much better than back home, in the desert…” says Sela, looking out the window.
“I agree, imagine how beautiful this entire place must look during spring or summer, full of life and color.” replies Ksjall, pulling out his laptop.

After about two hours, the train arrives in Rostograd where it makes a 30 minute stop to replace the electric locomotive with a diesel locomotive, as the line from Rostograd to Satoka is not electrified.

“The train is changing locomotives, so you have about half an hour to walk around the station if you want. There’s a bunch of stores that sell all sorts of stuff, if any of you are interested” says one of the officers, on his way out to buy himself a snack.
“I’m kinda hungry, so I’ll go get something to eat.” says Sela, grabbing her purse.
“I’m not hungry, but I’ll go see if there’s any interesting magazines or books to buy.” replies Laroi putting his new jacket on.

“I’ll stay here, I’m not in the mood to step in the freezing cold.” says Ksjall, reading the local news on his laptop.
“Well okay if you want to sit here and be grumpy, go right ahead. There’s apparently a hobby store here. I hope they have something cool.” says Ranni, all excited, grabbing her coat and hurrying out the door.

Looking through the shop window, Laroi can hear the voice of a little kid behind him.
“Mommy, why is that man colored like chocolate?” asks the little kid, pointing at Laroi.
“Well… uhm… he probably drank too much Coca Cola as a kid” replies his mother.
“So that’s why I’m not allowed to drink Coca Cola?”
Laroi, while not fluent in Rhastovian in any way, can piece two and two together and still figure out what the kid was saying through context: presumably ciocolată means chocolate and the pointing can only be directed at him. Holding back his laughter, he turns around and replies to the mother in Markish, hoping for her to translate the answer to her child:
“Actually it’s because I ate a lot of chocolate when I was a kid.”

After a while, everyone was back in the compartment, talking about what they found in the stores. Sela was too busy eating a bagel to talk.
“I found this magazine about cars in a kiosk.” states Laroi, looking through it briefly. “It even has diagrams of the internal components.”
“I found something truly unique. Rhastovian aircraft models! This is of a MiG-29, look how cool it is. I’ve never seen one like this anywhere else.” says Ranni, examining the little aircraft model “I can open the canopy, the missiles can be slid off the rail, even the landing gear can be retracted” she adds.

The train continues its journey across Rhastov’s southern coast, finally arriving in Satoka, where another small convoy was waiting for the team, except this time instead of a black BMW, it was a gray Škoda.
“What’s that over there?” remarks Laroi, pointing at a couple of smoking chimneys
“Oh, that’s the heating plant of the city. It provides heat and hot water for the city.” says the driver.
“No no, I mean those chimneys over there” he says, pointing at 2 smokestacks down the boulevard, calmly puffing white smoke.
“Oh, that. That’s the brewery. Delfinul. It’s the largest in the country and the size of an entire city block. In fact, the entire neighborhood it’s in is called “Brewery’s” because of it” replies the driver. “They make some really good beer, you should try it out if you can.” he adds.

Eventually they arrive at hotel Cleopatra, a 5-star hotel near the beach, overlooking the sea on one side, while from the other side the entire city could be seen.
“This is where you will be staying for the duration of your visit to Rhastov. Hotel Cleopatra. Head to the reception to get your room keys.” says the driver.
The engineer team heads inside the hotel, with Sela heading straight to the reception. The reception exudes elegance and comfort, with plush seating arrangements, beautiful pieces of furniture, carved from Rhastov's highest quality wood, and tastefully chosen decor pieces. The lighting is carefully curated, with soft ambient lighting that creates a warm and inviting atmosphere. To top it all off, subtle, soothing melodies play in the background, enhancing the overall experience and adding to the sense of relaxation and refinement.

“Hi, welcome to our hotel. How may I help you?” asks the receptionists.
“Hi, we were told to head to the reception to get our room keys. Uhh, we come from the Kingdom of Christbol” replies Sela.

“Ei sunt VIP-urile de care v-am informat acu’ cateva zile.”
“They’re the VIP’s we informed you about a few days ago.” says Vasile, who went inside beforehand.

“Ah, the Christbolians. Yes, yes, yes. Alright, your rooms are 104, 105, 106 and 107. They’re all singles. Two of them are facing the sea, and the other two are facing the city. Just take the elevator to the eleventh floor and walk to the end of the hallway. You can’t miss them.” says the receptionists while taking the keys off their hooks and placing them on the desk. “I just need your full names real quick” he adds.
“Laroi Narodin, Ksjall Noct, Ranni Vaaljeska, and I’m Sela Niixa”
“Wait… Sela Niixa? From the Niixa family of philanthropists?” asks the receptionist, taken by surprise.
“Uhm.. yes, that Niixa” she sighs.
“The Niixa family accumulated a lot of loyalty points before the communists took over. I can upgrade your room to a penthouse suite.”
“Well I don’t need a penthouse suite. Would anyone like it instead?” she replies, sarcastically.
“Me me me me me me me!” answers Ranni, running up to the counter all excited.
“Okay. The penthouse is on the same floor, room 100.” says the receptionist. Just sign here, all four of you, to have evidence you received the keys and you should be done.”
“Okay, that’s great, thank you!” replies Sela, grabbing a pen.
“The package is all inclusive. We left brochures with all of the services that are part of the package in each of the rooms. You have free Wi-Fi as well, the password is on the back of the router in the room.”
“That’s… really fancy for just a bunch of engineers.” says Laroi, a little surprised.
“You must be some really important engineers if the state dedicated so many resources just for you four. The military escort, being accommodated in the fanciest hotel in Rhastov… Those aren’t cheap!” replies the receptionist.
After Sela, Ksjall, Ranni and Laroi all sign and grab the keys, they start heading for the elevator, where one of the employees was already waiting with the luggage cart.
“Enjoy your stay and have a wonderful time in our country!” exclaims the receptionist before returning to his computer to update the database.
When they get to the elevator, they meet the porter, pushing the luggage cart with their bags into the elevator.
“Hi, my name is Daniel, I’m the porter. I was just about to take your luggage to your rooms.” he says.

On their way up to the 11th floor, Daniel started talking about the hotel and its history
“This hotel was built in 1984, but back then it had a different name. It was originally called Saturn, before another company bought it in 2000 and renamed it to Cleopatra. After the communists took over in 2024, there were plans to change the name of the hotel to something more communist themed. Quite ironic for a five star hotel, right?. Anyway, they didn’t, because the hotel is quite an important landmark and pretty much everyone in the city knows its name, changing it would just lead to a lot of confusion.”
“You seem to know a lot about this place. How long have you been working here?” asks Ranni, curious to know everything about the new country she’s in.
“Since 2016. It was kind of hard to get this job because you need to speak at least an international language like Markish, and you also need to go through a special school.”
“Special school? To be a porter?” replies Ranni, all confused.
“Oh yeah, they teach you all sorts of customs and procedures, how to greet people, help them out and so on.”
“That’s pretty cool. I’m glad to know that we’re in good hands, at least” she says, giggling a little.
“So, what brings you to Satoka at this time of year? This isn’t exactly a winter resort.”
“We’re here for work.” replies Sela.
“What do you do? If you don't mind me asking, of course.”
“Well I’m a computer engineer, Laroi is a specialist in aircraft fuselages and jet engines, Ksjall is a materials engineer. And Ranni is-” Sela couldn’t finish her sentence, being interrupted by Ranni.
“And I’m a fighter pilot!” exclaims Ranni, incredibly excited.
“A female fighter pilot? I’ve never seen that before. How old are you even?” replies the man, surprised.
“I’m twenty three!”
“My daughter is around your age, she’s studying medicine in Ranov.”
“That’s great! I bet she’ll become a great doctor. What does she want to specialize in?” asked Ranni.
“She wants to be a pediatrician, to work with kids”
“Aww that's really sweet. I’m sure she will be great.”
“She will, she’s a really smart and hard-working girl. Anyway these are your rooms. The ones with even numbers face the sea and the ones with odd numbers face the city.”
“I’m taking the one facing the sea!” says Sela, all excited.
“You can say that again!” exclaims Ranni grabbing her bag and walking to room 100.
“Well, Laroi, looks like one of us has to face the city.” mentions Ksjall
“Yeah I guess so. Better than staring at a desert or skyscrapers like we do in Kon, at least… I still want to face the sea though.”
“Ah come on! I lived my entire life in the desert that is Christbol and I can't even enjoy the sunrise over the sea?”
“Come on, I’m close to retirement anyway. You’ll get to travel on a lot of journeys like this in your lifetime.”
“Fine, fine. You can have the room facing the sea. I’ll go stare at the chimneys.”

Inside their rooms, everyone starts checking the amenities they were provided, and checking the brochure placed on the nightstand listing all of the features their all-inclusive package includes. The brochure was a long list of features such as a spa, indoor pool, restaurant, cafe, bar with drinks from all over Markion, daily bedsheet changes, and free Wi-Fi.
It was already dark outside by the time everyone had unpacked and made themselves comfortable. Laroi took advantage of the free Wi-Fi and started playing video games, Sela began reading a romance novel, and Ranni decided to watch a movie called The Priest's Children on TV, about a priest poking holes in every condom in his town, to spur people into marrying because of kids in order to save his church from being unused (yes, this is an actual movie. Go look it up). Ksjall, on the other hand, started going through the minifridge.
“Let’s see what we have here… Pepsi, Sprite… What the hell is Cico? Some sort of off-brand Fanta made in Rhastov? Hammer and sickle vodka… also made in Rhastov… and that Delfinul beer the driver told us about…”

The morning was cold, it had been snowing the entire night. The sky was gray, the industrial giants of Satoka were calmly puffing away white smoke from their chimneys like old, sleeping dragons. On the streets, snow plows were hard at work removing the snow and spreading salt on the streets while workers and children were walking to work and to school.
Ranni was the first to wake up. After an exhausting flight and train ride she slept like a log. Waiting for the others to wake up, she goes through her morning routine before pulling herself a chair to look at the sun rising over the sea covered in large patches of ice. After a while, she grabs her jacket and heads out. In the hallway, Ranni meets Laroi. He seems surprised to see her.

“Morning Rannelia, nice to see one of our colleagues up and about earlier than normal unlike those other two peers of yours…”
“Good morning Laroi, did you have a good rest? I slept like a baby.” - Laroi grunts, his years of crawling through plane guts have gotten the better of him too much to afford a comfortable rest.
“The accommodations are good, but I’ve been struggling to sleep far before this and a comfier mattress doesn’t really help me…”
“It isn’t easy being old, huh?” - Laroi visibly makes a face at this comment, but as a man in nearly his 60s now he is far too tired to bicker with any youth other than Ksjall, so he holds back his tongue and merely makes his way past her.
“Oh come on! You know I didn’t mean that in a mean way!” - she yells at him as he gets further away from her down the hall before disappearing from view down a flight of stairs entirely. There is an elevator, however Laroi likes to say walking down the stairs keeps him in shape.

A little bit distressed over upsetting the first person she saw, and at no fault of her own considering Ranni starts speaking well before she starts thinking, Ranni sighs and goes down the elevator trying to come up with ideas on how to spend her day.

She was lost in thought for several minutes, walking on almost pure automation as every next thing walking down the street from the hotel catches her attention; signs, boutiques, displays, and perhaps most perplexing of all; the amount of open space that the Rhastovians to Ranni seem like they take for granted. Her hometown of Vakus was one of the smaller Christbolian cargo hubs, boasting a population of a “mere” 5,6 million people of various ethnicities and creeds, and while one of the smaller places to live by Christbolian standards, you could nonetheless feel the intense pressure that a population numbering in the billions induces on the city planning of every Christbolian city. Here however, the zoning was actually quite liberal, with room in between some buildings to even fit alleyways.

She walked down one of Satoka’s few avenues finding a sense of intrigue in Rhastov’s much more industrial sense for architecture in contrast to the much more typically oriental Christbolian skylight. A few honks from cars passing each other and exchanging inflammatory comments about the others mother quickly snapped her out of the trance though, after which she remembered why she set out of her room in the first place: to find entertainment.

And in the average Christbolians mind, “entertainment” usually implies finding a bar.
Seeing the amount of different shops and restaurants she can visit, Ranni goes to check her purse to see how much cash she has on hand, only to realize she actually forgot it at the hotel and has too little time in her tight schedule for today to actually backtrack and go get it. Finding nothing, she gets worried and begins looking through her pockets, only to find a 10 Christcoin bill, usually only enough to afford one a few baked goods at a Christbolian bakery back home. A bit disappointed, she goes to a currency exchange business nearby to convert her money to Rhastovian rubles.

After a little while she walks outside shocked at the amount of rubles received, a total of 125. Not knowing how much this is actually worth, she goes to a nearby pastry shop to look at the prices, only for her jaw to drop at the low prices.

“...This is surely what Sela must feel like.” - she thinks to herself, before moving on looking for a bar.
Eventually she stumbles across an aviation themed bar, called “Top Gun”, with an intricate logo made up of Tom Cruise and Anthony Edwards, in movie attire, holding pints of beer in front of a parked F-14 Tomcat.
“Now THIS is the bar for me!” says Ranni, with a very excited look on her face.

Walking inside, there are numerous photos of military and civilian aircraft on the walls, as well as portraits of famous people that have drank at the bar, arranged in a pyramid from least to most famous, with Tom Cruise and Anthony Edwards at the very top.

Ranni takes a seat at the bar, surrounded by men of all shapes and sizes, most of whom seem to be or have been aviators themselves. She is approached by the bartender, an old man in his 60’s, wearing an old soviet pilot jumpsuit showing some signs of wear in a few points, as well as a couple drops over the fabric which can presumably only be liquor.
“Hello Miss, how may I help you?” - he asks.
Ranni, not understanding what the bartender said, responds in Markish, hoping he is bilingual.
“I’m sorry, I’m not from around here. Do you speak Markish, by any chance?” - she says.
“I do! I assume you must be a tourist?” - he asks, trying to make small talk.
“Sort of. I’m on a business trip. In any case, what beer would you recommend?”
“Well that depends, do you want to try local beer?” - replies the bartender.
“Sure, why not.” - she says.
“Well in that case, I recommend Robema. It's one of the best beers in Rhastov. Do you want blonde or brown?”
“I’ll go for a brown beer, then” - says Ranni, knowing it will have more alcohol.
“That's quite a bit of alcohol for a lady, but alright.” - says the bartender
“I’m no ordinary lady when it comes to drinking, then.” - she says, with a slight smirk on her face. - “How much do I owe you?”
“Two rubles.”
“Damn, that is a lot cheaper than I expected.” - she says before paying the man and tipping him double.
The bartender brings her a pint of brown beer with a thick layer of foam on the top. She lifts the glass up and does a cheer, saying something in a language that the bartender finds familiar but not quite at the tip of his tongue in remembering where from before he turns to answer another customer. Ranni takes a first sip before the foam has a chance to settle down.
“Hey, this tastes really good!” - Ranni says back at the bartender who only takes but a mere glance at her and nodding before returning to speak with another customer. Seconds only pass before he finishes addressing the customer and he then turns back to Ranni, wondering where the glass of beer in her hand disappeared before he realizes she had already placed it down on the bar table, completely and utterly empty.

That is when it hits him. The language she spoke earlier was Christbolian.

Across the bar, a group of men were sitting at a table, drinking beer and giggling to themselves. They were pilots of the Rhastovian Air Force, off duty.

“Have you guys seen that girl over there chug that entire pint down in one sip?” - says one of the men.
“What? That can’t be. A man? Sure, but a woman? That’s impossible.” - says another.
“I wish I was kidding. Look, look, she’s about to order another one.”

They watch amazed as Ranni proceeds to chug down another pint like she has the power to erase the space between her and the glass.

“You should go talk to her, Silviu.” says one of them, chuckling.
“Nah, I don’t want to. She’s way too out of my league.” - he says.
“I bet 20 rubles you’ll go talk to her.” - says another one of the pilots, trying to hide his laughter.
“... Let me see the money.” - replies Silviu. His friend quickly pulls out a fresh-looking bonafide 20 ruble bill. - “Well?” - His friend asks, nodding in the direction of the bar.
Silviu snatches the bill from his hand, finishes his drink in one sip and sits next to Ranni.
Silviu opens up in Markish, figuring Ranni for a foreigner. - “Hi. I’m Silviu. You don’t seem from around here.”
“Oh hey! I’m Ranni. What makes you think I’m not from around here?” - she replies
“Well, first of all, you’re wearing a very thin jacket despite it being freezing cold outside, and second of all, you are in a bar chugging beer like a jet engine guzzles fuel.” he replies, in a joking voice. Usually, Silvius' autism rebranding a comment into plane jokes doesn’t work on any girls, but with Ranni he just got plain lucky.
Ranni giggles at the remark, for Silviu, a girl laughing at any of his jokes is a first. - “You got me! I’m not from here. I’m from ChristBol.” - Ranni replies in her cheery voice.
“What are you doing all the way here? Are you on holiday?”
“Business trip. I’m not a local but I don’t think December is a great time for a holiday at a beach town in a country known for very cold winters.”
“Fair enough. What job do you have?”
“I’m a pilot! What about you?”
“Ah that explains it. You’re a commercial pilot, I assume. I’m also a pilot.” - he says, trying to show off, a tactic that occasionally works more than his jokes.
“Oh no no no, I’m not a commercial pilot! I’m a fighter pilot!” - she says, with a snarky tone, honestly happy that she’s able to correct him. It is quite a point of pride for her.
“What? No way you’re a fighter pilot!” - he says, surprised.
“Because I’m a girl?”
“No, it’s because we were never notified about Christbol detaching an air wing here.”
“Because they didn’t deploy any air wings here. I’m here for a different kind of business trip.”

They continued talking for a while as Silviu’s friends were watching from across the bar, surprised.

“They’ve been talking for quite a while. What do you think they’re talking about?” - says one of them.
“I don’t know. But whatever it is, she seems really interested.” - replies another.
“Are you sure she isn’t just drunk?”
“She’s clearly a paid actor. No woman as beautiful as her would talk to an idiot like Silviu.” - replies another.

A few more minutes pass before Ranni receives a call from Sela, telling her to come back to the hotel and prepare to go to the engine factory.
In a hurry, Ranni explains she has to leave and writes her number on one of the receipts for the beers.

Silviu returns to his friends, holding the receipt in one hand.

“She had to leave, but she gave me her number!” he says, with a smug look on his face, and cockyness so tangible it could be cut through with a knife.
“Yeah I'd also like to leave if I was a girl and had to talk to you.” - says one of them.
“There's no way Captain Autism managed to score with a girl.” - replies another.
“Are you sure that’s her actual number and she didn’t just write a fake one?” - replies one of them, in complete disbelief.
“I should call grandma to ask her if her pigs grew wings and started flying away…” - mumbles another to himself loud enough for everyone else to hear him.
“How did you fumble a six out of ten but managed to score an eleven out of ten!?”
“Don’t be so brash guys, I wasn’t even trying to score. She’s way too out of my league for me to be anything but a friend.” - says Silviu, trying to alleviate the situation.
“Did you tell her that? Did you just friendzone yourself?” - reply the others, one after another in their own ways.
“We just had a friendly conversation, that’s it.” replies Silviu, trying to enjoy the new beer he brought with him from the bar to the table.

Eventually they leave, but Silviu forgot the receipt with Ranni’s number on the table, and didn't notice.

[Christbol]

-snip

Ranni returns to the hotel, with a very happy expression on her face.

“Where the hell have you been?” - asks Sela, slightly annoyed.
“I went for a stroll around downtown, see what Rhastov is like.” - replies Ranni.
“For four hours? What did you do? Stare at every cat and dog you came across?”
“I went to an aviation themed bar… Did you know Tom Cruise also went there?” - exclaims Ranni, full of joy.
“So you went to drink for four hours straight instead of focusing on your job?” - comments Sela, visibly annoyed.
“What? No! Of course I didn't drink for four four hours straight. I also started talking to this cute guy at that bar. He’s really sweet too. And also a pilot just like me!”
“You’re here for work, not to try and get a boyfriend.”

They eventually make their way to a tram station nearby, checking the schedule and map. Tram 44 was the only one going to and from the engine factory, which was outside of the city, on a hill overlooking Satoka.

The trip to the factory went very smoothly: Rhastov seems to have an idea of how to make the trains run on time far better than a lot of other public transit found in ChristBol. Furthermore with such a low population density there was even room to sit, something Ranni didn’t often have the privilege of finding back home. Stumbling onto a seat to sit down at a Weltholm underground tramway by comparison was like winning the lottery. A curious thing Ranni noticed was that none of the staff passing her by and checking her ticket smelled of alcohol, which was also a staunch contrast from a lot of Christbolians.

The train made its way to its final stop, ahead of the engine factory. The factory was a pretty huge complex with lots of halls, warehouses and smokestacks. Walking down from the station Ranni couldn’t get the image of Silviu out of her head: admittedly, she thought he was pretty cute, though she could tell out of an airplane that he wasn’t used to talking to any girls and she didn’t need to be a failed psychology student to figure that out… her brain begins to argue perhaps that is why she found him somewhat appealing over the usual rank and file military men who try hit on her?

Many more thoughts go through her head before subsiding after catching up to her own group within the facility. Acting as the glue holding the group together once again, Sela accepts a little tour from the director of the facility leading up to entering the hangar where the K-13 is held. Laroi and Ksjall follow diligently, with Laroi carrying a battery which can fit within the aircraft who’s battery the Rhastovians claimed died in transit.

The tour gave a very positive light of the facility: everything was very clean, many of the engineers did their jobs like clockwork, and engine manufacturing was ticking along the many different departments like a Swiss watch, in an impressive feat of synchronicity. It was as if they expected the Earthly Voice himself to come down and observe the comings and goings of the whole plant.

The director takes them outside towards the hangar where the K-13 prototype was stored. Outside of the hangar, two armed guards were guarding the little facility.

“For months we have tried to get into the guts of the plane to see what we can do to replace its cooling systems, but we were unable to. But don’t worry about the plane, our talented engineers took very good care of it while waiting for you. It should be just like new!” - states the director, before opening one of the small side doors into the hangar. In reality, the director hasn’t done much speaking to the engineers or the staff guarding the hangar since the day they brought the plane in, because otherwise he’d know that the situation inside was well past looking salvageable for his reputation.

Inside, it looked like a scene from a mental asylum with latin phrases written over the walls, as well as “Begone Satan”, also in Latin having been written in chalk on one of the sides of the K-13’s fuselage. Out of the few engineers who were tasked with watching over the aircraft, one was laying flat on the ground, face first, doused in a pool of some transparent liquid, with nobody sure whether he was dead, unconscious or dissolving in some acid, though many assumed he just passed out from drinking too much. Salt piles were also running a full circle around the plane as well, for some odd reason.

“...What in the actual fuck.” - says Ksjall, trying to comprehend the events happening before his very eyes.
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY BABY!?” - screams Laroi full of rage. Even Ksjall was caught off guard, who usually had to tolerate his discontent the most.
“We were trying to exorcize the plane that YOU for some reason decided to trap a demon inside of!” - replies one of the Rhastovian engineers, who was clearly drunk, wearing an old overall covered in engine oil and probably vodka.
“...I hope we finish this plane and then come back here and wipe out all traces of you both biological and cultural.” - says Laroi, incredibly pissed gripping to the spare battery, but surprisingly calm-headed, which made the comment seem remarkably scarier.
“When we hooked up a generator to the battery ports the plane’s fuselage started moving in very weird ways, with gaps opening and closing in the wings!” - replies the Rhastovian engineer between hiccups.
“I’m sorry, you did WHAT?” - in a short but sudden burst, Ksjall looks almost as mad as Laroi.
“Yeah, the battery died so we decided to hook it up to a generator and try to replicate the battery’s operation!” - exclaims Marian.
“There’s… rust over this wing… how the HELL did you manage to make carbon fiber RUST!?” - says Laroi, incredibly confused and angry.

As Laroi whacks the drunk engineer through a surprising feat of adrenaline and wrath induced superhuman strength with the battery he had been gripping for so long, which was actually quite unlike him, an Orthodox priest comes through one of the other side doors, carrying a large bag.
“I’m so sorry for being late, the traffic was horrible. Where is that thing you wanted me to try and exorcize?” - says the priest, unzipping the bag he had just dropped on the floor, taking out various tools like a crucifix and holy water.
“What’s with the priest?” - responds Ranni, incredibly confused.
“This is incredibly bad timing, father.” - says the drunk engineer, rubbing his face trying to make the pain of Laroi’s battery assault go away.

The Rhastovian and Christbolian engineers continue to argue for a while, blaming each other for everything under the sun. Meanwhile Ranni walked over to a man in blue overalls, sitting on a makeshift bench out of wooden crates, watching TikTok on his phone, as he seemed the only one sane in this entire facility.

“Hi, so what the hell happened to the aircraft before we came here?” - she asks in Markish, hoping the man is bilingual.
“I don’t know either. One second Marian and Andrei were arguing over whether the plane is made out of aluminum or carbon fiber, then the next second the plane got covered in weird markings and surrounded by salt to ‘drive off bad spirits’ or whatever.” - he responds, putting his phone away.
The one engineer passed out drunk was eventually escorted away from the premises by some guards.

After even more arguing and obscenities, notably Laroi telling Marian and Andrei they should be ‘removed out of the gene pool’, the Christbolian engineers show the remaining Rhastovians how to operate the K-13 in a manner that won’t accidentally cause the aircraft to disintegrate.
After opening the cockpit, questions from the Rhastovians started flowing like a waterfall, mainly related to translations.

“What does polttoaineen mean? Because when we put it on Google Translate, it says it means both table salt, and fuel pump.” - asks Marian.
“It obviously means fuel pump, why the hell would a plane need a button for table salt?” - responds Andrei, mad that he has to have the same conversation again.
“Actually, it means table salt. Poltoaineen, with a single t, is fuel pump.” - intervenes Ranni.
“I TOLD YOU!” - replies Marian with a smug look on his face.
“You must be joking, right? Why would you need a table salt dispenser?” - responds Andrei in disbelief.
“We get hungry sometimes up in the air, and our military rations aren’t very salted.” - she replies with a straight face.
“I TOLD YOU IT’S BECAUSE THEY GET HUNGRY! I TOLD YOU!” - exclaims Marian trying to hold his laughter.

Andrei proceeds to push him and mumble some obscenities.

For the next hour, the team spends time scrubbing the chalk writing off of the plane, as well as cleaning up the salt piles along with any other mess the engineers made. The priest is also sent home though Marian is adamant about keeping the holy water he brought.

As night falls, the Christbolian team leaves to go back to their hotel. From the tram station, the entire city could be seen, brightly lit up like a Christmas tree.
Back at the hotel, Laroi in particular drank his woes away that evening back at the hotel bar, with even Ksjall to everyone’s surprise joining Laroi in a rare outtake of them getting along.

Sela, who had taken her work laptop with her to the facility, downloaded the logs from the on-board AI which tracked everything the engineers have been doing to the plane for the past month. Most of the log by the AI seems to just be the words “Please stop.” written over and over and over again, specifically within 5,879 rows of repetition. By the time Ksjall and Laroi come back from the bar, they hear Selas constant laughing through her door and through the walls between them. Everything the engineers had done the cameras all around the plane had recorded, and for a while Sela thought she had on her hands some absolutely amazing material for a comedy show.

Ranni, building the model she had bought in Rhastov upon arriving yesterday, was patiently waiting for a call on her phone from Silviu, which unbeknownst to her would never actually happen, because Silviu is an idiot. A few kilometers away from the hotel, in Silviu’s apartment, he was also thinking about the aforementioned statement as he tore every nook and cranny of his room upside down trying to find the receipt with Ranni’s number, before it hit him.

“I FORGOT IT AT THE BAR!” - he exclaims, hit by a wave of both realization and sadness like a freight train.