King of the Ashes (IC, CWS, TG for Invite)

A staging-point for declarations of war and other major diplomatic events. [In character]
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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

King of the Ashes (IC, CWS, TG for Invite)

Postby Acroticus » Sat May 07, 2022 7:58 am


1. The OP/Co-OP’s word is final.
2. No godmodding – try and be as realistic as possible while keeping artistic flair.
3. No metagaming – OOC knowledge does not transfer to your IC characters/nations.
4. Keep OOC in the OOC thread (be civil!) and vice versa.
5. No inadequate IC posts (I.E. No one liners, grammar and spelling to be at a decent standard).
6. If you are not in The Commonwealth Society, you must send Acroticus a telegram request to join.

Participating Nations:

Acroticus - The Aderan Republic of Acroticus (The Aderan Republic) - OP

Saint-Auguste - The Principality of Saint-Auguste - CoOP

Indibus - The Republic of Indibus - Puppet State

Kottsuki - The Free Republic of Kottsuki

Czaslyudian Peoples - Federal Republic of Czaslyudian Peoples

Kherkov - The People's Empire of Kherkov

Viperia - The Socialist Republic of Viperia

Sanguinem Sanctorum - The Theocracy of Sanguinem Sanctorum




May 7, 2022 2:78 ACT - The final results of the Indibusian election are in, with Socialist Party’s Rowan Devi having officially won a second term as Praetor. This will be the first time in Indibusian history that a member of the Socialist Party has won a second term as Praetor. The election was fairly close, with exit polls showing Devi only 3 points ahead of his primary opponent, Garel Ismaen of the Golden Front. Ismaen, a former Senator and multimillionaire, did not take his defeat lightly. Just half an hour after the Election Commission officially projected the winner, Ismaen spoke to his followers at his headquarters outside the capital city of Hitsyasha.

“This was not a failure on our part,” Ismaen announced to a crowd of fans. “We did not fail, you did not fail… it is the Socialists, and the Republicans, and the Orangists that failed us. The leaders of these parties… conspired to steal this election from us, and by deceit, bribery, fraud, and treason, they have done so…. This election has been outright and illegally stolen.” Ismaen continued to denounce a number of leaders of the Socialist and Orangist parties, including Aman Hirgha, the de facto leader of the Orangist Party, before claiming he would fight the election results.

“I’m not worried about it,” said Devi when asked about his opponent’s refusal to concede. “People are excited about what we’ve done here today. No one can take that away from us.”

Ismaen’s defeat comes after the most divisive political campaign in modern Indibusian history. Ismaen’s party, the Golden Front, is a far-right nationalist party founded in 2004, but which rose to power during the economic downturn of 2012. By 2012, the Golden Front was garnering nearly 28% of the vote, on par with the Socialist Party (24%) and the Orangist Party (31%). The precipitous rise of the Golden Front has made many uneasy, especially due to its concurrent rise with the Golden Legion, a paramilitary organization funded by the Golden Front. This organization was officially formed to provide additional assistance “deterring crime” in Indibus’s many cities. However, many of its members have been prosecuted for unlawful use of force, generally against foreigners. The Golden Legion’s public murder of an Aderan family in 2016 turned the nation against them, and the Godlen Front lost seats in the 2017 election.

However, the recent economic downturn, blamed largely on international events, has led to a rise in the support of the Golden Front. Ismaen polled over 40% for the first time, only being defeated by Devi after receiving the endorsements of the leaders of a number of parties including the Orangist Party and the Republican Party. Low turnout, and alleged voter intimidation increased Ismaen’s prospects, worrying nations worldwide that Indibus would turn away from the international community. With today’s election results in, certainly many are breathing a sigh of relief.

Why this Election Mattered

Indibus is a large nation, with a population of over 39 million and a landmass of over 2.6 million square miles, the nation has great significance. While relatively isolated from the rest of the world, Indibus remains one of the region's largest exporters of uranium, sand, and salt. In addition, the nation is a top provider of steel, an important commodity for countries around the world. Since its freedom from Acroticus in 1962, Indibus has maintained a policy of free trade with many nations, and has heavily traded with the Aderan Republic. To date, nearly 71% of uranium used in Acrotician nuclear energy production comes from Indibus.

The Golden Front, however, threatened to cut off trade with Indibus’s traditional trading partners, and close the nation’s borders in an effort to develop domestic industry and prevent immigration. According to the Acrotician Council on Economic Welfare, these actions would have drastically increased the price of electronics throughout the region, as well lead to the impoverishment of the Indibusian population. A large number of people in Indibus are already struggling, with a poverty rate of over 10.5% in 2021.

In addition, the Golden Front’s foreign allies appear to have played a part in influencing the election. A report by the Indibusian Center for Free and Fair Elections (ICFFE) found that over 200 million Darami was poured into Ismaen’s campaign from sources outside Indibus. The ICFFE was unable to determine exactly where the money was coming from, but the report suggests that a number of international funders of authoritarian movements may have played a role.

Finally, many within and without the country were worried about Ismaen’s anti-democratic tendencies. Ismaen had long questioned the legitimacy of elections, and had been more than willing to use the Golden Legion to prevent his opponent’s supporters from voting. At a Socialist Party campaign stop in February, the Golden Legion had blocked the door, preventing Devi from entering. And a number of Socialist Party Senators have received death threats from the Golden Legion.

What Now?

While Ismaen claims he will challenge the election, there are few options for him to do so, according to Irana Khardi, an Indibusian election lawyer. “The Indibus Election Commission will likely announce its final ruling in the morning, after which Ismaen may file an appeal. But they will have to bring evidence of election interference, which they have yet to bring forward. Regardless, a national election has never been seriously questioned by the Indibusian courts, and it seems unlikely that this one will be the first.”

Ismaen’s tantrum may result in unrest among the Golden Legion, however. The Legion has already shown itself to lack restraint, and Ismaen’s rhetoric does not help. The threat is real for foreigners that might draw the ire of the Legion, as well as Socialist Party officials who are being warned by police to avoid members of the Legion if at all possible.
Last edited by Acroticus on Tue May 17, 2022 12:54 pm, edited 5 times in total.

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Capitalist Paradise

Postby Kottsuki » Sat May 07, 2022 1:43 pm

May 5th, 2022
Lower Kottsuki City; Ministry of Economy & Trade

A sharply dressed steward quietly enters an office overlooking Kottsuki harbor; announcing his presence to his superior, Minister of Economy Kanno Tadashi, only after a respectful bow.
Kanno didn't even see the young steward bow, preoccupied with a phone call. The steward always refrained from listening in on Minister's conversations, but he couldn't fail but notice that Kanno was speaking in a near fluent Basque.

After the steward's short announcement, Kanno seamlessly turned towards him, continuing his conversation.
The steward made a hand gesture resembling a spider twitching his legs while holding up a nameless folder. Kanno gestured him to put the folder on the desk; after doing so, the steward subsequently left.

Kanno fell back into his chair, and gazed upon the endless blue sky, only cut by the dark blue ocean. He sighed, as the person on the other end of the phone kept passionately rambling and pleading. Although the person in question made some good points, the answer was going to be a hard no, no matter what. Always was and always will be; as per the instructions of the major investors regarding this specific deal. Yet Kanno sat through his rambling, even asking the person to elaborate further. He didn't do this because he felt bad for the person, but rather because it was the only way for him to relax; from the moment Kanno puts down the phone, in the proceeding 30 seconds, the phone ringing again is all but guaranteed. As such this hopeless and pathetic person could be safely ignored, and Kanno could focus on the horizon.

Finally he turned around, and took out a plate from his drawer. He opened the folder that the steward brought in, inside of which was a single yellow paper. Quite old fashioned, true, but things like these are better kept outside the endless pit of government servers.

The paper said:
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

DATE: 5th of May 2022


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

On 12th of April our agents made contact with senior members of [REDACTED] as agreed, in hopes of coming to a mutual understanding.
The negotiations were a success, and the members that we have contacted have agreed on terms attached on the other side of the document.
In exchange we pledged our short term support. The meeting proceeded-


Earlier today at 04:00 local time, a multitude of shipments were delivered and picked up by junior [REDACTED] members at Southern Charrahlem harbor.

The initial shipments included;

30 Kherkov-sourced MBTs

50 Domestic-sourced APCs

4000 Demesetelis-sourced Storm Rifles



1. Increase funding to [REDACTED] in the interest of rallying more civilians to their cause.

2. Contact the Digital Information Division and utilize [REDACTED] platforms to spread favorable information among the populace

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

In reality, Kanno didn't know much about what goes on in the famed TR Division; he received their reports, causally approved them, and burned the documents. The TR Division is not to be questioned, it's a very public state secret, and if Kanno doesn't play ball with them, he's sure to end up carrying crates around the harbor situated far below his window; weirdly enough, even if he didn't get much say in their operations, he got a weird sense of power every time he approved their diabolical plans. He didn't feel responsible, because he wasn't. If he didn't sign it off, somebody else would've!

As the flame consumed the thin paper he brought the phone up to his ear.

"Erantzuna ezetz da, agur"
Last edited by Kottsuki on Sat May 07, 2022 1:48 pm, edited 3 times in total.
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Czaslyudian Peoples
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Posts: 8
Founded: Apr 14, 2022
Corporate Police State

Postby Czaslyudian Peoples » Sat May 07, 2022 10:00 pm

Yemelyan Pugachov Building
22:23 CESTZ
Sevyich, FRCP

“And?” The reply, indifferent and impatient, rang across the room.

Vadimir (shortened to Vadim) Antonovych Bezukhov, thrice named Hero of the Czaslyudian Peoples, twice decorated with the highest military awards without serving any meaningful enlistment, and praised on the daily by puppeteered state media organizations, thought himself a great man. As Principle Chairman, he was entitled to think so. Despite the so-called democratization pleaded for by the masses, the Principle Chairman’s office still was the foremost and principal power in Czaslyudiya. A fickle Premier and rambling National Assembly under corporate pay were created after the Civil War to contest the power of a Principle Chairman, but if that office had any degree of competence they were nothing more than bumps in the road. Bezukhov made clear that he thought so, and his ‘part’ of the government thought similarly. Why should he pay some bureaucrats any attention to the mundaneness of petty governance when he was in control of the nation on the world stage, both diplomatically and militarily? They ought to dissolve themselves since some tweed-brained Constitution prevented him from doing so himself. Legally.

And it was minutiae that could be handled by someone else that truly rubbed Bezukhov the wrong way. Every day, his schedule was inundated with briefings, the writing of memorandums, public addresses-- as if he even owed the public anything, never mind his time. Today, it was a briefing on Indibus. Bezukhov grunted as soon as he heard the name; under his direction did the FRCP forge its relations with the former colony. Now, they provided no insignificant amount of uranium to their-- to his-- nuclear forces, and despite his feelings on being talked down to by an analyst-- an overconfident aparatnyy-- he lent the young man as much attention as he could muster.

They were visibly reeling from the comment, he saw. The analyst stood before a presentation screen, his glasses glimmering in the projector’s light and obscuring a young, freckled face. With all his annoyance, Bezukhov could not help but sympathize with the boy. When Bezukhov was that young, he was fervently polishing the shoes of his superior.

Straightening his tie, the analyst stammered into a response. “Even though the official Indibusian election is done and over with, it’s still very much in the air. Whether the Golden Front and the paramilitary troupe decide it’s over is what matters.”

The Chairman of the Department of War spoke next, between sips of coffee. “Predictions?”

“Well, the Golden Front is in position to delay or even muddle the election results, politically speaking. With violence, there’s a great many things you can get away with. But if they fail, and in my opinion it’s fifty-fifty on that, they are also poised to take the country by force. Whether they are actually able to do that militarily is out of my expertise.” The analyst responded, fiddling with the slides. “In short, it’s going to get ugly, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Shapovalov.” Stated the Chairman for the Department of Foreign Relations in a way that read like a farewell but sounded like an order. Mister Shapovalov found his way to the door without giving his presentation a second thought. “Well, what do you think, Sasha?”

The Chairman (Department of War) leaned back in their chair, their eyes locked on the presentation, which remained a photograph of Ismaen. “It’ll be tricky,” Sasha said slowly, “but I think we could gain from this.”

Bezukhov laughed. “You’re not seriously suggesting that we invade?”

Sasha shook his head vehemently. It helped to be clear with the Principle Chairman. “No, no. My Department has more applications than brute force, you know.”

The Chairman (Foreign Relations) scoffed. “Your so-called spies are the bottom of the barrel. Nothing more than grunts forced to read a spy novel. We can’t do this op with them.”

Bezukhov cocked his head. “Should we bring the Department of Internal Security in on the operation?”

“But--” Sasha sputtered, before returning in a low voice, “--we can’t expand this to the rest of the government. There’ll be no operational security when the Premier’s aide snitches to some rat media publication.”

Grudgingly, the Chairman of FoRel nodded. “He’s right. To get to the DoIS, we’d need to go past Serhiyenko. And we all know where his heart lies-- Korf!” Eduard Serhiyenko’s appointment to the office of Premier was largely regarded by Bezukhov to have been checking boxes-- nothing but a show of solidarity, displaying the semi-autonomous Republic of Korf’s unity with the Federal Republic. Bezukhov also regarded Serhiyenko as a blabbermouth.

“Well, nobody said we’d have to go through the Premier. Isn’t it true that most of the Department of Internal Security are veterany?” Bezukhov inquired, his gaze clouded with thought.

“So’s most of the government from Assembly to the municipal level. Who’s really not a veteran at this rate?” Chairman (FoRel) said with a measured indifference.

“Many of them fought for the Opposition Bloc back in the day then, no? What if we tried to snatch them that way? I’d even go so far as to excuse all their debts for this operation, as well as putting them in a general’s pension plan.” Bezukhov said, leaning back with a clever grin on his face.

Still perplexed, the head of the Department of War nodded slowly. “That’d work.”

“Good. Then do it,” Bezukhov said. “Now, as for the rest of the plan…”

FRCP Embassy Building
20:03 local time
Hitsyasha, Indibus

As the sun fell over Indibus, Antonina Kozava decided it was too late to continue working. It would come back to bite her, she knew, but she had been working the FRCP’s post in Hitsyasha for fourteen years, and never before had it been this busy. The uncertainty of the political situation had led many Czaslyudian citizens to feel uneasy, particularly with the surge in paramilitary activity and anti-foreign sentiments. When any citizen abroad feels uneasy, they invariably do the same thing-- run to the embassy to get out as soon as possible.

But as she retired from her office, Kozava would be interrupted by one more task.

Tovarysh, there is a call for you.” Said a secretary as she passed down the hall of the embassy. She groaned in exasperation. It had better be important, Antonina thought to herself.

Willfully neglecting to turn on the lights of her office and instead choosing to fumble around on her desk until she found her phone, she nodded to the secretary outside. “Put them through.” As the message of the call was delivered, her eyes widened. The ambassador’s duties were about to get much worse.

* * *

“They said you’re to open this,” Kozava said. She was not happy; forced at an ungodly hour of the night to suddenly be pressed to remember crucial details, and then play mailman to people she just now realized were more than they seemed. She held in her hand a sealed envelope that contained an encrypted message she had printed on the orders of the other end of the line-- and even though the ambassador could not understand the ciphers she was instructed not to view them at any time.

“Oh?” The recipient said innocently. Though otherwise a very solid, professional man, one thing that got under the ambassador’s skin was Orest Morshun’s ability to act off-the-cuff and indifferent about everything. The man was nearly as old as Antonina was, and had no right to be as good-humored as he was, particularly considering his position as a meager diplomatic officer. As far as permanent positions at the embassy went, being a diplomatic officer was as good as entry-level.

But something in the way that Morshun checked the seal on the envelope to confirm its security and read swiftly through its contents told the ambassador that he was something more than what he seemed. As soon as he had apparently taken the time to memorize the document, he set to burning it with a cheap cigarette lighter and setting the blazing remains in a metal paper bin.

“What the hell’s going on here, Morshun?” Kozava demanded.

Morshun smiled uncharacteristically, revealing many of the crumples on his face to be smile lines. “I’m afraid not, tovarysh-ambassador. Need-to-know basis only, you understand.” Morshun got up to leave.

“Where’re you going at this hour, Morshun?” The ambassador interrogated.

On the threshold of the embassy before the moonlit night, the diplomatic officer stopped and considered some unknown proposition before finally answering, “I’ve forgotten-- I have to pick up a package.”

* * *

Airports across the world all have one thing in common-- they never stop no matter the hour but shirk the instant a slight summer squall comes within earshot. The one in Hitsyasha was no different. Bearing directly south, a marginal tropical depression delayed a passenger flight in such a way that it needed to land and refuel at a completely different airfield before making the final leg to the international airport in Hitsyasha.

Upon arrival, it was well beyond midnight but the breakfast stalls that dotted the sprawling interior of the structure had begun to open and push out coffee. It would take more than coffee to rejuvenate Ruslan Ishchuk after his nine-hour flight. The man was a tired, but equally vigorous figure. Like most Czaslyudian men his age, after his mandatory military service he kept his athletic habits up, not to mention his smoking and drinking ones. His brown hair was unkempt by military standards, though spartan to the untrained civilian eye, and he kept it combed across his hairline so his eyes could keep their focus on business.

He stepped away from the stream of passengers disembarking from the jetway behind him and scanned his surroundings-- Ruslan was looking for someone from the embassy waiting on them; as such, he narrowed his search to people that looked like him. As he had hoped, he discovered another Czaslyudian doing just that.

Ishchuk approached the wiry figure; he looked to be about fifty years old, but every hair on his head and beard had been bleached white by age. He squinted with persistent eyes, betraying a slightly amused glint every once in a while. Evidently, this old man spotted Ruslan before he spotted him.

Ruslan offered his hand. “Khorunzhy Ruslan Ischuk, reporting for duty.” He said, working to overcome the noise of the crowd. Instead of several solid shakes, the old man seemed to whip his hand up and down three times before releasing.

“Orest Morshun. I’m with the embassy. You were sent with diplomatic packages, no?” The old man asked, directing Ishchuk to walk with him.

“Yes sir; official diplomatic cargo, processed separately from passenger cargo. Why?” Ishchuk was careful not to ask what was in that cargo.

“Ah, yes. My task, apart from greeting you, is to ensure the embassy receives and properly distributes that cargo. I hope you’ll forgive my lack of formality.”

“It’s no problem,” Ishchuk responded. He was used to being used as a petty courier. “My question is, why such the hurry with these packages?” He chuckled. “Couldn’t this have waited until morning?”

Morshun gave a delayed smile before it dried up. “Yes-- the packages, as I am told, contain the electronic parts needed to operate some new decryption hardware, straight from the capital. They’re incredibly sensitive, so never mind the bulk. They had to package them very securely.” Morshun stated. It was the response he was instructed to give. “Now, I understand you work with the Department of Internal Security, correct?”

Ruslan nodded. “Correct. I specialize in counterintelligence, which was the only thing that made sense before I got here, escorting these packages.”

“Counterintelligence, you say? Well, that’s certainly handy!” Morshun said in a raised voice. “You know, I have a feeling some of our plumbers are enemy spies!” He finished raucously. “More seriously, let’s get those packages to where they need to go. Coffee?”

"Americanism is a question of principle, of idealism, of character. It is not a matter of birthplace, or creed, or line of descent."
— Theodore Roosevelt
"Вечнасць для Czaslyudiya!"

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Postby Saint-Auguste » Sun May 08, 2022 7:50 am

National Council HQ
Les Trois-Îlets, Saint-Auguste


Florentin Delon, the ambitious Minister of Foreign Affairs who is 35 yet looks as if he had only just graduated from university, was getting ready to leave for the National Council gathering and had received news of the Indibusian election via his phone. Florentin was of the opinion that the lesser of two evils had won this election. Florentin only had Saint-Auguste's interests in mind, the trade was the important thing. With Rowan Devi in power trade would not be disrupted, although the Socialists were not exactly pleasant to deal with for Florentin, who is a Saint-Augustine to the bone with capitalism pumping through his veins... But business came first, political ideals came second, as was always the old way for the Saint-Augustines.

Florentin knew that the situation in Indibus was rather similar to the situation in Saint-Auguste's own former colony, Ségou. Saint-Auguste still held massive influence over Ségou, and the government and crown wished to keep it that way. Thus, Florentin knew that Saint-Auguste would have to set an example with how they would respond if Ismaen escalated his claims. Democracy was important to Florentin, and to the interests of Saint-Auguste and their not-so-secret neo-colonial hold over their former colonial empire.

The National Council had assembled for its weekly gathering. The beating Augustine sun bathed the National Council HQ building in heat, however the 600-year-old building had thick sandstone walls which kept in the cold. The few windows the building had were either just decorative or were covered to avoid the press. Florentin was at the stand briefly to give updates on various international situations that Saint-Auguste was involved in, he did not mention the situation in Indibus as few in Saint-Auguste even knew of this region and Florentin had to consult with the rest of the government before making any comments.

Immediately after the council had finished, Florentin called Jean-Paul Thévenet, the Minister of State of Saint-Auguste, to inform him of the situation before Jean-Paul was to speak at the joint armed forces conference at the Canala Armed Forces Training Centre, as Florentin knew by then news would have reached those ready to question Jean-Paul at the event.

Canala Armed Forces Training Centre
Saule Noir, Canala, Saint-Auguste


Jean-Paul was the final Minister of State chosen by the late Prince Eugène III, and has been in power since 2015 and is set to remain until 2025. He encapsulates all of Prince Eugène's ideals and has kept a relatively low profile despite running the country on a day-to-day basis. Jean-Paul is a royalist, and has always remained in-line with the monarch, and allowed much space for the monarch to make decisions. Since the death of Prince Eugène many thought he would step down due to being out of favour with Princess Stéphanie, but he has appeared to resume his work as usual. A humble and calm man, he spoke slow with bulletproof confidence in every word he said.

Dressed in a pristinely fitted dark grey suit, Jean-Paul was ready to speak to military personnel and to answer some questions from the press about the joint military and police training taking place in Canala. A routine visit, Jean-Paul was extremely familiar with such a setting. He was surprised to see Florentin was trying to ring him just before he was due to speak.

"Florentin, I have about 2 minutes, speak to me." Jean-Paul spoke as he always did, even with time pressure such as this, slow and calm.

"Rowan Devi has won in Indibus, Ismaen will contest the result, we both know he is unpredictable, and that he has the Golden Legion at his bidding. You may be asked about this." Florentin spoke quickly to get the message across as fast as possible.

"Thanks Florentin, I suppose this is good and bad news. We will monitor the situation... that is our comment for now. We will gather the Crown Council upon my return to Les Trois-Îlets."

"À bientôt, Jean-Paul." Jean-Paul hung up the phone, the two had been colleagues for many years now, and had established a great working relationship and a strong pact within the Crown Council.


After discussing the need for more military and police cooperation and praising the event, Jean-Paul answered some questions from the press, some regarding the event, some regarding other matters. A journalist from a known far left-wing publication called "La Revue Mensuelle" stood to ask a question, a boy-like woman with short jet black hair, presumably dyed to stand out in Saint-Auguste. She wore thick-rimmed circular glasses that seemed to cover half of her face.

"Minister, news has come in that another socialist government has been elected in Indibus, but there are fears that the far-right opposition will react badly, would Saint-Auguste defend democracy if it came to it?" The journalist asked, obviously trying to provoke an answer that she wanted.

"I congratulate Mr Devi on his re-election, I look forward to our continued free trade. Regarding the opposition's challenges... we are monitoring the situation." Jean-Paul echoing his conversation with Florentin.


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New York Times Democracy

Postby Indibus » Mon May 09, 2022 9:06 pm

The Imhorchai, Hitsayasha
Inibusian Capital
May 9, 2022

“Well?”Jhaera asked. Iseri looked down at his notes. Jhaera Missah was the primary National Security Advisor to the Indibusian Praetor, or, in other words, the unofficial head of security policy. She had joined Praetor Devi’s previous administration, after working in the military for 13 years. As a person, she was direct, detailed, and, frankly, a little scary. Especially to Iseri, who was nearly 15 years younger. Iseri’s official job was deputy Chief of Staff, but he had made a name for himself with his work on military reform. Having been tasked with cutting waste in the military several years prior, Iseri had effectively scrapped old equipment and removed redundancies. However, he had also notes severe issues in the nation’s military, including corruption, malfunctioning equipment, and lack of effective training. The resulting report, released in December of 2020, had gotten little notice. Now, it appears to have taken on new importance.

Iseri nodded, and Jhaera turned and looked forward. The doors opened to Praetor Devi’s chamber to reveal the Praetor himself, at the head of his desk. The man appeared to have aged years in the past few days, with large bags under his eyes, new wrinkles, and frizzled hair. Iseri had rarely interacted directly with the Praetor, instead tending to work through his boss, the Chief of Staff, who was oddly nowhere to be found. That doesn’t mean the room was empty, and Iseri and Jhaera entered to a swarm of nearly 30 other men and women, all talking in their own small groups. As the door closed behind them, the Praetor raised his hand to usher in silence.

“I think everyone is here,” Devi began. “This room represents everyone not currently in the military chain of command that needs to know this information. It stays in this room.” The Praetor paused for effect, closing his eyes and rubbing them. “Reports from Charralem suggest that the Golden Legion has been armed with foreing weaponry. There’ve been no break-ins to our ammunition stores, and any weapons formerly stationed in the city are currently being removed. We do not know which countries are providing these weapons, but I just got off the phone with the Aderans; they’re looking into it.”

As far as Iseri was concerned, there were only a handful of nations who would be brash enough to support the Golden Legion. Of course, the weapons could have come from the stores of any number of foreign mercenary groups, but even if they had, it would have been at the bequest of one of a few names. The Aderans were fairly good at sniffing out the answers to questions like this; the worst kept secret regarding the Acrotician military was its massive intelligence operations. In fact, there was no doubt that the Aderan Republic of Acroticus had more intelligence capacity within the borders of Indibus that the Indibusian government itself.

“The other concern is Siram.” Praetor Devi continued. Siram was the only major city in Indibus not to be located on the coast, excluding Machallah, which has a lake coastline. Siram was a heavy supporter of Garel Ismaen, and Devi had lost the city by nearly 13%, which was an anomaly as most of the cities tended to vote for the Socialists. “The Golden Legion has a strong presence there and it looks like they are going to declare martial law. We’ve all seen the reports from the last few days, and we don’t expect that we will, in the short term, be able to stop what’s been put in motion. I’ve mobilized several divisions, but we’ve lost several thousand military personel. Frankly, we are scrambling to set up our logistics, which means we won’t be able to have boots on the ground for probably a week or more.”

As the Praetor finished his statement, the doors swung open. Several security guards dressed in suits rushed into the room, nearly knocking over a number of people as they ran to the Praetor. Grabbing Devi, the men physically pulled him towards the door, almost causing the increasingly fragile Praetor to fall to the ground. As they rushed him out, another guard turned to address the room.

“We need this room evacuated now.”

Indibus News Network Broadcast
May 10, 2022

The Imhorchai’s Press Secretary announced this morning that last night the Imhorchhai had been evacuated due to a threat by several men associated with the Golden Legion. The Praetor’s Office is not providing any further details, but the Praetor’s security detail noted that the attack was prevented, and the terrorists arrested. Praetor Rowan Devi took the poduim this morning to make his own announcements, stating that he was safe and healthy, but calling for an end to the violence that has taken hold across the country. Specifically, the Praetor called out the attacks in the cities of Siram and Charralem, and requested that his former electoral opponent Garel Ismaen call for peace. Ismaen has failed to do so as of yet, instead standing by his earlier comments of election fraud.

This morning, a press agent for Ismaen said that the Senator intended to continue the fight for Indibus, regardless of the lies put forth by the administration. This statement has already been condemned by a number of leaders in the Socialist, Orangist, and Republican Parties. Senators from the Golden Front have been supportive of Ismaen, and there are rumors of Senatorial walkouts of the certification of Devi’s electoral victory scheduled to take place this afternoon. Senator Miram Doicha of the Golden Front had this to say….
Last edited by Indibus on Mon May 09, 2022 9:08 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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Psychotic Dictatorship

Postby Kherkov » Tue May 10, 2022 2:05 pm

The Admiralty Offices

Grand Imperial Port


The rain pierced through the dark night sky, peppering the hulls of the hulking metal ships as the vessels ebbed slowly on the water in the grand port of Wolten-Darstel. The hour was late, but the port was always a hub of activity, especially the military section. Stony-faced sailors, marines, and various military men went about their duties in spite of the weather, their coats and uniforms a shade darker from the never-ending downpour. All were busy with the routine tasks that were necessary for a prolonged deployment, loading the last of the necessary provisions onto the ships. Above it all, a man observed the orderly commotion from a dimly-lit office. The room was filled with cigarette smoke and the clack of computer keyboards as the clerks typed away, their hands as busy as the men outside as they tied up the final administrative tasks they had been assigned. Stepping away from the window and stubbing out his cigarette, the observing man turned to face a guard, who was saluting as he relayed his message. With this, the man exited the observation room, heading to a smaller, more ornate office, his medals clanking with each step, and his jackboots thudding against the ground. As he entered the smaller room, the officer inside jumped up to salute, his coat still dripping from the rain.

“Prince Maximillian,” came the officer’s voice, “we are almost ready to sail.”

The Price saluted back as he headed to the desk in the centre of the room. “Wonderful to hear you are doing your job, Vice-Admiral,” he replied almost sarcastically as he sat down, indicating the Admiral should do the same. “I knew my faith in you was not misplaced for this operation.”

“It is an honour, Your Imperial Highness. I live for my duty, from the seas of Kaarland to those of Indibus.” Replied the Vice-Admiral eagerly.

“This pre-departure meeting is a formality, but a necessary one. I must ask again – I trust you understand the brief?” Quizzed the Prince.

The Vice-Admiral nodded. “Twice over, Your Imperial Majesty. We are ready.”

“Read it again. Your task force is a sizeable one, Vice-Admiral. The Kaiser – and I – have taken a great interest in your career. This is the reason for your command, and your promotion, at such an age.”

“I understand, Your Imperial Highness – I will not let the fatherland down.”

“You will not, Von Eidelburg. And you will do so by following my instructions to the letter, as well as leaning on the experience of the RVMP agents that I have sent along with you. Ensure they are able to keep communicating with our contacts on the island, and ensure that the assets are protected. We must be ready to act if our support is needed. Now, to your duty.”

The Vice-Admiral rose swiftly. “God and the Kaiser with me, Your Imperial Highness. With every Kherkovian!” He saluted, and exited the room.

The Prince lit another cigarette, turning to his computer screen. Checking over the letter he had been drafting, he finally decided it was ready, and sent it off to the Reichskommisariat for the Exterior to go through the appropriate channels. Heading back to the observation room, he managed to catch a glimpse of the Vice-Admiral exiting the building, watching him affix his naval officer’s cap to his head as he made a beeline to the gargantuan aircraft carrier. Maximillian watched as the ships began to depart, the oppressive rain violently pouring down all the while.

Kherkovian Imperial Communiqué
To: The Krepost Pact Nations (The Socialist Republic of Viperia), Krepost Observer States (The Imperium of Halleon, The Theocracy of Sanguinem Sanctorum, The Empire of The Blue Sakura)

Fellow Krepost States,

I am sure you all, much like the great nation of Kherkov, have been following events in Indibus with great attentiveness and interest. Our nation is committed to safety, security, and order, much like you all, and will take any means necessary to fulfil this commitment.

Mindful of last year’s events in the seas of Kemaria, and knowing all too well the incapability of liberal governments to keep order, we have taken swift, pre-emptive action by sending a naval task force to the seas of Indibus. The task force will patrol, observe, and – if necessary - strike down any menace that might try to take advantage of the rapidly deteriorating political situation on the island.

With the success of the joint Krepost operation around Kemaria in suppressing rogue activity, the People’s Empire of Kherkov invites all Krepost nations to join its heroic, holy, and eternal mission to strive for order in an orderless community. We all once again have a God-given chance to demonstrate to the Commonwealth, and the world, not only our capability for leadership, but our commitment to peace and order. With our combined might, we shall undoubtedly succeed.

Krepost Prevails.

His Imperial Highness Maximillian, Grand Admiral of the Reichsvolksmarine.
England expects that every man will do his duty.
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Czaslyudian Peoples
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Corporate Police State

Postby Czaslyudian Peoples » Tue May 10, 2022 2:21 pm

12th Mountain Division, Czaslyudian Land Forces
16:25 CWSTZ
Fort Tymchuk, Shlyumisto

Technology meant nothing in these hills. An infrared scope would scarcely see through the thick labyrinth of tree trunks. The terrain would be daunting to a goat, never mind a vehicle. The days were cold enough to kill you if you get soaked, and the nights were all the more worse. The air was thin, the ground rocky, and the way treacherous. The Czaslyudians had long since avoided the ranges of the Zaporozhian Cordillera and kept to the stability of the steppes-- and by doing so left the entire western part of the country uncivilized and ripe for a slaughter in centuries to come. But once daring explorers with nothing more than wool and leather adorning themselves ventured out to seek a path, they found a path less thwarting than most-- this became known as the Corridor, and formed the spearhead of Czaslyudian expansion to its western coast. Along the way of this Corridor, 3,400 meters up, Shlyumisto (“Gateway Town”) was founded-- first as a simple trading post to mix the goods of east and west, then as a critical juncture of the burgeoning national rail system. But the ability to survive in the conditions was kept within the purview of civilization until the Czaslyudian Armed Forces thought it should be otherwise.

And damn them all to hell for deciding that, the officer thought. Instead of technology, what mattered in difficult terrain was the training and willpower of the warriors fighting in it. To this end, ‘mountain infantry’ was created-- meant to have forces capable of fighting without any support save for what they could carry, they also served to teach and fortify infantrymen in the ways of soldiering, without the vehicles that other forces were so dependent on. All around him, he heard the subdued crush of pine needles against the forest floor as the soon-to-be light infantry of the Czaslyudian Army pushed forward alongside a wooded incline. They ought to have been quieter, but these were rookies and they needed to be broken in, hence the high pace he set them at. In the bush, he knew, sound was key to survival. Sloppy soldiers were loud, and sloppy soldiers got put down. But also key was self-preservation, and these men needed to get a feel for the mountains and not slip and dash their heads on some stone.

Artur Romanenko, captain of the 4th Light Hussar Plastun of the 2nd Regiment of the 1st Brigade of the 12th Czaslyudian Mountain Division, slowed momentarily from his jog to check his watch. They were only forty minutes in and even he was winded. That wouldn’t make his superiors proud, but he was temporarily assigned to their unit to whip the greenies into shape, not beat records. Besides, he had his own trophies from civilian races, and didn’t need the Department of War to come down and give him a medal. Romanenko reminded himself as his side stitched up that those trophies came from races closer to sea level, and not halfway to the stratosphere. Grinning through the pain, Romanenko pushed the fifty-some unit through the run for thirty more minutes-- the extra cardio in this atmosphere would do them all good.

* * *

They waited for him at the barracks. Two men, who looked like cookie-cutter soldiers with their simple haircuts and remarkably clean uniforms, idled at the entrance and talked amongst themselves in hushed tones. Romanenko eyed them with absent-minded suspicion while he wiped his face with his handkerchief, still breathing heavily from the physical training. It wasn’t often that there were new faces in Fort Tymchuk-- in fact, there were only eight hundred permanently stationed there.

“Looks like spooks. You suppose they’re going to ask about UFO’s again?” Sighed Barabash. The lieutenant waddled beside the Captain, taking the load of his expedition pack off his shoulders.

“If they do, let’s say we all saw a cigar-shaped object fly in the direction of the nearest pub, alright?” Romanenko responded. The intelligence-types had been awfully busy here in the Fort the previous few days; this was certainly no coincidence. Well. Let’s find out what they’re up to. The Captain took a long draw from his plastic canteen before heading off to the barracks. The spooks had good eyes.

“Captain Romanenko?” One asked-- the shorter one. His companion moved to block the door.

“You got him,” Artur said.

“Please come with us,” the tall one asked with professional courtesy. Romanenko raised his brows momentarily but said nothing.

They led him to a nearby LAZP-53 utility car, with him in the backseat, from which they took off across Fort Tymchuk until they were before the ‘haunted hayride’-- the military intelligence building. The short one, who had taken the wheel, flashed identification at the sentry and was waved in. Whatever this was about, Romanenko thought, it was most certainly not simply running down some conspiratorial leads.

Within the structure, Romanenko felt uneasy, as if he were intruding. Indeed, as he passed by the bustling botaniky-- paper pushers-- they recognized him as not one of their kind and hastily covered up papers as soon as he was close enough to read. He was brought before the door of a private office-- unusual considering how space was a premium throughout the base-- and motioned to go in.

Sitting at a metal desk with sparse reports neatly tucked away on the corners, Romanenko recognized a Colonel’s rate and came to attention before the door had even closed behind him.

“Captain Romanenko, 4th Hussar Light Infantry Plastun, sir!” He barked, emphasizing his unit’s distinction. It never hurt to make a good impression. The attempt seemed to go over the superior officer’s head as he blinked dully at Artur’s introduction. This perplexed the Captain until he saw the Department of War Intelligence and Security Directorate symbology on the other’s uniform. Figures that he doesn’t know what being a hussar is all about: he’s not even a real soldier.

The Colonel cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming, Captain,” Romanenko winced as he knew damn well he did not have a choice, “I am Polkovnyk Sokolov, Intelligence and Security Directorate. I understand you’ve been assigned to Fort Tymchuk for training purposes, is that correct?” Sokolov said slowly.

Romanenko gave a quick nod. “Yes, sir.”

“Lucky for the gomers here, then. Given that certain people retire when they ought, I have it on good authority that you’re going places.” Sokolov said, leaning in. “Son, how would you like to make Major in weeks-- no more of this wishy-washy assignment, reassignment fihnya?”

“I’d be honored, sir.”

“Relax, you aren’t promoted yet. But I doubt you’ll have any trouble getting there though. If you bear with us, we’ll need to reassign you elsewhere. You’ll find out where when you get there. In the meantime, understand that this is top secret. You don’t tell your tovaryshi, your girlfriend, or your dog; the whole ordeal. Got it?” The Colonel said.

“I understand, Polkovnyk.”

* * *

When Romanenko returned to the barracks, the others regarded him with slight suspicion regardless of his excuse. In their books, a quiet officer was a dangerous one. But, they reasoned, perhaps the Captain was cooking up another surprise inspection. Romanenko in his current state could hardly care about the risque stashes underneath some of the mattresses of his unit, however. He was a good soldier, and probably could go far until he could leave service with a hefty pension, but what he was mixing himself into-- it was not like the soldiering he was used to. When the Intelligence and Security Bureau of the DOW get involved, things tended to get very dangerous, very fast. What they needed a junior officer from a light infantry detachment for, Artur could not begin to guess. Counter-insurgency or crime reduction operations did not need top-secret slapped over the brief-- nor did the chain of command have to be circumvented. Could he be getting ready to ship off to some desolate land, training some other country’s grunts to shoot a rifle? That did not seem likely to Romanenko. There must be better soldiers for that than me, he thought. And there was no need to send an officer, when a reservist could probably do it just as well. And there were not enough active conflicts in the world, or ones that he supposed his motherland cared about, to warrant his deployment there. Romanenko decided he had to stop his mind from rambling-- no good would come from it. The Captain decided to catch some sleep; who knew, he might wake up a Voiskovy Starshyna tomorrow.

FRCP Embassy Building
07:24 local time
Hitsyasha, Indibus

Ishchuk had managed to squeeze in three hours of sleep during the busy night. They were hard at work overseeing the reception of many large crates, which were loaded onto the single truck the embassy had possession of and quickly carted off to another haven of diplomatic immunity. Ruslan was amazed by how much they were allowed to ship through without any inspection-- as diplomatic packages, they weren’t even obligated to go through the metal detectors-- but because this was supposed to be sensitive equipment, it made sense not to go through the painfully conspicuous process. To his surprise, however, the elder Orest Morshun did not seem to falter through the night, loudly proclaiming where each bit of cargo ought to be, and keeping the exhausted workers busy until the job was done.

As morning came, the last of the diplomatic packages were secured and transported and the Czaslyudians retired to the grounds of the embassy. Filling the holds of the concrete motor pool were a total of twenty-three brand-new crates of various sizes, from those as large as a refrigerator to suitcase-sized boxes with Ne vidkryvaty! stenciled on their face with red paint. Ishchuk had been shown a room where he could catch some rest as the sun peeked over the horizon, but he opted instead to grab some breakfast. Better to have coffee now rather than later.

To keep hold him through the night, Orest Morshun relied on the staple of a government agent’s diet-- caffeine pills. They had less and less of an effect as he had gotten older but with any luck he would soon be transferred to a nice job behind a desk-- or retire, preferably. Morshun had been in the field business for a while, enough that he had made a name for himself in the former Czaslyudian Intelligence, an organization since carved into the Intelligence and Security Bureau and the Department of Internal Security. What that business was, however, not many could say save for those who gave his orders to him or served with him-- which in itself was a slim amount. Orest had been originally assigned to Indibus for an easy job, routine intelligence gathering (which was a ubiquitous operation of Czaslyudian embassies) almost as a treat for decades of service. But since things had deteriorated in the former colony, it did not hurt to have a professional handle things.

Morshun was excited. It had been a while since things went sideways, and the thought of the risks associated with his solo operation with as little support as possible made his heart’s tempo accelerate. Possibly a side-effect from the caffeine pills. Even though he did not feel like sleeping, he knew that his old bones required it, and he had a meeting to make tomorrow and would need his intellect. But there was one last thing to do.

Greeting the guard at the motor pool warmly, he stepped into the heated room and scanned the room-- a chauffeur smoked as he sat on a stool on the far end of the room, reading a paperback. He did not appear to care about Morshun’s entrance. Morshun selected a crowbar from the tool rack and approached one of the crates-- it certainly looked as if it would contain electronics-- and with a great deal of effort from his thin frame, pried open one corner of the crate. He looked in, and smiled to himself at the glint of a dismantled rifle’s receiver. Though the receiver itself looked like scrap metal to the untrained eye, the CN-19Z2 rifle was unmistakable at any stage of construction. A rifle of Czaslyudian design firing a uniquely Czaslyudian caliber-- a symbol of the independence of the Czaslyudian people. And soon, that of a rebirthed nation. Rifles, ammunition, conversion kits, grenades, high explosive material, and rockets and even some ATGMS; this would be the first wave of equipment to grace this embassy before other ways of getting the material in were discovered. The discovery of at least the rifles meant that the rest of the order was there and not falsified-- it would be a damn shame if he sold off a couple of empty boxes without bothering to check inside. The chauffer tucked his book into his back pocket at the ruckus.

“Everything all right?” The man inquired.

Morshun replaced the nail he had cleaved out of its place and sighed. “Everything’s alright now, thank you.”
Last edited by Czaslyudian Peoples on Tue May 10, 2022 3:00 pm, edited 1 time in total.

"Americanism is a question of principle, of idealism, of character. It is not a matter of birthplace, or creed, or line of descent."
— Theodore Roosevelt
"Вечнасць для Czaslyudiya!"

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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Acroticus » Tue May 10, 2022 6:16 pm


May 10, 2022 12:15 ACT - “We shall not fail.” This promise issued by Garel Ismaen on election night has taken on new meaning. Since Ismaen failed to win a majority of the electorate less than a week ago, his supporters in the Golden Front have begun to show their disdain for the current administration. The Golden Front has claimed responsibility for the attacks on government buildings in a growing number of cities. On election night, Ismaen’s paramilitary attacked the Princeps’ offices in Siram and Vidava, as well as a number of Orangist, Socialist, and Republican legislature members.

Furthermore, this morning, the Golden Front launched an attack on Imhorchai, the Praetor’s residence in the capital of Hitsayasha. Thirty three men with ties to the Golden Front were arrested outside the residence last night, after an attempt to enter the building through force. Seven security officers were injured, two critically. This additional violence comes after Ismaen has refused to concede the election. He maintains that the election was stolen, and alleges that the Praetor Devi unlawfully closed voting stations in areas where voters were likely to support the Golden Front. Additionally, Ismaen claims that he has proof that Praetor Devi received billions of Darami from dark money groups tied to Therinia.

None of these claims have been substantiated as of yet. However, a rash of resignations in the Indibusian government and military shows that a large number of Indibusians appear to believe Ismaen’s rhetoric. Since election day, the government has recorded over 130 resignations at all levels, understood to have been a response to Ismaen’s call to boycott the new government. This new shortage of staff can be seen across the country but particularly in the city of Charrahlem. Charrahlem, Ismaen’s home city, is his largest center of support. After the attack on the Office of the Princep on election night, Princep Amiko Arrata fled the city. Today, it is unclear who is in charge. Members of the Golden Front paramilitary have occupied the building, and are now flying the flag of the Golden Front.

In response, Predator Devi has ordered the relocation of several divisions to the eastern provinces, and has activated 20,000 servicemen of the National Reserves. While this may seem like a strong response, many analysts are concerned about Indibus’s ability to effectively contain these protests. The Indibusian military has never been particularly large or well equipped, as the nation had largely relied on Acrotician security guarantees for the past half century. In 2020, the entire military personnel was at about 150,000, with about 45,000 fieldable ground troops. Today, that number is likely even lower. This has served Indibusian stability in the past, as regimes were not threatened by military figureheads. However, it appears to have backfired, at least temporarily, as Devi will find it difficult to enforce the law across the far reaches of the continent.

Foreign Princep Astah Zeneos said that both Acrotician Praetors, Arristan Andros and Marcus Septimus, had been in close contact with Devi. It is unclear what actions Acroticus might take in response to the increasing violence against Aderan citizens in the country, but both Praetors have expressed their support for Devi’s government.

Praetor Septimus took it a step further in his remarks. Stressing the longtime alliance between Indibus and the Aderan Republic, Praetor Septimus called for those nations “threatening the independence of a democratic nation to reevaluate their positions, or face the full might of the Aderan peoples.” “The Aderan Republic” the Praetor’s remarks continued “stands with the Indibusian people.”

Whatever the Praetors decide, analysts have suggested that Acrotician intervention is possible. Acroticus has maintained a large military base in the port city of Naerys, Naerys was a city founded by Acrotician explorers in the early 1700s, and has remained home to a large Aderan naval base since Indibus’s freedom in 1962. As such, analysts say that Acroticus has a number of options to intervene. An unnamed national security official has stated that no decisions have been made to make any deployment from or to Naerys.
Last edited by Acroticus on Tue May 10, 2022 6:17 pm, edited 3 times in total.

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Capitalist Paradise

Postby Kottsuki » Wed May 11, 2022 4:10 pm

10th of May, 2022; 05:55 PM
Off the Coast of Vidava; Indibus

"I'm cold"



"What the fuck do you want me to do about it?"

Two men bickered while standing atop the frosted steel deck of a discreet freighter. The one complaining was Ichiban, it was his first trip in such a cold climate; it doesn't need to be mentioned, that as a man who grew up in the unventilated slums of Kottsuki City, he wasn't used to such striking temperatures. The calm man telling him off is Nakamura. Unlike Ichiban, he's been to Indibus countless times; it was his freighter after all, and the northern expanses of Indibus, sea and land alike, were smuggler's silk routes.

"I guess if you're that cold we can go inside, ya' wuss.."

Their contract, a hefty one; included tanks, APCs, rifles, and countless other equipment designed to kill and maim. As Nakamura read the previous day's morning paper (no wi-fi on board, go figure) he couldn't help but conclude who would be receiving their shipment. He wondered, how would a bunch of nationalist maniacs with tanks running around the mountains affect his business...

He didn't have much time to wonder, as suddenly a blinding ray of light whitened the room which was up until now under the weak blanket of the morning sun.


"Shit! What the fuck are we gonna do boss!?" screamed Ichiban, as he ducked under the window and cocked his rifle. Nakamura couldn't concentrate though; all the sounds around him blended together like the morning coffee he just removed from his lips.

There was nothing to do; no way to escape.

His only thought was, will he see his warm homeland ever again.

May 10th, 2022; 19:23 AM
Central Kottsuki City; Aki Tower

Takemoto sat alone in the Council Chamber; the lights of the large room were dimmed. In front of him, on the table, was a lone telephone. He looked at it calmly, but with great interest. He looked at his wristwatch, and just then- the phone started ringing. 12 hours, more or less exactly;

He let the phone ring once, then twice, and after the third time, he picked it up. As if he hit a switch, his usual poker-faced expression turned into at least somewhat genuine looking smile.

"Mister Prime Minister, good evening."

"Ambasador Zarkozin! Well, I am always happy to hear your voice after a long day at work. How may I help you this evening?"

"I'm sorry to say this likely won't be a pleasant conversation."

"It's unfortunate to hear that, may I implore what's the issue?"

"Well I'm sure you are aware of the current 'volatile' situation in Indibus, am I correct?"

"Indeed I am."

"Right; I am not sure if you are aware, but this morning a vessel carrying heavy armaments was seized off the coast of Indibus, most of the captured smugglers are all Kottsukian nationals."

"Oh, that is most unfortunate (indeed, unfortunate). Well, you have our government's full support in the prosecution of these individuals. Piracy of all kinds is frowned upon here in our Free Republic."

"I'm glad to hear that. However that is not the pressing issue right now."

"Then what is the issue? (here it comes...)"

"The Aderanian government has reason to suspect your nation's involvement in arming dangerous groups in Indubis."

"... hm. Does your government have any evidence to support these rather outrageous claims?"

"My job at this time is to relay a very clear message; The Aderan Republic wholeheartedly supports the democratic institutions of Indibus, and anyone attempting to destabilize the region will be met with diplomatic and economic penalization."

"Ambassador, are you threatening us?"

"Mister Prime Minister, we are simply stating our position."

"I have to say that it is quite repulsing to witness such distrust from a country that Kottsuki considers to be in friendly relations with. Perhaps you'd like to review your position once more?"

"Mister Takemoto we would like to state that we are quite aware of the leverage we posses over your nation. I imagine even if we simply mentioned economic sanctions of any kind publicly, it would create a stock market fiasco. As such, the fact this message is addressed to you personality is what I would call a gesture of good faith. We refuse to call backstabbing nations 'friendly', you'd do well to keep that in mind."

Takemoto let out a warm laugh. "We understand your nation's relationship with Indibus is.. very close; as such I will forgive you for using such harsh words, after all we are aware of how much valuable trade your two nations conduct. We truly hope you show the same loyalty when it comes to trading with us. Now, Kottsuki supports the democratic institutions of Indibus as much as the Aderan Republic, and we pledge that we will take measures to uphold those institutions if the situation escalates."

"We are very pleased to hear that."

"One more thing Ambassador. The Aderan administration would do well to remember that economic sanctions always end up a two way street, and should consider that fact when making such bold statements."

"Very well, goodnight."


'Unfortunate' he thought. The plan was to publicly support the legitimate government all along, however this has accelerated the need to do so. Not to mention, Aderanian intelligence will be swarming Kottsuki now, which will complicate the situation immeasurably. Somebody had to be fired for this, but who?

'Kanno?' he thought to himself. No... Kanno could prove useful, if everything else fails.

May 11th, 2022; 12:16 PM
Lower Kottsuki City; Ministry of Economy & Trade

"-and if he fucks it up, make sure his career prospects end at shoveling manure at some ranch on the outskirts of Mina!"

Minister Kanno was starting his afternoon right; by blowing off some steam at his employees. It was a slow day, one could say not much was going on, although the ministry could never be completely without work. Kanno didn't like it when there was no work to do. Sure, he complains to himself how annoying it is to nearly constantly have some poor sod buzz in your ear, but it appears he forgot how to live without such a sensation.

As if his prayers were answered, he heard a click in his phone. The person he was talking to went quiet, and all he could hear is the ever-so-light white noise;

"Minister Kanno; good afternoon"

"Mister Prime Minister, sir. How can I help you?"

"Tell me Kanno, are you not the Minister of Economy?"

"Um... why yes I am"

"And I am sure you are aware that one of your divisions have caused me great trouble yesterday"

Kanno fell silent, paralyzed in place. Takemoto made a very slight, and calm sigh;

"This incompetence is revolting Mr. Kanno, you should get your Ministry in order"

"Yes sir! Right away!"


Kanno fell back into his chair, pale and shivering; the Prime Minister inserted himself into his line. Any Minister that wants to remain in office for long cannot afford to have that happen to him, yet here Kanno sat, feeling like he just aged a decade. Worst of all, he really had no idea what did he mess up that badly? Suddenly his steward walked in to pick up some files; after noticing the most unnusual silence in the Minister's office, he spoke;

"Sir, perhaps you'd want to turn on KWNC, the Prime Minister is speaking"

Kanno just stared at him for a bit, then gestured him to get lost. After he left, he turned on the TV.


"-and while I personally might not agree with Praetor Rowan Devi's ideological allegiance; as a republic, we feel pride and joy knowing that people of another nation have a right to choose who they are governed by, regardless of policies. We believe that self-determination and personal independence is one of the most endangered values in the Commonwealth Society, and as such, we have an obligation to fight tooth and nail to uphold these values wherever, and whenever possible. Dangerous factions in Indibus rally their radicals, people brainwashed by leaders posing to be their saviors. There is nothing to feel for these people other than pity; how unfortunate is it that they couldn't manage to achieve a favorable position in life, and so they fall into the claws of radicalism, nationalism, communism and many more obscure and dangerous ideologies. Kottsuki will fight to uphold the stability of Indibus, as it is our moral obligation, and national interest to preserve peace (as if...). That is all I have to say on this topic, I will not be taking any questions presently, thank you."

Kanno turned off the TV. What is it that he felt right now? Was it fear, confusion, or cold and sharp realization that no matter what he does, there will always be a chance that a person such as Takemoto might throw him under the bus.

'Well, I 'ought to buy up on assets while I still have a job... and then deal with the TR Division...'

And suddenly, Kanno was preoccupied with work again.
Last edited by Kottsuki on Wed May 18, 2022 5:15 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Sanguinem Sanctorum
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Founded: May 17, 2021
Psychotic Dictatorship

Postby Sanguinem Sanctorum » Fri May 13, 2022 1:05 pm

"Sir! Radar! Ships inbound. At least 3. 12 miles. Speed 18 knots"

Alarms sounded throughout the Kherkovian fleet. The sound of thousands of men going to action stations, weapons being loaded, orders barked. A helicopter, a vast twin rotored behemoth, dragged itself off the deck of the Kherkovian flagship and lumbered into the mist in the direction of the approaching threat.

It hovered over the approaching task force. Two men stood conspicuously on the bow of the lead ship.

"It seems we have a welcome party"
"If they didn't know we were coming, they do now."

His Divine Excellency The Archbishop Tarquinius Gregorius was sat at his desk overlooking the sea in his office in the palace at Issachar, the Sanguinem Sanctorem capital, rewrapping the handle of an old cricket bat. A flustered official entered without knocking, his cassock billowing behind him as he half-ran. His near hysterical expression told the leader all he needed to know. "Devi?"

He sat thinking for a few seconds. The door went again as a large group of men wearing many different uniforms burst in, led by a powerfully built man in the black uniform of the commandos. Military men and clergymen, all of them murmering frantically, crammed themselves into the fading light. A telegram was slammed down on the Archbishop's desk and the gathered crowd waited uneasily while he read it.
"Bloody Kherkovians. They're there already I assume?"
"Bloody hell. Their plan all along. You don't assemble a fleet that quickly. They were waiting for this. What do they expect us to do?!"
"You know what they expect"
"Yes! Go and support an uprising in a country half the world away against a government that doesn't even know we exist."
"A socialist government…."
"Yes, yes I know. All I'm saying is I don't know which is more dangerous: yet another socialist fucking government or being seen to support an anti-government uprising, because last time I checked there were still rebels on this island. Bloody hell Biff."
“How much do the proles know?”
“At present, very little. There are rumours….but rumours spread, quickly.”
“An official broadcast. On everything. Quickly. ‘We are disappointed at such blatant election tampering etc ect’, before nightfall. Make it happen. Bloody Devi. I’m assuming Ismaen hasn’t taken this lightly?”
“Already talk of violence, sir”

Tarquinius sat back down in his chair, as Biff, the man in black, ushered the other military men to be quiet. The blond, powerfully built, heavily mustachioed man was Octavius Flaminius Davenport, known universally as 'Biff', an old friend of Tarquinius': school, university and then military service had meant these two had been in near constant contact for years. Officially, he was a lowly colonel, but it was hardly a secret that, realistically, he ran the armed forces and was the Archbishop's right hand man. He was also one of few people that would openly disagree with his leader, and one of even fewer who would do it to his face.

Tarquinius gestured to the Apostles, the 12 ruling bishops, and Biff towards him.
"So gentlemen, options are: A. Do nothing…"
"..But then risk casting doubt, at least in Kherkov's mind, of our commitment to the Krepost pact" an ageing apostle drawled.
"Exactly, and then we risk them cutting off all the aid they send. So A has to be out. Option B. Condemn the government of Aderan politically- sanctions and whatnot…"
"Same result as option A, as well as appearing weak internationally", Biff conjectured.
"So no B. Plus, it shows there aren't any real consequences of being a socialist, and that rearing its ugly head here again could mean destruction, just as it nearly did 80 years ago. Which brings us to C. Military force"
"Shows Kherkov we are committed. Shows we don't back down from a fight. Will likely encourage the other Krepost pact members to take a stronger stance. Plus, could seriously improve our standing. However, risks our troops and capital, and removes the majority of standing forces from the island, opening it up to attacks from abroad or the rebels."
"…….Lord have mercy, but it's C, isn't it?"
"I think so, sir"
"Just make it fucking happen Biff.Quickly. Fucking quickly."
Tarquinius slumped down and lit a cigar, as Biff wheeled around and strode out of the room grinning. Time for some soldiering. And by god, he loved soldiering.

Tarquinius and Biff stood at the bow of the Archbishop's flagship: the VHOSS Gomorrah (Vessel of the Holy Order of Sanguinem Sanctorem). The ageing battleship led the fleet of 5 other vessels: a destroyer and 4 gunboats. Under her paint you could still make out the outline of old Kherkovian markings and her vast 18 inch naval guns were now utterly obsolete. The other vessels were equally out dated, all were purchased well past their prime from other, more advanced navies, and all belched accrid black smoke from their colossal funnels as they steamed toward the Kherkovian fleet. Tarquinius stood tense in the gaudy white uniform of the navy, the crucifixes on his epaulettes glinting, while Biff was there, relaxed as anything, towering over him again in the black fatigues of the commandos.
A helicopter appeared from the clouds- they had heard it approaching long ago, even over the ships boilers around them.
"It seems we have a welcome party"
"If they didn't know we were coming, they do now."
"I bet old crown prince Maximilian wasn't expecting that!" They both laughed uneasily.
"Good God Biff, I hope we've made the right decision."
"It'll be fine. And if nothing else we've given the Kherkovians something to think about. We're here aren't we? No one else is."
"True. True. Send them an envoy when we are nearer. Oh, and fly their motto "Unser Land" next to the "Exurge Domine" of ours on the masts. They like all that shit."
"Aye aye sir."

The flotilla took up a position on the western end of the Kherkovian fleet, all the while under the watchful eye of the helicopter and then the Kherkovian vessels themselves.

“I hope they know what they’re doing, because if they’re wrong….”
“Kherkovians rarely do anything reckless”
“Well…. And that disaster with the Kottsuki freighter being boarded. There was talk of….”
“Yes, sir. Certainly regrettable. But nothing more.”

"God save Sanguinem Sanctorem" Tarquinius muttered under his breath.

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Founded: Sep 20, 2011
New York Times Democracy

Postby Indibus » Fri May 13, 2022 11:07 pm

Indibus News Network Broadcast
May 12, 2022

Charralem has fallen. This announcement from the Imhorchai came today as Praetor Devi’s administration admits that no significant government resistance remains in Indibus’s third largest city. Fighting in the last week has resulted in hundreds killed within the city, including government security forces and police officers in the region. The death toll is still unclear, and the details of the situation are obscured by the Golden Front’s persecution of journalists within Charralem. Nevertheless, the failure of the Praetor’s government to continue to contest control of the city shows the fragility of the nation’s stability. What this means for the cities of Vidava and Siram, where fighting between security forces and the Golden Front and its supporters remain fierce.

In response to the Golden Front’s violence in cities across the nation, earlier this week Praetor Devi mobilized thousands of reserves, and approved deployment of several divisions to the country’s north and eastern provinces. The first of the divisions arrived in Ghaerel, a southern suburb of Charralem. When asked about whether the government had plans to retake the city, Imorchai Press Secretary Milo Archanem stated “of course we have plans to restore the city. The workings of this violent and terrorist organization cannot be allowed to stand.”

We will keep you updated as more information becomes available…

The Imhorchai, Hitsayasha
Inibusian Capital
May 12, 2022

It was clear that Praetor Rowan Devi’s condition was deteriorating. It had now been almost five full days since his election, and it was not as if the Praetor had slept property in the run up to election night either. It was clear from his pale face and the bags under his eyes that he was feeling the pressure.

However, there was no time for rest now. The Indibusian army was mobilizing, Charralem had fallen to the Golden Front, and control of Siram and Vidava were holding on by a thread. Devi’s order to send troops to Charralem first may have been a mistake in retrospect, as it was clear at this point that the city would never have held out long enough for proper troop formations to reach it. And then there was the issue with the tanks.

“What do you mean the 1st tank division doesn’t work?” Devi exasperatedly asked the room. A poor young woman, Iseri didn’t know her name, was forced to answer. With all the confidence of an intern she responded.

“W-well, the tanks hadn’t been properly maintained. So when the operators tried to drive them off the lot… th-they just…” the woman gulped. “Half of them stalled. The other half could be driven off the lot but require maintenance before they will be combat ready.”

“Well…” Devi rubbed his eyes.

Jheara, the National Security Advisor, stepped up. “Well, what operable tank divisions do we have?”

“The seventh, and the ninth are in fairly good condition, having been recently moved to Hitsayasha.” General Adira Charimas responded. Charimas was an older general, but generally well respected. Even Jhaera spoke with the utmost respect when addressing him.

“Great,” Devi responded. “Mobilize them, and have the seventh reinforce Charralem and the ninth head towards Siram.”

“Uh, Sir,” Iseri responded. “The twelfth division took part in the independence parade last year.”

“So?” the Praetor responded with a sigh.

“So, the armored division was clearly operable at that time. I would guess they are still usable, or at least most should be.”

“Perfect. Send them to Charralem as well.”

‘Very well,” Charimas responded. “And what of the Kherkovan fleet?” The fleet was a real problem; Indibus did not have the firepower to keep the Kherkov at bay. The few ships in the Indibusian navy were fairly old, and would be lost immediately upon any confrontation.

“We have no choice but to rely on the Aderans. Stick with plan X1 and send our task force to Vidava, not Charralem; hopefully the Aderans can prevent the landing of foreign forces. And get the Aderan Praetors on the phone. As for the rest of you, that’s enough for now; you’re all dismissed.”

As the group of advisors and military officials left the room, Iseri saw the Praetor grab Jhaera’s arm. Iseri stopped in his tracks, and he could hear the Praetor’s orders.

“Send out the word to our ambassadors. It's time for a full court press.”

Indibus News Network Broadcast
May 13, 2022

News from Charralem this morning as Garel Ismaen has returned to the city. Ismaen had remained at his estate in the suburbs of Charralem since election night, surrounded by his security forces. His appearance in the city suggests that the Golden Front is confident that all government forces within the city have been subdued.

Ismaen held a closed door ceremony today in the city. While no press were allowed at the ceremony, Ismaen’s press officials released a statement, declaring war on the “treacherous leeches draining the vitality of Indibus and her followers'' and claiming the title of Nimh, akin to a king of the ancient Indibus tribes. The Imorchai responded with a statement calling Ismaen’s declaration a “delusion” and stating that he and his followers were causing terror throughout the country.

With us now to discuss these events is....

Last edited by Indibus on Fri May 13, 2022 11:08 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Acroticus » Sat May 14, 2022 8:14 am


May 13, 2022 8:45 ACT - Below please find your news updates for May 13, 2022:

The Nimh of Indibus - News from Indibus today as Garel Ismaen declares war on the democratically elected government. Naming himself “Nimh” (a name title that was once claimed by the leaders of the precolonial Indibusian tribes), Ismaen has declared victory in his conquest of the city of Charralem. The country’s third largest city is now controlled by the Golden Legion, Mr. Ismaen’s paramilitary force. Reports of violence in the city against foreigners continue even as the fighting between government forces and the Golden Legion die down.

Advances in Vidava and Siram: The cities of Vidava and Siram seem to be likely to share a similar fate. In Siram government forces continue to contest control of the city, but the Gazette’s military analysts state that the government forces are on the back foot, mostly holding onto the inner suburbs of the city. It is clear that the Indibusian armed forces were not prepared for such a conflict, and Praetor Rowan Devi has said as much.

The Kaiser Acts: New reports yesterday suggest movement among the fleets of Kherkov, heading towards Indibus. It is unclear what their intention is, but analysts suggest their intent to be hostile to the democratically elected government. Earlier today, Aderan Praetor Marcus Septimus announced that the Aderan Epsilon Naval Task Force, based in the Indibusian city of Naerys, had been put on high alert. In his announcement, the PRaetor stated that “Nations unfriendly to the ideals of democracy are trying to scare democracies into submission.” When asked which nations he was referring to, Praetor Septimus said “The ones actively supporting and instigating violence within the borders of an independent country.”

Aderan Support for Indibus: The Senate today has proposed a bill to provide for short term funding for the Indibusian defenses, and to grant the Praetors further authority to deploy Aderan troops to the region if necessary. The bill is expected to pass without delay, and quickly move through the Greater Assembly and Curia as well. Senator Alekos Pericles, leader of the Orangist Party in the Senate, stated that the proposed funding measures were not enough. “We are the front line of democracy and freedom,” Pericles said in a statement on the steps of the Senate building. “If we won’t stand up for the rights of a people to determine their own future, then who will?”

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Founded: May 12, 2020

Postby Saint-Auguste » Tue May 17, 2022 11:50 am


16th May 2022
Crown Council Chamber, Beauharnais Palace
Beauharnais Island
Les Trois-Îlets, Saint-Auguste

"This lobster is gorgeous, where is it from?" Florentin spoke with his mouth full of the catch of the day, washing it down with a 20-year aged white wine.

"Straight from the Augustine Sea of course." Jean-Paul said with pride, the other Crown Council members chuckled.

The Crown Council meetings had been far more casual now than when Prince Eugène was on the throne, Princess Stéphanie seemed to have turned them into a social event, dressing glamorously with lunch and drinks being served. Of course, no press at all were allowed anywhere close to Beauharnais Island unless specifically invited.

News of a civil war taking place in Indibus was very much the main topic of conversation however, despite the relaxed setting of the meeting. Stéphanie knew Saint-Auguste would have to react, she had seen the reports from Aderan that had their navy were on high alert after fleets of alleged Kherkovian naval vessels were heading towards the conflict. Saint-Auguste, as a member of the League of Free Nations, had a duty to protect democracy and stand united with Aderan and Britcan.

Jean-Paul began to speak with an air of seriousness, as he often did in these meetings after finishing his lunch, everyone else knew it was about to happen and became silent.

"We are in a difficult position, we know some nations will side with the rebels, and some with the democratically elected government. We side with democracy, as we all know. Reports point towards Kherkovian military action already taking place. They will use any opportunity to spread their sphere of influence, and no doubt they will try to turn Garel Ismaen into a puppet to Kherkov should Ismaen's forces take control of Indibus. We risk a proxy war. It almost seems unavoidable at this point. I believe we should seek a peaceful resolution, at all costs, but we must support Mr Devi's position, that includes support for the government military forces."

Jean-Paul looked towards Stéphanie, seeking her response, Jean-Paul would never act on his own accord without the monarch's blessing. Saint-Auguste was her country, after all.

"We must do everything we can to assist Mr Devi, I suggest we send military aid, financial aid, and humanitarian aid. I would suggest we even accept refugees, families from the occupied regions will be desperate to leave. Henry, will you be able to sort out the relevant financial details?" Henry Vaugeois was the Governor of the Bank of Saint-Auguste, and effectively the Minister of the Economy and Finance, one of the three undemocratically elected members of the Crown Council. His job in question after Stéphanie's calls for a referendum to have all members of the Crown Council democratically elected.

"Yes, I can make the necessary arrangements." Henry muttered, he rarely said much during these meetings since Stéphanie had taken the throne.

"A generous package is needed. In addition, modern weapons, helmets, and body armour, including anti-tank, and anti-aircraft shoulder-fired missile launchers will be provided to the Indibus government forces." Jean-Paul said, anticipating Stéphanie asking him to arrange the military aid.

"We need dialogue with Mr Devi and with Aderan to arrange our support." Florentin said, itching to say something.

"Indeed. I have a meeting with the Aderan Consul this afternoon. I will also seek discussions with the LFN as a whole, a joint response would send a strong message. Maybe even the WSAO too." Jean-Paul replied.

"Good, that would be ideal. Whatever Acroticus asks of us we should do anything we can to help. Thank you, all." Stéphanie's tone suggested the meeting was coming to an end, or at the very least the seriousness was coming to an end.



Jean-Paul Thévenet's Private Office
Les Trois-Îlets, Saint-Auguste

"Good day Mr Thévenet, thank you for arranging this meeting." The Aderan Consul entered Jean-Paul Thévenet's Private Office, squeaky clean and oozing class, the office was like an extension of Jean-Paul himself.

"Good day, I have spoken with the Princess and the Council already regarding our support for Indibus, we want to send all forms of aid. We would like to cooperate with Acroticus to facilitate sending aid together." Jean-Paul spoke in English, which he did not do often, and had a rather thick French accent.

"I'm glad to hear it, we are of the same mind. I would also like to extend a request, Acroticus wishes for Saint-Auguste's diplomatic support for a no-fly-zone over Indibus."

"I can confidently say we will support a no-fly-zone, anything to limit causalities and reduce the risk of a full-blown proxy war. We should definitely reach out to the LFN as a whole and give a full response with Britcan."


Last edited by Saint-Auguste on Wed May 18, 2022 2:37 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby Viperia » Tue May 17, 2022 12:42 pm

Briefing Room, The Torgov Tsitadel
Torgov, Viperia

While the chosen handful of men who sat in the ornate meeting room had already been at it for several hours, their bickering continued as if the meeting had begun only moments ago. The Indibus situation was progressing rapidly but the Viperian government had yet to make its move. Some proposed swift action, some proposed waiting further still. None, however, proposed a meaningful course of action to take, however quickly or slowly it should be taken, as none could be agreed upon.

"How can we possibly stand by while brothers in arms are accosted by fascists! It is our solemn duty to defend these fellow socialists!"

Interjected one of the more fervently ideological ministers.

"Bah! How can they truly call themselves socialist, by the people for the people, without a revolution? Without struggle or fight they will be weak, doomed to failure. If they can survive this challenge then perhaps we can reconsider"

Retorted a more aged voiced from the crowd shortly before the Foreign Minister added:

"Ideological particulars aside, they are surely far too liberal to co-operate with us in any meaningful way. We cannot risk Indibus falling to the liberal fold that has been growing year on year. Besides, socialist or not this is a democratic government. Why waste our time trying to ally with someone who may be gone in a few short years? This Golden Front seem far more stable, far more reliable and closer aligned to our larger goals"

Finally, the Minister for the Economy said his piece:

"If I may add, on a more pragmatic note, Indibus is currently a major exporter of Uranium. This is unlikely to change under the current government. The Golden Front, however, while not perfect do present us with an opportunity to remove a major competitor for our own exports and that is an opportunity I don't think we can afford to pass up"

As the Premier looked to speak, the room fell silent. Hours of squabbling forgotten.

"Thank you, gentlemen, as always for your valuable insights. I know this has not been an easy issue and so I am grateful for your continued efforts to reach a solution that best benefits Viperia. There have been many good points raised on all sides and I have taken them all into consideration. We cannot, however, ignore the fact that Kherkov has already made their move and have called for us to join them, as we did in Kemaria. For now, we will join the blockade. We can observe the situation further as it develops while still showing the world that Viperia, that Krepost, is not afraid to take action"

Official Viperian Communication
To: The Krepost Pact Nations (The People's Empire of Kherkov)
CC: Krepost Observer States (The Hellenic League of Kaarland, The Theocracy of Sanguinem Sanctorum, The Empire of The Blue Sakura)


We too have watched the situation on Indibus unfold, keen to assist in whatever way we must to ensure the safety of the region.

Viperia will commit a naval task force immediately to assist in the patrolling of the Indibus waters.

We have no doubt that together united we will be successful once again in maintaining peace and order.

Krepost Prevails.

Minister of the Krepost Pact, Mikhail Luvchenko

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Czaslyudian Peoples
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Founded: Apr 14, 2022
Corporate Police State

Postby Czaslyudian Peoples » Tue May 17, 2022 5:27 pm

Zola Street
22:37 CESTZ
Korf Autonomous Republic, FRCP

Korf was like walking through a gateway to the opposite side of the world. The port city was inundated with smog and equal parts of its skylines choked by skyscrapers and smokestacks. Advertisements took up large spaces across the sides of buildings and there was so much noise from the industrial processes and clustered networks of public and private transport chugging through the narrow roads. The people were rude, the streets dirty, and prices for anything were obscenely high. But that only made the city similar to those found across the world, which made it inherently foreign to a Czaslyudian. In a proper Czaslyudian city, there would not have been any cars, the streets were kept clean by mass surveillance and criminal penalties, and the rigid city planners would never have placed a tattoo parlor next to a private school. Nor would the rigid government that ruled over those cities allow foreign investment, foreigners to walk about freely, or for the economy to thrive in such pestilence. It made sense to Oleksandr Vasylyev that the city of Korf was technically independent. What did not was how moist and oppressive the air was. Thankfully, Vasylyev’s path took him out of the open and into the confines of a bar on Zola Street.

The ‘Mancuso’ was the exotic name for a bar its Czaslyudian-born-and-raised owners had chosen, based on a character of a novel they had read. It attempted to pass as authentic but came off as borderline offensive with its fixation on a foreign culture. Nevertheless, the dive became a magnet for veterans and active service members of the Czaslyudian Armed Forces alike due to its proximity to the Korf Maritime District and diversity of drinks. Vasylyev had been here twice before, both failed dates, and twice had drinks spilled on his flight uniform (of which only one was accidental). Fortunately, Vasylyev was there to meet an old friend.

“Sasha Viktorovych, did you crash your chopper again, or are you just feeling sentimental?” Called a man sitting at a booth with one other. Stepan Derkach was a middle-aged man, though he had not been one since they had last met. Derkach had the beginnings of gray at his temples and set-in wrinkles around the corners of his eyes and mouth, and he made no attempt to obscure it. Combined with the naval dress uniform, Derkach gave the impression of integrity, making Vasylyev feel inadequate with his unshaven face and disheveled flight suit. Vasylyev took Derkach’s hand and shook it warmly as he took a seat.

“Well, I figured I’d bum some of your Captain’s pay to afford to crash the next one. How are you doing?”

“Let’s order a pint,” The navy man motioned for a waitress. “Things have been slow. Unfortunately, COMSUB doesn’t think very highly of my idea of bringing fishing poles along in case the patrols get dull.”

Vasylyev chuckled. “Without fishing, what else are you sub freaks supposed to do in those tin cans?” That drew a sour look from the young man sitting to Derkach’s right. “Who’s the kid?” Sasha asked.

“I haven’t introduced you yet, have I? This is Commander Degtareyev. He’s my XO for the Harbuz. He pours the worst pints ever-- that’s why we come here, where they do it for us.”

Oleksandr and Degtareyev briefly shook hands. “You must be new-- Stepan here hasn’t told me any stories about you doing dumbfuck things like he does for the rest of the crew.” Vasylyev mused.

“Transferred from another boat. Chief engineer on the Fyodor Sergeyev, formerly. But I’ve been here long enough to know what dumbfuck things you’re talking about.” Degtareyev said with a grin. The waitress came around with their drinks, clothed in the obnoxious dress of the culture the bar impersonated.

“But enough about the reasons I drink,” Derkach butted in, “what are you doing back in Korf? Didn’t they have you working up in the mountains and shit?”

Taking a sip of foam, Vasylyev responded. “Low-flying for hours at a time. Told me it was for search-and-rescue training, but I felt it was payback. CO of that outfit must have been a former aircraft techie.”

“If I had a third cousin who worked on aircraft, I would hate you too,” Stepan remarked snidely.

“Could you fill me in on what happened-- something about a crash?” Degtareyev asked innocently. Oleksandr was all too happy to explain. The men laughed heartily.

“But what brings you here, Sasha?” Derkach asked again, sighing and wiping his eye.

“‘Fraid it isn’t pleasure. Turns out, all that training near Shlyumisto was so--” Oleksandr coughed uncomfortably, “--so I could take over some sort of experimental group or something. Training and tactics development-- can’t talk much about it. Anyways, there’s not much to tell yet.”

“Mr. Cross-Eyed here is on a top-secret mission, it seems!”

“Nah, just some bureaucratic waste of money. What about you?” Oleksandr returned.

“Got pulled out of the water by COMSUB, said that there was a fault with our diesels. I didn’t notice anything while we were out on patrol, but I know better than to assume that ships like the Harbuz are built anything but cheaply. We’re tied up until they finish their ‘critical maintenance’, whatever that means.” Captain Derkach said.

“It’s odd though, I didn’t notice a single other sub returned to port-- not even the Hoverysh.” Commander Degtareyev added, referring to the Harbuz’ sister ship.

“Sound like you might be on a top-secret mission yourself, tovarysh.” Vasylyev said, hiding a squint behind an insincere smile. Vasylyev did not realize how wide the game was being played. He had received orders, in paper (which he promptly destroyed) as well as verbal, on what he was going to happen with him, but what a coincidence that he would run into another perhaps on the same mission! But it could not have been a coincidence, Vasylyev reminded himself, because Czaslyudians did not believe in such. Doubtlessly the naval officer and friend of Oleksandr sitting across from him had received another piece of the puzzle in more or less the same channels as he had, and-- wait-- did Derkach know himself? The two shared an awkward glance between sips of beer. What the hell did they need a sub driver for? Vasylyev was used to being applied to odd jobs-- a helicopter pilot had many uses besides warfare-- but if they were looking for submarines, they were looking to keep things hush-hush, even to other nations. Then, how he fits into things became more and more convoluted. This top-secret business was too much for Oleksandr.

The friends changed the subject, careful to avoid anything that might lead back to the touchy subject of talking shop, and drank more until walking home became easier than talking coherently. Neither would enjoy the experience of waking up and meeting their handlers in the early hours of the morning.

Korf Enquirer

FRCP Announces Humanitarian Aid to Indibus

Vyacheslav Kubiyovych

May 13th, 2022

In light of recent tensions in Indibus, an island nation and former colony of the Aderan Republic, the Federal Republic has announced a regimen of humanitarian support to the people of Indibus. The Republic of Indibus has been a major trading partner of the FRCP since the First Federal Republic in 1989, and over the decades the independent nation has taken up a larger and larger percentage of our imports in certain markets. With the political violence taking place in the cities potentially foreshadowing a full-blown civil war, it is likely that the fragile markets of the post-Civil War FRCP are going to take a hit.

Despite the economic importance of the Republic of Indibus to the FRCP, it does not appear that politicians in the National Assembly or even the war-making Principle Chairman want to get involved. That is why the decision to send purely humanitarian aid-- instead of supporting the government of the troubled nation outright with the Principle Chairman’s ever-expanding military budget to prevent damages to the economic processes brought about by political turmoil, the government has opted instead to spend money on lessening the burdens of the victims of the war, rather than definitively protect them.

Nevertheless, the military budget is being put to use in some way-- cargo aircraft, including the mountainous Primakov Pr-37-- are already at work flying in at designated (to avoid the fighting) international airports in Indibus, unloading nonperishable food, water, and water filtration devices, and medical supplies. Could this represent a new shift in the role of the Department of War and the Principle Chairman as not only warriors to defend our country from threats, but also as a guardian to democratic countries everywhere?

Vyacheslav Kubiyovych is the Head Columnist of the Korf Enquirer, the FRCP’s first private news source and most widely distributed news source in both paper and digital formats in the Korf Autonomous Republic.

FRCP Embassy Building
10:40 local time
Hitsayasha, Indibus

Given more time, Orest Morshun could have delivered a masterpiece. Spycraft was a delicate thing, one that could not be forced or its nature accelerated under the direction of a gun-- naturally, it took long before Czaslyudians were able to master it. If he were given a year of preparation, he could slip a hydrogen bomb-laden vehicle down the main street of any capital city in the world, but that would require scrupulous manipulation of the variables. And that was what spycraft was, after all: doing the seemingly impossible just by setting the stage right. However, instead, Morshun was given a measly week. He had tirelessly scrounged for potential agents across all his usual haunts in Hitsayasha-- from the bakery he picked up bread for the day to the pseudo-unemployed pool of day workers for odd jobs around the embassy-- and managed to throw together a not-altogether-too-shaky agent chain. Morshun had made sure that the agents he reached out were sympathetic to the Golden Front and kept fairly quiet about their day-to-day dealings; financial compensation from the embassy’s pool of Indibusian currency helped to that end. He also made sure their proximity to any crimes that have been committed was minimal, so as to not stick out in case of investigation. The final part of the rushed job was to ensure that none of the agents met or knew of the rest of the chain’s existence-- which meant a stern talking to on the conduct of being a courier for the foreign intelligence services of the FRCP. His candidates were usually single, typically poor, willing to take his money and believe his threats, and otherwise smart enough not to ask questions, and not clever enough to find things out by themselves.

The chain involved six links and five dead drops to discourage counterintelligence or police agents from following the chain from one end to the other. It was inadequate, Morshun knew, but with the rate that violence engulfed this country it would hopefully not matter: the cloak and dagger intelligence operation would be drowned out by the rock and roll of warfare. He knew a proper chain should have upwards of a dozen, and that was just to smuggle things like intelligence out, never mind weapons in. Morshun objected to this, as Czaslyudian intelligence relies on at least several other chains to pull off this type of operation, but he had been reassured that there were other means of getting the weapons in. That was one of the few times he was ever given the “need-to-know” treatment.

But first, Morshun mused, he needed to set things in motion. Upon his order, a truck set off from the motor pool at the FRCP embassy complex, its high-back storage cabin chock full of supplies picked up from the capital’s international airport. It would rendezvous at a government warehouse, where while unloading humanitarian supplies, ‘Volunteers’ would discard empty boxes into the back of a designated vehicle. This vehicle, usually a four-door sedan, would be identifiable from the plushie hung from the rearview mirror. If trouble was detected, the ‘Volunteers’ would refuse to load the vehicle, and try to get disentangled from the truck’s unloading process. From there, a Driver would quit smoking at an appointed time and commandeer the vehicle, making sure to take an erratic path to dissuade any followers in the dense streets of Hitsayasha. The Driver would eventually end up at a casual restaurant at the edge of the city and park, heading inside and ordering. The Eater would recognize this, and the two would swap keys and separate after an appropriate wait. The Eater would drive to the opposite side of the city, beside a construction site held up by a lack of funds and as such completely abandoned-- the empty boxes, which were never really empty in the first place, would be left under appropriate cover as the Eater exited the scene. A construction supervisor, who to Morshun’s luck had been in some financial trouble, would then arrive at the scene and search for the packages, bringing them into their own vehicle. The Supervisor would then drive to yet another dilapidated part of the city, this time an unkempt parking lot, and abandon their company vehicle and walk home. This car would be picked up by the rebels on the other side of the chain, and returned appropriately to the Supervisor to not alert his employers.

There were holes, Morshun knew. Too many risks. But that was what made his job interesting, anyway. He’d be interested to see how the Indibusian intelligence reacted to the Golden Legion on their doorstep, with all the convenient implements of modern warfare. In any case, now that the chain was done, he’d only need to occasionally supervise it-- this was a necessary respite since Morshun needed to move on to other parts of the plan. Outside of the walls of the embassy, a chain of dominos fell in the way they were intended, with the ultimate goal of causing bloodshed and chaos: all in a day’s work for Czaslyudian intelligence agents.
Last edited by Czaslyudian Peoples on Tue May 17, 2022 5:49 pm, edited 1 time in total.

"Americanism is a question of principle, of idealism, of character. It is not a matter of birthplace, or creed, or line of descent."
— Theodore Roosevelt
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New York Times Democracy

Postby Indibus » Tue May 17, 2022 5:46 pm

Indibus News Network Broadcast
May 16, 2022

Breaking news out of Siram; the Golden Legion has claimed that they have taken complete control of the city, confirming what analysts had suspected that the government forces were incapable of contesting the territory any longer. Siram, a city of over 400,000 inhabitants, is the second major city to fall to the Golden Legion, after the capture of Charralem four days earlier. This victory led to the first public statement from Ismaen since his declaration on Friday claiming the title of Nimh. The statement thanks the people of Siram for joining the movement and for standing for the people of Indibus. The Indibusian government forces have been moving towards Siram, but have not yet been able to mass enough troops to attempt to retake the city. Experts say this is in part due to the poor logistics of the Indibusian army, and the failure to maintain equipment.


Reports from the city of Charralem suggest that the Golden Legion, and other members of the Golden Front, have been executing government workers, journalists, and foreigners. Information is difficult to acquire, but reports suggest as many as a few dozen people have been killed in these targeted murders. Footage of the dead bodies appeared on the internet. One video shows several men tied up in what appears to be a basement or underground bunker, and the caption reads "Traitors to the Nimh." It is not entirely clear whether the attacks are being carried out exclusively by the Golden Front and Legion, or if other civilians are joining in. The Golden Front has not responded to these allegations.


More bad news for the government as forces from the Golden Legion launch an assault on government forces stationed in the town of Ghaerel, a town to the south of Charralem. Fighting rages in the city streets and hundreds of civilians leave the suburbs in droves, heading further south and west This fight is the first clash between the Golden Legion and forces mobilized by Praetor Rowan Devi. The government has said that it has sent nearly five thousand troops to the city of Charralem, and is sending more as its forces adjust to the situation.


In the capital of Hitsayasha, the government has announced that it has arrested 2,104 members of the Golden Legion and their affiliates since election night, including two Senators, a number that continues to rise daily. The fighting, however, appears to only get worse, as firefights break out between government forces and the remaining members of the Golden Legion daily. The Imhorchai says that the city is generally safe with the exception of certain neighborhoods, and Praetor Rowan Devi has appeared in the city streets many times in an attempt to calm the nerves of citizens. However, citizens continue to leave in droves, with thousanbds of citizens having moved south to the cities of Yrchashai and Naerys.


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Father Knows Best State

Postby Demesetelis » Tue May 17, 2022 6:26 pm

The Sultan's Office
The Grand Ole Palace
Camel Rider City, Demesetelis

The rich mahogany-lined office smelled of blue raspberries and coarse cigar smoke. A thin white vapor idly mixing with the gray cigar smoke can be seen gently rolling in the rays of sunlight streaming through the vaulted windows. The source of the sweet-smelling vapor was Asban, sitting on the couch next to his father listening intently while taking absent-minded hits of his vape. Caane and Caleb provide the cigar smoke, the vintage box from which the cigars were produced having quickly been placed back into the humidor built into the cabinets behind the royal desk. Caane watched the smoke dance through the sunlight as Caleb explained the security protocol updates he will be implementing this week. Caane heard every word his little brother spoke, but after years of having to process and remember massive amounts of information vital to his role Caane typically only registered when something important was said, the rest of his mind distracted by other things. Today, while Caleb speaks of increased guards at the palace gatehouse and new keycard regulations, Caane is thinking of the ocean. The floating vapor reminds him of kelp suspended in the waves, bringing him back to the many trips to the sea the family took before his father assumed power. After his father's death, Bilal found himself with a considerably smaller amount of time to spend with his family. Road trips to the sea were replaced with cabinet meetings and long overseas trips. Caane's thoughts turn to his own inability to start a family. Pulling himself from the dregs of a quickly-souring memory, he speaks for the first time in half an hour, still intently watching the smoky vapor drift throughout the room.

"Why do you smoke that thing?" Caane asked his nephew. His tone was mostly quizzical. Asban was somewhat startled by the question, being that it was completely out of the blue and not at all related to what he believes to be this greatly important topic. Caleb knew of his brother's interesting way of thinking, so he considers such out-of-place questions typical and to be expected.

"Uh, well I don't know. I just like it." Asban looks at the vape in his hand and goes to put it back in his pocket. "Sorry, I thought since y'all were smoking.." He trails off.

"No, no. You don't have to put it away. I was just curious... May I?" Caane asked, his hand already extended. Of course he may, he most likely paid for the thing via the Grand Family Fund.

Asban was definitely confused at this point. Having just turned 17 he had only recently been allowed to join his father at the palace in the service of the family. Being one of the countless nephews of Caane Demesetelis, his previous interactions with the Sultan had been at a distance or strict and familial. Gaining access to the inner circle revealed a very different Caane than what is presented to the nation. The posters and propaganda films wash away the human element of the Sultan, leaving only a strong but benevolent larger-than-life giant for the masses to look up to. He silently passed the vape to Caane and stared as the sultan takes a deep hit.

Caane had expected the same resistance of smoking a cigar when he inhaled, but instead, the vapor quickly filled his lungs. A fit of blue tasing coughs quickly ensued.

"Damn." Caane wheezed. "How do you not cough smoking this?"

"You get used to it, I guess." Asban replied, still unsure what to think of the interaction.

"Just gotta let the scar tissue build up, right?" Caane joked between rough coughs. He handed the device back to Asban. "Anyway. The new security plan sounds good Caleb." He placed his royal seal on the proposal cover. "Asban, take this to Farah for funds appropriation. I presume you can find your way there?"

"Of course, my Sultan!" He replied, tearing his gaze from the vape still sitting in his open palm. Standing from his seat, he performed a traditional salute before grabbing the folder and beginning to rush out the door. He had no clue where funds appropriation was, but he would search the palace from top to bottom to find it. It would be of no use, unfortunately, since funds appropriation is housed in the administrative building south of the royal gardens. Efficiently navigating the expansive and labyrinthine royal complex in the heart of Camel Rider City is something that can take years to master.

"And Asban.."

"Yes sir?"

"You don't have to salute in private. A simple nod will suffice." Asban then embarked on his journey with a forceful nod. "Caleb, if you don't mind I have a meeting with foreign relations in ten. Will I see you and Amani at dinner tonight?"

"Absolutely. Mother kicked your chef out of the residence earlier today. Can't wait to see what she comes up with this time. Fewer grape leaves I hope." He leaves the office with a smile and a gentle nod.

Caane chuckled at the memory of their mother's last kitchen takeover. The buzz of his intercom stole his thoughts from grape leaves, orange custard, and white wine. "Yes?" He asks, pressing the button to open the connection.

"Your 3 o'clock is here, sir." Replies the tinny voice of his office secretary.

"Send him in."

The door opened and the Demesetelian Ambassador to Acroticus stepped inside. "Thank you for seeing me, my Sultan."

"Of course. You said this was important?"

"Quite. What do you know of Indibus?" Replied the ambassador while taking a seat.

"The old Acrotian colony? Not much to be honest. They're little minnows in a very large shark-infested sea."

"Well, they held elections recently. The new leader's opponent refuses to concede. He has declared war upon the democratically elected government and is using his private army to battle for control of the nation."

"Fascinating... and why does a civil war outside the Commonwealth interest me?"

"I just thought you should know. We have sold a good amount of small arms and ammunition to the area. Our records show sales to both the Indibusian government and private parties. Most interestingly is one of our D-23 jets having been sent that way."

"I don't remember Indibus being on the list, why was one shipped there?"

"Exactly. Either Indibus bought it undercover or The Golden Front did."

"The Golden Front?"

"That's the name of the militia."

"Ah. Sounds pretty Game Of Thronesy to me. I thought this place was strictly flyover country, how can an errant militia afford all this?"

"Their leader is filthy rich, some kind of industry tycoon, you know the type. We should really be questioning where the explosives ended up."


"Yes, a shipment of RPG rockets, C-4, and grenades disappeared almost immediately after being unloaded at its destined Acrotian port. My counterpart there claims they never arrived."

"Why would Acroticus steal explosives? They have always paid in the past."

"I don't think it was Acroticus, had to have been Golden Front, but if that is true their influence must extend further than their island's boundaries. I have kept that in mind recently, nothing out of the ordinary to report yet."

"Ok, this is interesting. Have your team corroborate with my foreign task force office, I'd like to know more." Caane signaled the meeting was over with a wave of his hand. The ambassador rose silently and exited the office.

Civil war, fun. Caane thought. I'll have to get someone to look into news footage of the fighting. Some glamour shots of my weapons in action could be good. Might even make the next advertisement cycle. Caane stood to prepare a whisky coke while still going over the meeting in his mind. We'll have to keep the explosives under wraps, obviously. Blown up capital buildings aren't the best look for us. Not that we could be blamed, someone stole them, but still. Ice clinking in his glass, Caane sat back at his desk and opened his daily briefing box. It's pretty late for him to be starting on the box but his morning was packed. Caane was surprised to see this exact civil war being the topic of the first twenty or so pages of foreign correspondence. Reading through the reports and summaries, Caane became even more interested in this simmering conflict. A no-fly zone? That's a little much isn't it? Well... I can't imagine that place has much in the way of airpower. Other than my jet... I wonder when that will make an appearance... Sounds more like a way to goad the Golden Front into knocking a Commonwealth member plane out of the sky. Doesn't seem like they'd hold much resistance if one of the sharks decides to intervene. Pondering the implications of that thought, the Sultan downs half his drink.
Last edited by Demesetelis on Tue May 17, 2022 6:37 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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New York Times Democracy

Postby Indibus » Thu May 19, 2022 9:24 pm

The Imhorchai, Hitsayasha
Inibusian Capital
May 18, 2022

Iseri rubbed his eyes. It was so late that it was getting early, as the sky had just begun to change from a pitch black to a dark blue. Iseri was sitting with Praetor Devi, Jhaera, and a few others in the Praetor’s office. Frankly, the time didn’t matter much anymore; everyone in that room was working around the clock. The group was pouring over documents, with short discussions here and there and individuals often leaving the room to take calls.

“Alright,” the Praetor said, rubbing his eyes. “I think thats enough for tonight. Go get some sleep; we’ll meet again in… four…. Hours.” With that, Devi sighed, and the group slowly rose to their feet to leave the room. Devi remained at his desk staring at who knows what document. Iseri continued to finish the report he was reading from the east; the military forces of Indibus had nearly lost its control of the southern suburbs around Charralem, with news of foreign tanks appearing within the Golden Legion’s forces. That wasn’t the worst problem, however, as the capital itself was holding on by a thread. The fighting had gotten much worse, and the government forces were spread fairly thin defending about half the neighborhoods. Just as Iseri finished reading the report, Devi jolted out of his chair. The Praetor, irritated, spun around and looked out the window. With the room now empty, Iseri spoke up.

“What were you looking at?” Iseri asked, but immediately regretted it. He felt as though he had let his exhaustion lower his formality, which was not appropriate. Devi did not appear to notice it.

“It’s communications from the Acrotician Consulate. They’re refusing to impose a no-fly zone.” The Praetor’s eyes did not leave the window. “Without the Aderans, I don’t think we’ll be able to pull this one out. The Krepost and worldwide authoritarian regimes are giving everything they’ve got, and where are our allies? The Kottsuki give us lip service while funding our enemies. Saint-Auguste announces help, but it never shows up. The Aderans…” The Praetor paused, falling back down into his chair and spinning around to face Iseri. “The Aderans have abandoned us.”

Iseri returned an upset look to his Praetor. The man was exasperated, and it did feel like the forces of the world were against them. Their recruitment efforts had been abysmal, and the government had only losses to report.

“Well, why should they support us?” Iseri responded. “We haven’t shown them that we are worth saving. Sure, the Aderans brought us democracy, but its ours to keep. And I don’t think we’ve done a very good job of rallying around what we stand for.”

The Praetor looked up angrily. “What-” Devi snapped before taking a deep breath. He looked down at the ground, before returning to Iseri. “I’m working 24 hours a day, I haven’t slept since a week before the election. I’ve called every consulate that will pick up my call. I’ve reorganized the entire military in 7 days, delivered them to the front doorstep of the enemy… What more can I do?”

“Well, the Golden Front is clearly fighting for something. They have ideals, and goals, and leaders. The picture they’re painting is one that's attractive to a lot of people, even if it means trampling over others.” Devi furrowed his brow in response.

“What do we have to fight for? What would our people rally around?”

“How about you, sir?” Iseri began. “You were the first Praetor re-elected in decades. You’ve championed democratic reforms, secured the support of nearly every major political party, and convinced more people than anyone else that you are the one to lead this country. You just have to make it clear to everyone that what they’re fighting for is not just to keep the foreigners and LGBTQ people of this nation alive, but for the ability of each and every person to determine their own destiny; to choose the life they want to pursue.” Iseri paused to let his impromptu speech settle. “But it has to come from you.”

The Micharaive Street, Hitsayasha
Inibusian Capital
May 18, 2022

Although it wasn’t too hot that day, it was bright. The sky had entirely cleared of clouds, aligning perfectly for the Praetor’s speech. An area of the street in front of the Indibusian Senate Building was blocked off for the audience, which turned out not to be much. There were a handful of senators and their staffers, and about 150 government soldiers, not counting the Preator’s security team. But what was more important were the press and cameras, which lined the entire length of the streets. The Senate Building was only a couple blocks from the Imhorchai, but still it would be the furthest Devi had ventured out in days.

The podium had been placed at the base of the steps to the Senate, which made Devi about ground level with the crowd. He had given hundreds of speeches before in his life, but never while he was this exhausted, and never under such pressure. His team had written several drafts of the speech he was to give today, but none of them were in final form. Devi had reviewed a number of drafts himself, but had rejected all of them. He would use their language where he saw fit, to the extent he could remember. The rest would have to be his own thoughts.

“Thank you… thank you all, for coming here today.” Devi could hear his own voice shake. He took a second to compose himself. “I know you haven’t seen a lot of me these past couple weeks. For that I apologize; I have been derelict in my duty to speak to you, to all of you. The times we find ourselves in are difficult, but that’s no excuse for my failure to properly do my job. Starting now, I promise to do better; to communicate to all of you the challenges we face as fellow citizens.”

“I will not lie to you; the threat we face today is stark. It’s a threat not just to our homes, or friends and family, but also to our way of life. The enemies we face are not unknown. We have seen them many times before throughout history. It is those who believe that civility is too high a price to pay for freedom. And I speak to you today knowing that it is not just our fellow countrymen who have been poisoned by the well of authoritarian extremism. The weapons fired and tanks deployed by the Golden Front are not stolen from our warehouses, but brought from overseas. Indibus is the subject of a larger war between the forces of democracy, and the forces of fascism. We have stumbled onto the front lines.”

“But now that we are here, we must make our choice. Either we surrender, relinquish our freedom and succumb to the rot of a dictatorial regime like so many have. Or, we refuse, we stand up and show the world that Indibus is not some unstable rump state to be turned into a puppet. We show them, and ourselves, that we are a nation of free people, and our liberty cannot be so easily stripped away. This choice is the only choice to protect our identity.”

“While I can see the destruction and speak with the wounded, I can only imagine the pain and suffering of the families throughout the country who have lost loved ones in this conflict. I cannot promise a quick victory. But with your help, we can show those dictators in Torgov, and Gratberg, and yes, in Charrahlem that Indibus is not a place for them to enforce their whims. No Empire can subsume us, no terrorists can cause us to cower in fear. As we are, as we will be. Once a free people, forever a free people.”

Indibus News Network Broadcast
May 19, 2022

”Once a free people, forever a free people.” These words from Praetor Rowan Devi yesterday on the steps of the Senate Building brought cheers from the crowd. The Praetor’s first appearance in days marked a potential turning point for his administration. His failure to curb the violence in the capital over the past few days clearly taking a toll on the Praetor, as he appeared exhausted during his speech. Nonetheless, his words have resonated with many, causing the slogan “forever a free people” to spread across the internet. This language appears to correspond to a shift in the administration's strategy, as today Praetor Devi made an appearance at fortifications within the city, visiting soldiers defending against attacks from the Golden Legion within the capital.

This change in tone coming just before footage from the city of Siram was released showing destruction and killings throughout the city. I must warn you that what you are about to see is disturbing. This footage shows several people cowering at the feet of members of the Golden Legion with dead bodies in the background. As you can see, there is an unknown source of smoke rising from behind. And in this footage, you can see several individuals in the background, hanging from crosses. Indeed, reports confirm that a number of people have been crucified within the city, including a number of former government officials. Such horror is likely to continue as long as the fighting remains ongoing.

Last edited by Indibus on Thu May 19, 2022 9:34 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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Czaslyudian Peoples
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Founded: Apr 14, 2022
Corporate Police State

Postby Czaslyudian Peoples » Mon May 23, 2022 1:58 pm

FRCPN Harbuz
11:42 am CESTZ
Korf Autonomous Republic, FRCP

Czaslyudian submarines were not known for their comfort. Cramped spaces, uncomfortable temperatures and conditions, and a short-lived supply of fresh vegetables made submarines undesirable postings, yet getting a position on a submarine was all-too-likely for a naval enlistee as the submarine force rivaled the numbers of the surface fleet.

Most dreaded of any kind of ship (boats, they were often called erroneously) to serve on was the Razin-Class. Often described as nothing more than a degaussed steel tube with combat capabilities strapped on and electrolysis machines that pumped breathable air through the ship added as an afterthought, it had a bad reputation for aiming to be built cheap rather than well. Occasional accidents in exercises and the increasing numbers of the class, which threatened to overwhelm the maintenance facilities for them, only helped to cement this reputation.

But for some, the value of the Razin-class boats lay in the eye of the beholder. Like most sub drivers, Captain Stepan Derkach thought like a shark when at his command station. He was grateful for the numbers of the Czaslyudian submarine force, which allowed those as ambitious as him to have a greater opportunity to command. To Derkach, being posted in command of a small diesel submarine, effectively a throwaway position in the Navy, was better-- more honorable, as Derkach put it-- than a cushy captaincy on the newer and bigger Fyodor Sergeyev-Class nuke subs. His Harbuz did not need to worry about missile tubes or nuclear fuels-- he would fight, tooth and nail, with only the basics of submarine warfare: torpedoes, cunning, and smelling the blood in the water.

He was surprised to return to his ship after its drydock and find none of the electronics switched-- he had yet to get on the PT-1019 sonar software everyone else was on-- instead, he found himself with more classified orders delivered by tight-lipped agents of the Department of War’s Intelligence and Security Bureau. One thing that had changed was the shape of a midget submarine attached behind the sail of the Harbuz, flush with the hull. Stepan had questions, but doubtlessly his orders would explain.

“Conn, ahead one-third.” Derkach ordered, fidgeting with his command key as he oversaw the disemarking process. Similar to the protocol on nuclear submarines, Czaslyudian diesel patrol submarines were not allowed to look at the mission orders sealed within the captain’s safe until they were submerged and underway, in case some officer decided to leak what they were up to. Thirty meters of seawater made for some hermetically-sealed mission security, Derkach thought.

“Speed three knots, sir.” Called the helmsman over the intercom. From his position on the bridge of the vessel-- which would be a temporary position until they were underway-- Derkach saw the industrial city of Korf disappear from his periphery and replace itself with the open sea. A tug led them out, ensuring that ice or any hidden obstacles did not harm their journey, but only so far before its insect-like fuel reserves required it to return. The city now a distant image, the Captain saw it was time.

“Conn, rig for diving. Bring us to eight-zero meters.” Derkach took one last sweep across the horizon, an amenity given only to officers of submarines and took a deep breath. Submarine patrols lasted weeks, and with all the trouble he was put into, Derkach was certain that the next glimmer of sunlight he saw would be well-earned. The Captain and his first, Commander Degtareyev, retreated down from the bridge into the control room, which served the same purpose while submerged. The control room was a cramped, dark space with a low ceiling surrounded by the twinkling lights of computers completing many thousands of calculations per second, helping the large sonar assembly at the bow cut the difference between a hostile ship and background noise.

They did not waste time in this space; it was unpleasant and equally far from the matter at hand. Degtareyev nodded to the LCS, Lieutenant Commander Signals Nazarenko, and the three of the senior officers made their way to the back of the control room where Derkach inserted his key in tandem with the others to the captain’s safe and removed the crisp parchment on which the orders of the vessel of thirty sailors lay. Derkach murmured the orders written in concise and inelegant militarese as he read with a furrowed brow.

That was something he had missed.

“Commander, do we have any unaccounted-for personnel?” Derkach started slowly, folding the orders paper up and returning it to the safe. Degtareyev frowned.

“No, none that I know of.”

The Lieutenant Commander, Signals spoke up. “You must be talking about the stowaway. He’s already been shown to his quarters at the behest of the spooks, Captain.”

This startled Derkach. How could anything go on under his nose, especially in this small of a ship? “Where?”

“Aft of the commissary, section B.” The Lieutenant Commander responded.

Stepan would have to see what this was all about. “Commander, you have the bridge.”

* * *

If the control room was like a crawlspace, the crew quarters were like a coffin. The 2,000-ton displacement submarine did not leave many options for the claustrophobic, Derkach thought briefly as he ducked under a bulkhead into section B. The ‘crew quarters’ were a tight barracks, with cots and bunks huddled alongside the sides of the hull, but there was a section set off from the rest for those who fell out of the naval chain of command, which were designated Onboard Extra-military Contracting -- another phrase for what Derkach called ‘special’ guests.

Their OEC guest was the only one, which ruled out a contingent of naval infantry or SSP for special purpose assignments. That’s unusual, Derkach came to the conviction, but these are unusual times indeed.. He cracked open an aluminum door to greet his quarry.

The Captain’s first impression was that this figure was definitely not up to military code. Long, black hair flowing from either side of his head, a rough-looking face covered in equally black stubble save for the jagged mustache and patch of hair on the chin. This one had strong handsome Czaslyudian features despite his unseemliness, but with the state of his clothes and appearance looked as if he had been dragged out of a police station’s drunk bin. Judging by the smell that hit Derkach, he was not far off about that.

The uncouth guest looked up from his seat under a bunk, with no small amount of delay, at the intrusion. “For the last time, this isn’t your damn smoking corner.”

“Mister--” Stepan started with a wry smile.

“Yevhen Petryk.”

“Mister Petryk, my name is Stepan Derkach. I’m the Captain of this ship, and I believe it is Navy regulation with civilian contractors and other guests to announce your presence if you are not a crew member, no?” Petryk nodded slowly to this while his eyes became unfocused. Instead of giving a response or an apology that Derkach expected, there was a pause that seemed to last an eternity. “Mister Petryk,” Derkach said caustically, “on this ship we follow a chain of command. While we may be obliged to host you, you do not have the entitlement to ignore a ranking officer, no matter your status.”

“Yes, I do.” Yevhen said wearily.

The Captain scoffed. “You expect me to let it be at that?”

Petryk nodded. “You should.”

“Petryk, if you do not give me the simple responses I want, I can tie you down to a chair in the commissary and have the doctor examine you to see what’s got your tongue. There’s seventy meters of seawater above us, and only I control the ship. I’m sure my superiors will discount the complaint of a drunk against that of an accredited command officer.” Derkach retorted.

Yevhen blinked, and his posture straightened. “But I am your superior, Captain. I rank two pay grades higher. And I’m certain they’ll rate the word of a nedosvidchenyy captain of some diesel boat higher than a decorated war hero, not to mention one who works for the Department of Internal Security.”

To the Captain this felt like a slap across the face. Never one to choke in an argument, his response was quick. “If you are who you say you are, show some identification.”

Without hesitation, the guest energetically reached over to his luggage. “This is my identification.” Opening a case, he revealed a slightly disassembled but still large hunting rifle, its barrel sawn off and ammunition clips stowed on its stock. The sides of the case were adorned with a serrated combat knife, a scope, night vision equipment, and grenades. “Yevhen Petryk does not exist, but still boarded at the behest of our government. You disrespect me one more time, you will not exist at the behest of our government. Is that clear?”

Unsure whether to respond to the threat or to the order and certainly unwilling to swallow his pride, Derkach only shuffled his feet. “Am I to understand you’re in charge here?” The Captain said after a delay.

“As long as my orders have to do with the mission, yes. You’re still in control of the ship, but if I want to surface…” Yevhen trailed off. “So. Any questions, Captain?”

“Where the hell are we going?”

“I can’t tell you. But I hear the weather’s nice there this time of year. Now get out.”

As the Captain shut the bulkhead behind him, ‘Yevhen’ sat back and footed the flask of liquid out from under his cot. That captain was not used to dealing with the more secretive nature of the Armed Forces, it seemed. Sub drivers like him always were. They were too inquisitive, and always needed awareness of every little thing that happened on and outside their tin cans. Thankfully this was a small operation; after the mission the crew could be reassigned elsewhere to prevent talk of the operation. It would be four days before their submarine, trailing along a low depth at 5 knots, would would arrive in the vicinity of his mission; Hitsayasha. Upon landfall, his identification would become his identity and he would not have time to fuck around like he did with Derkach. Petryk took a long pull from his flask, baring his teeth to the burning sensation at the back of his throat. It was truly uncomfortable aboard a submarine, and every Czaslyudian knew that liquor was a remedy for something like that.

"Americanism is a question of principle, of idealism, of character. It is not a matter of birthplace, or creed, or line of descent."
— Theodore Roosevelt
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Psychotic Dictatorship

Postby Kherkov » Tue May 24, 2022 2:48 pm

The Admiralty Offices

Grand Imperial Port


Prince Maximillian stared at the various computer monitors lost in thought, his recorded image sitting motionless on them all, his digital self staring right back at him. He was a tall man, but not nearly as much as his brother. He was well-built, but paled in comparison to Adolphus. His neat, combed-over brown hair contrasted sharply with the Crown Prince’s wavy blonde locks. As the heir, Adolphus had to be almost as much of a symbol for the nation as the Kaiser, a charismatic orator, second only to his father. Since birth, he had to embody the ideology of the Kherkovian state, of the Prukovian tradition, of the House of Zohlburg. And Adolphus had taken it all in his stride. To Maximillian, it seemed like Adolphus was born to be heir – figuratively and literally - and he admired his older brother for it.

Maximillian had not been raised with such pressures. Of course, as a leading member of the Imperial Family, he had his part to play, and as a Kherkovian the Prukovian way of life had been instilled in him. But the limelight and the leading role were always reserved for Adolphus. This was the reason why Maximillian was sitting here today, ready to discuss updates on a far-flung, irrelevant island nation with his father, while Adolphus campaigned in Kaarland. And this is the way he liked it. Never once had he coveted the title of Crown Prince, always content to support his family and country from the sidelines.

The Prince had always devoted much of his free time to his studies, indeed the one area where he greatly excelled over his brother. Adolphus was an excellent student, no-one could dispute that. But Maximillian was on a completely different level. The ease with which his mind had tackled difficult questions – in the sciences, mathematics, government – had amazed his tutors from a young age. His capacity for planning, seeking out every little detail without compromising time efficiency or losing sight of the bigger picture, finally earned him the Kaiser’s praise - placing Maximillian on many important administrative projects run by the Ministry of the Interior. Prince Maximillian had found his niche, Adolphus had found his. Maximillian had decided long ago that this was simply the way of things, the natural order, and had made himself content with it.

This was why the Prince had been surprised when the Kaiser tasked him with expanding Kherkovian influence in Indibus. He reasoned it might be for his knowledge of the distant nation. He was extensively versed in the histories, societal structures, and political ongoings of all the Commonwealth nations - especially those in Albionia – but his studies had granted him wisdom about the wider world in the same way. Adolphus, who had been content with learning just the facts and deciding that Kherkovians were superior by blood, often joked with his brother about this. “It’s almost as if you respect them, Max!” He would laugh raucously, punching his younger brother on the shoulder whilst taking a drink of whiskey or a drag of a cigarette.

Maximillian had to agree with his brother to some extent. Perhaps he did have a quiet respect for the Britcanis, the Augustines, the Aderans. Perhaps he respected the fact that they still had some vague semblance of a nation whilst doggedly adhering to their inefficient systems and paradoxical ways. Maximillian abhorred their watchwords; democracy, liberalism, pluralism, individualism. Such systems are doomed to fail. It was a simple fact of the human condition, proven not only by the long history of Kherkov, but the wider Albionian continent. Britcan and Saint-Auguste limp on while the Krepost Pact goes from strength to strength. As the heart of the Commonwealth, it is only natural that the lesser nations will follow in their wake. Adolphus hated the foreigner’s ways because they were alien. Maximillian simply reasoned that they were illogical. Kherkovian superiority came not from blood as was so espoused by all echelons of State. Quietly, Maximillian almost found such simplistic explanations of foreordained destiny insulting. No, Kherkovian power came from the unashamed commitment to efficiency. His forefathers, the Kaiser, all had built a nation unshackled by the inefficiencies of liberalism that had allowed Prukov, and Kherkov, to systematically rise through the world order. Kherkov’s enemies may cry ‘oppressor’ and ‘dictator’, blinded by their own incompetence. But deep in their hearts they surely had to know the futility of their struggle against nature. And if they did not, they would know soon enough.

The Prince was shaken from his thoughts by the image of a young soldier appearing on the various monitors, sharply saluting. “Your Imperial Highness. His Imperial Majesty is connecting to the call.”

As the image of the soldier disappeared to be replaced by that of the Kaiser, Maximillian gave his own salute. “Your Imperial Majesty. Thank you for agreeing to this review meeting.”

“You know I am busied with the duties of State, Max. But, yes, I have indeed taken the time to review your documents.” The Kaiser casually straightened the patterned tie paired with his lounge suit as he took out a tablet computer to read from. “So, your new Vice-Admiral… Eidelburg? He has begun patrolling the waters of the island?”

Maximillian lowered his arm, the movement somewhat audible from the stiffly starched military dress uniform that he wore. “Ja, sir. His exceptionally zealous devotion is an asset. He has always followed my orders to the very letter.”

“We can’t have deviation from your plans, after all,” came the Kaiser’s reply, almost sarcastically. “And it is my understanding that these ships are to ensure the safe passage of weaponry to the Golden Legion?”

The Prince nodded. “Indeed, sir. With superiority in the seas, we can set the agenda. On the surface, we will be conducting anti-piracy operations, stopping ships for spot checks in the name of peace and order. This will allow us to frustrate support to the government, and allow our Golden Legion weapons shipments through unhindered, whilst also keeping our explicit involvement secret.”

“Or at the very least, deniable. But I am concerned about this escalation to a peace-keeping mission.” The Kaiser prodded at the tablet.

Maximillian raised an eyebrow. “Concerned, sir? In what way?”

“You do not think the Pact imposing a no-fly zone on an Aderan satellite state will be without repercussions?”

The Prince shook his head. “Illogical. The League of Free Nations could not risk a conflict with Kherkov, let alone the entirety of Krepost. They know their losses would be too –”

“But what of their pride when you implement such an obvious insult to their democratic sphere of influence, foolish boy?” The Kaiser snapped back, before calming himself. “They could not countenance such an act when an LFN member has a base on the island. You will force them to act.”

The Kaiser’s son was silent.

“I have made some changes, Max, which will be sent through to you now. You are an excellent administrator. But politics, the liberal nations, neither are logical. The LFN is not free to act with reason – they are bound by the baying whines of their peoples. Do not place so much faith in your plans. You must learn this lesson, Maximillian – I do not wish to divert my attention to this side project again. Understood?”

The Prince was silent again for a few moments before speaking. “I understand, father.”

“Good. Isamen gaining power would be beneficial, economically and politically. But I will not expense valuable resource and time over what is, ultimately, an inconsequential backwater. You know this. Now, to your duties.” The Kaiser’s image disappeared from the screen, replaced by the Imperial Coat of Arms.

Maximillian found himself lost in thought again. This was not how this meeting had played out in his head. He had not failed the Kaiser so thoroughly for years. This would be another stain, another blemish on his record. How could he have missed such blindingly obvious facts? What good was his knowledge if it could not bring him foresight? How could he take his place at his family’s side if he could not see?

The door bursting open brought Maximillian back to reality, looking up to see the saluting young soldier from before. “Your Imperial Highness, Vice-Admiral Eidelburg –“ The aide was stopped by the collision of the Prince’s still-clenched fist to his face and ribs, collapsing at the unexpected volley.

“You dare enter the presence of the Imperial Family without permission, schweinehund?” Came the Prince’s exasperated voice. “Rotten scum, are hierarchy and decorum meaningless nothings to you? Criminals like you… criminals are beyond saving!” The aide’s apologetic cries were cut short after Maximillian drew his sidearm and shot twice.

Shakily pulling out a cigarette and lighting it, Maximillian exited the room to find a group of guards that had rushed to the door. “Prepare the second videoconferencing room and connect Admiral Augustbach. Now, to your duties.”

Krepost Pact Communiqué
To: All Commonwealth Society Member States
CC: Nations of the world

Fellow Member States of the Commonwealth,

The volatile situation in Indibus, while not a Commonwealth State, is worrying to us all. The loss of life is deeply regrettable, and one cannot help but cast one’s mind back to the dreadful conflict in Kemaria.

Now, as then, Kherkov and the Krepost Pact have taken swift action to ensure order and peace. A Kherkovian task force, supported by Viperian and Sanguine naval elements, has been dispatched to patrol the waters of Indibus, and halt any would-be pirates in their tracks. The fleet will monitor and inspect suspected renegade vessels headed to and from Indibus, to ensure the conflict does not spill further than the borders of the island.

The Krepost Pact, while wishing for an end to the conflict and the return of order, understands that containment of the conflict is necessary for the protection of the Commonwealth. To this end, we believe that the imposition of a no-fly zone across the island would greatly aid in this objective. The Pact invites all Commonwealth nations committed to peace and security to enter talks regarding such a zone. Together, we can ensure that the airspace of Indibus remains free of bloodshed, and that only Commonwealth planes fly in its skies.

In the name of the Commonwealth, Krepost Prevails.

Admiral Duke Gottfried von Augustbach, Reichskommissar for the Exterior.
England expects that every man will do his duty.
Kherkov Factbook | Join The Commonwealth Society!

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Postby Czaslyudian Peoples » Tue May 31, 2022 1:20 pm

FRCP Embassy Building
23:14 local time
Hitsayasha, Indibus

Ruslan had spent several days in restful idle, but was still wondering about the actual reason of his posting in Indibus. In his ample free time, he kept up with the news; the situation was rapidly deteriorating in Indibus and the streets outside of the walled embassy complex were certainly no longer safe with all the nationalistic fervor that gripped the capital, particularly for foreigners. This Ismaen fellow sure knew how to start a fire, whipping up a revolution from little more than rhetoric which reminded him eerily of the days before 2020– before their own Civil War. There had not been as much talking before the fighting here, which set this apart from the Czaslyudian Civil War, but this also seemed more of a popular uprising, involving citizens of every caste, rather than a bunch of politicians and REMFs. The Czaslyudian Civil War, which Ishchuk served in valiantly as part of Pasha Rostov’s intelligence staff, did not focus on the common man so much, and had clear-cut lines between friend and foe. Here, on the other hand, it seemed as if anyone could join the carnage by picking up a rifle. Which Ruslan had noted came awfully quickly for the limited resources of Ismaen’s rebellion.

He saw Morshun infrequently, but mainly liaised with Kozava, the ambassador, to execute odd jobs that needed a degree of security. It simply made no sense. Why would Ruslan, a man whose forte was in counterintelligence, be selected to serve in an embassy in the middle of a revolution? It seemed more than illogical, bordering on suspicious, but that was how his government worked on a regular basis, wasn’t it?

Ishchuk was burning the midnight oil on work that evening– that was, with a cup of tea in one hand and a paperback in the other. Fetching sealed and mildly sensitive documents for a whole day had left him weary; Ruslan had begun to believe that he really was sent here as a glorified courier boy. It was nice to be able to rest his legs after a great deal of doing nothing. It seemed Fate would not have that.

“Ah! Tovarysh Ishchuk! Just who I needed to see!” Exclaimed Orest Morshun, striding into the room with a staged expression of surprise. “How are you enjoying your stay in Hitsayasha?”

Ruslan looked up from his book. “Not a lot to do.” He remarked dryly.

“Hmm. Have you tried going to town? I hear things have cleared up.” Morshun gave a sidelong glance to the rest of the room before pulling a seat beside where Ruslan sat. “I have orders for you from Sevyich.” Morshun said in a low voice, withdrawing a sealed envelope from his suit jacket. “They’ll require your discretion on how this information is handled– but that comes with our line of work, you understand.” Ruslan took it and opened it; he had to read some portions twice to believe it.

When– and with what?” Ruslan asked, placing the letter face-down on the arm of the chair. Morshun reached over and retrieved the letter, pocketing it for later disposal.

“We have the means, tovarysh. Now, we wait for the opportunity.”

03:15 CESTZ
Codenamed facility, Zaporozhian Cordillera

Secretive military operations are the neglected child of intelligence services and military forces; the former views them as too sloppy, involving too many people and too many liabilities, while the latter sees them as ill-planned endeavours, with those with little to no experience in warfighting being allowed to write up operational plans without a sense of realism. Nevertheless, neither could deny the advantages of being able to wield so large a force covertly, being able to fight battles on enemy (or friendly) soil while maintaining a clean diplomatic demeanor. Or that is at least how a third party, politicians, praise the matter. In reality, it is a dysfunctional, spook-ridden and heavily armed chaos.

The primary force, dubbed “Bowknot”, was cobbled together nearly two weeks ago. During the brief moments of respite, Romanenko learned they were many from different walks of soldiery– military intelligence, honored and accredited infantry divisions, even the SSP (whose members kept to themselves after revealing that fact)-- but still, a majority came from none other than light infantry like he. As soon as all everyone had arrived, they were immediately put on ‘exercises’ led by a stoic Starshyna, which involved exhausting jogs in the wilderness coupled with hours-long equipment training. This went on for days; in the meantime, the soldiers gained or maintained proficiency in a myriad of weapons, from silenced submachine guns and underbarrel grenade launchers to anti-tank weapons and minelaying. Soon, when the superior officers saw that the group was broken in, they actually began to speak to them.

“I am Major Koval. I run this facility. You are gathered here to serve your vitchyzna. Your vitchyzna depends on your silence. Your vitchyzna depends on your abilities. Your vitchyzna depends on you following orders.” The Starshyna began in a harsh staccatoed voice that typically went along with anything ‘military’ with a capital ‘M’. “You will be broken up into a plastun fashion– you will be an independent unit, and will not receive air cover, nor substantial logistical support. Communications with your superiors will be at a minimum. You will not have any allied support, either– out there, in the bush, there will only be two types of people: innocent and hostile. There are no friends apart from your comrades.” The Major finished. “Now, the following khrobaky step forward when I call your names.”

The Major produced a piece of paper from which he read. “Captain Romanenko. Lieutenant Moskalenko. Senior Lieutenant Stelmakh…” Artur stepped forward groggily, for which he was rewarded with a yank of his dogtags from his neck. “Romanenko here is the commanding officer for ‘Bowknife’. The lieutenants I called are your menshyy plastun leaders. In order to protect your vitchyzna, you will remove any identifying materials from your uniform– you will also be issued new, less comfortable ones if you fail in that task. This includes patches, pictures of your sweetheart, letters, medals, and other bullshit.”

The rest of the plastun later did the same during this macabre roll-call, stripping away anything on their person that would prove their identity. It took the better part of an hour before nearly four-hundred men and women found their seats again. “You will receive a full day of exercises tomorrow, and then you will be mobilized to Fort Sriblo where you will receive a full briefing on what your mission is.” The Major called out. It would be a long day tomorrow– today, Romanenko caught himself. All this had better be worth it.

"Americanism is a question of principle, of idealism, of character. It is not a matter of birthplace, or creed, or line of descent."
— Theodore Roosevelt
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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Acroticus » Tue May 31, 2022 2:51 pm


May 27, 2022, 9:23 ACT - The situation in Indibus seems unrecognizable from even one week ago.Last Friday, the Golden Legion was firmly in control of Siram and Charrahlem, and was close to taking over Vidava and even threatening Hitsayasha. Even the Aderan Republic appeared to be cautioning The past ten days have shown a remarkable change, with fighting subsiding in Vidava and Hitsayasha. On May 25th, Praetor Rowan Devi announced that the Golden Legion had been entirely expelled from Hitsayasha.

How did the situation change so drastically? Some analysts attribute it to the violence of the Golden Legion’s conquest (or liberation) of Siram. Video footage from the city showing crucified civilians, and dead bodies in the streets appear to have dampened support for the extremist group nationwide. While polling is not available, a number of interviews from civilians seem to support this narrative. Additionally, editorials published by a number of right leaning Indibusian news organizations, which had previously been supportive or silent on the war, have come out in opposition to the Golden Legion’s attacks.

This may well be part of the shift. Other analysts argue that the shift in policy of Praetor Devi’s regime has had some effect as well. During the first two weeks of the war, Devi remained in the Imorchai, surrounded by advisors and unseen by the public. For the last week and a half, however, the Praetor’s administration has made efforts to engage the public, with Devi visiting soldiers in ambattled portions of the Hitsayasha, as well as making a number of televised statements.

Military analysts suggest that specifically in Vidava and Hitsayasha, the retreat of the Golden Legion’s forces were an inevitable result of the eventual mobilization of Indibus’s military forces. On May 20th, four warships from the Indibusian navy arrived in Vidava, bringing over 1,000 troops to reinforce the government’s security forces, and providing additional support for their efforts. The security forces in Hitsayasha as well had regrouped, and mobilized reserves began to be brought to the front lines.

The news is not entirely good for Devi, however. The fighting in the suburbs of Charrahlem have resulted in a strong showing from the Golden Legion’s forces, reinforced with weapons from the Krepost. Ismaen’s forces have secured the suburbs surrounding the city for nearly 70 kilometers in every direction, recently securing the suburb of Archa. The loss of these suburbs will make it more difficult for the government to recover the territory necessary to provide for the siege of the city.

The Senate, Therinia
Acrotician Capital
May 29, 2022

There were four press rooms in the Senate Building; one for each house of the Senate, and the fourth, and largest, for the Praetors. It was not always that both Praetors shared a single press room, but the truth was that Praetor Arriston Andros rarely used it anymore. The 84 year old political icon had won his 5th 4 year term in 2021, but was too frail to be significantly involved in governing. Instead, his staff largely ran the office, which meant that it was their desires that pushed the power of the office. It also meant that the other Praetor, Marcus Septimus, had exclusive access to the Press Room. And he intended to use it.

Septimus was the first non-veteran to win election to the Rex Praetorship, traditionally reserved for a general, or at least a former infantryman. Nonetheless, he had the support of veterans in high numbers. The standard bearer for the so-called Nationalist Party, he once represented the far right in the country. Now, numerous further right parties had outflanked him, and his steadfast refusal to engage in extremist viewpoints had him labeled a centrist. While Praetor Andros’s popularity was unmatched, generally hanging around 65%, Septimus was much more subject to changes in the winds. His current approval rating of 41% was a dive of nearly 3 points since the start of the Indibusian conflict. While remaining out of the conflict offered numerous political benefits, the short term change in fortune of the Devi administration made it impossible to publicly justify Acrotician nonintervention.

As Septimus stepped up to the podium, the voices of the various journalists and press aficionados in the crowd hushed. “Thank you” the Praetor said before coughing into his hand. “At 11:12 PM on May 28, I ordered the Aderan Epsilon Naval Task Force to enforce a no fly zone over the entirety of Indibusian air space. This action was done with the approval of Praetor Rowan Devi, and the people of Indibus. The no-fly zone will ban foreign planes and other vehicles from patrolling or otherwise entering the airspace of Indibus, and will be enforced in conjunction with the Air Force of Indibus. This step represents a greater message on the part of Acroticus, that we will not stand idly by as dictators and fascists try to usurp the mantle of legitimately elected governments. The people of Indibus have shown their disdain for the attacks carried out by the Golden Legion, and this no-fly zone will prevent significant loss of life of both the Indibusian civilian population, and the government’s personnel.”

“In addition,” Septimus continued. “Praetor Andros and I have provided for the fast tracking of a bill providing the Indibusian government with 2 billion ialira in military aid, as well as providing military advisors to train government forces and provide logistical support. Let me be clear that there will be no Acrotician soldiers fighting against the Golden Legion. Acrotician troops will, however, provide training to government forces and intelligence and other non-combat services. Both Praetor Andros and I take the threat from the Golden Legion and the Krepost very seriously, and we believe these actions are necessary not just to protect Indibus from hostile foreign incursions, but also to protect the free peoples of the world…”

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Postby Czaslyudian Peoples » Wed Jun 01, 2022 9:47 am

Korf Enquirer

Victory in Hitsayasha, FRCP Help on the Way?

Business as usual in Hitsayasha

Vyacheslav Kubiyovych

May 29th, 2022

To the amateur military analyst community’s surprise, the government of Indibus has received a flurry of good news after a series of rebel defeats at the hands of recently-reorganized government forces.

Reports from Indibusian news sources suggest that Hitsayasha may be completely out of the fighting, just days after armed and violent fights broke out in the streets. Successful amphibious operations to the north in Vidava also show the responsiveness of the Indibusian government has returned after the apparent disarray early in the conflict. Moreover, foreign help seems to have arrived just in time. Adera has pledged their full support and backing to the Devi administration, providing an equivalent of 3.8 billion Czaslyudian bills in purely military aid, in addition to military advisors and other assistance.

In addition to this, there has seemingly been a shift in our own government more in the favor of the Devi administration, as in the National Assembly there has been talk of more substantial aid packages. And, according to a release by the Department of War, a group of naval vessels headed by the FRCPN Yurij Kumehovy, a Petrov-Class LHD, has been dispatched with light escort to Indibus to facilitate ship-to-shore transfer and application of human aid.

Does this signal a turning point in the unrest (or conflict, as it has been previously referred to as)? Analysts seem to think that specific point has long since passed. Danylo Lytovchenko, geopolitical specialist from the University of St. Kobzar, Korf, believes the ‘war’ is at a close. “If you want to make a fire, you need to bring many things; enough tinder to start it off, an adequate amount of kindling to grow it, and good, proper logs to keep it going. Conflicts like this Ismaen’s rebellion are all tinder, with no proper way of escalating– just sparks before they’re snuffed out. Certainly they put on a scare for the government and the media, but when it comes down to it they banked on the inability of Devi’s administration to act, which obviously failed.” Lytovchenko commented. “It’s open and shut.”

Vyacheslav Kubiyovych is the Head Columnist of the Korf Enquirer, the FRCP’s first private news source and most widely distributed news source in both paper and digital formats in the Korf Autonomous Republic.

19:04 CESTZ
Codenamed facility, Zaporozhian Cordillera, FRCP

He knew he was right about at least one thing– it had been a terribly long day. Romanenko led the group on somewhat last-minute drills in a ‘simulated’ combat environment, building fortifications in the day to hunker down in and using night vision equipment and dropping ‘hostiles’ with wax bullets in the night. It was all too easy– much of the opposition, in reality the permanent garrison at the facility, had no access to night vision equipment or heavy firepower. He suspected the Major and his superiors knew this, and foresaw lightly armed punks being their only resistance. Or at least he hoped.

Romanenko crouched when he saw the signal pass down the line. Squinting ahead in the moonlit night, he saw the outline of his menshyy plastun’s point man, some fifty meters ahead, ready their distinctive OOK-88, sweeping it across a sector. They must have heard something, Romanenko thought. The pointman was SSP, the Czaslyudian Land Forces’ special operations command, and had the skills to show it. Too many times had this one eavesdropped with his sharp ears on the radio messages he sent out.

“What’s Shchur found now?” Murmured Sotnik Kalinichenka, Artur’s second-in-command. Romanenko was not too sure what to think of Kalinichenka– on the surface, she was a woman. The Land Forces did not have a good track record with treatment of women, especially in front-line roles, but something about the way the lieutenant held herself put him at ease. She had shown herself to be a scrupulous officer, taking initiative when needed and covering the ass of her superior. The last quality would get her far in the Armed Forces.

Before Romanenko could speculate, his communications headset put out three quiet pulses. Beep beep beep. That was the all clear signal. “Nothing, then.” Romanenko centered his pack on his shoulders and began moving with the rest of the infantry column. The cold wind played deceptive tricks at night, playing tricks on the senses. Without his night vision goggles on (which he had in his possession, but preferred to use his own eyes to avoid losing detail) a disturbed bush might look like an enemy repositioning, the rustle of the leaves could make one believe that someone was coming up behind them…

Romanenko jerked his head over his shoulder. Just Kalinichenka and the rest of the headquarters unit, vigilantly watching their step to avoid twigs and dry leaves. Kalinichenka seemed to notice this.

Tovarysh, it’s just us, okay?”

Slightly embarrassed, Artur decided to get some things out of the way. “What’s our position?” He asked a Kazak. They had three klicks left to go before they arrived to their target. Even after the twenty they had already walked at painstakingly slow paces, it still seemed too far. But that’s what it takes to whip a soldier into shape, Romanenko grumbled.

* * *

They wasted no time– as soon as the exercise was over, with the target being overwhelmed by invisible, heavily armed shadows of the night, they were given a hot meal at 2000 hours and immediately ordered to assemble in the center of the facility. In the wide, paved area between the billets and depots, Romanenko was surprised to hear the familiar airy chops of helicopter rotors on the horizon. Before long, a pair of massive Kondors descended onto the pavement and immediately began taking on soldiers, a menshyy plastun each. As soon as the helicopters were fully loaded, loadmasters triggered the rear ramps to shut before the massive aircraft lifted off, only to be replaced by two more in their place. Romanenko waited until the final flight to board.

Overhead the FRCP, 4000 meters

“These morons are going to break my baby’s back!” The pilot called as soon as he had a chance to glance into the cargo area from the cockpit. The co-pilot chuckled, their hands on the controls. Fifty-six men was the rated maximum capacity for his aircraft, but it didn’t mean the recommended amount. Should their three gas-guzzling engines be less efficient than their recommended amount, well, he would not have long to worry about that. Oleksandr Vasylyev took the opportunity to look at his flight plan. He would take these ground pounders to Korf, where they would all transfer to a new vehicle– but only he and his crew would get a new aircraft aboard the FRCPN Yurij Kumehovy.

It had been a while since Vasylyev had been in any sort of danger. The last combat mission he ran was nearly his last. It had been a dark, rainy night– the sort that scares children and airline pilots alike. Visibility was poor, and a terrain-following radar had been the only reason he didn’t collide with the ground. If he was too high, even in this weather, he might have been spotted by enemy surface-to-air missile batteries, and he had a mission to do. He searched the ground for any trace of life through his NVGs, but found nothing. Suddenly– was that a glimmer of moonlight or an infrared light? It was too little to act on, as it disappeared almost immediately. He passed by the surrounded remnants of the 121st Plastun, fighting for their lives in the muck of the Biliporozny Wastes.

But this was not war, Vasylyev reflected. This was just an odd job– and these soldiers (boneheads they may be) were not in the same situation. Even through the compartementalization of information in this op he knew this much.

Tovarysh, what’s our ETA?” Called a man in the cargo section. The flight engineer relayed the message over the roar of turbine engines.

Oleksandr checked his instruments. “Korf-bound in three hours. Get some rest, asshole.”

* * *

Counter Admiral Shcherbak stood and grimaced, as all sailors must do when taking in the view of a harbor. How could something so thoroughly unpleasant nurture and revitalize the sleek ships that his navy used? It made no sense, aesthetically speaking. It would be better if the navies of the world were more and more detached from these dirty cities that supposedly provided for them– a self-sustaining navy would be ideal. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with disease ridden brothels eating up his crew and threatening to overwhelm his medical bays.

They were missing forty-three. But they had orders to weigh anchor and steam west by midnight. C’est la guerre, as the saying went. Odd how even though every ship in the Czaslyudian Sea Forces had qualified commanders, retirees who haven't so much as stepped on a fishing boat in years called the shots. Perhaps Shcherbak was wrong to refuse that command of a submarine those years ago– then he could have been isolated from this bureaucratic nonsense.

“Here they come, Admiral.” Called the captain.

On the radar screen, blips began appearing on the horizon. Radio transponders were off for these ones, denying them anything but a profile from which to identify them. They were loud signals, slow, and relatively low flying– that made them helicopters.

“Prepare the flight deck.”

In twos and threes, massive helicopters made their landing against the massive hulk of the Yurij Kumehovy, where dozens upon dozens of infantrymen were herded to safety off the flight deck and into the steel holds of the vessel. The Kondors were swapped with Valʹkiriyas and then lowered into the hangar decks of the carrier. Before long, the personnel swap of air crews and naval personnel between ship and shore had terminated, and the Admiral ordered them out of their berth.

Forty minutes of careful maneuvering around the shoals of Korf later, the FRCPN Yurij Kumehovy and her escorts, frigate Sladkoye and destroyer Kondraty Bulavin steamed away from their homeland at twenty knots.

"Americanism is a question of principle, of idealism, of character. It is not a matter of birthplace, or creed, or line of descent."
— Theodore Roosevelt
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Czaslyudian Peoples
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Founded: Apr 14, 2022
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Postby Czaslyudian Peoples » Sun Jun 05, 2022 7:04 pm

FRCPN Harbuz
00:05 hours, local time
Many kilometers offshore

The drunk was already awake when it was time. It had been an uneventful journey– after they had taken their wayward course from their homeland, the diesel-guzzling engines of the Harbuz had been refilled by the Dionis, a replenishment ship serving in the Vernyhora Sea. That would give them enough fuel to arrive to their mission area, after which they would be replenished again for the journey back.

Much of the trip was at a steady twenty knots at deep levels, far below the thermocline with occasional stops to feel out the area with passive sonar. No ships, save for the occasional merchant they practiced their firing solutions on, troubled them most of the way. The ocean was big, anyways. It only became troublesome closer to shore when countries began bitching about sovereignty and economic zones.

They had their first contact without even hearing them. Plotted using the label “Moroz 1” on the battle management system, it was a hi-freq radio transmission consistent with military communications somewhere between six to eight hundred kilometers out. They intercepted it while on a regular periscope sweep, their ESM mast barely sticking out of the water. Had they tried to receive more of it, they could navigationally plot the transmitter precisely and even could have a chance to decrypt it– but the Harbuz was an older (and noticably cheaper) submarine, and did not receive the amenities that its larger nuclear cousins had in electronic warfare. But as it was still far away, it would not pose too much of a threat: for now. Derkach plotted a course weaning away from “Moroz 1” and ordered the bridge crew to make more frequent stops to use their sonar. Hesitating before he left the control room, Stepan added orders for more erratic maneuvers. Zig-zagging was always useful.

Despite the deprivation of sunlight or any other ancient signal by which the reptilian part of a human’s mind determines that it’s time to sleep, the crew nevertheless reflected the late hour as the second watch rotation relieved the first. The only reminder, superficial a reminder as it was, were the faces of digital atomic clocks which impersonally displayed the precise time, every second of every day. It was late– to find out how late did not matter or make a difference for him, but certainly mattered to his mission. Derkach once again entered section B, careful to mind his head as well as his ego as he stepped through the bulkhead.

He had just finished lacing his boots. “We’re approaching the waypoint?” Petryk asked.

“There’s still about a hundred kilometers to go. But I’d like to sweep the area for any trouble first.” Derkach noticed the packed rucksack beside Petryk’s bunk. “You’re ready?”

“I’ve been doing this a while, Captain. Trust me that I can do the job right, and I’ll trust that you can do yours.”

Derkach nodded in affirmation. It was the closest thing to respect he had gotten from his passenger. “Then I’ll be off making sure it’s done right. I’ll call for you when we’re ready.”

* * *

“Conn, sonar.” Came a crackling voice over the intercom.

“Go ahead.”

“Reporting a new contact, “Syla 5”: two-screws, bearing one-three-three, sir. Solution reliability of point six– computer classified it as Indibus escort vessel, class unknown, sir.”

Derkach sighed. It was the fifth one they had spotted on their final approach to Indibus with their sonar– he had ordered them to trail deep at a meager five knots to avoid detection; so far, it had seemed to work.

“Keep an eye on it, lieutenant. What’s our distance?”

“Approximately eighty-five klicks. The computer’s throwing that range around, though, sir.”

Even the computer wasn’t sure. “Change course, bearing oh-eight-six.” Derkach said, deciding another course change wouldn’t do any harm. It would take them off of their dog-legged approach to Hitsayasha, instead heading more or less directly there. If there were any naval mines between them and their target, they would not have the time to worry about it.

More sonar contacts gathered on the periphery, leaving no doubt that there was nothing short of a Czaslyudian naval group out on the prowl. But they were loud, noisy ships, and if Derkach was careful, they would disappear before the group swept back to their location.

“It’s time.” Derkach said over the intercom to Section B.

02:41 local time
Somewhere outside Hitsayasha, Indibus

Nights were cold in Indibus. It was something that the Czaslyudian in Morshun could appreciate. Cold nights meant more camaraderie around fires, or in cramped insulated rooms. Better food, Morshun thought, as well. It was well into the morning, just two hours before sunrise, and the birds and their predators alike had quit their natural duties. But humans, for some reason known only to God, were anything but natural.

The isolated gravel lot was dimly illuminated by the setting moon, revealing its borders with the groves of pine trees and its connection to a paved secondary road. Morshun was waiting in the comfort of his embassy-issued car; if he were questioned, he would say a bit of driving helped him with his insomnia. With the amount of caffeine pills he was ingesting, that might eventually be a problem. He scanned the treelines, focusing on movement, not detail– it was too dark for detail– with dedication and consistency that would have impressed a security camera.

Oddly enough, Morshun did not notice the rustle of the flora, only the approach of an outline of a figure. Morshun exited the vehicle just in time to meet his contact, face to face.

“Friend, do you need directions?” The figure asked gruffly in accented Indibusian.

“Nearly. I figured I’d use the stars to find my way.” Morshun responded. Both men seemed to relax on the completion of the protocol. They were both who they needed one another to be.

Morshun walked around the car to his trunk. “I got some of your gear parcelled up in my boot. What name’d they give you now, tovarysh?”

“Yevhen. Don’t care for it much.” Petryk responded. In the glow of the trunk’s interior lighting, Morshun could see that Yevhen’s pants were soaked up to the knee in water.

“They put you in through one of those combat submersibles?” Morshun asked offhandedly. Yevhen only grunted. Made sense not to respond. “Can’t imagine being in one of those battery-powered deathtraps for more than a minute. It isn’t a full sub, isn’t a full ship, now is it?” Morshun joked, at this point more to himself. He had become familiar with Yehven, or whatever his real name was, in a professional sense through their many encounters. Yevhen was not one to waste time, nor engage in the frivolities in which Morshun excelled. Though the man’s work was foreign to Morshun, there was a sense of respect for his duties.

“What’s this?” Yevhen muttered, examining the contents of a long, heavy drawstring bag.

“You tell me,” Morshun said, handing his counterpart a sealed manuscript before adding, “sealed instructions– a cover, I’d reckon. Good hunting, tovarysh” Morshun finished emptying the trunk and presented his hand. To his surprise, Yevhen shook it briefly before disappearing into the night. Field agents were a strange folk, Morshun thought. Noting the time, Morshun made his way back into Hitsayasha proper to catch some breakfast at the embassy. Whatever Yevhen was up to, it would be safer for Morshun to sit tight in the embassy.

04:58 local time
Hitsayasha, Indibus

A wide scarlet band bled from the horizon as the sun announced its reservation for its place in the sky. Rooftops with their antennas, wires, pipes, and machines glittered in the presence of the first rays of sun. Yevhen took advantage of this, placing himself just behind the glimmers but where he could still see his target. He used his binoculars under some shade as to not reflect any light as he examined his target: the Imorchai.

Positioned on a housing complex that overlooked the main street that both the Imorchai and his building shared. Yevhen was careful not to alert the snipers– though he hadn’t necessarily spotted any yet, he was still careful at keeping his head low– and set up his equipment. He would not need his rifle or much of his weapons this time ‘except if absolutely necessary’, his orders had put it. After all, a normal photographer does not need a rifle and six-inch blade to take photos. Rather, he had a specially made camera that he assembled, but did not erect, keeping it lying on the gravel of the flat roof.

He dragged it over to where he crouched before taking another look down the street. A limousine, undoubtedly armored to some degree, flanked by sportsy-looking security vehicles. The passenger– crisp and military-looking– exited with an appropriate amount of aides and auxiliary people and entered the Imorchai. Early-riser, Yevhen thought. But it was not time for action now. Yevhen waited until he deemed that enough top-brass had arrived from his observation of the street, either by entering the car park or even one by helicopter– and began his mission.

The camera had a curious indentation on the base of its tripod– Yevhen used a coin to remove it, revealing a copper-plated port. He used a ‘key’ he had in his pocket, which transmitted a single-use, low-frequency, signal.

* * *

The Harbuz, since withdrawn from the landmass of Indibus, nevertheless received the sixty hertz message that contained one symbol; A.

Derkach grimaced. He had expected to get more time. The Indibusian naval assets, whether by coincidence or intent, were sweeping their way up the southern coast towards his position. His sonar operators were going ham over the amount of active sonar pings they were receiving– but he had a much better idea of what he was going up against. If it came to that.

“Weps, load tubes four and five with Sokyra.”

* * *

Yevhen was required to give them fifteen minutes. It was fifteen minutes he would need to remain completely undetected. Taking a risk, Yevhen glanced over the short brick parapet that surrounded the roof with his binoculars– he still did not see any clear indication that his primary target had entered the building; and it was nearing five-thirty. Push come to shove, he had to act. Measuring the time on his digital watch, he moved at the appropriate minute to pull the trigger on the camera, which regardless of being pointed downward, served its purpose. Another radio signal, low-frequency and just as terse, sent out a simple B.

* * *

The deck under Derkach’s feet shuddered as the Harbuz loosed two missiles from its tubes; the boat rocked as the rocket motors of the missiles activated, pushing to the surface with abandon.

“Let’s not waste any time, people. Pop a noisemaker and take us to maximum depth. Make our speed twenty knots, bearing two-eight-five.”

So the game began.

Two Sokyra missiles burst from the water, leaving seawater to intermix with their exhaust trail. The intelligent and equally deadly pieces of machinery corrected their skyward course to bring themselves to speed at 540 knots due east. They hugged the sea as they had been programmed, close enough to allow the curvature of the Earth to work for them in preventing their detection, but with enough distance to allow for fuel economy. They were some five-hundred kilometers from their targets– once they were within forty, they would accelerate and maneuver to prevent themselves from being hit– as well as deal more damage.

On the horizon, the sun rose with an escort of crimson and scarlet hues.
Last edited by Czaslyudian Peoples on Mon Jun 06, 2022 8:45 am, edited 1 time in total.

"Americanism is a question of principle, of idealism, of character. It is not a matter of birthplace, or creed, or line of descent."
— Theodore Roosevelt
"Вечнасць для Czaslyudiya!"

A corrupt, Post-Soviet anocracy whose de facto third branch of government is an arms manufacturer.
Sponsoring this signature


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