The Stars Weep [IC] [SEMI-OPEN]

[Upper Magica]

OOC: Standard preface; TG for entry if non-regional, go nuts if you're part of it -- I reserve the right to yeet people into the ShameCube of non-participation.

---

....and the stars of the sky fell to the earth, as a fig tree casts its unripe figs when shaken by a great wind.

Watching. Waiting. Seeing.

The day the March Coup decapitated the old Empire.. had signalled the death knell of the Magican nation as a world power. The day the Putschists were massacred to the last signalled the definite beginning of another Magican Revolution -- one that would last. It also signalled the end of the Magican nation's involvement in the world at large; in public, the revolutionary leadership declared a policy of 'Revolution in one country', foreswearing the usage of violence in the pursuit of ultimate enlightenment, isolating itself from the wider world for the past two years.

In private: the Committee of Public Safety, the Republic's highest echelon of decision-making, prepared. To an extent not seen since the 1940s, the Magicans sharpened their daggers: new ships, warplanes, and infantry arms and vehicles rolled off the lines, the cost of expanding production to these wartime levels unthinkable.

But this was necessary work, for the Archipelago was surrounded by sharks eager to take a bite: the Alexiandrans, Harrisopians, and even the bloody Vichnayans had embargoed the 'illegitimate government' of Magica. For a short period of time, military intervention to restore a semblance of Imperial law seemed exceedingly likely, were it not for public demonstrations against such a prospect in the two brother nations; they had overextended in numerous ‘brush wars’, and the last few years had been dominated by chaos in the greater Lycene region. And in the latter case, the prospect of Magican oil flooding the markets gave pause to Yazov's gang of cronies, dependent upon oil funds for their techno-fetishist proclivities - to say nothing of the threat of nuclear war as the Southeastern Crisis unfolded over the detainment of Vichnayan delegate Shiro Goto and her staff, both Vichnayan and Magican communiques openly declaring the other's cities ripe for annihilation.

Cooler heads prevailed even as the Revolutionary Navy harangued, harassed, and even rammed Vichnayan-flagged yachts, freighters, and warships openly in the Eastern Seas: the ambassador, her staff, and - unbeknownst to the Revolutionary government - a totally innocuous Magican translator by the name of Morgyn were sent home at the end of it all, while the Committee of Public Safety capitulated to Vichnayan demands for security guarantees – the genesis of the infamous ‘revolution in one country’ policy. Since then, the Magican Archipelago has gone silent, cutting itself off from worldly affairs - trading when need be with the outside, focusing on reconstruction from its brief civil war, the second in five years: as well as the conquest of outer space, deploying a system called 'Watcher': a seemingly innocuous system of miniature satellites meant to, eventually, facilitate a 'glorious renaissance' of Socialist world-wide culture and communication unfettered by reactionary censorship and jamming - a pipe dream, and to many outside Magica, a gross waste of resources, potentially an espionage threat.

But that - for the most part - is old news. Newer, far more exciting history is about to be written - in blood and tears. History looks to repeat itself once more as the Revolutionary Republic readies itself to throw off its sheepish persona, revealing its true face to the world. With one voice, it prepares to scream - much like the bird of prey on the Magican bicolor - a yell of revolutionary triumph and fervor: workers of the world, unite! - as the ‘hermit republic’ now undertakes the work of generations: the eradication of capitalism from the Continent - perhaps even the wider region of Lyceni.

But, dear reader, you ask: what of mutually assured destruction? Won’t the Magicans plunge the region into a nuclear apocalypse?

---

...No – that won’t happen. For the Committee of Public Safety has a different plan in mind - one that will decisively establish all the players in Lyceni as losers in a rigged game: the answer to pesky concepts such as the infamous Alexiandran orbital death stations, the equally infamous Vichnayan laser satellites, intercontinental ballistic missiles, and so on.

But that is best left for a non-introductory passage, methinks. For now, Jacobin Magica watches; waits; prepares.

And in the meantime, Lyceni licks its wounds from the chaos of the last two years.

[Aldar Kose]

As the leader of the ASU was captured the rest of the remaining soldiers surrendered from this war came a lot of destruction so much death.

As the Sun finally rises Pablo Bohuslav gave a speech

to my fellow men who stick behind me during the time of need I thank you I thank you for all of your sacrifices to allow this great nation to still be strong. I give my gratitude to the families who will not be able to see their children fathers or mothers they will be remembered in our hearts. Enthusiasu soldiers left out there surrender your arms tear down your flag for this is over have pity for yourselves and the rest of the men beside you have pity of all of their families and surrender. But now as we stand United I will assure you that we will continue to be prosperous

After the announcement many people return to their lives as if nothing had happened but we will not forget the casualties that it cost

Total casualties: 9,850,407

[Upper Magica]

August 2025 - Low Earth Orbit

Earth.

A warm, lovely place in some areas, colder in others. A diverse place teeming with life.

But - none were colder, none were more lifeless than this final frontier, where a singular rocket emblazoned with the Falcon discharged its outer shell, revealing its payload of fifteen canister-like satellites, solar arrays folded like wings neatly within. Like clockwork and the finely tuned machine it was, one by one the satellites dropped - or rather floated, their solar panels unfolding like a baby bird's on its maiden flight.

"Mission successful," someone said down below; two more flights would take place the next week. For many of these people servicing the Magican space program, it was one launch closer to concluding what had been a punishing launch schedule - dozens of Watcher satellites at a time had now built up into a gargantuan network of hundreds.

It was almost over, thought them: but this feat of Jacobin science would merely be the beginning, the prelude of the Republic's efforts so far.

Down below, in the arms factories of the Magican Archipelago: tanks rolled through assembly lines. Newer, deadlier ones; these metal constructs, called the M60-2000 'Jaguar' were not small like the old Empire's armored force, dependent on light tanks and tank-busters. They were true main battle tanks - a bastardization of the archaic M60 tank chassis in plentiful supply among the Popular Defense Forces, outfitted with a turret based off of the M1.

This lack of outward sophistication concealed what actually lay within: the turret itself was automated entirely, featuring an autoloader and standard blow-out protection; and atop the tank was a 30mm autocannon operated remotely by the gunner, as well as the individual working parts of Windbreaker, the Jaguar tank's active-protection system powered by artificial intelligence, also capable of determining, through tracking the trajectory of fire, suspected enemy positions.

Most deadly of all was the new gun: a 120mm electrothermal-chemical cannon, capable of cracking any solid object before it like an egg.

A simple design, if not particularly ugly on the eyes, cost-efficiency being part of the bargain, as many M60A5 hulls loitered within military motor-pools.

And so, the clockwork kept ticking toward the inevitable: every tick of this well-tuned military-industrial complex meant a new Watcher satellite hoisted into orbit, a new rack of Hellion rifles making its way into the armories, a new M60-2000, a new Piranha V, and a new MANTA freshly pulled off the production line. More guns, more bombs, more grenades.

They would be needed soon in due time.

---

August 2025 - Aquis, Republic of Magica

General de Nouvelle-Locronan took a long drag of the cigar as he eyed the map.

The map so obnoxiously taking up the entire stage ahead of him, that is. This was not some mere backroom political meeting, nor a secretive meeting of the Chiefs of the Popular Armed Forces held in some nuclear-safe bunker from an age long forgotten. No, sir - this was the very beating heart of the Republic's political scene: the People's Hall, with the Popular Assembly, the Assembly of Syndicates, and the Senate all in attendance, as well as, of course, the Committee of Public Safety.

"All rise!" the bailiff shouted, five hundred men and women rising up at once, fists held over their sterna - the National Anthem played. But Nouvelle-Locronan sat still boredly; if cameras were allowed here, he imagined that a media circus might start up over his blatant disrespect of the waving Bicolor. Instead, he got death-stares from quite a few patriots. Some of them were even his peers.

He did not care, to over-state matters, in the slightest.

After this period of mandatory faux-patriotism had ended, this meeting started in earnest with the Consul, Brighid Faolan, taking the stage.

"Friends - comrades. I come before you today, as always, as an equal." she bellowed out, voice amplified by the microphone clipped to her left ear. "Last week, we discussed our fledgling Republic's stunning successes in the form of the Two Year Plan, and that Plan's replacement by a more orthodox Five Year plan - our reconstruction over the decrepit corpse of Empire in so short a timespan is something our Communes, Syndicates, and the worker can be proud of."

Nouvelle-Locronan tapped his foot impatiently, listening to this woman's drivel. 'Get to the point.' he thought.

Consul Faolan gripped the podium tightly, staring into the souls of the politicians, generals, and such so present at this meeting.. seemingly. "And, if you will recall, comrades, we discussed our Republic's future. Simply put, we are starving - of resources, of food, and of exchange, opportunities. All thanks to this embargo. Our options are few. If you will recall, comrades, we had a lively debate on this subject last week: today I am pleased to report the Committee of Public Safety, the center and vanguard of our Republic's principles and very bedrock on which it rests, has come to a final decision."

Nouvelle-Locronan gripped the seat tighter. He'd been briefed long before this farcical meeting; it was time to see the reactions of all present.

Faolan once again looked - for dramatic effect - at those present in the hall. "We must no longer be content with Revolution in one country. Across the Continents, oppression and tyranny reign - and indeed plot against our revolutionary state. They seek to smother us with a slow death: we shall seek their death in turn by putting a quick, merciful bullet into the head of their decaying ideologies and bourgeois states. The time is right -- the world has never been more aghast at the excesses of capitalism, of imperialism."

"Out with it, you drama queen!" a Senator yelled, Syndicate men next to him hollering in agreement.

Faolan looked constipated, almost flush at the interruption. "As Senator Bechamel says, then - the Republic shall commit to the liberation - by force if necessary - of our oppressed brothers and sisters beyond this Republic's borders: starting here, with the most vile of all oppressors."

The map behind Faolan zoomed in, the entire room going silent. Nouvelle-Locronan chuckled to himself, for they were undoubtedly thinking the same thing he did a week ago when this had all been decided in the first place.

'This is suicide.' 'Madness!' 'Dumb motherfuckers!'

Ha, ha, ha.

But, once the shock wore off, he'd realized something. The Consul's proposed operation was doable, even against a bogeyman such as the type the Magican Republic would face; for bogeymen are merely that: objects of terror, of no real substance, and this one would be revealed as the sham it was by Republican arms, and by other means whose moral justification would be debated for decades.

For now: the means, he reckoned, justified the ends. Future generations would judge them - it wasn't his place, at this very moment, to do the same.

---

The final bill of martyrdom is often death.

Unfortunately for the subject of this passage, he received all of the punishments, the brutalities, but none of the glory and reverence that followed - he gave all for his country, taking leadership and ultimate responsibility for everyone when all he wanted to do with his own flickering flame that one must call mortality was... retire to a spartan country villa, garden, grow wine grapes, and make music for the rest of his life - albeit with some of what one must call modern creature comforts. And yet - his philanthropy and idealism bore no fruit.

Instead, it bore poison, misery, and, ultimately, betrayal and a permanent bodily injury: no longer would he make music. Indeed, he found that a bionic - courtesy of a countrywoman of his - made for a poor substitute when it came to fine motor control that, ultimately, only a flesh-and-blood limb could offer. To add humiliation on top of insult, his name had been forgotten, notable for only being the last ember of a sacred fire promising a country tainted by shadows a way into the light. Death ought to have been a mercy compared to what he had now: nothing.

As this broken, battered man took a breath of Polar air, sucking down fruity vapors outside - she hated the smell of Magica's number one agricultural export, after all, as masqued as it was by artificial and natural flavorings - he couldn't help but think that this way was perhaps better. He, of course, had anything and everything he actually wanted - save for the very freedom he personally cherished.

The freedom to sunbathe, for example - little light reached this tundra hell.

The freedom to roll around and frolic in the pristine beaches of his home country.

The freedom to officially exist - dead men never return, and it wasn't his place to upend the natural order of things.

Sigh, he did, letting loose a warm cloud of air from his lungs, returning back into the warm cabin in - quite literally - the middle of nowhere he'd emerged from, finishing a morning routine he'd repeated for the past six hundred days.

On came the sickening reminder he was not whole - a silver-steel impression of an arm.

It was time to chop wood; what else was there to do?

[Aldar Kose]

As the sun sets from the nation of Aldar kose the president makes his announcements to the people

it has come to my attention of the tragedy that happened within our northern region as millions of Aldar people were killed in Cold blood by Riomler troops and to this I give my ultimatum. I will give six days for every single Riomler soldier to leave the country or else I will take it as a declaration of war and action will be take this is guaranteed by Federal Republic of Vichnaya and my allies we will have Justice.

in other news the country has now gotten excited for after the civil war has ended there has been declared a new election of Parliament to see which political party will take rule over the nation we hope to see you all there folks and to this we hope you have a great night.

First election: M.S.A win

[Aldar Kose]

After the civil war was confirmed to be ended people immediately ran to the streets to celebrate the victory of their Nation. As this is happening Pablo Bohuslav is that the capital talking to a crowd telling them his plans.

as our nation has finally unified again I wish to celebrate this moment by having a parade from сонячний to Orlova to visit the Vichnaya leader Andrei Yazov to talk and award him with the solar metal

after this he began his March to the Vichnaya capital escorted by 50,000 special dead men division and 10,000 yellow jacket planes. The goal for this entire operation is simple meet the Vichnaya leader talk to him award him the medal and then talk about defense budgets



As this is all happening Rose upon Rose of men continue their venture upon the far East of Vichnaya making sure to fix any equipment that is damaged they're soon preparing to go to a small village in station themselves there to allow all of their drones to be active. Soon when given the mark all 500 drones from the D.H.M division will all be released in the skies waiting watch but they still have a long way to come. Among them is a total of 1,000,000 Aldar Kose land forces one of 25 all of them not knowing why they're going here but regardless they listen to the command. Above them lay a total of 1,000 F22 raptors following them with the rest of the air force close behind the air is cold thin no noise is yet to come to this place but very soon that will all change.


Meanwhile in the far West a Aldar soldier prepares for the day putting on his uniform and grabbing his weapon preparing for the day to come he and over 40 million troops worst stations at Aldar Vichnaya and Riomler border waiting to the fender Nation from an attack at any time. as the sun rises the soldier gets to his position the dark mountain being cut by the light of the Sun he prepares for military exercises that will soon be done and then afterwards he will stay in position just in case of any attackers his firearm always nearby just in case. In front of him is the nation of Riomler he does not know much about their culture only for the fact that they fought with the rebels during the civil war and that they committed a lot of atrocities he is prepared to lay down his life to defend his own Nation against this evil as he called it but for now he waits for right now command is in shambles generals and commanders are running back and forth the entire borderline worried that at any moment there will be an attack. One such individual general David parks ask if more troops can be placed along the board and to ask Vichnaya for more equipment they have yet to answer his calls. But for now everything seems still in calm for these mountain boys they as well are waiting and preparing for anything to happen.

Meanwhile in сонячний senior general Charlemagne Nikandr is giving a statement to people this is what he declares

within the coming months our nation had been ravaged from war, we can now say that we are celebrating are victory over the A.S.U, but it is now more than ever that our nation is right now facing harder times. There is a threat of war that will soon come, and for that reason I firmly declare that we are now in defcon 3. Sooner Nations will be in a terrible War, and so for that reason we will also be moving troops to the West and East of Vichnaya, to help the nation that has given us so many resources during our time of need.

as he steps off the podium he prepares his own Nation for war.

[Upper Magica]

AQUIS, REPUBLIC OF MAGICA

It was the dead of night in this wintry tropical city. Cockades of black, blue, and black hung from windows patriotically through the city streets, a happy reminder of the holiday that'd come before. It was a nice - relatively speaking - sixteen degrees outside. For once, this building's air conditioning was off, merely dehumidifying the cool breeze outside, a simple system of fans and ductwork bellowing fresh air into the building.

In this building, two old friends sat in the abandoned cafe, catching up - they'd not seen another for a few months.

"Aye, she's been good." the older of the two spoke. "Cancer's normally a death sentence - our doctor, bless his heart, managed to get Agne on some promising trial drugs. Tentative remission, they said last."

Franz nodded. "That's good to hear, friend." He sipped a lukewarm Agni tea - a traditional Aquisard blend infused with mint and fire-berry peel. Cool, sweet, spicy: an odd blend. As were these two gentlemen of the Republican military establishment; a former Loyalist and an ardent Republican. Franz Escher and Henri-Arjun Aditya came from differing backgrounds, did not always see eye-to-eye - especially in the realm of politics and ideology - and frequently quarrelled. You might have thought these two were, in fact, mortal enemies were it not for the fact that they were sol-patoria to one another's children, had held ceremony at each others' spirit-bonding ceremonies, and served in combat alongside one another in a time long past, saving the others' life on more than one occasion.

Aditya smiled warmly, downing a shot of yamaretto - a distilled liqueur made from solar yams, a light peach orange colored liquid. "It's been an eventful decade. A hard one."

Escher's face hardened. "The night is darkest before the dawn," he said mournfully. Aditya laughed. "For a Republican, you sure do quote the Scripture a lot."

"I can believe that all men were made equal, friend, and still be religious. If you examine the Scriptures, the basic moral teachings align conspicuously with the teachings of.." He began to form a counter-argument where none was to be had - Aditya sighed. "Shhh." he raised a finger to his lips. "Not here for debate. Another time, maybe." He slid a manila folder stamped ominously with the words:

"TOP SECRET".

Escher leafed through the folder, opening it. "My God Almighty." he stated incredulously. "The Central Committee really means to...?" Aditya nodded sadly. "It's us against the world. The time seems to have come."

"The Confederation up North won't be an easy nut to crack - we both know this." Escher said.

Aditya shook his head. "The Armed Forces have modernized significantly. The Free Cities still utilize old Magico-Adaki crap. Only place in the world where you'll see T-55s and Panther Twos operating in tandem with technicals and MiG-15s."

Escher shook his head back in retort. "No, no - I'm talking about the occupation. Our techno-crap will easily destroy them in the field, yes. But we must ask ourselves... are we prepared to dig in for the long term?" Aditya grimaced, seguing into a sarcastic kind of tone. "The Central Committee believes that the constituents of the Federation will accept - with heavy persuasion - the scientific nature of our state and the inevitability of its triumph."

Escher peered at Aditya. "Does the Central Committee really believe the world will stand by and wa-"

Aditya interrupted. "As we seize the world's largest centre of independent, non-aligned oil and rare earths production to show the workers of the Free Cities the way of Socialism? Likely not. Doubly so since our nation represents a pox unto their ideologies, and trebly so since this will be a war of aggressive liberation."

Escher flipped through to the next section, reading uncomprehendingly. "...Aditya, my friend. Do they really mean to--"

"Yes," Aditya said firmly. "The first step towards an inevitable confrontation. One that will decide the fate of millions, and end the lights of millions more."

Escher sighed. "Aditya, pass me some of your spirits." He passed the bottle of yamaretto gladly. "Drink up, friend," Aditya said sympathetically. "The night is darkest before the dawn, indeed."

---

Across Magica, the metaphorical ticking towards midnight intensified: no longer was the clock a unwieldy grandfather clock, turning its wheels for the sake of turning them - but a stopwatch counting down ever closer to the main event.

Paratroopers embarked onto their planes - some of which were even painted as civilian airliners and cargo planes - accompanied by no small amount of air-transportable vehicles.

In the docks of the Republic, Marines and their implements of amphibious assault hurried onto landing craft, amphibious assault carriers, and troopships - even co-opted cruise ships from a time of decadence best left behind.

Across the airspace of the Archipelago, things lay still: abnormally still. On the tarmac, fighters and bombers in legion remained there, their engines cool. On the other hand, their crews awaited, set for ten-minute takeoff.

And in army bases, troopers waited bored, their vehicles and equipment set to the highest state of readiness they could be without being actually mobile or firing their guns.

And in a small building, accompanied by hundreds of radio arrays, two people awaited the final word to turn their keys, darkening the sky for a generation by doing so.

On the surface - everything was fine. Behind the scenes, in the halls of power, nervousness took hold underneath calm facades. As a Foreign Affairs aide hastily typed up a communique that would, undoubtedly, end the illusion of peace that had reigned in the East since the Revolution.. one wondered what the road ahead would look like.

But one thing was for sure: it would be paved with blood.

---

Official Communique from the MAGICAN REPUBLIC
Written on this day the 14TH of FRUCTIDOR by the COMMITTEE OF PUBLIC SAFETY

Recipient: Lycene Region At-Large
Classification Level:
1 - Open Communique/Non-Classified


FREEDOM - EQUALITY - BROTHERHOOD: NO GODS, NO MASTERS!

---

Three years ago - our nascent Republic made a sacred promise to roll the tyrants of the world into the dustbin of history.

We intend to keep that promise.

The Committee of Public Safety addresses this missive to the so-called 'Free Cities' and the oligarchy that binds in slavery the workers of Shirakiku, Xijang, Porto Rosso, Veliky Ustinagorod, Imperskiye Vostok and Chaoyang:

Our Revolution has eyed your wretched 'state' for years, witnessing the atrocities that the Confederative Council is all-too-eager to impose on its underclasses and upon the proletariat. We will no longer accept gross human rights violations and the imposition of unfree labour on our very doorstep; we in the Archipelago hear the cries of your toiling workers begging for relief from the soulless machine of wealth robbery and extraction that is, simply put, the Free Cities.

This will not stand. We will no longer allow such an abomination to exist. We are resolved to correct your existence for the betterment of all mankind; change comes for you whether you like it or not.

We demand the following from the so-called 'Confederal Council' of the Free Cities and its component states:

- The immediate abrogation of the 2022 Compact of the New Millennium, the Most Serene Federation's founding document.

- The immediate surrender of each member of the Confederal Council of the Free Cities and the heads and deputies of every government directorate deriving authority therefrom to the jurisdiction of a Special People's Court convened in Aquis.

- The immediate stand-down of all armed forces either operating under the aegis of the Confederation or its component states; to be replaced by personnel from the Magican Revolutionary Armed Forces to maintain order until such a time as renewed People's Republics can assume responsibility for their own security.

Failure to answer this ultimata in 48 hours will be construed as an official declaration of war on the oppressed People of the Free Cities; and thus, by extension, on the Magican Republic, their protector.

The people demand action - so thus shall we, their servants, obey.

Forwards the Revolution! Death to Tyrants!

[Harrisopia]

Harrisopia, Tritous
Harrisopian Royal Palace
Conference Room
Daniel Keeley

Daniel ritually tapped his feet against the podium as he waited for the go ahead to start speaking from the media team.

You would think he had grown accustom to being the King's personal spokesman at this point after representing His Highness more and more in recent moments after the news of Queen Penelope's pregnancy as well as a dip in popularity with certain sections of the public but anxiety still seemed to trouble him nonetheless.

Today in particular Daniel could feel his nerves building due to the news he had been tasked with giving. The aforementioned King haters of the public would definitely be displeased, if not outraged, at what he was going to announce.

As if on cue he got the proverbial nod to begin and took a quick look down at his notes before speaking
"On behalf of our King Theon Jadeous, I have some very important news to announce today that all of the Harrisopian public should know."

A brief pause, sweat starting to drip from his brow

"In light of recent international tensions, the nuclear war arsenal of the Harrisopian Armed Forces shall be expanded by 15% with production of the new missiles already underway."

Daniel didn't need a camera in everyone's houses to know that there would undoubtedly be fury amongst several people. However he continued to do his job.

"The King and his closest advisors gave deep thought to this before making the decision, taking all factors into account, and want to assure the Harrisopian public that this move is believed to be the best going forward and should not incite any fear of conflict."

He almost snorted at this.

"Furthermore these weapons will be handled in a new set of advanced submarines that will be provided by our closest ally in Alexiandra.
The submarines are a new class and a positive sign of our eternal defence pact with the Republic of Alexiandra."

After coming to the end of his notes, Daniel swallowed then said simply
"That is all."

[Vichnaya]

---

---

Chapter 1, Act 1 - Eternity In the Seas

Point North-82, Eastern Ocean

---

The Crew Is One Family (одна семья)

...
We need anchors and thunderstorms to serve through,
We need the Navy service regulations that every sailor knows,
We need the flag that flies over the blue waves,
And what we need most is Our Motherland — Вичной!

Then the sea is like land for us,
And the crew is one family.
And nobody will be against-
To serve our entire lives for the fleet!

---

---

A grey hull sailed through the vast, dark blue horizon of the Eastern Sea.

One of many, she was a beast that dominated the oceans, and one she ruled with her sister ships. With a superstructure that resembled those from the ships of the old Imperial Magican Navy, an angled and technologically advanced hull for stealth in all areas, and holding enough firepower to level a small country, she wasn't an especially special ship compared to the rest of her country's navy, but she was nonetheless an important and highly formidable warship that could challenge fleets singlehandedly — more so with her sisters and cousins, frigates, and corvettes operating in the same seas as her. At over 250 meters in length and 19,000 tons, she served to be a leader of most "destroyers" and cruisers of her era, fit enough to serve independently from the main force, in large-scale formations acting as both an offensive and defensive naval asset, or act as a flagship for numerous other ships, all the while dishing out enough firepower that could give even the largest naval task forces or air armies a hurdle to even approach — much less attack. The waters were calm, the sky was a beautiful blue, and the air actually seemed clean for once. If one were out fishing or simply sailing for pleasure, then today would be the perfect day. She was an irregularity for the order of nature, the epitome of the creation of mankind over their dominance on the seas and oceans that make up Lyceni. Defender or aggressor, hero or villain, she was both life and death in a sense that could only be understood by those who crewed her, and those who fought her. To her crew, she was their home. To her enemies, she was a threat that was to be eliminated immediately.

Her design was new. Constructed directly after a war that ravaged Eastern Lyceni back in the late '80s from one of Lyceni's most technologically advanced and militaristic nations on earth to overmatch anything that they could meet on the high seas, she was one of many ships that would follow a design philosophy that favoured capabilities and performance over the more minor aspects that could be comfortably ignored — something like crew comfort, for example, was mostly thrown out the window for just a little bit more firepower to sink a carrier battle group. Her design was tested and refined throughout the early 90s and was finally built in the early 2000s, ready in time for her nation's start to global prominence as it took part in interventions, wars, and other disputes that would lend she and her sister ships as 'The Queens of the Winter Seas.' From deployments to defend cargo vessels against pirates, all the way to bombarding well-entrenched defenders in some far-off continent, her design type was as flexible and modular as any admiral could dream of having, and surprisingly easy enough to maintain and control for even the lowly sailor working aboard her. Her breath of operation was as vast as the open ocean, her sight as far-reaching as the Star's has over the earth, her hearing as sensitive as the owls that reside over the coasts, and her punch was as deadly as they were unforeseen. As numerous as the fish that rule over the ocean, she and her sister ships were produced in such large quantities to have the opportunity to scour the world's oceans — something that was previously never done by the nation that had built her.

Such was the life of VVK Lider, the first of the Lider-Class Destroyers.

She was a leader for what was to follow her.

And she was a leader for those who would succeed her.

The pride of the Vichnayan Maritime Forces, she had set records that had encompassed other designs from previous generations. With her superiority in stealth, armaments, sensors, and automation, she had set the benchmark for the ships that would follow her design. Make no mistake, she was an old girl who had served for over two decades at this point, but she was built to survive for generations and built to wipe out a generation; from hypersonic missiles, long-range air defence missiles, and a large variety of weaponry and equipment dedicated to locating and hunting down submarines, aircraft, surface warships, and ground targets, the Lider-Class Destroyers and the variants and derivatives it spawned were more than ready to combat even the largest warships put out by the foes of the Federal Republic. She and her sister ships were larger than what was previously called the Queen of the Seas,' the Kirov-Class Battlecruisers, and took their thrones as the highlights of the Vichnayan Navy as the latter were viewed to be far, far too old to continue.

Make no mistake, the Kirov-Class Battlecruisers were anything but outdated. For a sailor to equate old as outdated was as dangerous as throwing oneself' overboard. The Kirov-Class Battlecruisers were vessels that were built to command respect and fear, and they have continued to this day to command fear and respect from navies across the world; from directly inspiring certain regional foes to reactivate their older battleships to combat their initial deployment, to combat operations that proved the Kirov-Class were more than capable of eliminating entire flotillas by themselves, they were a time and battle-tested design that has served Vichnaya well, moreso with the extensive modernizations that were given to them; from upgrades that replaced their '90s vintage missiles with modern hypersonic cruise missiles, to upgrading their superstructures to feature advanced sensors and targeting systems, the Kirov M-Class Battlecruisers would continue to keep up with those old and new within the grand Vichnayan Navy.

Such was the VVK Marshal Vitya of the Vitya-Class Battlecruiser subtype; as the epitome of the Kirov-Class Battlecruisers, everything about her was extensively modified to the point that she was, performance-wise, radically different from those who preceded her. 270 metres in length and heavy at 33,000 tons, she was a large beast that one could spot easily, even if they were at distances that the limits placed upon the human eye could make it difficult to distinguish between an overly ripe pear and an Alexandrian football field. Of course, the Vichnayan Navy had made all sorts of attempts to make her less visually distinguishable such as the occasional paint scheme or her current haze-grey camouflage, but any attempts to make this beast “stealthy” would merely be in the worlds of acoustics, radar, and sonar where the Vitya’s extensive modifications to her hull and superstructure and the dozens of layers of sea and rust-resistant stealth coatings had allowed the ship to have a significantly acoustic, sonar, and radar-cross section signature, the fruits of the efforts of both Vichnayan engineering and technology. Large, gigantic, and packing enough firepower that would make the Lider-Class Destroyers and its derivatives seem like mere flies, the VVK Marshal Vitya...

..Had the same radar, sonar, and acoustic signature of a corvette.

Behind the Lider and the Marshal Vitya were a number of smaller ships. Some were frigates, a few others were corvettes, and the last one or two were ever-ageing Koroleva-Class Fast Combat Support Ships. Impressive as this flotilla is with the battlecruiser, destroyer, and handful of frigates and corvettes in its midst, they served a grander fleet that was second only to the Magican Navy operating in the Eastern Ocean, it was only a mere tendril compared to the vast organism that made up one of the largest and most powerful fleets in the entire Vichnayan Navy; the VVK Marshal Vitya and the VVK Lider served as leaders for 43rd Missile Ship Division, with the dozens of aforementioned frigates and corvettes attached to them.

The fleet they served would be the 8th Fleet, “Crystal Kingdom.”

Drawing men, equipment, and ships from various fleets, squadrons, and divisions, the 8th Fleet served as one of the most formidable formations the entirety of the Vichnayan Navy with the largest concentration of destroyers, cruisers, battlecruisers, and the ever-rare aircraft carriers of the VMS found within it; the backbone would first and foremost be the fifteen Lider-Class Destroyers and seven Severna-Class Destroyers that serve to be both an offensive and defensive arms of the missile divisions they’re attached to, with the four Kirov-Class Battlecruisers and the sole Vitya-Class Battlecruiser simply there to bolster their capabilities.

But the pride and joy of this fleet would be the three Shtorm-Class Aircraft Carriers, the VVK Orlova, VVK Constis, and the VVK Taigagan; as the replacements for the 80s’ era Ulyanovsk-Class aircraft carriers, the Shtorm-Class was designed to be leagues ahead of its predecessor in nearly every aspect, and served to be the first ship in the world that featured multiple electromagnetic catapult systems, allowing the next-generation of Vichnayan fixed-wing maritime aircraft to carry more with less effort placed on themselves. And as the pride of joy of the fleet, the VVK Orlova served as the crown jewel of the Vichnayan Navy with the most advanced equipment, most well-trained personnel, and absolute best assets afforded by the Vichnayan Federal Armed Forces granted to it.

And with the massive size of the fleet with three Shtorm-Class aircraft carriers, four Kirov-Class and one Vitya-Class Battlecruisers, three Slava-Class Cruisers, fifteen Lider-Class Destroyers, seven, thirteen frigates, eight corvettes, fourteen submarines of all kinds, and a number of supporting transports, oilers, and support ships at its disposal, the 8th Fleet would be tasked by the Vichnayan Navy with the nearly-monumental mission of patrolling the vast waters of the Eastern Ocean and assisting the Astovkan Navy of deterring aggression or be the spearhead of all offensive operations whether they be in this small secluded area of Lycnei or across the globe. The 8th, along with being the best well-trained and well-equipped naval force, had its fair share of experience in combat with even its recent deployments during the Vichnayan Intervention in the Second Russo-Georgian War, Vichnaya's botched intervention during the Second Magican War, and a few other expeditions on Lyceni's subcontinents and generally performing freedom of navigation missions.

And while this particular voyage undertaken by the VVK Lider and the VVK Marshal Vitya was classified as exactly this, this was more or less ceremonial as this particular patch of sea had no tactical, operational, or strategic worth. For all that war planners from other nations could tell, this was merely wasting fuel and time that could be spent on more productive manoeuvres that compromised the integrity of the fleet as a whole with one less tendril to secure the carrier battle group; they were partially correct however, as this particular route the 43rd Missile Ship Division was sailing through was solely taken by ships of the Vichnayan Navy for the aforementioned reason: ceremonial duties.

34 years, 2 months, and 4 weeks ago during the 1989-1991 Astovkan-Vichnayan War, ships of the 8th Fleet sailed through this desolate, empty patch of ocean to meet an Astovkan flotilla during the later stages of what would become known as the “Battle of Point-82.” With a Ulyanovsk-Class carrier, several Udaloy and Sovremenny-Class destroyers, and the ever-ageing Imperatorskaya Ustina-Class battleship VVK Ustina, the ships of what once were the 32nd Surface Ship Division were once considered the best the Vichnayan Navy had.

Prior to the Battle of Point-82, that is.

He remembered that battle well.

All sailors in the Vichnayan Maritime Forces had.

What would become the greatest battle but the largest loss of surface vessels in the entire Astovkan-Vichnayan War had started from an unexpected engagement in this useless patch of sea between a pack of frigates and a pair of submarines — a simple game of cat-and-mouse — would eventually snowball into the Vichnayan 8th Fleet and the Astovka's 1st High-Seas Armada duelling each other over supremacy over the oceans. From outdated battleships to the most modern of frigates, those who could sail to the battle from either side would lock in an absolute vicious duel where only one could triumph; the centrepiece vessel of the 8th Fleet at the time would be a Ulyanovsk-Class Carrier, a class of ship which was once considered the best the shipyards and engineers could put out at the time. Seeing as none of the more than 6 Ulyanovsk-Class Carriers are no longer in service in the Vichnayan Navy, the performance of two of the Ulyanovsk-Class carriers during the battle was more than apparent. Sure, they were able to sustain an amount of damage that would sink most vessels of its era and type, but in the end, the Ulyanovsk-Class had proved that they were far too vulnerable. Simply put: having an overwhelming amount of guns on a ship won't save one from a barrage of anti-ship missiles.

...And obsolescent as an early 70's design where none of the six was ever actually sunk nor damaged significantly, but adding that much would break whatever the writer was trying to infer, now would it?

Of course, he wasn't there personally. The fires that had raged during the Third Astovkan-Vichnayan War were during a period of his life when he was below his motherland's mandatory drinking age of 16 years old — a widely ignored law as, frankly, a shot of vodka in the morning, afternoon, noon, midnight, and in the next morning always helps with the knowledge of being stuck in the permafrost-ridden/militaristic/ultranationalistic wasteland that was the Federal Republic of Vichnaya and, to be even more specific, the eternal tundra of the interior. He was fairly experienced at his choice of craft, having served for 13 years up to this point, and served during the many interventions and conflicts that the Federal Republic had eagerly partaken in even if they were rather minor in contribution or scale — with his ship taking part during Vichnaya's attempted intervention on Lower Magica, and one of the few interventions that Vichnaya had to call off for...certain reasons.

The man grumbled, boredom was an issue for the few moments he was not pestered by his subordinates.

Vichnayan stories, literature, media, and culture tend to heavily portray military life as something grandeur and special, where one could pull off acts of heroism, honour, and glory for the 7 years that peace-time conscription demanded. As with any other young boy when he was growing up, his worldview was overwhelmed with the barrage of sights that came with growing up in the early 2000s-2010s and entering the hell that was adult life, which in the nation that was known as the "Land of Eternity" or the "Giant of the North", just so happened to be filled with military. To sell it short: he was utterly fascinated with the military world when he was first shown a Mi-28NM during those cringy-ass documentaries that were popular back in 2003-2006, moreso when the first seasons of "COMBAT APPROVED" aired when he was merely an upperclassman in the good ol' days when he didn't have the responsibility of simultaneously managing the affairs of his ship, its crew, and the nonsense that poured out of every crack and crevice that was PACTEASTCOM/NAVEASTCOM/NAVSOUTHCOM.

Military life was one that was idolized by the young men and women who grew up in Vichnaya, second only to the Sacred Stars. From the day they were born, they would learn about the military, how they would fit into the military, how to serve in the military, live life and conduct their duties as loyal Vichnayans in the military. Their education throughout their lives was entirely centred on loyalty to the state and the Sacred Stars, to serve the state and Sacred Stars, and to eventually die for the State and the Sacred Stars.

Movies? Action-packed and overly patriotic. Books? Cheesily-poetical and overly nationalistic. Media? Horny and ultra-religious.

But as most of the 18-19 olds find themselves when they're fresh out of High School, the realities of the real world had a caring way of brutally crushing dreams and expectations— something that Vichnayans, priding themselves as the most technologically advanced and militarily-powerful society on Lyceni, were not immune to.

A surprise sure, and not a welcomed one by anyone.

The Captain sighed.

Militarily life was boring, to say the least.

In hindsight it would've been obvious; a highly regimented and stressful job with everyone above you barking down, the need to groom and care for damn near everything that you wore, the needless amount of paperwork and notetaking after the frequent exercises, and administrators who do have the best intentions but very frequently screwed up their one job of improving the mental and living conditions of everyone below them. For him? It reminded him of his time in high school, as the Vichnayan Education System, recognizing the need for highly motivated, hard-working, and intelligent citizens to serve the state, promptly did its best to improve their students by subsequently forcing harsh and routine paperwork and exercise regimens for them, sprinkled with enough homework that even Magican scholars would get headaches even thinking about.

"Comrade Captain," There was a hushed murmur, "I understand that expressing your thoughts is a healthy way of releasing stress but uh..."

The Captain, not turning his head, could already feel her scratching the back of her neck uncomfortably, "You've been going on your monologue for the past 3 minutes, respectfully, Sir, It's a tad creepy."

The Captain sighed another sigh, turning to her, "Any reason for you pestering me?"

"Indeed as always," A white sleeve moved next to him on the railing, the loose brown hair flowing down the CMO's chest. "The VMF-VKPO Political Officer, Senior Lieutenant Rodya, wants a word with you at the CIC, apparently."

She'd give him a shrug, "Sorry, mate, but I wasn't given any specific details. You know how the PKKV are."

"Unfortunate," He'd briefly take off his cap and wiped off some sweat, "Very well, inform the helmsman to maintain heading to the East, we don't want to breach territorial waters, don't we?"

A slow and rather boredem-filled shift of his head presented the sight of his command duty officer, a typical-looking woman from Sila Oblast with standard carbon-copy brown hair and blue-ish pupils, donned in a white and dark blue working uniform that looked straight from the 1930-1940's. While the uniform does share the same design as the does from said previous eras, it has been modernized with newer materials so one doesn't burst into flame if they're within a 400-metre radius of a lighter. In turn, his CMO looked rather bored aswell.

"Well, better get moving Starshiy kapitan," After looking around to ensure that no-one were looking in their direction, she'd lean next to him, "You can chat with your hallucinations and me later, mkay?"

The Captain smiled, shaking his head, "Right, Right...Later at six?"

The CMO chirped, nodding at him, "Six it shall be well...if there aren't anything to concern me."

"Mhm, I'll catch you later then, Anastisiya."

"Catch thou later, Captain" She'd snap her fingers.

Anastisiya snapped a crisp salute before running over to babble to the sleep-deprived helmsman, barely gripping onto the controls with his tired hands. That was good, everyone still seemed able to perform their duties to the best of their extent. The Captain looked over to the clock mounted at the back of the bridge, the time was currently 0800. In a few minutes, the second shift would take over and exert themselves to the same degree as the current schmucks here.

Traversing the cold, dull-grey halls was a boring and tedious endeavor, especially since the maintenance elevator closest to the bridge was under maintenance. A few sailors greeted him, a few others gazed at him tiredly, though most were busy with their usual duties, with one poor man trying to prevent a rat from nibbling away at a copper wire with nothing but a broom and pure determination.

Then he got to the CIC, and presented with an old sight.

The ship's attached political officer wore a pristine olive-green service dress with azure uniform piping, a service cap, and a grey greatcoat— possibly the most stereotypical look for a Vichnayan possible. The Combat Information Cneter (CIC) was somewhat filled with 23 sailors spread around, but dead silent other than the occasional chirps, murmurs, and reports from the gunnery officers and other support personnel.

Then there was the Naval Infantryman known simply as "Steve" of whom was just...standing there. To be frank, no one knew when he joined.

The Captain stepped forward, taking off his cap and extending his hand for a friendly handshake.

"Lieutenant Rodya,"

"Captain Alexei!" The Political Officer opened his arms as he stepped forward, a bright and warm smile plastered on his face. "It's good to see you you've come, I was worrying you wouldn't."

Alexei forced a smile, stepping forward and hugging the man. "It's my duty to, Lieutenant. I can't simply discard or ignore any requests, can I?"

"Good, good. It's good to see you didn't disobey orders."

Truthfully speaking, Alexei was put off by the political officer's friendliness, even if they were always like that. He didn't know the reason why, it was just that he always had an off feeling whenever Rodya was around. Ever since the Lieutenant was attached to the ship following the start of the Cold War of Lyceni, it seemed this man only grew friendlier and friendlier, with his infamous smile following suit. It was typical VKPO tactics to make their wards feel "safer," as if the VKPO was any better than the Riomlerians or Magicans that wanted to kill them equally, or in the case of the Northern Steppe's most infamous secret police agency, moreso.

Perhaps that's why he was called over. Little information was shared with him regarding the state of the Vichnaya, much less the geopolitical situation of the world. Though in the few times he passed over the combat information center, he did overhear some sort of military buildup developing in the former Empire of Magica against the Most Serene Federation. Frankly, he didn't actually care all that much about the entire ordeal, if anything, it just made his job rougher as NAVEASTCOM and NAVSOUTHCOM assigned both his vessel and the Marshal Vitya in warding off the occasional Magican attempt to breach into international waters. Though not explicitly mentioned, the Orlova Pact had been conducting a "subtle" blockade of the Republic of Magica— consisting of scaring off Magican ships and aircraft to change course or disputing pre-existing territories that were there prior to the fall of the Empire, but the Federal Republic of Vichnaya not officially recognizing the foreign territorial claims of the new government, nor has the rest of the Members— sans the Republic of Rioluna, one of the two newest members of the Orlova Pact alongside the Republic of Kazka. Though Rioluna was primarily recognizing new Magican government to simply spite Aldar Kose.

Allies? Yes. But the tensions always remain.

Fun.

He'd clear his throat, "To be frank, Lieutenant, I never particularly cared all that much regarding the conflict, nor have I exactly questioned why I was ordered to sail this ship to this direct area."

Rodya, for the first time, frowned somewhat. He'd shake his head and sigh, sliding Alexei a photo. "Take a look, It might pique your interest."

They were satellite photos. The first photo was grainy at best, with great streaks of black and white painting the photo. The second one, colorized, wasn't all that great either, with poor quality making it hard to differentiate anything. Though he was somewhat able to make out some details from the two, maybe some group of vehicles that were unintelligible to the Captain's failing eyes.

Alexei looked up towards Rodya, "A fire? I fail to see anything noteworthy regarding this?"

The Political/Information Officer chuckled, "Of course! That's because I didn't show you everything," Like a card shark, Rodya placed down his third and final photo. "The satellite that was in orbit noticed a significant spike of thermal activity in the region, more specifically a town. That in itself isn't special as dumbasses tend to burn things down, however.."

"..It was two things that piqued the Ministry of State Security's interest; one would be the buildup of men and material on the nearby islands. Now originally, we would have the Ministry of Foreign Affairs send their bullshit "we are concerned about the hostility being shown against an independent and sovreign nation and suggest not to take further proactive or hostile actions"-type crap, but there was something else. There was to be something else, hasn't it?"

Alexei nodded, "Something abnormal?"

"Da, soon after the department yours truly is from, we picked up an immediate information blackout in the region and a few hours after that, the transfer of men and arms onto awaiting transports and transport aircraft. Further information we were able to corroborate from...certain information officers and dissidents had informed the construction and set-up of forward medical stations and fuel depots— and probably taking a page from our playbook, announced "exercises beforehand and during the build-up. Make no mistake, the VKPO is stretched across the fertile lands of the Orlova Pact, but our tentacles stretch from sea to sea."

There was a pause, then Rodya spoke with the eloquence of man befitting of the VMF-VKPO, "And lastly: the ultimatum of the Magican Republic that is more-or-less summarised as " Congratulations! You Are Being Rescued, Please Do Not Resist" and will most probably lead to an imminent invasion. Reeeeal convenient that the 8th Fleet was called to action, amright?"

The captain was less than impressed, nor excited, nor felt anything good. "And I'll assume that, with the equipment onboard, the ships attached to us, and the current distance, NAVSOUTHCOM wants my ship to deter the efforts of the Magpies?"

Magpies. An infamous breed of corvid known for being absolutely brutal for little to no reason at all.

"You deduced that rather late, Captain." Rodya smiled, though..it felt off, emotionless if anything. "...But I guess it's better late than never, as they say in the west. Oh, surprisingly enough, the news crews from Krasnaya are the ones to have gotten there first. Stars' above, they're still reporting on troop movements near the islands— blood hell, I'm pretty sure one crew had a conversation with a Magican destroyer at this point."

Alexei ran a hand over his face, shaking his head. "Whatever the heavenly stars above demand, we shall grant." He'd look back up to Rodya, "What're the parameters set for us, any clue how close we must go?"

Rodya circled the table before taking a seat, there were a few pregnant moments of silence before he raised his head to face Alexei. A smile crept up his face, "NAVSOUTHCOM dictates Marshal Vitya, Lider, and their escorts skim the territorial waters of the Confederation and conduct deter further aggressive actions, neither breaching it nor leaving it. Like how one balances themselves on a tightrope, so to say. The rest of the 8th Fleet are underway to leave port and, as far as I'm aware, the carriers and their escorts are out in sea."

"The rest?"

"The rest of the destroyers and battlecruisers of Crystal Kingdom are back in port for maintenance. The same goes for the Astovkans, though I'm sure one of their battlecruisers is still up to assist if hostilities kick-off. However, I doubt that the Magpies will try anything if we have a say in their ultimatum, especially when a few Naval Infantry Brigades are being routed to the Federation."

"Very well, whatever is demanded, we shall grant. We will arrive near the South Sea in approximately 5 hours or more, depending on the weather conditions we shall face, Lieutenant. I sure do hope that your theory is correct."

"Very well, I no longer need you, Captain. It was a pleasure talking to you!" Rodya extended his hands, still giving his semi-emotionless smile. "oh, and make no mistake, that guess of mine was merely to make you feel at ease. We both know what's going to happen in the next few days."

Alexei shook his hand back, ignoring the last part. "It was a pleasure to talk to you too, Lieutenant. I shall keep in contact with you until our tasks are done."

"Remember, Captain, don't screw up. Your sailors are under your care, after all."

Alexei's polite smile loosened, "I will, Lieutenant."

Rodya's smile grew in return, "Very well, Glory to the Sacred Stars!"

"Glory to the Sacred Stars."

Stars above, he needed an alcoholic drink. Perhaps...Perhaps Anastisya had some remaining locked up in her drawers.

---

Chapter 1, Act 02 - Eternity At Home

Spatiale Port, The Khanate of Caeruun-Olgii

"..Eternal, The Mortals Proclaim. But What Shall Be The Price They Shall Pay For Their Eternity? To be In My Domain Forevermore?..."
- Sister Drea, Dakarim 1:7

---

A deafening blare from a coastal horn reverberated within the bay, followed shortly by several blinding beams of light cutting apart the thick fog that blanketed the calm waters of Spatiale bay, occasionally illuminating the metal hulls of passing ships that entered and exited the port. Regardless of the searchlights, the dark sea obscured the view of anything that may have been lurking beneath the surface, with the occasional piece of trash drifting across the water.

The smell of salt and smoke was heavy in the morning air, the port choked by thick, black, puffs of smoke gushing out of the many many ships that were each laden with heavy cargo, with most vessels filled with various shipping containers while a few ships, those who weren’t marked by any insignia that may have identified that they may have belonged to a specific company, had large, suspiciously tank-looking, objects covered under gray camo-netting.

Seagulls cried and chirped, just as birds of all kinds swarmed the port, flocks of birds swirled over the passing ships like a vortex, regularly swooping down and picking any items of interest from sailors on deck, with some wolfing down the crew men's meals like the possessed satanic little creatures they are. Other birds flocked to cover every inch of available, comfortable, space that the ships had, with little to no regard for the angry sailors that were currently swatting them away with any nearby items.

The groan of several rail wheels signaled the movement of a large, nearly 200-tonne, crane as it rolled its way towards the end of the dock, lowering its four hooks as one of the unmarked cargo ships slowed to a direct halt underneath the path of the crane, thanks to the help of several tugboats that were ants compared to the sheer size of the cargo ship.

The whine of the cargo ship’s turbine faded as dockworkers scrambled around performing their various duties, with most clearing space on the dock so the cargo could be properly unloaded and moved with little to no difficulty.

Watching the workers scrambling around like ants were a pair of darkly coloured, olive-green, four-wheeled vehicles, both with tan canvas hoods that shielded the occupants from the blazing sun that was now high up in the sky. The black-tinted windscreens of the vehicles hid the occupants from any curious dock worker who may have looked their way. Resting just above the twin grilles, there was a singular metal fixture that resembled a simplified bird, below it, the words ‘УАЗ’ were written in bold white lettering, shining brightly in from the sun that burned high above. The front end of the vehicle was flat, two circular headlights placed on each side, with an additional two smaller, brightly-coloured, orange signal lights resting just beneath them.

A grumble of an engine startled nearby workers as one of the cars reversed quickly before speeding down the dock, disappearing behind a few warehouses, narrowly missing a couple of dozen trucks and a handful of workers that were in the way. A flag waved in the wind as the car sped off, two horizontal stripes with the top strip white while the other a crimson red topped off with a white fess.

The driver’s door of the vehicle that was left behind opened with a loud creak as a blunted cigarette was flung a few feet away, landing next to a crate where it was gobbled up by a random seagull. A uniformed man stepped out and slammed the door behind him, wiping a wet rag across his forehead before gazing directly up towards the sun, raising a hand so it shielded him from the burning rays.

The uniform was stained with grime, smudges of a black oil-like material stuck to the uniform, and the once light green outfit made into an absolute mess as dirt covered both the inside and outside of the main tunic. The webbing, before an olive green, was now a deep mud-brown, the various pouches also covered in dirt and the black-like material. Despite the mess of the uniform, the red and blue flag remained untainted, shining brightly in the sun. The kneepads were soaked with both water and sweat, alongside the elbow pads and collar of the uniformed man.

Looking at his hands, the pale white skin was also tainted with the same black oil-like material that stuck to the rest of his uniform, grimacing as he wiped a finger against it. His light brown hair, thankfully, remained unchanged from the filth on him, the same went for the cheap sunglasses he wore. Other than the wet and dirty clothing, all that really bugged him was the beating heat and the constant sweat pouring from what felt like every inch of his body.

Wiping his hands into the wet rag before hastily shoving it into one of his many empty ammo pouches, the uniformed man let out an exhausted sigh as he walked towards a nearby AA position, hidden underneath a few layers of tan camo-netting. Sliding across the sandbags and into the AA position, the man sat against several crates of 23mm shells, with some littered across the position.

The man reached behind his back, quickly withdrawing a small tan canteen from one of his back pouches. Screwing the cap open and pressing the tip against his lips, the man would take hold of his surroundings, taking note of the ammo boxes strewn around as if they were toys, with the lids of some cracked open and the brightly-coloured tips of the shells exposed to the open air.

He shook his head, typical.

Raising the canteen, he felt the warm water rush into his mouth and down his throat, greeting the metallic taste of the water with a small wince. In one of the most sweltering days of the entire month, and in the hottest areas in the entire port, his canteen starts to heat up to near boiling temperatures, not helped by the fact he felt itchy and sticky while, unknowingly, he drank the last of his water supply.

Unfortunately, but can’t really be helped, can it?

After a lengthy drink, he’d lower both his head and his canteen, placing the cap back on and screwing it shut. As he shoved the glorified tea kettle back into his webbing, he felt a hand lightly grasping his shoulder before yanking it back after a bit of the grime stuck to their hand. Forcing a smile on his face, he’d turn to face the man as he tightly gripped the left strap of his webbing.

The person in question was wiping his hand against one of the ammo boxes, a mix of disgust and exhaustion present on his face, however, the man held up a smile.

The man wore the same uniform and was relatively clean, other than a few spots of the same grime and dirt just below the ankles, with the majority located near the mud-stained, black leather boots. The chest was protected by a large, greenish-grey, vest with various pouches hanging around it, a dim green webbing tucked just underneath the plate carrier.

Shifting his attention back, the man placed a hand back on his shoulder, maintaining both a firm grip and smile. His face was near rectangular, hammered in with a broad forehead and a pointed nose, decorated with small specks of poorly-shaved facial hairs with a small scar just near his upper lip.

“Sasha, can you at least try to be hygienic?” He spoke in a hollow, exhausted tone of voice, laced with a thick accent Usti-Labnonskan accent. While he did not particularly care about the cleanliness of uniforms, he did care about the appearance and personal hygiene of those around him, ignoring the fact that he himself was covered in dirt and grime.

“Hygiene this and hygiene that!” Sasha spoke in a friendly yet mocking tone. “Mishka, give me a bloody break.”

“You look like a-”

“I know I look like I just came from a 2-Month deployment in some desert-"

"And you have."

"-but it's hard looking clean when you’re posted for 4 hours straight in some money pit under the beating sun.”

Mishka merely shrugged, throwing up his hands as he positioned a sandbag to act as a pillow. With his back pressed against the sandbag, Mishka glanced at Sasha, of who was withdrawing a water bottle from an ammunition crate. Mishka raised a brow but decided not to question it.

Holding the bottle, Sasha flashed a wide smile, revealing the shiny teeth that were wildly out of place, with most teeth being disproportionately sized with one another, with the two crowns shining brightly, despite any rays from the sun being blocked from the camo-netting.

“A ‘Thank you!’ is not needed, just give me a cigarette.” The voice of Sasha changed on a whim, the friendly smile, however, he still maintained

Mishka blinked as he made a response, making a low gurgle as he cleared his throat, “O-Oh, Yeah. Too bloody busy too.”

Forcing yet another exhausted smile, Mishka produced a slim cigarette from a back pocket, exchanging it for the water bottle. Figuring to finish what he had left in his canteen, he placed the water bottle against his left thigh, while using his free hand to withdraw and pop open the cap of the canteen.

With a small grimace, Mishka placed the tip of the canteen against his lips, only to be met with the smell of rust and a few droplets of water gathering up against the tip of the canteen. Sighing softly, Mishka placed the canteen back onto his vest before grabbing the water bottle and screwing the lid open.

Taking a small sip before screwing the cap back on, Mishka turned his attention towards the dock workers that were currently in the process of unloading crates from an unmarked grey cargo ship. The crates in question ranged in size, with the smallest the size of a man while others were as large as a car, and all were colored either grey or green.

Looking towards the nearby cranes, he spotted two tanks being unloaded, both bearing white stripes that were painted around their turrets. The tanks in question were small, around 3 meters in height from best guesses, with a rather large turret. The main gun was large in comparison at 10 meters in length, with a small cylindrical bulge located mid-way of the barrel. He remembered the local White Guard Brigade being excited when they first received it— a "T-14BVM" as they called it.

As the tanks were lowered closer and closer towards the ground, two large eight-wheeled trucks drove past the AA position Mishka and Sasha were currently relaxing in, with each of the trucks towing a flatbed trailer.

Parking underneath each of the cranes, the trucks waited as the tanks were loaded onto them, with dock workers and military personnel securing the tanks in with brightly colored cargo straps the moment they touched down.

By the time the tanks were loaded onto the trucks, another pair of tanks, this time covered with ERA packages, were hanging above and slowly being lowered down. With a bit of yelling, the trucks carefully drove past the crates and cranes before gunning it down the road, disappearing behind a few storage hangers.

Looking back towards Sasha, Mishka noted the child-like curiosity that replaced the wide grin from only moments earlier. By this time, Mishka repositioned himself to sit on one of the seats of the anti-aircraft gun to get a better look at the nearby commotion.

Oh, also, Sasha was gently massaging his right cheek.

Blinking twice, Sasha swivelled his head back to face Mishka, flicking the lit cigarette off into the dark waters. The air was thick with the smell of diesel and salt, with a small scent of gunpowder being present, however, that was mostly thanks to the anti-aircraft gun, despite it previously never actually been fired once.

“Hey Mishka, aren’t those tanks from uh...Vichnaya?” Sasha spoke quietly for some reason, despite him and Mishka being the only ones around for a good 10+ meters, unsurprisingly resulting in Mishka not even picking up what he said.

With a loud cough and yet again repeating the question loudly Sasha garnered Mishka’s attention.

“Oh? Hell if I know, man.” Mishka threw up his hands before looking back at yet another pair of trucks that were speeding off with tanks loaded onto them. “From what I heard, the Vichnayans have been redeploying White Guards to the Khanate for...something. The same goes for the Astovkans and Aldoreans, well, so I've heard. Reason? Well I'm guessing Vichnaya is paranoid that the Magicans might try something.”

"You think the Magicans will try anything at the Pact's front door?"

“Better safe than sorry I guess, the fact the Vichnayans deployed a fleet in the South Sea for ‘Peacekeeping’ isn’t helping to dissuade the higher-ups that something might be going on.” Mishka yawned briefly, turning back to face Sasha. “Certainly isn’t making me calm either.”

“It’s in the East, right? Then the movements are against Magica.”

Mishka withdrew yet another cigarette, handing it off to Sasha, himself withdrawing a lighter. Gently biting down on the filter, Sasha held a cupped hand over the lighter, bringing it a hair away from the cigarette. A few seconds passed before Sasha withdrew the cigarette from his lips, throwing it to the floor before promptly grinding it into dust with his boot.

Looking back to the dockworkers, he watched them scurry around like ants, their numbers eventually turning into a tidal wave that continually surged through the port. His thoughts lingered on, all the while wincing and massaging his aching cheeks.

A thought came up.

“Hey, Mishka.” His eyes darted back to Mishka, of who was somehow relaxing against the AA gun, a hat covering his face. How he could nap in the 34°C is a mystery that he quite frankly didn’t want to learn, especially with the dirty uniform and the flies that were buzzing around now. "What unit are you getting attached to?"

Lazily raising the cap up, Mishka could only muster a short ‘Huh?’ before resting his head against the gunsight of the AA gun, adjusting the cap so it covered the entirety of his face. After a moment, he spoke, "The 26th White Guards Naval Infantry Brigade. The Vichnayan one. Why?'

"Uhuh, because that helicopter destroyer a few hundred metres in front of us is uh...pretty indicative of something."

"Oh nah, I'm not boarding that from what I've heard," Mishka pointed to something lying on the blackened sands of the port, "I'm boarding that."

A long ugly thing with eight engines mounted on two forward canards, stubby short wings, and a boat-like design, the monstrosity known as the Lun M-Class Ekranoplan was a peculiar aircraft/boat. Reactivated during the start of the Lyceni Cold War for amphibious operations, the Lun M was a unique aircraft that used ground effect to lift itself a shy 4 metres off the water that, combined with the extensive modernization for most of the Ekranoplans, makes it theoretically a great platform for the Naval Infantry and Marines of the Orlova Pact to rapidly deploy and raid targets.

Theoretically.

"What about you?" Mishka looked back to Sasha, "I damn well know your ass isn't staying here as well."

There was a nod, "Correct, I'm heading off with the Astovkan Marines. Same plan as the 26th, from what I've heard."

"Mhm, your bitch ass is dying first."

"Nuh-uh."

"Yuh-Uh."

In the blink of an eye, Sasha felt something land in his hands.

A bottle of wheat Vodka.

"Comrade, this is contraband. You do realize that-"

Mishka chuckled, "Nuh-uh."

---

Chapter 1, Act 03 - What Will Be, Shall Be

Hero City Zimnyaya-Gryaz, Vozrozhdeniye Oblast

"..Father Makra? Tis' correct that Father brought the warmth of our existence, but what else, Sister? Hast thou forgotten the sins the holiest one created?..."
- Sister Drea, Kaibir 3:1

---

...

He has long since forgotten what he has been doing.

"M-Mister Petrovich, may I come in?"

Thus the auspices of his work began for the day. He worked in his state-provided office, and state-provided desk, sat upon his state-provided chair, and wore his state-mandated Uniform. Apart from his uniform that screamed secret police agency, he looked no different than the average Vichnayan that one could find in the many oblasts and independent republics with his hazel-brown hair and brown eyes, wearing his standard olive-green uniform and black coat that bore the insignia of the All-Vichnayan Commissariat for Political and Social Security or referred to simply as the VKPO. Lyceni's most well-known secret police agency at this point, the VKPO was responsible for overt, covert, and paramilitary operations across the world— with a minor role of keeping the military in check and loyal to the State and Sacred Stars.

Unlike previous days, he would not be accompanied nor have the silence of his office be rudely interrupted by his assistant, a one Political Directorate Leader 3rd Class Gregori Makovich. For whatever reason, the man had a doctor's appointment on the day when the tri-director council of VKPO were meeting with one o the most influential and beloved citizen of the Federal Republic of Vichnaya; the old man could only sigh, flicking his visor down over his face.

He grumbled. A meeting was never fun without a comrade.

As typical for Vichnayan items, the visor was crammed with so many electronics that it was quite bulky. The black-tinted visor gave the user a HUD of sorts, essentially serving the purpose of a phone but plastered directly up to your face, with even the great and wonderful chance of giving the user vision problems down the line. It also connected to a person's phone and personal devices, allowing them to access information on the go by simply speaking, and making them look like they're staring off blankly into space.

Aside from the obvious benefits of being able to monitor multiple tasks at once — a necessity considering how much the three directors bicker with one another — it also helps keep the cold, freezing wind of Northern Vichnaya from giving the individual the very funny-unfunny case of hypothermia for a short period of time. Of course, wearing it by itself wouldn't help, but wearing a single layer of clothing anywhere in Vichnaya was more or less a self-inflicted gunshot.

Adjusting his tie, Rollan called out to the feminine voice outside his door, speaking as if he were a dedushka. "You may come in, Madame."

The door knob turned repeatedly.

Now, how could he forget? The door was locked.

"Ah," Rollan forced a chuckle, still smiling. "My apologies, I'll unlock the door for you."

The smile, much like the facade the VKPO regularly uses, was fake.

In fact, he could be less than happy of this woman's presence.

One could say he could be malding.

Following the simple switch of the door lock, Rollan gently pulled the door aside to reveal a ghostly sight. With near-pearly-white skin and flowing white/pink-ish hair, dressed in a long pink dress and white coat, and topped off with two bright-red eyes with a facial structure that looked distantly Chaoyangnese. While he had looked into her case for the simple case of curiosity, her medical records had shown she was, in fact, not albino even if the directions and her overall appearance pointed to such. Regardless, through the confident front she put, full of grace and elegance that befitted that of Ustinian royalty, he could still tell she was a nervous mess.

Or sleep-deprived? He couldn't tell, though the bags under her eyes were still apparent.

The girl bowed swiftly, her eyes closed. "My pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister Petrovich."

As if, "My pleasure to meet you as well, Lady Shiro, would you prefer refreshments as we talk? I've received your email beforehand that this discussion might be...lengthy."

It was a subtle jab to Shiro Kujō of the Gotō Clan. Beloved by nearly every member state of the Orlova Pact, the "merciful hand of Sister Ustina" had a semi-well-kept secret that was primarily only known by higher officials of the Federal Republic of Vichnaya: she was a bastard child. As typical for their bloodline, the men of the Gotō Clan maintained an army of concubines for the sole purpose of relieving stress when the primary wife wasn't there to satisfy them, with Sara Kujō, one of the concubines of the head of Clan Gotō, eventually spawning Shiro. How the white-haired thing rose up the ranks of the Vichnayan social ladder was anyone's guess.

That jab, however, did not go unnoticed.

"No thank you, M-Mister Petrovich, I believe time of of the essence here. No? Perhaps when we meet again, I shall accept the offer for refreshments." A smile crept up Shiro's lips, "Say, I've heard you and your spouse have been rather lively recently. May I see her? I'd reckon some tea would be nice for a quiet morning."

Eye twitch.

Kicked out of the bed to sleep on the couch. Then posted on TwitterX for Vichnaya to see.

"We can make arrangements," Rollan forced his smile, "But for now, our discussion. Please, do take a seat there."

Rollan was already walking to his desk as he motioned to the singular chair placed in front. Aside from the file cabinets and the PlayStation 5 in the corner, his office space was rather monotonous with all the complexities of a man of his position. While he merely sat down for the sake of comfort, Shiro sat with one leg crossed over another. Perhaps she was trying to emphasize her beauty, the years of Ustinian royalty etiquette drilled into her head to make her do so, or both at the same time— regardless, Rollan could still see the cracks that were forming, even if they were slow.

"Now, what shall we discuss, Lady Shiro?"

"I detailed this in the email, Mister Petrovich."

"I wasn't made aware of anything, Lady Shiro, of anything other than your wonderful presence."

More and more, he could see the cracks in Shiro's eyes grow ever wider. Her smile faded somewhat. Wonderful.

Shiro bowed her head, "Look- I was hoping you could release the person I detailed in my email-"

"I'm afraid I'm not sure who you're talking about."

"I was hoping you could tell me where he is at, and if you can release him."

Rollan, much to the torture of Shiro, continued smiling. "My apologies, Lady Shiro, but I assure you I do not know who you are talking about."

Shiro, the ever-wonderful and emotional lady she is, the heart of the people of Vichnaya, was visibly becoming ever more impatient. Away from view, her hands clenched and a quiet, rhythmic tap of her shoe started. She maintained her composure, however, the years of diplomatic training would not falter her. Shiro continued to smile, tilting her head slightly to the side, "He was detained by the VKPO following his exile from the Magica. You are the State Security Director of the VKPO second only to Mistress Alina."

"So I am," Rollan copied her head tilt in return, adjusting his visor. "That's why I don't bother with dealings such as that. Better leave it to the other Directors to sort such matters out."

"But you are bothered to me constantly shadowed, are you not?"

There was a cringe in Shiro's eye. She definitely did not mean to say that harshly.

To Rollan? Things were going rather smoothly.

He chuckled, "Lady Shiro, I'm sure you've heard the stories of Vichnaya's most hated agency, and rest assured, the VKPO is not like that. When I hear them, even I am shocked at the brutality against our own compatriots. One must remember that the VKPO is merely responsible for maintaining the careful checks and balances that keep Vichnaya running, and to a larger extent, the rest of the brethren nations in the Orlova Pact. To put it simply? The Commissariat makes sure the average citizen is accounted for, a circle of accountability."

Shiro scowled, "You don't trust anyone here, do you?"

"I do!" Rollan clasped his hands together, ever enthusiastic about his job, "But you know the old Ustiniain proverb goes: 'Trust, But Verify.'"

"Do you not understand how significant for the events ahead of us?" Visibly, the cracks on Shiro's dam were breaking. "Breaking character here- I just..."

"Once again, I do," Silence, then Rollan adjusted his seat. "But you can't lead with anything with nothing, can you?"

...

Shiro stared at him.

Rollan stood up just as Shiro opened her mouth, shutting the poor girl silent. "To make you feel better, Lady Shiro, even the agents of the VKPO are accounted for. Your personal driver and guard, Mistress Vita? Two agents from the 44th Directorate assigned to her. My personal assistant, Comrade Makovich? Again, an agent from the VKPO-GRU assigned to him. And the handsome gentleman in front of you?"

The Security Director motioned outside to a dimly-lit apartment room on the adjacent building. "Three agents from the 41st Directorate, right there."

"Again, the VKPO is a circle of responsibility, Lady Shiro, I must hammer this in. I'm sure you understand." Placing on the girl's shoulder, he sighed. "Anyhow, the Ministry for Foreign Affairs is going to make an announcement about the situation in the Most-Serene Federation. You will be retrieved soon enough by Comrade Vita."

...

"Well then, It was very nice speaking with you, Lady Shiro, and I'm sure I can schedule a tea date between you and my wife." With a swift turn, Rollan strolled towards the door. He was impressed somewhat— the girl managed to hold herself on a one-on-one conversation with the sociopath of the Federal Republic rather adequately and cordially. Perhaps, he mused, that the diplomatic training her aunt gave her managed to assist-

"I need him, please I'll give you any favour you want."

Or perhaps not.

Amused, Rollan turned back to Shiro, looking down and gripping the armrest with a firm hand. That voice...never have he ever heard the proud woman beg, even with the endless voice and audio recordings of her in private or during streaming. Even he was surprised when he found out the girl was a VTuber.

"So, you will be accountable for him?"

Shiro's head shot up, eyes gleaming with hope. Silently, she'd nod, gathering her composure.

There was a few seconds of thought for Rollan, then smiled ever more gently. "Then it is done."

Shiro reached out, a note in her hand, "His name is-"

"I know who he is, Lady Shiro. A crown is still visible long after it has fallen off the head of an emperor."

[Upper Magica]

[REDACTED], REPUBLIC OF MAGICA

Ah, the war room; a tradition in every governmental body threatened with annihilation at the drop of a warhead. Today, it was packed full of people - for good reason. The people inside were planning a war - after all, it wasn't called the peaceroom or the huggingroom. A snippet of a news program was playing, showing excited crewmen aboard the RMV Demogorgon, a Demon-class destroyer; whilst not a nuclear powered behemoth nor particularly stealthy, it was heavily armed and speedy, iconic of the Magican Navy's propensity for heavily armed and fast designs - possessing a capacity for 128 vertically-launched missiles and a maximum speed of thirty knots an hour.

Many wanted to classify the Demons as cruisers; but did the inventors and engineers of the Dreadnought of old classify the ship as something more than it was - an outstanding and groundbreaking achievement in battleship design? No. Of course not; it would be ludicrous. The Demon-class was simply the next logical step in destroyer design, and it had been produced through the last days of an Empire and the new era of the Republic both.

The room groaned when the actual news crew were let aboard - only a few people in it knew that this had been tacitly approved by the Central Intelligence Service of the Committee of Public Safety - prompting the Premier to hush the room as the camera rolled.

In broken Magican - the Aquilan-Montagnard dialect, to be precise - a nameless newswoman asked a Magican crewman of the Naval Defense Forces, clothed in the traditional garb of the Magican sailor - a dark blue boiler suit - a question as a prelude to a short interview.

"Why do you think you've been deployed here today?" she asked plainly.

"To liberate from, ah... slavery." replied the sailor, scratching at his stubble, a blank if not amused look on his face.

"Most of the world has condemned your government's recent invective against the Confederation of Free Cities--"

"Look, lady. I don't care about most of the world. Have you seen what comes out of that hellhole? Children, prisoners, elderly - they round them up and send them to make shoes for 16 hours a day. If there was ever a place that needed liberation--" he droned on for a second before the vidscreen was cut off.

"Brothers, sisters in arms; I am pleased to report that the misinformation campaign surrounding our increased activity in the Eastern Seas... has been a tentative success." announced the head speaker, Admiral Cesaro of the Maritime Defense Force, smiling proudly. "Furthermore -- the Great Enemy has taken the bait." He nodded at everyone. "Flip to, ah, marker one in the folders provided you by my office."

Everyone opened up their little piece of manila; detailing a wealth of signals intercepts and satellite imagery telling a tale: the Republic had sought to provoke its northern rival deliberately. And - no doubt due to a sense of superiority - it had responded in kind, splitting its forces for no reason other than to 'show the flag'. "To them, this is merely but a larger tantrum. Over the last months, we have... deliberately projected the image of weakness, prompting complacency, I am sure." Admiral Cesaro smiled wryly, quipping. "They call this maskirovka over there. Who would have known we ought to have been better practitioners of the art?"

The room chuckled. "At any rate, sirs -" Admiral Cesaro stiffened up. "The time has come, members of the Committee of Public Safety. The pieces are in place. Our... surprises are ready, and our months of shaping operations have borne fruit. The threat is real, and it cannot be ignored; our Republic will never be safe so long as the Great Enemy believes itself beyond reproach, that we are cowed before their quote-unquote technological supremacy." He gazed solemnly at everyone.

"Our chance is here, and the time is now. Without delay, members of the Committee, please order our Revolutionary Defense Forces to execute Operation Plans Dark Stars, Black Hole, Backfire, and, on the part of the Directorate for Public Security; the execution of Contingency Plan Whirlwind."

With that statement - the room began to whisper heatedly. A deliberation began.

Only time would tell the result of these deliberations - for good or ill.

---

The Agent looked down at his phone, buzzing rapidly.

It read: "Whirlwind warning issued for your area." Cryptic bastards, the Directorate for Public Security - the successor to a myriad tradition of Magican internal security agencies charged with one mission: the elimination of anyone the government found to be a salient threat to its power. He pulled his blue sedan over, reaching into the glove box, pulling out a nondescript black book, leafing through pages.

Eventually, he reached his quarry. Or rather - a list of them; every known VPKO asset and handler in this sleepy little district of Aquis. First off the bat was Wladyslaw Grzegorewicz, pillar of his expatriate community, lawyer, Usti-Labnonskan dissident, and, above all, VPKO agent; he lived not only off the proceeds of his community fighting for democracy in his homeland, but with the other hand, he sold them out to their oppressors; a pitiable man. The job was as simple as busting the gas meter behind his family apartment; letting a timed flashbang bomb do the rest. At least Grzegorewicz had one last family barbeque.

Jeanne de Vannetais, former Trade Minister under the old Empire; allowed to live out her last days in a care home, she still socialized with Republican higher-ups; her lover was a Romeo in the service of the VPKO, some lazy balding fuck who didn't have the creativity to come up with a good cover. She was good enough to lie still for a single, merciful bullet; Pjotr took fifteen trying to wriggle out of his fate. Covered up as a simple break-and-enter gone wrong.

Expatriate girl-pop band YAS! - easy enough. Honeypots that, admittedly, too many Magican military officers'd fell for; mysteriously, their airplane dropped out of the sky into the deep ocean between Aquis and Quai de Argent while on a tour several hours after the Agent called their personal pilot, threatening his family on the other end of the line. Sadly, their manager - in reality a station chief of the VPKO - also perished in the same freak accident.

And, last but not least; an unassuming employee of the State Finance Directorate had started up her vehicle, only to experience for a split second what can only be described as a tragic li-ion battery failure, shredding her, her vehicle, and most of her garage apart in a terrifying explosion.

The news would report some of these incidents - along with, curiously enough, a spate of freak accidents occurring all across the Archipelago over the coming days - as tragedy; to the Agent, however, it was a night's work gone well.

---

......?

I barely had time to register what'd just happened. A crack followed by the sound of what seemed like the Trumpets of Jericho - and then darkness overtook my vision. When I came to, I felt hot liquid dripping down my face - one anyone'd recognize by the sweet smell and rich taste of iron. The only feeling I could register in my left arm was searing pain and a pinch where my forearm was; an odd sensation I couldn't describe could be felt.

I don't remember much about afterward. I crawled through rubble and the blood and guts of what until now had been my triumphant foes. But it was a blur - seconds felt like hours. Dazed from blood loss and probably some blunt force trauma to the head, I emerged, bathing in the blinding sunlight.

I knew what I'd have to do; I had to get back. To set things right. I made it to an alleyway, evading the incoming sound of emergency vehicles before I finally noticed it. My left arm - it was gone, partially cauterised. Maybe that was why I hadn't died, I mused - before I took another deep sleep driven by blood loss in a dumpster.

......oh. Yeah. I remember - this is where it went south.

I stirred out of febrile slumber, vaguely remembering a cinder block thrown through the nearby window. Which embassy was this, I wondered - the architecture vaguely resembled the kind seen in the Foreign Quarter.

"DEATH TO POLAR OLIGARCHS!" read the partially-broken block, stencilled on by local artistes. Dazed as I was from infection; the eerie-sounding language spoken here was unmistakable.

Adaki.

Just so, a hand - covered in nitrile blue - reached out, feeling my forehead with some kind of weird device I couldn't recognize in the moment; or at least the part of my forehead not covered with bloodstained bandages. I looked up; if I weren't certain enough I was going to die, a seraphina had come down from the Heavens to merely confirm the fact.

"You aren't dead!" she said, smiling, looking down at my battered form.

It was then I realized that angels do not wear nitrile gloves.

......Oh. Our first actual meeting.

Dark-clad men on motorcycles could be seen aside the car we were in; all bearing the red beret with Revolutionary cockade. One other figure sat across from myself, who was rather poorly disguised in the attire of the Lady's guard; complete with balaclava, masquing my facial features from those outside, who would surely kill us all for the very real crime of harboring a fugitive as important as I was, diplomatic consequences be damned.

"...So. What are your plans now?" said the girl slightly younger than I. Her rabbit eyes looked into my soul, bright red as they were. "Will you try and regain your throne, then?"

It took me all of three seconds to reply.

"No." I said, sternly.

"Why not? Most of this country still reveres your name." she retorted. "You are supposed to be some kind of God-Emperor, right? Divine right or some such..?"

I shook my head. "Nonsense -- all of it. There are... enough people to start a movement, yes. But..." I said, trailing off, thinking - delaying speaking the truth, really. "My country has seen enough bloodshed. I will not coast back into power on the blood of my people. This conflict... must end, and if I need to be dead for this to happen, so be it."

She nodded thoughtfully, if not taken somewhat aback.

As they arrived at what he reckoned was Aquis International Airport; they were greeted with a jumbo jet in Aeroflot colors.

They got out, ascending the platform to the open door... and then the darkness gave way to light - a bright light shining in his face.

"Get up!" shouted the dark figure clad in winter's camouflage and a balaclava, yelling in broken Magican. "You stand up now!" - groggily, I complied, nestling myself out of the somewhat warm bed.

He, it, they, she, whatever - grunted. "You get things NOW, post haste! Fifteen minute - we are travel." Groaning, I posited the question: "Where are we going?" in a groggy blur typical for only having gotten three, perhaps four hours of sleep tops; a smarter me might have avoided asking the particulars. I got a backhand to the head for my trouble.

"Shut fuck up! No questions - do!"

Reluctantly, I complied. At least I wasn't being killed - for now. If there was anything I appreciated about this strange land... there were no subtleties towards killing, no ceremony either.

Soon enough, I'd find out why I'd been roused from bed at this late, cold hour of the night.

[Aldar Kose]

As the sun rises in the capital of ALDAR KOSE Pablo Bohuslav Prepares a speech as he declares. His 10 year plan to fix the economy, Increase budget in the Air Force and. Increase recruitment. He also states this.

As you all know, conflict is starting to spark in the East of lyceni And I Made a decision of Sending aid to are allies by Sending 8 million soldiers To aid in the conflict.

Has the sun sets however General's officers And even high-ranking officials begin scrambling around the capital as soon as Pablo Entered, he declared to all of them that they are now in defcon 2.

[Hundermenschen]

It had been unknown for the most part of who the previous leaders of the lands of Hundermenschen were but it was known briefly that they were a corporate state of all things. In secret they would have been testing and mastering their abilities of genetic modification to which they would be making a small army of super soldiers. It was no secret that the region which they resided in was shaken up by violence which prompted them to make what they called the Hundermenschenian people to act as a fighting force for them to surpass human abilities. As their numbers began to grow the ones of adult age would be trained in various fields which ranged from field combat, pilots, and armored vehicle operators.

As the years passed some of the Hundermenschenians were tired of their bad treatment and ideas of revolt came to mind. Acquiring weapons and equipment to fight wouldn’t be hard and their advantage over humans would give them the advantage they needed in the upcoming plans. For now they would remain underground and continue their normal lives for now as some would smuggle munitions and other various needed items when no one was looking. There were also others that would tap into computers to gain access to information on their installations and infrastructure to plan accordingly when it was time to attack. As far as contact with the outside world it seemed that wasn’t an option from what was seen. For now gathering supplies was the main objective for the time being.

[Aldar Kose]

In the capital of сонячний Pablo Bohuslav debates with the council on what to do next. As of now there's a rebellion in The Democratic Republic of Hundermenschen. The debate is about if they should support the Hundermenschen government or The Zolana people freedom fighters. After much debating they decided to help the people of Zolana after the decision Pablo Bohuslav went live on TV to discuss with his people

my people we have made a great decision within the council. As rumors are being heard the people of Zolana are requesting for our help. And we have made a decision to help them no matter the cost.

After the speech was done Pablo Bohuslav then sent advisors to their region. Hoping to strike up a deal with them. As this is happening in the far East of lyceni a total of 8 million soldiers arrive. And as they are waiting the general in charge of the entire army declares. We are nearby enemy territory. Soon we will land on those islands and free the people of Paradise from the tyranny of Magica.

[Upper Magica]

HONNOUJI-SHI, STATE OF SHIRAKIKU, CONFEDERATION OF FREE CITIES

The video finally loads; internet's been spotty recently. A borderline tropical city nestled upon the edge of where the Magican Sea begins and the Eastern Lycene Basin ends, where the sunshine-filled cityscape greets your eyes, the reflection of blue screen light contrasting with the darkness of the room you inhabit.

It's your favorite livestreamer broadcasting from her hot tub.

"Thanks for the donation, er... BlyatMaster six-six-six!" she says faux-cheeringly, adjusting the vividly-covered bikini she wears; she creeps up closer to the camera - and what you assume is the computer screen. "Oh, my favorite artist-songwriter?" She smiles, responding to a viewer's question. "YAS, for sure! So sad about that plane crash yesterday, though.. I don't know what I'm going to do with myself."

Suddenly - the scene changes. Emergency sirens blare. Dots - travelling in a familiar V-formation become visible in the background, transiting low over the shoreline; that's all you see before the stream cuts off.

What just happened?

---

Above this jewel of the Free Cities was no longer simply the sun and the clouds; it was the Revolutionary Armed Forces in all its renewed might. Fighters cruised overhead, bombing police stations and what few armories there were - whilst the marine paratroopers of the Naval Landing Forces were ferried in aggressively to the airport and critical infrastructure junctions.

Corporal Averie was one of these few and the proud; sitting at the edge of the UH-1 ferrying the troop of twelve, he eyed the streets of this sleepy tourist trap pensively, admiring the view of traditional Shirakiku architecture in all its awesome glory.

Until, that is - their 'stick' finally reached the Airport; where, rather conveniently, a battalion of the local militia was marshalling, accompanied by old BTR-60s, Type 251 halftracks and technicals, his enemies demanding his attention more than the landscape and architecture. They had scarcely time to react before heavy machine guns began to pepper the enemy into smithereens, followed by the fell shriek of Hydra-90s spewing forth from the accompanying Firelance reconnaissance-attack helicopters accompanying the Magican transports, which soon dove carefully toward the ground, letting loose chaff and smoke. Everyone knew what time it was as the helicopter shook and lurched with the force of gravity.

"Prepare to disembark! Get your shit ready!" the Sergeant yelled to the men, looking out the side door of the UH-1, where the crew chief was nestled at the mounted M3, firing off volleys of .50 caliber rounds at scurrying militia, rushing for cover underneath ruined vehicles and chunks of what were once buildings.

The men complied, double checking their weapons and equipment. Averie yelled out - the first to do so - "Weapon OK! Equipment OK! Good to go, Sarge!", raising his thumb. He braced his Hellion carbine closely, damn near holding it like a teddy bear when he looked to the side and saw another UH-1 explode from the inside out: a contrail of smoke and vapor leading from the ground ruled out any thought of an accident.

This was war, Averie reminded himself; and when he leapt off the helicopter, a foot's distance from the gravel of a parking lot, he reminded himself the worst was over as he unfurled his weapon and took cover behind an old minivan.

---

Not by a long shot was the worst over - not a minute after the ultimatum had expired had Magican forces assailed the southern Confederation with the beginnings of a furious offensive at sea, on land, and in the air. Uniquely - it was televised, with news crews being granted unprecedented access to the Magican war machine; or at least the parts of it that the Republic wanted the world to see.

Grateful crowds swarmed Magican troops, professing their love and adoration for their liberators against the backdrop of now-permanently-closed sweatshops - what the world didn't see, on the other hand, were the newly-mobilized security battalions of the Department of Public Security performing gruesome work alongside the formations of the Armed Forces they were attached to; the old order of things would not die quietly nor easily, much like a hydra - and its heads had to be destroyed all at once, necessitating the security battalions' existence.

In faraway Port d'Kali - nexus of the Magican Republic's space program - a flurry of activity took place, analysts confirming a massive buildup of troops through that soon to be outmoded medium: satellite photography. Aldar armies were, indeed, noticed and watched every step of the way of their arduous trek spanning half the length of the continent through the Federal Republic of Vichnaya; in the halls of the Senate Building, the Committee of Public Safety practically celebrated - the Aldar had given Backfire a proper casus belli, justifying the greater onslaught to come.

The officers of the General Staff were perhaps less elated; though jovial regardless- for the eight million troops that the Aldar Kosians proposed to send away were perhaps at face value a terrifying force to behold; but taking into account the laws of logistics, such a massive deployment would only frighten Vichnayan logisticians and bean-counters.

---

Official Communique from the MAGICAN REPUBLIC
Written on this day the 20TH of FRUCTIDOR by the COMMITTEE OF PUBLIC SAFETY

Recipient: Lycene Region At-Large
Classification Level:
1 - Open Communique/Non-Classified


FREEDOM - EQUALITY - BROTHERHOOD: NO GODS, NO MASTERS!

---

"It is the duty of the revolution to put an end to compromise" -- said a great man eons ago. We, if you will recall, offered the slavers of the Free Cities a just bargain; flee and be saved from revolutionary justice or hold on to power at the cost of untold lives. They have chosen to spill the blood of other fathers, other mothers' sons and daughters in the name of buying a few more moments of precious time.

We offered no compromise then - our goal is and always will be the displacement of Capitalist, Imperialist power at every turn, every opportunity - but now we will offer no mercy. At this very hour, units of the Revolutionary Armed Forces have entered the sovereign territory and airspace of the Free Cities in order to bring down its heretofore unshakeable systems of oppression, slavery, and poverty. We will bring those responsible for the suffering of the proletariat of the Free Cities to justice - revolutionary justice at the point of a guillotine.

Secondly, we wish to address the concerning buildup of troops, ships, and airplanes in none other than the Federal Republic of Vichnaya -- in typical reactionary fashion, they have commissioned the movement and buildup of troops and materiel from their puppet states in their Eastern provinces while threatening the free proletariat's movement upon the high seas; undoubtedly a poor intimidation tactic.

Indeed, the Aldar Kosian commitment of eight million troops, and indeed, the stated intention to deploy these troops overseas reminds us of this grim poem from the age of early Empire:

'Across the sea,
Corpses in the water;
Across the mountain,
Corpses heaped upon the fields;
I shall die only for the Emperor, I shall never look back'

There will be death on an untold scale should 'Comrade' Bohuslav proceed with these plans. There will be corpses across the Eastern Seas, across the mountains, and the fields; and we will not have made them. The fault for this military blunder - dwarfing even the Imperial Riomlerian nuclear strike on its own lands - will lay solely on this incompetent leader's hands should his lesser brain functions prevail against common sense.

Forwards the Revolution! Death to Tyrants!

[Hundermenschen]

In the capital of сонячний Pablo Bohuslav debates with the council on what to do next. As of now there's a rebellion in The Democratic Republic of Hundermenschen. The debate is about if they should support the Hundermenschen government or The Zolana people freedom fighters. After much debating they decided to help the people of Zolana after the decision Pablo Bohuslav went live on TV to discuss with his people

my people we have made a great decision within the council. As rumors are being heard the people of Zolana are requesting for our help. And we have made a decision to help them no matter the cost.

After the speech was done Pablo Bohuslav then sent advisors to their region. Hoping to strike up a deal with them. As this is happening in the far East of lyceni a total of 8 million soldiers arrive. And as they are waiting the general in charge of the entire army declares. We are nearby enemy territory. Soon we will land on those islands and free the people of Paradise from the tyranny of Magica.

{The sides are backwards but that's alright. I probably should of done a little more planning first.}
The Hundermenschenian resistance fighters didn't know that they had caught attention from Aldar Kose but from what they had gathered so far munition and logistic wise which had prompted the start of their operation. While collecting supplies, explosive charges were placed in strategic locations in the spread out bunkers to force them open instead of doing their usual containment protocols which would be to seal them shut. A leader of the rebels would have been chosen by the populace by the name of Atlas Koch which would have been the one that organized the whole operation. When everything was ready to go the explosions underground would go off causing quite a bit of noise which prompted security to react. With the weapons the Hundermenschen resistance had gathered they had the weapons to fight their oppressors accordingly. The fighting stayed underground for some time but there were Hundermenschen resistance members that had made their way to the surface to where fighting would also start there.

[Upper Magica]

[REDACTED], [REDACTED]

---

Enter one of the most secretive places in the entire world - nestled away in a forgotten corner of the world, this place is also heavily fortified - although it doesn't look it. 'Tour guide' branded helicopters buzz around the perimeter, marksmen dressed in average street clothing nestled inside; while down on the ground, special operatives dressed as hunters patrol the perimeter of this facility, submachineguns slung around their shoulder.

At first, this place was an old airport; in the 1970s, the Imperial Magican Armed Forces turned it into something greater - a test range for new missiles and aircraft. Then -- newer, progressively more horrifying projects; a laboratory was built covering a comprehensive array of studies from biological weapons(and how to cure them) to cutting-edge materials for the next generations of military materiel.

Inside, the terminal of the former airport leads to a typical underground bunker; a labyrinth of corridors leading to many different locations. Deeper down we go past the 'security zone' - to a series of clean white corridors. People in lab-coats go about their business, holding clipboards, laptops, and coffee cups; finally, we are at our destination, guarded by men in black military uniforms armed with AR-10A3 rifles - men and women in cleansuits pass through this airlock turned security checkpoint.

Beyond it, your typical cleanroom - every person going in and out is subject to a two-stage shower of pressurized disinfectants and ionized air. One might assume what lay within is some kind of virus or chemical agent - but we couldn't be farther away from that conclusion.

As the camera pans to what is readily apparent to be some kind of operating theater, we see it - the object that must be guarded so well, and one more secret among many in this place. It is a carcass - one might mistake it for a human if it weren't for the hircine nature of the creature; nor the canid head.

---

The Doctor wished he could wipe his head right about now; the SCAPE suit he wore protected him as well as the specimen in front of him from potential xeno-pathogens, but at a cost: his comfort. It was humid, hot, and frankly, sweaty.

Speaking of the specimen in front of him, its chest and abdomen were cut open in a Y-shape, the resulting flaps of skin held fast and secure like any other dissection. "Nurse," he said in a calm, professional voice, "ready the tape recorder." The nurse nodded. "Live in five seconds.... and.. go."

"Voice memoranda three, unknown organic specimen two - attending doctor speaking for the record. We've made our first standard incisions according to the Facility's standard androtomy procedure; despite the... decisively non-human nature of the Specimen, its biology corresponds closely to that of homo sapiens. Notable surface characteristics are pronounced muscle mass and the presence of clawed extremities and all-encompassing pelage; head shape resembles a.. pug, if I'm being honest. Brachycephalic facial structure; unclear if this one's a defect of its species or commonplace."

He began to carefully navigate the creature's chest cavity, the ribs already cut open by a nearby nurse. "Specimen, at first glance, has a binary vascular system.. interesting. Everything's where it should be - kidneys, lungs, et cetera."

The Doctor took a breath. "Okay. Let's get ready for analysis, team. For the record; all organs of the subject will now be removed for detailed autopsy and analysis - standard en-masse procedure."

A nurse handed the Doctor a cutting implement. It was time to begin.

---

The voice recordings of the Doctor played out to the end in another secret room, officers in Armed Forces uniform and men in black suits listening intently.

A man in a lab coat tapped his foot. "Gentlemen - we aren't alone on mother Earth," he chimed in. "One was just some dope who overdosed on colloidal silver and decomposed to the point where they looked like a damn space alien. This specimen - Two - this one is the real deal. We've yet to decisively establish whether this... thing is a result of gene-tampering or parallel evolution; its biology and genetic similarity to other creatures on Earth precludes Two being some kind of extraterrestrial intelligence."

Another man in a suit chimed in. "We've gotten reports overseas of some kind of fucked-up shit going on in the far north of the Western continent. Dog-headed people like we've seen here - killing and blowing shit up. The Bureau thinks it's likely some kind of genetic experiment's gone wrong - those goddamn corporates finally fucked around too much in the garden of creation. At any rate, the Aldar are funneling guns over yonder."

Yet another nameless suit representing the Committee of Public Safety shook his head. "Either way -- the Committee has made its wishes clear on the subject, no matter how, why or where the, er... Hundermenschen came about - we are to support them in, ah, revolutionary solidarity. It is clear they are an oppressed people -- if we did not give our all, taking into account other commitments at this time, we would be a poor revolutionary state, no?"

A general then quieted down the room, raising a hand. "I suppose it's crystal clear, the decision." He sat back in his chair, glancing at the representative from the Committee of Public Safety. "You can tell our... vanguard class that the Armed Forces will, as commanded, so obey - I'll see to it that a few flights filled with rifles, bombs, rocket launchers, and other fun things'll mysteriously turn up there -- and we'll ship off some advisory teams to establish first contact and open the door to what might be a fruitful relationship."

All present nodded thoughtfully, concluding the meeting.

[Hundermenschen]

[REDACTED], [REDACTED]

---

Enter one of the most secretive places in the entire world - nestled away in a forgotten corner of the world, this place is also heavily fortified - although it doesn't look it. 'Tour guide' branded helicopters buzz around the perimeter, marksmen dressed in average street clothing nestled inside; while down on the ground, special operatives dressed as hunters patrol the perimeter of this facility, submachineguns slung around their shoulder.

At first, this place was an old airport; in the 1970s, the Imperial Magican Armed Forces turned it into something greater - a test range for new missiles and aircraft. Then -- newer, progressively more horrifying projects; a laboratory was built covering a comprehensive array of studies from biological weapons(and how to cure them) to cutting-edge materials for the next generations of military materiel.

Inside, the terminal of the former airport leads to a typical underground bunker; a labyrinth of corridors leading to many different locations. Deeper down we go past the 'security zone' - to a series of clean white corridors. People in lab-coats go about their business, holding clipboards, laptops, and coffee cups; finally, we are at our destination, guarded by men in black military uniforms armed with AR-10A3 rifles - men and women in cleansuits pass through this airlock turned security checkpoint.

Beyond it, your typical cleanroom - every person going in and out is subject to a two-stage shower of pressurized disinfectants and ionized air. One might assume what lay within is some kind of virus or chemical agent - but we couldn't be farther away from that conclusion.

As the camera pans to what is readily apparent to be some kind of operating theater, we see it - the object that must be guarded so well, and one more secret among many in this place. It is a carcass - one might mistake it for a human if it weren't for the hircine nature of the creature; nor the canid head.

---

The Doctor wished he could wipe his head right about now; the SCAPE suit he wore protected him as well as the specimen in front of him from potential xeno-pathogens, but at a cost: his comfort. It was humid, hot, and frankly, sweaty.

Speaking of the specimen in front of him, its chest and abdomen were cut open in a Y-shape, the resulting flaps of skin held fast and secure like any other dissection. "Nurse," he said in a calm, professional voice, "ready the tape recorder." The nurse nodded. "Live in five seconds.... and.. go."

"Voice memoranda three, unknown organic specimen two - attending doctor speaking for the record. We've made our first standard incisions according to the Facility's standard androtomy procedure; despite the... decisively non-human nature of the Specimen, its biology corresponds closely to that of homo sapiens. Notable surface characteristics are pronounced muscle mass and the presence of clawed extremities and all-encompassing pelage; head shape resembles a.. pug, if I'm being honest. Brachycephalic facial structure; unclear if this one's a defect of its species or commonplace."

He began to carefully navigate the creature's chest cavity, the ribs already cut open by a nearby nurse. "Specimen, at first glance, has a binary vascular system.. interesting. Everything's where it should be - kidneys, lungs, et cetera."

The Doctor took a breath. "Okay. Let's get ready for analysis, team. For the record; all organs of the subject will now be removed for detailed autopsy and analysis - standard en-masse procedure."

A nurse handed the Doctor a cutting implement. It was time to begin.

---

The voice recordings of the Doctor played out to the end in another secret room, officers in Armed Forces uniform and men in black suits listening intently.

A man in a lab coat tapped his foot. "Gentlemen - we aren't alone on mother Earth," he chimed in. "One was just some dope who overdosed on colloidal silver and decomposed to the point where they looked like a damn space alien. This specimen - Two - this one is the real deal. We've yet to decisively establish whether this... thing is a result of gene-tampering or parallel evolution; its biology and genetic similarity to other creatures on Earth precludes Two being some kind of extraterrestrial intelligence."

Another man in a suit chimed in. "We've gotten reports overseas of some kind of fucked-up shit going on in the far north of the Western continent. Dog-headed people like we've seen here - killing and blowing shit up. The Bureau thinks it's likely some kind of genetic experiment's gone wrong - those goddamn corporates finally fucked around too much in the garden of creation. At any rate, the Aldar are funneling guns over yonder."

Yet another nameless suit representing the Committee of Public Safety shook his head. "Either way -- the Committee has made its wishes clear on the subject, no matter how, why or where the, er... Hundermenschen came about - we are to support them in, ah, revolutionary solidarity. It is clear they are an oppressed people -- if we did not give our all, taking into account other commitments at this time, we would be a poor revolutionary state, no?"

A general then quieted down the room, raising a hand. "I suppose it's crystal clear, the decision." He sat back in his chair, glancing at the representative from the Committee of Public Safety. "You can tell our... vanguard class that the Armed Forces will, as commanded, so obey - I'll see to it that a few flights filled with rifles, bombs, rocket launchers, and other fun things'll mysteriously turn up there -- and we'll ship off some advisory teams to establish first contact and open the door to what might be a fruitful relationship."

All present nodded thoughtfully, concluding the meeting.

A Small Turning Point

Fighting would continue around the facilities that the Hundermenschenians were breaking from. Smoke could be seen from the burning buildings and vehicles that were caught in the crossfire above. Fighting mostly started from tight corridors to which the HUndermenschenians had little issues with then moving to more open space once they had reached the surface above but that was when things would start to get tricky. With more open space meant that the enemy could use their arsenal of vehicles with no problems. This was a problem for the Hundermenschenians since they had small arms and hand grenades which wouldn't do much against IFV's. Luckily for the Hundermenschenians they had the advantage of using destroyed buildings as cover to avoid most of the fire from the enemy vehicles.

This was only a minor setback for the time being but a group of Hundermenschenians had caught sight of what looked to be a crate nearby that stood out from their normal surroundings due to the colors. They approached it noticing that it wasn't originally from here but brought in here judging from a parachute that was attached to it. One of them would begin to speak in a foreign language. "Is this a supply drop to the enemy?" One would say as the group would stop looking it over. They were in a calm area outside of the fighting at least for now as another would reply. "Can't be, looks nothing like what we saw before and there's a chute attached." "That would make sense but who brought it in?" Another said as he would start to open the crate which revealed anti tank weaponry of all things. This was only one of the drops as there would be more in other locations. "Well I can't complain, this was what we were needing."

Battles would start to slow for the time being as armored vehicles were brought into play but this was a part of plan as the Hundermenschenians had pulled back to simulate a retreat but they needed more than just rifles to win this fight. Enemy vehicles would begin moving in a line formation to push further but that was a bad move on their part. With launchers the Hundermenschenians had not only a way to destroy their enemies vehicles but now they could ambush them and take some of those vehicles to use against their enemy. As the convoy would begin to approach, a rocket was fired to take out the first vehicle in the formation then another would fire to the one at the rear to which both would be destroyed which made sure the rest of those precious vehicles wouldn't be able to move. Hundermenschenians would quickly start to approach the vehicles to avoid getting mowed down by their machine gun fire as they would start to steal the vehicles there. Hatches would be ripped open as their crew would be beaten out of them and thrown to the side to be left.

As other supplies were found they would be used against the enemy to which the Hundermenschenians would start to gain more ground than when they were when they had started this rebellion.

[Riomler]

Ardon,Riomler

The age of the phoenix

Life was finally going back to normal in riomler,well,as close as you can get to normal what with uprisings,Foreign conflicts,and a freaky nation that by far would be riomlers 1# enemy,however things have been...quite,Riomler has been quite on the world stage after the alder kose civil war,obviously still seething at the fact alder kose joined vichnaya's faction,Another enemy to worry about,but now was not the time,no,now was the time to rebuild,Great buildings were being built in the temporary capital of riomler,as if to flex that riomler was fine,one thing riomler is suprisingly good at,Destruction has been cleaned up,the economy is recovering from that freaky incident way back when,All the while,a leader is yet to be named as after the nukes,leadership has been up in the air for the longest,So now,at a critical point where tensions are red hot,Riomler is...Watching.









Rebuild




After 2 and a half years without a genaral leader,a man has stood up to take up the challenge,his name is alexander angovin,a man in his late thirties,Was advisor to the king when riomler was a empire,wise,served for the country and has been described as a military genius,A leader like this calmed riomlerian citizens for someone like him to appear,This new leader has already started rebuilding infrastructure,helped restart education programs,and has increased the armies within 2 months,an impressive achievement given the short time hes been in office,He has made many speeches on how riomler would not send any more men to foreign wars,unless it has touched riomler land,in that case,Riomler would retaliate with full might.Rebuilding has begun

[Upper Magica]

Symphony No. 3, Movement II

"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil."

-Book of Cain, Magican Cathar Bible

---

KANTO PLAIN, STATE OF SHIRAKIKU, CONFEDERATION OF FREE CITIES

It was a scene reminiscent of the Second Magican War - most commonly known now as the War of Unification, reminiscent of olden 1980s Imperial Army exercises envisioning massed army groups slugging it out o'er open field: utter chaos enveloped what was once farmland and rice paddies. Here, the Federation's 10th National Guard Corps, armed with an array of various Magican, Vichnayan, Keltish and Riomlerian tanks and equipment - much of it hailing from as far back as the 1970s - dared confront the Revolutionary Armed Forces in open battle; their aim being to relieve pressure on the besieged regional capital of Gen-to.

Threatening the port town of Honnouji-shi - by now the very beachhead of the Magican invasion - was their best option: it would be a coup, a crippling one at that, if the Federation military could undertake the daunting, if not impossible task of overwhelming their adversary here: the Kanto Plain, its verdant fields the only thing between their tanks and Honnouji.

Alas, the Popular Ground Defense Force's 10th Armored Brigade and the Aquisian Volunteer Brigade had set up formidable defenses; lines of dug-in Jaguar I and II tanks awaited the armored assault. Based upon the old M60A5 and Type 55s of former Upper and Lower Magica respectively, these bastards of war had been conceived of as a way to provide the Armored Branch with cost-effective and modern tanks that could be manufactured quickly; both types of tanks shared common or highly similar reactive armor, engines, transmissions, electronics, optics, and fire-control - even the electrothermal-chemical cannons of both Jaguar types shared commonalities, albeit they were of different caliber.

It was no secret - these armored hulks from another age and time were given new life specifically for battles like this: pitched battles upon open terrain highly unlike that of, well, most of the Magican Archipelago - in other words, for battle abroad. It should have - to anyone or anything watching the 'Red gaping wound of the Southeast Tropics' closely - signalled the Revolutionary state's future intentions.

But, alas, these Jaguars were deprived of many of their kills as the battle unfolded. The Magican state had learned during its period of dormancy - in thick brush, curious little robots hid called 'Fugu', unmanned and most importantly, autonomous if need be, these contraptions, which resembled Great War light tanks in size, shape, and heft, unleashed flurries of MI-190 'Coldfire' anti-tank air defense missiles from their concealed positions, wiping out phalanges of old export tanks in concert with the attack helicopters and fighters making their runs over the massed armor formations of the Federation.

The most terrible of all was saved for last; infantry assaulting the first makeshift trench-lines of the Magicans were greeted by not just machine-gun, artillery, and rifle fire - but also by the 'Arachna', another Magican technological terror. Operating in pairs, and usually by clever drone pilots, these hexapodal glorified land mines proved devastating against APCs and IFVs: one Arachna would clamber to the wheel well or track of any given vehicle and detonate -- while the other would lie in wait nearby, waiting for the troop bay of the vehicle to open. It need not be said what happens afterward. In other cases, Arachna drones operating entirely autonomously crept up onto unsuspecting fireteams taking position, the clanking of the Arachna's servos inaudible against deafening gunfire; the results were equally gruesome.

With all this being said, this would-be decisive battle petered out quickly; Federation troops broke and fled in little less than two hours, leaving behind their comrades, tanks, trucks, and their very weapons in the face of a, frankly speaking, superior and somewhat well-entrenched enemy. In the coming days, the pointless sacrifice of over 2,000 servicemen would be hailed as 'heroic' by Federation-wide media; they had stood up to the Red Magican oppressor unlike many other units - whom had chosen dishonor in the form of surrender or desertion - in the first days of the invasion.

---

SOMEWHERE IN HUNDERMENSCHEN

It was quiet - too quiet. Even for night time.

It was also too cold; even with Level III nuclear-biological-chemical protection, the Agent and his team shivered 'neath their bulky Type 57 hazardous-environment combat apparata; the Hawkeye ATAV they'd dropped with afforded no luxury save the relief of not having to walk down this deserted highway as well as the comfort that if they *were* shot at, the bullet'd likely bounce off.

Still, he mused - it was odd. They'd seen a few convoys; beat up trucks, luxury SUVs, hell, limousines and armored cars, all hijacked by people trying to get out of the Sodoms and Gomorrahs that the megacorps'd set up in lovely, cold, bleak Northern Jupiter. He hadn't bothered to stop one - the Agent knew what desperation did to a person, and these people were desperate to a goddamn T. For what? Nobody wanted to talk, either. The Corpo bastards took the 'net offline - that was why they were here in what might as well be bumfuck nowhere - and probably threatened people's jobs to boot.

His train of thought was interrupted by a shout from the driver:

"RPG!"

The vehicle lurched - and flipped over as the explosion decimated the rear wheel well of the Hawkeye. "Fuck!", the Agent thought and said as his life flashed before his eyes, ringing overtaking his auditory senses.

The surviving members of this expedition crawled out; the driver had a bad case of a steering wheel smashing into his frontal lobe - an all too often lethal malady. The Agent readied his MP5N-203; a bastardization of the popular submachinegun with a peculiar addition - an M203 grenade launcher.

Before the Magican expedition was something thought relegated to the realm of science-fiction: an anthropomorphic... beast resembling a dog. Snarling, it dropped the rocket launcher it held, reaching for a slung... AR-10A2?

How odd, the Agent mused for the umpteenth time, raising up his fist in a signal to his fellows, training his weapon with the other hand upon the large creature before them. Sadly - it didn't give them a choice whether to engage or not, as the creature began to move the muzzle of the rifle towards *them* - an unusually large amount of bullets later, it slumped to the ground, shrieking and yelping inhumanly.

They never got time to relax - before they knew it, a dozen of the freaks were on them like, well - a dog on Beggin Strips; they were more composed, pointing their weapons and snarling aggressively. The Agent put his weapon down -- his other squadmates followed suit.

His last memory of the occasion was a butt-stock knocking him out cold.

[Sol-Viridia]

---

Prologue - Uneasy Lies The Head…

---

Duty Till’ End.

---

---

Aspina - The Sol-Viridian Capital, Central Sol-Viridia

12:04 AM

A man stands at a window, gazing at the night sky above the moon as the dim hallways of an elaborate estate bore nothing but echoing silence.

Mikhail Stefaniuk, the Emperor of the Nation of a New Dawn, stood as his father did when he was in his place. Many people would say he is a mirror of his father in more ways than one: duty-bound, vigilant, a soldier, and, comedically enough, a stargazer. In all senses of the word, perhaps that was one of many reasons why his House was selected once more to take the mantle.

Across nations, the title of Emperor would be a role many would revere or fantasize taking - some believe it is a role that only those to be praised like Gods could take. Others believe it to be a role only the most tyrannical would opt for, to place all under the thumb of a single man or group, to play the strings of men, women, and children alike. But for Sol-Viridia, the Emperor was a role of responsibility - more duty than privilege. Sure, such a position had its rewards and prestige that could be boasted about amongst other societies - one such thing being the rather prestigious clothing that he wore at the moment, a uniform of black reminiscent of historical military garb, a red sash across his torso as it was worn underneath medals of historical valor complimented with an ornate Reizuin katana.

But here? Within this very estate? In a nation whose beliefs shouted service to others for a cause before oneself?

As a wise literate of old had said: uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

He wondered if his father, the previous Emperors and Empresses, and maybe even the Sisters of the Stars themselves looked down upon him. If so, would they be gazing after him with pride or impunity?

“Staying up late again for the stars, my lord?” A female voice would say behind him.

The emperor turned to face the intrusive individual, who happened to be an orange-haired woman with a ponytail, dressed in a maid’s attire with a black armband. A black vest was draped over a white buttoned-up shirt - an attire that wasn’t necessarily used for formal occasions; after all, it was near midnight when she and other servants like her were close to resting time.

“Ah. Oksana. Working late, I see? I apologize if I may be…somewhat obstructing your duties as of this moment,” The Emperor sighed, looking back out the window again. However, the young assistant head maid of the estate simply put a hand up, “You are much too forgiving my lord - it is my duty to serve, as much as everyone else. I assure you, we all must do our part.”

Settling down a sheaf of papers on a small table, she stepped over to the emperor’s side as she gazed up into the Sisters themselves.

“Speaking of my duties…I believe then I must inform you of the recent worldly happenings and diplomatic situations as of late, if I may be allowed,” Oksana asked earnestly, the young maid studying the stars as if they were the majestic goddesses of her religion themselves. Perhaps, in many cases when it comes to those of royalty, it would be odd for someone as menial as a house servant to ask such a thing to tell someone who would be viewed as higher than her, especially about information that would typically be told by those who are more “official” to a role of diplomacy, military, or government.

Though, here in Viridia, it was not odd at all - after all, within the Nation of a New Dawn, most, if not all men and women, were, at some point in their lives, a soldier and a warrior for their nation, if not currently serving. Other than the occasional foreigners that come into Viridia for tourism now and then, that statement was far from being a mere myth. The Emperor himself was, indeed, a soldier and, more than that, one of the best:

His dimly glowing red irises would tell of his venerability amongst the most dedicated of Sol-Viridia’s ranks - he was a Guardsman: the best amongst those who stand stalwart against the foes of Viridia.

Mikhail would simply nod after the servant’s request. “Please, do so Oksana. Walk with me as we go.”

The two would proceed down the hallways of the Imperial estate, passing windows with curtains open to have the moonlight shine through their transparent walls of glass. With how empty it was, easy to hear the tap of the emperor’s polished dress shoes and the servant’s sharp clicks of her ankle-laced and block-heeled shoes - they echoed in the empty and silent rooms along with the two’s voices as they continued.

Oksana began as she cupped her hands, staring forward: “A situation in the Serene Federation, our neighbor to the south, has escalated quite greatly.”

Mikhail raised an eyebrow at this as he looked at the servant at his side, “...Really? Then that’s a concern…What is occurring?”

The servant continued, “Magica - or, perhaps, a contingent of it? I digress - has made landings upon the land. From what I gather, they are mostly taking it by force, regardless of the violence of said landings upon the populace. Reports are scarce, and, going by my comment earlier, somewhat…well…I’ll say dated? But, we can confirm that they are not asking for anyone’s permission.”

Mikhail sighed; the Serene Federation, huh? In all honesty, he would’ve expected such things - after all, with how varied its people are, of course, there would be conflict.

But that was not what gave him the majority of concern - after all, the Federation was a varied people, so, of course it included Viridians as well. He knew that those of Reizuin, Viridian Adaki, and Tàiyángshi races were there settling in response to how the neutral nation allowed not only their settlement but for some trade or resource sharing between that of the Viridian mainland itself; it was one of few neutral or biased nations that were able to even speak directly to those that laid behind the gigantic guns or walls of Viridia’s coasts and borders when it was not anything related to the efficacies of war or mercenary work that they wished Viridian hands would dirty themselves over rather than one’s own.

With the somewhat sudden encroachment of Magica upon the neutral land, a land that held not only some Viridian peoples but also garrisons out of mercenary tithe or simple agreements to defend coastlines? There was simply just no doubt that the people of the Emperor’s nation would vie for a response. Not only that, but with other news lately? He also potentially knew just why exactly this invasion of sorts was happening:

“Magica is getting ambitious,” Mikhail began, “…no doubt, aside from mere territory, they wish to hold some form of ground against our northern…say…estranged brothers and sisters: the Orlova Pact. Or, rather, more fittingly, Vichnaya”

Vichnaya. That “Federal Republic.” Long ago, the Viridians fought alongside them proudly as part of a unified nation, known as the Ustina-Adaki Empire; era after era, they served drawing both their blood and swords of iron as part of the elite divisions within the Empire’s army. Yet, the Viridians would escape as the unity would break down and Vichnaya would come to take the mantle; Vichnaya and that man, Andrei Yazov. Many Viridians would die under his hand, and exponentially more, thanks to the wiseness of Viridia’s elders, would escape from Yazov’s terror and his treacherous agents, the VPKO or armies of the republic alike.

Federal Republic. You never even elected anyone else to take the mantle, have you?

The Emperor would exhale through his nose as he pondered and looked ahead down the dimly lit hallways of his estate.

In the worst of perspectives, there were clashing opinions amongst both nations that would be the bane of any sort of relations; after all, why make friends with people who have troubled you so?

The more radical and nationalist amongst the Viridians would believe themselves to be the last of the remaining senses of true unity amongst Adaki peoples, or maybe even view those in the pact as mere murderers, especially with the Vichnayans and their need to keep control and peace; in their own brutal ways.

The rather notoriously reactionary and mocked Vichnayans, and perhaps the others of the Orlova Pact, would view the Viridians, in a sort of sense, as traitors; people who ran from their so-called “service before self” to save their own skins from what was due or what was deserved.

With such opinions, it felt as if it were unlikely that any sort of reconciliation would come between the two nations who both praised the Sisters of the Stars; they had spited each other so much for some time, it felt so admittedly likely that the two Empires would not only fight on the streets in terms of mere protests or loud demonstrations, but also on a field of mud, blood, and steel.

And yet… surprisingly? The recent developments have been…interesting between the two nations:

“There is something else along those lines,” Oksana would go over to an unlit candle, lighting it with another that happened to be lit on a wall. She’ll have to replace some of these candles later. “Between Viridia and Vichnaya, there has been another calling for a…mmm…a diplomatic assembly, I believe”

Indeed, this diplomatic assembly was only one of a series of a few proceedings that had taken place.

Vichnaya and Viridia, as of recently to both nation’s surprise in terms of their people, had been making diplomatic developments. Recently it had only merely been conversations in terms of tensions of the nations which, by all means, could have and - probably should have - boiled over in the earlier parts. Only a little bit later onwards, trade began to go between the two with little things at first - mere materials for foodstuffs like rice, wheat, and maybe a few small arms here and there, nothing special. At first, many thought it would stay like that; but all so very suddenly, railroads began to interconnect between the two, now giving out much more charitable goods like light vehicles, a bit of armament of the more heavy kind, and, most very recently, the famed and all-natural Sol-Viridian coffee, even after its domestic embargo when things within Lyceni started to erupt in bouts of chaos and strife - its only been, at most, one week or less ever since that last deal in terms of caffeinated drinks.

In all those cases?

It was the Emperor himself who was responsible for those niceties and cooled relations. And he knew such a decision would be somewhat troubling amongst the most dedicated of Viridia’s stalwart and duty-bound people.

Oksana continued as the Emperor only listened in utmost interest, “It is on the subject of the Federation to our south - they likely wish to know our response or answer, give or take we wish to do so.”

The Emperor thought and pondered at that statement - what was their angle? Surely there was something to gain that those Vichnayans and that of the Orlova Pact wished to have if they were taking towards Sol-Viridia - a nation mostly branded as traitors to those of that pact - and calling them to talk of something so…well, as much as this word has been thrown around lately, chaotic, along with so many agreements for diplomatic affairs.

…

The Emperor sighed. It was midnight. May Raya bless and save him for his disloyalty towards words bearing promise: his wife must be cursing his name for letting her worry for his exhaustion - he had been so busy as of late and she had been concerned that he was working half to death. He could only imagine how busy others may be alongside him.

That old saying taught to him when his father took a gilded chair of responsibility only echoed as he remembered the writings and teachings of a man who had taught him what it meant to be a Viridian. An emperor living in comfort was no leader of his nation at all. In other words:

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

“Have a diplomat or two be ready for a trip. Inform the embassy at Vichnaya that we will attend that meeting.”

“I suppose once more, they will have their assembly.”

---

…
…
…

---

Mud. Blood. Steel.

Those were the three words that described what the officer, amongst soldiers, tasted through their mouth and smelled through their nose.

The gray dirt beneath was stained in crimson and dirtied with the bodies of men and women - young and old alike - lying face down or spread-eagled amongst the barren earth.

The fields around the officer burned in blazes of hell’s own inferno.

The screams of both the dead and dying opened and made their gaping maws audible at whatever damned abyss they had come from, howling the officer’s name; to join them, to die alongside their own failures.

Then, as other voices joined in, the officer saw a large crowd of unrecognizable figures coming over the battlefield. Bearing knives and rifles, the officer could only confirm that it was their death and damnation, barreling towards them.

And so, the officer only stood, unsticking the blade of their sword from the barren wasteland’s ground, and, shakingly, went into a stance. They would stand: one last effort to prove themselves, one last effort to defy her own failures.

And the officer let out a desperate scream as her sins engulfed and swallowed her whole.

---

GASP.

She had awoken with a great start - her heart was rapidly racing, her breath was short, and cold sweat drenched her and the uniform on her person. Immediately, as her blurred vision had darted across every corner of where she was, she could recognize that it was her quarters befitting to that of an officer within an army, darkened as the only lighting present came from the dimmed, luminescent light of a laptop screen.

Panic.

Breathe. It was just a nightmare. Just another nightmare…

In…

She took a deep inhale of breath…

Out…

…And then a great exhale.

…

Wait…Nightmare?

When her eyes suddenly widened in realization, she immediately scrambled her hands towards the laptop’s touchpad, the dimmed screen soon turning into a light reminiscent of a stun grenade’s flashing light - it made her squint as her tired, bagged, and entirely opened eyes at that moment felt as if they were just suddenly blinded. When her eyes adjusted, and her squint went away after a little while, she looked into the right corner of her laptop to check the small clock:

Garrison Grys - Viridian Stronghold, Eastern Sol-Viridia

3:27 AM

“Kuso…” The officer would swear in her regional native language - namely Reizuin, as she facepalmed her tired face and groaned. She had accidentally slept while doing paperwork.

Again…

In all honesty, this was her fault. Her habit of doing paperwork out of compulsion, despite even having generous due dates, was already notorious not only amongst those close to her but some of her colleagues and a few rank and file as well. Opinions formed on that matter, with most of those people coming to some weird conclusion in a compromise that she was both “irresponsible” and “dedicated.” Irresponsible in the sense that she had a horrendous sleep schedule, neglecting rest along with anything related to the sort, and dedicated in the sense that it was hard for anyone to tear her away from doing whatever was relevant to her job.

She was the same way during her studies during high school, and when she was in the newly instated Officer’s Academy that people were so suspicious about in terms of its capabilities in truly making new generations of leaders. Always working, always studying, always tired, and always fatigued - she was criticized heavily for her habits by both friends and her superiors alike.

And I was supposed to be the best in the class? The very first class to graduate from that academy for leaders? To be one of the very few officer candidates chosen to lead the Guardsmen themselves amongst the many who tried?

After all, if I was truly the best…Then why would they stick and swap me between random garrisons in the Adaki countryside of Viridia to manage not the elite Guardsmen, but basic normal infantry and reservists for the past 2 months since my induction?

Stars above, they were all right: I’m so irresponsible…So stupid…

As she pondered on those sayings, she got up and went to a fridge that was present within her quarters, taking out a single can full of coffee she opened the fridge for but a brief moment before lightly kicking the fridge closed and moving to the glowing screen of her laptop. She needed to wake up, even if she knew it only helped a little - cold coffee wasn’t necessarily her favorite out of the other caffeinated drinks she had notably taken a liking to.

The screen’s illumination was enough to truly display just where she had snoozed off, revealing a couch and a wooden table where the laptop was placed. The room would be clean all around, except the desk: finished and unfinished paperwork, crumpled cans of coffee, a framed picture, and a phone added to the untidiness of the rather makeshift workstation where she situated herself.

Having a seat down on the couch, she grabbed the tab of the canned drink and pushed it forward as her index finger laid on top of the lip of the lid.

“TCH-! …Agh…” The officer suddenly winced in a small but highly surprising amount of pain.

It appears by doing such a method of opening the can, she had accidentally cut her index finger by sliding it in a slightly much too fast fashion across the lip of the lid, blood from the cut dripping down onto the front of the can.

Maybe a divine intervention for her transgressions of staying up late for work and also being a caffeine addict in a sense.

Being a Guardsman, and thus having some chemical augmentation and modification to her had its perks; so the pain, aside from the initial effects, died down fairly rapidly. This was especially so since she was an officer - hers, compared to some of the rank and file, could be considered better.

However, that pain? It was still abnormally large amounts for someone her rank within those elite divisions of Viridia’s Ground Army. Simply, it was because she hadn’t received full chemical engineering as of late, still pending on the appointments that had yet to come from the doctors who managed that whole process.

DING!

The officer slightly jumped before, receiving her bearings in but mere milliseconds, she looked upon her laptop, the can of bloodied coffee still in her hands as she squinted at the notification on the right corner: a message.

As she looked at the laptop’s screen, she could vaguely make out her appearance on the reflection of the laptop’s screen edges, catching her disheveled and short-brown hair and tired eyes. However, she noticed her eyes were not just consisting only of her tired look, but also her eyes looked more than just bagged: they looked…puffy?

Was I crying in my sleep?

After staring a bit at her reflection, being somewhat still, she’d sigh before using the touchpad, clicking on the notification, viewing the message at its full capacity, squinting at the bright screen.

Stars above, we need a dark mode for this messaging.

To: Tomenko, Nemuka GROUND FORCES, G-LFT.
From: Senjuubou, Benjiro DFEC
Subject: Request for Escort for Diplomatic Assembly

EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY

You are being recalled to a post present within the capital, Aspina. The Department of the Foreign Embassy and Consulate is requesting a superior officer, alongside accompanying guards, to undergo the escort of Ambassadors due for the Federal Republic of Vichnaya.

I understand this is sudden given the string of reassignments you have experienced recently. However, this assembly is on the topic of not just relations, but for the tensions relating to the conflict within the Most Serene Federation of Free Cities.

You are expected to be here by tomorrow afternoon. We will be heading out the day after. Another officer will be assigned to your place.

Pack extra clothing, Leftenant, it will be cold within Vichnaya.

Sincerely,
Benjiro Senjuubou
Ambassador
Department of the Foreign Embassy and Consulate

…

Hm…Well, at least it's not another garrison assignment…

Still, Nemuka would lay her drink down after a sip, placing the can onto the table. Afterward, putting her cupped hands to her mouth, she began to think.

An ambassador mission. Of course, whilst diplomats and ambassadors are meant to be more of a peaceful kind, armed guards wouldn’t hurt. Given what she studied, both in terms of history and the constant need to check up on present-day politics, it's especially so since Vichnaya wasn’t necessarily on “willful” terms of speaking with Viridia just yet; thus, having escorts may be advisable - Vichnayans may not exactly view Viridians as friends, so to speak; at least, not yet if this mission was anything to go about. The Serene Federation, she knew, had Viridians in it, featuring Viridian Adakis, Tàiyángshi, and Reizuins alike, which put in the question of protecting one’s people. Moreso, too, Sol-Viridia had made some deals with the Federation in terms of trade and resources. Neutral state to neutral state, after all.

But still, whilst she understood that conundrum and much more, only one question concerned her from the rest:

Why me?

Of all people who would be qualified for such a role requiring utmost professionalism and discipline that was providing escort for international affairs, why did it have to be her of all people? Sure, she came from the academy and she was amongst the best of the class but…Officers throughout Viridian history were picked based on experience and, thus, they were mostly expected to be ready for any duty befallen to them.

Her? She came from an academy that, being newly instated, has been viewed by some as merely a Fastpass for those who, at worst, wish to only gain the privileges that come with being in the upper echelon rather than doing their best to lead Viridia’s men and women. Taking that into account, and many of her own self-criticisms that she believed to be warranted, it presented doubt to the young officer.

Am I truly ready for this? To lead an escort? I’ve only managed garrisons, not something as crucial as escorting a diplomat…

…

Nemuka…

The Guard-Leftenant exhaled as she got up from her couch, moved to the bathroom within her quarters, and turned on the light as she opened the mirror to reveal a small box of band-aids. Despite having the issued first aid kit, she bought these from a local pharmacy near one garrison she was stationed at and took them along when her little bits of accidents happened at first. She still had plenty left as she took one band-aid and began to wash it using the sink’s water, cleaning the bleeding cut on her finger. After drying it off, she’d wrap the band-aid, sticking it over her finger.

Nemuka then closed the mirror and looked at it, studying her face.

She looked…

Well, to say she’s seen better days is quite accurate in a sense. Her dark gray dress uniform issued to Guardsmen was well-kempt, which may be surprising given the rest of her condition, but she had rigorously cleaned, polished, and ironed it over the days to ensure it was still in use. However, her face? The Reizuin had definitely missed a great many hours of sleep filing paperwork, giving orders for normal rank and file, and generally inspecting every garrison she had been deployed to down each molecule of dust within rooms (figuratively, of course). Her eyes had bags underneath them, she was struggling to not squint in any sense of light, and her body felt heavy to move, let alone stand upright.

You’ve been through worse.

Another sigh went through her mouth as Nemuka began to wash her face. After gaining her bearings and refreshing herself, she began to brush her teeth; freshening up for the trip could best be done early before departure.

They picked you for this job, and you in particular. At the very least, that means something.

With herself somewhat cleaned up, she packed clothes and equipment, seeing as she was going on a trip. Her electronics were placed within a suitcase’s compartment, as well as the rest of her uniforms: a black greatcoat for the cold climates for a formal setting, a skirt for the warmer or extra formal environments, and a formal cape with the sigil of Viridia should the need for formalities maximize. Several other pieces of clothing, some casual wear, were also there should some form of spare be needed for situations requiring little to no formalities (even though those were rare or close to never happening).

You were trained by the Academy, and you were chosen to lead the best because you're among the best.

Nemuka would stop whilst she was busy setting up her clothing, buttoning up her uniform after she had ironed it whilst looking at the mirror, at herself.

You got this. Let’s get it done.

Thus, the officer was ready. Lacing up her brown, ankle-high laced boots and ensuring she was looking presentable, she took a dark gray peaked cap that befitted that of a military officer and nestled it onto her head, ensuring it fit securely whilst she checked her belongings and equipment. Pulling on some white gloves, which covered the finger cut wrapped in a band-aid, she reached for the doorknob with a suitcase in hand.

…But then stopped as a thought had just struck her.

What if she messed up? What if one mistake could cause something particularly catastrophic, not only for her but for others part of this mission?

…

She then began pushing the door handle towards her, slowly opening the door and walking outside it. As she did, she cursed silently, but also repeated a quote in her mind that had been instilled within her by the academy - one of many that were part of the disciplinary tests, trials, or training regimens that were to mold into what she was to become:

A good officer leads without doubt - for hesitation can mean death.

And so, the officer went her on way - a trip to Vichnaya it was, as her journey began with walking down the hallway of a garrison’s quarter buildings.

…

…Before she immediately speed-walked back to her quarters, yanked open the door, and began searching around after a facepalm with an accompanying groan.

Forgetting again.

The last pieces she was missing? Ironically, they were things she needed the most when it came to Sol-Viridia:

Her sword and pauldron.

Her sword, a Reizuin Katana with a white tsuka-ito, was, in terms of tradition amongst Viridian peoples, a symbol of her identity as stated by Viridian myth, alongside other ceremonial blades. In terms of the katana, it was a sword only given to the officers or those stated to be amongst the most esteemed of Sol-Viridia’s peoples - a symbol of high status then, as one’s family or one’s self had to earn it to have the right have one, whether it be by affording its rather notably high prices depending on quality or, in her’s and many officer’s cases, proved themselves worthy to have it at their side as a sign of rank and duty, as well as their blade.

The pauldron? Meanwhile, the ones issued to members were more so tactical pauldrons than anything, which heavily contrasted the formal look. However, they were needed because on-duty members of the military needed them for identification within Viridia’s borders and beyond - it even told of the specific unit one belonged to, were one to decipher their meaning.

In Nemuka’s case, her shoulder pad featured a flag patch featuring Sol-Viridia’s colors as top-most on the velcro lining. But the ones below the flag of her nation were special: the black and red flag of the Guardsmen laid just below Viridia’s colors as a unique serial number, emblazoned in silver letters on a black velcro background, was present just below the last two.

And she had earned those patches with blood, sweat, and tears - it was her dream, after all. She could only think and ponder whether or not her father would’ve been proud of her, were he to witness who she had become today.

But to think I forgot about these…? The young officer thought as she sighed whilst tying the sword and its black sheathe onto her belt upon her waist, the pauldron being strapped to her right arm.

After that little conundrum was settled, she then began to walk back into the hallway, where she rubbed her eyes, and thought back to how forgetful she was. How tired must she be to be so…fatigued and unrefined like this? Was she making herself so busy that it was costing her her own performance in what she does? Did it make her brain ache or rot with every tiring decision that she made deliberately for herself?

…

Sigh.

As she continued walking out of the garrison’s quarter building, she only harkened back to a quote that was said to those of the academy, one that was meant to display how this struggle was one that is felt by all there who were to become officers - people meant to carry the torch in leading their men to victory and, perhaps for some, even the generation:

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

[Hundermenschen]

Symphony No. 3, Movement II

"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil."

-Book of Cain, Magican Cathar Bible

---

KANTO PLAIN, STATE OF SHIRAKIKU, CONFEDERATION OF FREE CITIES

It was a scene reminiscent of the Second Magican War - most commonly known now as the War of Unification, reminiscent of olden 1980s Imperial Army exercises envisioning massed army groups slugging it out o'er open field: utter chaos enveloped what was once farmland and rice paddies. Here, the Federation's 10th National Guard Corps, armed with an array of various Magican, Vichnayan, Keltish and Riomlerian tanks and equipment - much of it hailing from as far back as the 1970s - dared confront the Revolutionary Armed Forces in open battle; their aim being to relieve pressure on the besieged regional capital of Gen-to.

Threatening the port town of Honnouji-shi - by now the very beachhead of the Magican invasion - was their best option: it would be a coup, a crippling one at that, if the Federation military could undertake the daunting, if not impossible task of overwhelming their adversary here: the Kanto Plain, its verdant fields the only thing between their tanks and Honnouji.

Alas, the Popular Ground Defense Force's 10th Armored Brigade and the Aquisian Volunteer Brigade had set up formidable defenses; lines of dug-in Jaguar I and II tanks awaited the armored assault. Based upon the old M60A5 and Type 55s of former Upper and Lower Magica respectively, these bastards of war had been conceived of as a way to provide the Armored Branch with cost-effective and modern tanks that could be manufactured quickly; both types of tanks shared common or highly similar reactive armor, engines, transmissions, electronics, optics, and fire-control - even the electrothermal-chemical cannons of both Jaguar types shared commonalities, albeit they were of different caliber.

It was no secret - these armored hulks from another age and time were given new life specifically for battles like this: pitched battles upon open terrain highly unlike that of, well, most of the Magican Archipelago - in other words, for battle abroad. It should have - to anyone or anything watching the 'Red gaping wound of the Southeast Tropics' closely - signalled the Revolutionary state's future intentions.

But, alas, these Jaguars were deprived of many of their kills as the battle unfolded. The Magican state had learned during its period of dormancy - in thick brush, curious little robots hid called 'Fugu', unmanned and most importantly, autonomous if need be, these contraptions, which resembled Great War light tanks in size, shape, and heft, unleashed flurries of MI-190 'Coldfire' anti-tank air defense missiles from their concealed positions, wiping out phalanges of old export tanks in concert with the attack helicopters and fighters making their runs over the massed armor formations of the Federation.

The most terrible of all was saved for last; infantry assaulting the first makeshift trench-lines of the Magicans were greeted by not just machine-gun, artillery, and rifle fire - but also by the 'Arachna', another Magican technological terror. Operating in pairs, and usually by clever drone pilots, these hexapodal glorified land mines proved devastating against APCs and IFVs: one Arachna would clamber to the wheel well or track of any given vehicle and detonate -- while the other would lie in wait nearby, waiting for the troop bay of the vehicle to open. It need not be said what happens afterward. In other cases, Arachna drones operating entirely autonomously crept up onto unsuspecting fireteams taking position, the clanking of the Arachna's servos inaudible against deafening gunfire; the results were equally gruesome.

With all this being said, this would-be decisive battle petered out quickly; Federation troops broke and fled in little less than two hours, leaving behind their comrades, tanks, trucks, and their very weapons in the face of a, frankly speaking, superior and somewhat well-entrenched enemy. In the coming days, the pointless sacrifice of over 2,000 servicemen would be hailed as 'heroic' by Federation-wide media; they had stood up to the Red Magican oppressor unlike many other units - whom had chosen dishonor in the form of surrender or desertion - in the first days of the invasion.

---

SOMEWHERE IN HUNDERMENSCHEN

It was quiet - too quiet. Even for night time.

It was also too cold; even with Level III nuclear-biological-chemical protection, the Agent and his team shivered 'neath their bulky Type 57 hazardous-environment combat apparata; the Hawkeye ATAV they'd dropped with afforded no luxury save the relief of not having to walk down this deserted highway as well as the comfort that if they *were* shot at, the bullet'd likely bounce off.

Still, he mused - it was odd. They'd seen a few convoys; beat up trucks, luxury SUVs, hell, limousines and armored cars, all hijacked by people trying to get out of the Sodoms and Gomorrahs that the megacorps'd set up in lovely, cold, bleak Northern Jupiter. He hadn't bothered to stop one - the Agent knew what desperation did to a person, and these people were desperate to a goddamn T. For what? Nobody wanted to talk, either. The Corpo bastards took the 'net offline - that was why they were here in what might as well be bumfuck nowhere - and probably threatened people's jobs to boot.

His train of thought was interrupted by a shout from the driver:

"RPG!"

The vehicle lurched - and flipped over as the explosion decimated the rear wheel well of the Hawkeye. "Fuck!", the Agent thought and said as his life flashed before his eyes, ringing overtaking his auditory senses.

The surviving members of this expedition crawled out; the driver had a bad case of a steering wheel smashing into his frontal lobe - an all too often lethal malady. The Agent readied his MP5N-203; a bastardization of the popular submachinegun with a peculiar addition - an M203 grenade launcher.

Before the Magican expedition was something thought relegated to the realm of science-fiction: an anthropomorphic... beast resembling a dog. Snarling, it dropped the rocket launcher it held, reaching for a slung... AR-10A2?

How odd, the Agent mused for the umpteenth time, raising up his fist in a signal to his fellows, training his weapon with the other hand upon the large creature before them. Sadly - it didn't give them a choice whether to engage or not, as the creature began to move the muzzle of the rifle towards *them* - an unusually large amount of bullets later, it slumped to the ground, shrieking and yelping inhumanly.

They never got time to relax - before they knew it, a dozen of the freaks were on them like, well - a dog on Beggin Strips; they were more composed, pointing their weapons and snarling aggressively. The Agent put his weapon down -- his other squadmates followed suit.

His last memory of the occasion was a butt-stock knocking him out cold.

Fighting had continued in the northern Jupiter area, some being fighting in city streets but in some desolate areas it all too quiet like the deserted highway that the group was traveling on. The Hundermenschenians resistance fighters were beginning to take ground much easier now that the mysterious weapons were dropped in random areas that were clearly not their enemies shipments but the weapons would do wonders against armored vehicles and helicopters that they were now facing. They were trained mostly in using typical weapons used in the field such as assault rifles and the equipment they would be carrying in the field but a few were trained in using similar anti tank and anti air weaponry to which those persons would show others how to use them. With the fighting happening in cities civilian casualties were kept low as the resistance members weren't targeting them but more to the ones they were fighting.

One of such groups would be on the outskirts of most major cities along one of the desolate highways. The night was starting to get cold but their fur kept them mostly content with it, at least much better than it would have been compared to humans. Their task was mainly to scout for enemy convoys moving along the highway and stop them from making it to enemy garrisons while also gathering what vehicles and supplies would remain after if there was anything left. One thing that was different from normal was a lone type 57 traveling along the highway. It was an odd vehicle compared to what they were use to seeing lately and it was clearly not a civilian vehicle that they could see.

"Approaching contact to the east, one vehicle."

One of them would say in English strangely as the rest of the group quickly caught on to it by the sound of it moving down the highway. One of the group members had a launcher as well as his rifle with him. With the vantage point they had there was a chance to make a hit with the two rockets that were left for the launcher. As the vehicle got closer they had but a few moments to take a shot and hope that they would hit the vehicle.

"Take the shot, it's now or it's gone."

Another one of them said as the sounds of the rocket had launched and eventually striking the back wheel of the vehicle which ended up flipping it over on its roof. The one that fired the rocket quickly made from his position down to the vehicle as well as the rest of the group but it was too late. The sound of gunfire was heard along with a yell of their fellow team mate which had fallen backwards dead. Shortly after the resistance group surrounded the others that had made it out of the vehicle pointing their weapons at them. Before they even started shouting demands to drop their weapons the small group that was in the vehicle had surrendered and dropped their weapons.

The first target to get hit with the stock of the rifle was the agent which indeed knocked him out, the trauma to his head after could have been worse but the creatures knew their strength. The others that had surrendered would have their hands bound by thick zip ties which were a more available solution to handcuffs which they didn't have at the time.

"We're not far from a town, there should be a police station there and maybe some radio equipment we can get working, let's move."

One of the resistance members said as he was clearly a lead in the group. Their weapons would be collected as they would begin walking now. It was a trip on foot but they would eventually make it to a small town which seemed to be quiet, almost a little too quiet for their liking. The]re were some buildings here but it was unknown if they were occupied. The others in the group watched windows for any movement but nothing was there that they could see. They would eventually make it to what looked to be a police station judging by the large radio tower outside o the building and a few patrol cars that were still there.

"Everyone inside, lock the prisoners in the cells and watch them closely."

The same one from earlier had said as the group would start to make their way inside. It was quiet and the power was still on, there was also some paper and other various things on the floor and the desks disorganized as something had happened here before their arrival. The ones that were captured would be lead to the holding cell area to which they would be put in cells to which were empty. It just so happened the cell keys were nearby on the jailors desk which would be used to lock the cells once they were inside. A few of the resistance members stayed in the cell block area to watch their prisoners while a few of the others would make their way upstairs to see about the condition of the radio equipment there.

One of them would power up one of the nearby radios on a dispatchers desk which seemed to have been working judging by a series of illuminated lights on the radios panel. He would then start turning a dial to different channels but most they would could pick up were mostly just static or no sound at all.

[Upper Magica]

STATE OF MACHA, FEDERATION OF FREE CITIES

Balmy was the sweat 'neath Corporal Delaterra's camouflaged coveralls; marked jungle verdant to blend in with his native home country's wilderness, it was somewhat out of place here - within the endless fields of eastern Macha and western Shirakiku; the 28th Armored Division had crossed the Shirakiku border about... oh, a few hours ago, he wagered. It was not, contrary to les Bureau's insinuations to the otherwise, a hard-fought campaign.

It was a one-sided slaughter. The 28th, given the honorific 'the Permanent Guillotine', had not actually done any fighting besides putting down the odd RPG team or stay-behind echelon - the Air Force and Navy had done most of the work for them. As the old HMMWV that Delaterra drove creaked its way through back roads, he smiled; he'd been a veteran of the fighting back in Traldonia back in the good ol' days; when Magica had an Emperor, before the War of Unification, before the putschist nonsense - this deployment was gravy compared to the hard trench fighting around Fort Cash or the landings in Isle d'Proletaire; and fragging his CO when he'd huffed Reactionist paint a bit too much had been the cherry on top of a somewhat distinguished career. Really -- to order your own men to shoot civilians? Bastard practically asked for a 7.62 round up the arse.

Either way, he broke his mind from the past to focus on the present. A left turn -- and here was Federal Highway 56. Or, rather, what passed as a highway here; a simple two-lane road. The person to his right - technically his superior, though given Delaterra's breadth of experience often deferred to him in certain matters - lifted up a receiver.

"Butterfly Actual -- this is Butterfly 1-6. We've reached control point, uh -- fifty-six, how copy?"

The response was not long in coming - a bullet, a heavy one, smashed through the windshield, ending Sergeant Levy's missive prematurely - Delaterra swerved the ancient Humvee toward a nearby ditch, fetching a receiver of his own with his free hand. "All Butterfly elements, this is one-six -- taking small-arms fire at point five-six, one down!" The others in the back prepared to clamber out - the gunner buttoned up, a wise choice as the crack of automatic rifle fire peppered the vehicle like hailstones in a thunderstorm; only much more dangerous.

As the vehicle slowed to a halt, one of the men whose name Delaterra didn't even know had moved to secure the Sergeant, whose chest had been broken open like a fresh Bismark filled with berry jam. "Don't worry about him," Delaterra shouted, retrieving his service Hellion rifle while moving to kick the door open. "He's fucked anyway." The fresh-faced Private attempted to protest. "He's- he's still breathing, damnit!" Delaterra finally got the damn door to budge, unslinging his rifle. "That man just had all his blood shot out of him by God-knows-what, Private!" He took position behind the armored body of the car near the hood, opening fire on the vague direction of their assailants. "If you want to push Sergeant Levy's innards back into him, feel fuckin' free, but he's too dead to appreciate your --" he interrupted the statement with a quick burst of rounds, "-- kind gesture! Get on the fuckin' line, Privates, and start shooting!"

The radio crackled again. "Butterfly Actual here -- one-six, you read?" Delaterra got on the radio, shielding his hearing with the free hand he wasn't using to shoot while his two lackeys took a page out of his book and made positions behind the HMMWV, returning fire alongside him. "One-six here, loud and clear. Unknown amount of x-rays -- I think with the volume of fire we're getting that we're up against a squad, maybe two."

"Copy, One-Six," the radio cracked back. "Airmobile's in the neighborhood today -- they'll be coming to the rescue in ten to fifteen mikes. Keep us apprised of your status - Butterfly Actual out." Delaterre squeezed off a few bursts at a group of Fed militia making their way down into the comfy little ditch they were in - dressed in old camo uniforms and Magican-type coalscuttle pattern helmets nearly twice as old, one might have mistaken them for re-enactors if it weren't for the fact they were wielding AKs and ARs.

The three held out for what seemed like forever - a few Fed troops had tried pushing closer, but Delaterra and the two Privates made quick work of them; then came the Ironfist-60s, RPGs before RPGs were a thing; simple and highly inaccurate tube-launched rocket grenades with little to them but shock value. What was, however, particularly worrisome was the appearance of an Agitator III tank destroyer down the highway; the groaning of the ancient tank destroyer's ancient engines betrayed its entry into the fray.

"Shit!" Delaterra yelled. "Get a -"

Bang - his world turned upside down; a 120-mil round fell just short of the HMMWV, cratering the road, but smoke and debris rained hell upon them, sending shocks through the bodies of all three men.

He grabbed the receiver. "Butterfly one-six, come in Actual, goddamnit! Rescind earlier report - we have heavy armor on us, how copy?"

The radio gave no response - it was dead, just like Delaterre and his battle buddies were going to be in a little less than a few minutes. But, oh, he heard it, like the singing of angels; a faint buzzing noise that only got louder with every second. Then --- oh, he saw it.

A Firelance recon helicopter swooped overhead, dropping a load of rockets where the Agitator had been; followed by another that'd taken it upon itself to mow the long grass opposite of Delaterra's position; presumably where the fuckers that'd been shooting at them for the better part of ten minutes were holed up.

It was another glorious day in Delaterra's army, he thought. As UH-1Y helicopters followed in, dropping airmobile boys onto the highway and around it, he triumphantly crawled into the battered remnants of the Humvee, reaching into the uniform of what was once Sergeant Levy -- pulling out a pack of smokes and a boxy lighter emblazoned with the ace of spades. He wasn't in the habit, but..

If things were going to be this 'exciting', there wasn't a better time to start than now, he thought as he lit up.

---

AQUIS, REPUBLIC OF MAGICA

Doctor Nolani tapped his foot.

Dawdling and hemming and hawing - the Committee had given its final decision on Dark Stars weeks ago. Now, it was reconsidering. What was the purpose of it all? All those 'comsats' deployed, costing billions of florin, tens of thousands of man-hours, thousands of pounds of rocket fuel, hundreds of millions of tungsten-alloy penetrators the size of a Harrisopian pence --- and all the plans laid.

He was a man of science -- but even he knew that the dice'd already been thrown, speaking geopolitically. The weapon had not just been grasped, charged, and readied to fire: it had been discharged, and now the Committee of Public Safety was debating the rationality of unfiring the first shots of the Lycene Revolution. How ridiculous.

Bríghid Faolan was the first to speak up. Magica's third Consul - and first woman to be in fact as well as in name the proper head of state of the Magican Archipelago; there had been female Empresses during the time of Empire, yes, but true power had been held by noblemen. Even the Lower Magican government'd been rather... chauvinistic.

"Doctor Nolani -- Dark Stars envisages the creation of a low-orbital debris cloud; Kessler Syndrome, I think it is called. Yet... I cannot help but wonder. Will we be trapping ourselves - by that I mean future generations of our entire species - on this planet forever?" She drummed the table thoughtfully.

Nolani sighed. "Truth be told, madame.. we've not exactly filled out the environmental-impact report for this kind of thing. This is the science of war; not a highway bypass."

He corrected himself in word and posture. "I mean to say, that is, the data is there, but a thorough analysis would be a costly delay, to say nothing of offering to this Committee a report. I can provide only rough estimates with what I've got."

Consul Faolan looked to the others at the head of the table alongside her: the Pro-Consul of the Republic, Lachlan Molloyí, and the Tribune of the Proles, Hamélin Victor. Both gave their nods of assent in response to an unasked question. Bríghid then turned to the Doctor, giving him her full attention, deep green eyes piercing into his very soul. "Then, Doctor - please give us your personal assessment."

Nolani sat down, taking on a serious expression. "First; these devices operate in low-earth-orbit. We all know that, yes? We've designed the payload - another fact known to all within this chamber - of our, ah, Watcher satellites to optimize projectile retention within low-earth-orbit. Anyways, putting a satellite in orbit requires meticulous calculation - more still if you mean to keep that satellite in orbit, to say nothing of very delicate maneuvers."

Faolan and her peers nodded thoughtfully, as the Doctor continued on: "So -- when hundreds of innocent little communication satellites - or at least that is what the world hopefully thinks at this point - suddenly explode into this giant orbital storm of trash, we can't very well guide those projectiles. A fair bit of them will just fly into atmosphere and burn up without scratching so much as a spysat. Some will, perhaps, reach escape velocity, accounting for defects in the manufacturing process with Watcher; we can't rule out overcharged debris cassettes."

Faolan cocked her head. "Why are we worried about projectiles leaking into deep space? Wouldn't that be, well... just as harmless as if they were to float to Earth?"

Doctor Nolani shook his head. "They're not going to leak out into deep space. The projectiles -- they won't have enough energy to make it out of the planet's gravity well. What we're worried about is, rather, the prospect of hundreds of thousands - if not substantially more than that, if I'm being honest - of tiny little bits making it past the inner Van Allen belt; and both the short-term and long-term damage that would be wrought as a consequential effect of that."

"Short term?" Faolan inquired.

"There's a multitude of GPS systems in usage depending on very intricate networks of satellites loitering in orbit around the twenty to thirty thousand mile mark; GLONASS, our very own Fantasia system, so on. There will likely be disruptions as a handful of these satellites will inevitably, at some point, be rendered inoperable." Nolani replied tersely. "And -- as for the long term, we don't know. A few decades from now, some Moon mission or other manned spacecraft.... might catastrophically fail owing to a piece of debris we created."

Faolan nodded deeply. "Thank you, Doctor." She looked to her peers. "I trust all of our concerns have been addressed?"

Hamélin nodded. "I think this is still a risky move. The initial report.. it suggested it might be as long as a year before we might even consider sending anything out into space."

"That's correct," the Doctor cut in. "Low-earth orbiting objects are inherently in a state of, ah, instability. Most of the debris will have been pulled in by the planet's gravity by the year mark. But, again -- we've no models for how dangerous space travel will be after this. We will, in a very literal sense, be changing the very face of the Earth. It's simply unprecedented; we've built a literal doomsday weapon."

Proconsul Molloyí frowned. "I think that's all we need to hear, Doctor. Thanks for coming." he said, without much substance in his voice, looking to his peers.

The Doctor took his leave; from a habit formed in olden times, he bowed out formally.

Hamélin Victor -- by all appearances a stout old man, was the son of a coal miner; and like his father before him, toiled all his life in the deep dark. He was a rather tough and gritty man; but also fair headed and practical. It was these qualities that got him this far - dealing fairly and expecting others to deal fairly with him - a rare example of someone rising from the proletarian class to the third-highest office in the land. Unthinkable in a previous age, maybe. Certainly unthinkable in a traditional capitalist democracy, to say nothing of the false democracies up North.

With that being said, Victor let loose a long sigh. "I'm not one to water things down. Dark Stars -- I thought it was insane when the first proposals reached Committee. Gross waste of resources at best, and at worst: we'll all be hung as war criminals, spat on by future generations by denying them their birthright. So I thought, at least."

Faolan shuffled papers, a cold expression on her face. "Yes," she said without emotion, "You've said numerous times. To the point, Comrade Victor."

Bríghid Faolan was... an oddity. Nobody quite knew her past for certain save that she was a Northerner, born and raised in the Mahendras' nightmare-state of Lower Magica. If one went by what was said, however, she'd been a squeaky-clean, perhaps exemplary member of the Revolutionary Youth; rising within the ranks to a group leader by twenty-two, distinguishing her career by organizing a somewhat effective rural education and inoculation program that would have been emulated nationwide... were it not for the outbreak of the Second Magican War. After that -- nothing.

She'd eventually re-emerged as a 'progressive' politician and union organizer after the process of Integration; and during the Putsch, had been a key figure in organizing civilian and military resistance - she had served on the Committee of Public Safety since its inception during the heady days of the Anchorhead Republic, later to become the Second Magican Republic, leading the hawkish internationalist right-wing as Commissioner for Defense, later Commissioner of Internal Affairs; and two years ago she had been confirmed as the highest official in the land by the Senate and both Assemblies. She had, simply put, overseen and, indeed, initiated the massive Magican military build-up of the previous years; a feat responsible for snapping the isolated and derelict economy back on track.

But everyone knew the 'good times' wouldn't last for much longer -- it was only a matter of time before the Republic's economy snapped under the weight of a massive military machine, as isolated as the Republic was, bloated with defense expenditure. Funny, one mused, how history repeats itself sometimes.

Anyway. Yes. To the point -- Victor responded after a brief lull in this more-or-less empty meeting room. "It's not too late to turn back from this path we've chosen -- we've made our point with the strikes on the Federation. The states of Shirakiku, Macha, Porto Rosso; the entire southern edge of the Confederation, basically.. those lands produce more than enough food to make us self-sufficient, and they've a bounty of resources; steel, iron, coal, bauxite, all things we lack."

Faolan bit her lip. "You mean to say, comrade Victor, that we ought to settle for less?" She glared daggers at the Tribune.

Victor stared cold iron back at the young upstart in return. "Yes. We settle for less, and use the rest of the Federation as leverage; use the prospect of Magican troops on Vichnaya's back door and the prospect of a wider war to scare them into backing away from the Tropics. We've told the world our Republic is strong, that we won't be backed into a corner, starved, and cowed into submission. What we plan to do now - it's ludicrous. It's madness. How will we explain this to future generations?" He began to take a pink shade as his voice grew louder, shaking. "Will you tell your children, comrade Faolan, that you destroyed the bedrock of modern civilization, that you destroyed their past, present, and future hopes of ever getting off this rock and conquering one last final frontier? For what? Getting one off on the Vichnayans? Bravo, Bridgid! Well pl-"

Faolan slammed her hand on the table. "That is enough, comrade Victor!"

Her face took on a pink shade, having barely restrained her own tongue for Victor's monologue - "The ends justify the means! Yes -- this is a great risk for a great tactical advantage, but if we have to sacrifice a generation's hopes, creature comforts, and dreams, so be it! That is a godsend compared to what awaits us if we remain cowed, cornered by the Capitalist, Imperialist forces of the world. It is bad enough Orlova boxes us in to the north -- but, oh, have you heard? The Pyongukese openly organize a coalition oh-so-thinly veiled underneath idealisms! Can you guess, comrade Victor, whom is the target of this grand coalition?"

She took a long, deep drink of Aquis Red, throwing the goblet against the wall. "It's us!" she shouted. "Us against the world!"

Victor bit his lip. "Comrade Faolan -- this is not the only way." She raised her hands. "So, what? Surrender? No, I think not. The time has come. Never, ever, shall we be slaves again; we will birth a new world, a better world upon the ashes of the old." She looked to Proconsul Molloyí.

"Comrade Molloyí - please deliver to the Commissioner for Defense my final assent for the execution of Operation Dark Stars --"

Victor shook his head, practically pleading at this point. "Madam Consul - please. Once we've taken these steps, there will be no turning back."

"Shut up," she said coldly. "Yes, anyway. Comrade Molloyí - final assent given to Operations Dark Stars, Backfire, and Black Hole. Please inform our comrades in the Commissary of Defense, as I said. Oh, and Operation Dogbone is to be given our full support; make sure the Commissioner knows that is to be prioritized."

Molloyí nodded like a good puppet. "It will be done, madam Consul.", he said, bowing himself out of the room.

Victor did the same, turning back briefly to Faolan. He said something that she'd likely never forget, as ghastly and foreboding as his tone of voice, tinged with a bit of regret and... defeat?

"May your children forgive you, Brighid." He said bitterly, shutting the heavy door with a thud.

[Upper Magica]

words

NORTHERN JUPITER - UNKNOWN LOCATION

It'd been an eventful few hours for Operator J. Of course; not their real name, but people in this business didn't have real names.

Witnessing something close to the apocalypse, first off. The corpos and their shills deserved to be driven from this land; that much was true. What, you thought that an operator of the 'Elements' - that notorious section of the Directorate of Public Security - would be anything but a committed revolutionary at heart? Political reliability, after all, is one of the job's, er.. requirements.

At any rate -- second, after witnessing what might as well have been a miniature Migration Period - except substitute desperate tribesmen fleeing starvation with bourgeoisie dickheads - their little... information-gathering venture had been put to a stop.

By dog-men. It was out of the realm of a science-fiction movie. If one has ever witnessed something, say, not of this earth, they'll tell you of the uncanny valley effect. It's quite simple; when one witnesses something with both human and non-human qualities, they are often struck with a feeling of disgust, a feeling of being repulsed, with no real logic behind why.

Operator J knew, however, why they felt disgusted, repulsed, and honestly, afraid:

Something not of this earth - or so the Operator thought - was chattering away in basic Common Jupitrine to its fellow behind the bars of the cell that the Operator found themselves in. It had been a miracle the squad hadn't been murdered; the Directorate agent that was 'in charge' of this op had been knocked out cold - that was all they'd suffered, 'sides being bound.

"Oi," the Operator said, mustering up all the courage they had and all the language classes they'd took. "Where's my goddamn phone call? I believe I'm entitled to a call to the local consulate," they'd said snarkily.

---

With preparations increasing for a certain operation closer to home, the General Staff's sudden direction that they also scale up assistance to what might as well be Corporate-owned terra nullius in Northern Jupiter aroused suspicions; were the Magicans shuffling arms to Traldonia, now? The rank-and-file began to get suspicious; though kept any and all concerns quiet, as good soldiers did.

The existence of the 'Hundermenschen', as an Astovkan scientist in the employ of the Republic - later purged, that is to say shot by the Directorate of Public Security on the basis that he had been politically unreliable due to his foreign citizenship - was still not known to very many within the Magican government; indeed, it was a top secret, as were the happenings in Northern Jupiter - online censors scrubbed clean the Internet, purging all traces of 'Exodus from Corporate Condominiums', 'Corporate Slave Revolts', and, disturbingly, all recent mention of extraterrestrials, monsters, the supernatural, so forth.

Regardless, more and more of the Armed Forces' fleet of 'shadowliners' - cargo planes bought second-hand from courier services worldwide - were despatched for a intercontinental airlift, dropping ever-greater quantities of firearms, heavy weaponry, munitions, MREs -- even various tactical manuals detailing a variety of methods of warfare; while at sea, the Directorate of Public Security's various, er... 'courier' services, organized as 'logistics and delivery companies' had endeavored to send a couple of cargo ships filled practically to the brim with weaponry - even surface-to-air and anti-tank missile batteries and trucks of all shapes and sizes.

Perhaps of import though was the hastily-organized deployment of a battalion of the Special Naval Landing Forces and a task-force of engineers aboard one of these ships; a port would need to be secured to, in turn, secure further aid. It could not be risked, in the General Staff's view, that Corporate forces sabotaged one on their way 'out the door'.

So began Operation 'Dogbone'.

[Hundermenschen]

words

NORTHERN JUPITER - UNKNOWN LOCATION

It'd been an eventful few hours for Operator J. Of course; not their real name, but people in this business didn't have real names.

Witnessing something close to the apocalypse, first off. The corpos and their shills deserved to be driven from this land; that much was true. What, you thought that an operator of the 'Elements' - that notorious section of the Directorate of Public Security - would be anything but a committed revolutionary at heart? Political reliability, after all, is one of the job's, er.. requirements.

At any rate -- second, after witnessing what might as well have been a miniature Migration Period - except substitute desperate tribesmen fleeing starvation with bourgeoisie dickheads - their little... information-gathering venture had been put to a stop.

By dog-men. It was out of the realm of a science-fiction movie. If one has ever witnessed something, say, not of this earth, they'll tell you of the uncanny valley effect. It's quite simple; when one witnesses something with both human and non-human qualities, they are often struck with a feeling of disgust, a feeling of being repulsed, with no real logic behind why.

Operator J knew, however, why they felt disgusted, repulsed, and honestly, afraid:

Something not of this earth - or so the Operator thought - was chattering away in basic Common Jupitrine to its fellow behind the bars of the cell that the Operator found themselves in. It had been a miracle the squad hadn't been murdered; the Directorate agent that was 'in charge' of this op had been knocked out cold - that was all they'd suffered, 'sides being bound.

"Oi," the Operator said, mustering up all the courage they had and all the language classes they'd took. "Where's my goddamn phone call? I believe I'm entitled to a call to the local consulate," they'd said snarkily.

---

With preparations increasing for a certain operation closer to home, the General Staff's sudden direction that they also scale up assistance to what might as well be Corporate-owned terra nullius in Northern Jupiter aroused suspicions; were the Magicans shuffling arms to Traldonia, now? The rank-and-file began to get suspicious; though kept any and all concerns quiet, as good soldiers did.

The existence of the 'Hundermenschen', as an Astovkan scientist in the employ of the Republic - later purged, that is to say shot by the Directorate of Public Security on the basis that he had been politically unreliable due to his foreign citizenship - was still not known to very many within the Magican government; indeed, it was a top secret, as were the happenings in Northern Jupiter - online censors scrubbed clean the Internet, purging all traces of 'Exodus from Corporate Condominiums', 'Corporate Slave Revolts', and, disturbingly, all recent mention of extraterrestrials, monsters, the supernatural, so forth.

Regardless, more and more of the Armed Forces' fleet of 'shadowliners' - cargo planes bought second-hand from courier services worldwide - were despatched for a intercontinental airlift, dropping ever-greater quantities of firearms, heavy weaponry, munitions, MREs -- even various tactical manuals detailing a variety of methods of warfare; while at sea, the Directorate of Public Security's various, er... 'courier' services, organized as 'logistics and delivery companies' had endeavored to send a couple of cargo ships filled practically to the brim with weaponry - even surface-to-air and anti-tank missile batteries and trucks of all shapes and sizes.

Perhaps of import though was the hastily-organized deployment of a battalion of the Special Naval Landing Forces and a task-force of engineers aboard one of these ships; a port would need to be secured to, in turn, secure further aid. It could not be risked, in the General Staff's view, that Corporate forces sabotaged one on their way 'out the door'.

So began Operation 'Dogbone'.

Northern Jupiter - Unknown location

The location that the two squads worth of rebels had found was a good break from the normal fighting and life threatening adventures that they had been use to for a while now. A few of them had taken point at windows facing the outside to the streets watching for anyone that would try to get in and jeopardize the rest of the group.

It seemed so far the rebellion nationwide was working well for the Hundermenschenians, especially with the small supply of mysterious weapons that were found in crates across the nation. These newly acquired RPG's helped them fight back against the now IFV's that were being used against them. This particular group would run into problems if they had to fight against armored vehicles due to having spent the rockets they had in events before.

With the events that had been happening, the group was in need of a proper break away from combat for a little bit.

The Hundermenschenians that were in the cell block area with the group they had captured had no idea what they were even doing out on that desolate highway alone. Their outfits and weapons that they had proved that they weren't just normal civilians driving around.

One of the slightly older Hundermenschenians that was in the cell block had overheard the conversation in foreign as his ears moved slightly. He didn't know the language that they were speaking at first but what he did understand was the last part of what he said which was obviously english. He turned to look to them approaching the cell some as he would reply calmly with a slight smirk on the corner of his lip.

"Pretty brave to speak up behind bars, Doubt your consulate would answer a phone call right now."

---

Northeastern Jupiter - Unknown Location

This rebellion wasn't done overnight and had a simple hierarchy that was organized shortly before the rebellion had began. The one leading the rebellion from the beginning and even started the idea of fighting back was named Atlas Koch who was one of the older members of his species in the early days of their development. Now he organizes groups and attacks on their corpo enemies.

Atlas was looking from a window then noticed a large plane flying overhead with no known insignias which wasn't picked up by radio traffic that they were monitoring or other groups throughout the country. He then noticed a sort of crate being dropped from it then a chute opening above it as the plane would fly off suspiciously. Similar events happened before which had RPGs in them that were clearly not from their corpo enemies. Atlas would then give out an order on that particular crate falling from the sky.

"Send a squad down there to find that drop and have it examined for any clues on where it came from."

It just so happened there was a squad in the area where the drop was coming down. Once they had arrived it was still untouched and they were the only ones so far which was a good thing since their location would be a bad ambush point that would lead to their deaths. When opening the crate there would be heavier weapons that were larger than what they had such as LMGs and ammo for them as well as food supplies which was great since they were limited on certain goods. There were also manuals which would also be taken back to be examined later which left the crate empty except for the padding inside. The group would then quickly start to leave the area as they were sure that they weren't the only ones that were attracted to the obvious large slow moving plane.

---

Setting up a New Government

Meanwhile, the rebellion was successful so far in the eastern side of the nation was in full control of the Hundermenschen rebels leaving the two sides leaving the nation split between east and west. As the fighting continued to push further west, Hundermenschen forces that weren't directly on the frontlines would start establishing their form of a democratic government in their occupied portion of the country which was obviously more free than it was before the rebellion. Soldiers that were there would also act as a peacekeeping force until a proper police force could be set up and would also provide humanitarian aid to civilians that were affected by the fighting.

[Vichnaya]

---

---

Chapter 2, Act 1 - Eternity In the Skies

Charkov Air Force Base, Sila Oblast

---

Aviamarch (Авиамарш)

...
O’ Higher, higher and higher!
We steer for the flight of our birds,
And in every propeller is breathing,
The peacefulness of our borders!

When the experience of flights gets longer,
When a new challenge from the sky we meet,
We see the air fleet is getting stronger,
The world’s only Vichnayan Air Fleet!

---

---

“This is Senior Lieutenant Volkov of Charkov Skywatch, how may I help you two on this fine day?”

"This is Lieutenant Colonel Babanin, Operations Officer of the 111th White Guards Reconnaissance Squadron. We are executing scramble order 739-4."

“Major Alistrova, Operations Officer of the 41st White Guards Interception Squadron. We are also executing scramble order 739-4!”

The airwaves were thick with the voices of other air controllers. Volkov quietly sniffled, cutting off for a second before he spoke into the phone call, “Affirmative on Scramble Order 739-4. Be advised: the 71st Heavy Bomber Aviation Regiment are taking up runways 23 and 30, same with the 52nd’s with runways 17 and 33. Their logi trucks and personnel are also messing up the traffic here. The 16th White Guards Tactical Fighter Squadron are also due for both Scramble Orders 739-1 and 739-4, taxiing towards runway 33.”

“Babanin speaking,” He’d cut in, “Negative on any delays, CCO AOCs of AFBC and AFBN are covering the thread, SIDOs are also covering the thread.”

“Alistrova speaking, WATER TANK alerted the 16th, 41st, and 111th for a scramble alert.”

His fingers tapped away loudly on the screen, his gloved hands and ever-stressed eyes elegantly gliding from screen to chart as he navigated the ever-simple web of navigating and coordinating with other controllers and their own aircraft, “Confirmed, scrambling ATLANT and SHAPKA under scramble order 739-4, redirecting the 71st to postpone dust-off until your birds are off the tarmac. Make it quick. Any word from NSYB for possible cases of Cargo 800 or 850 on your end?”

“Negative, WATER TANK and SIDOs only alerted for multiple AOIs and TOIs in SE120 to SE150. Orders are directly from CRYSTAL KINGDOM.”

Arisu gave a polite ‘ahem’ before she spoke, “Any information in regards to the 16th’s 739-1 scramble order?”

“Cannot disclose that. Comrade Lieutenant Colonel?”

“Babanin here, clear net. I’ll contact Comrade Major Skau’s group for that. Just get our birds up in the air already, we’re taking too much time.”

“We’ll make it happen. Standby for a scramble alert.”

---

“...six hours of playtime at 2000 knots depending on altitude without the burners and tanks on, shortened to less than four hours of playtime with burners on with tanks on, finally lowered to less than two hours of playtime with burners on and tanks off–” The maintenance chief tilted his clipboard over to the pilot, bringing his pen over to the third row, right box where some scribbles were written down along with printed text, “– mind you, this is based on calculations with what your bird with is armed and operating on its max. altitude, not accounting for extended engagements below 9,144 metres, Ma’am. All fuel tanks aboard are filled to capacity, and your drop tanks have an additional 12,000 litres.”

After the whine of the hydraulic arm lifting rather large missiles into the internal weapons bay of a MiG-41 simultaneously, the aircraft buckled as the loading arm snapped into place, allowing the maintenance crews to properly secure each of the four 600kg missiles into place with their white-coloured warheads glimmering under the alarms that bathed the underground hanger in a shower of red, orange, and white. Following shortly after the loading tractor left, a second tractor carrying four smaller missiles rolled in to replace it.

Lubya Wodarska wasn’t unfamiliar with this talk. Captain Lubya Wodarska especially wasn’t unfamiliar with the tempo and speed that the man was gibbering on about, as well as the sights, smells, and increasingly dull pain that her forehead was experiencing. Perhaps it was the side effects of spending more than half of her waking consciousness in environments with more than an inordinate amount of Decilin-M fuels that her bird required to drink, or perhaps it was merely because of ageing. The latter is bad, sure, but it wasn’t ideal if what she was feeling was because of the former as well.

She could care less, popping a tylenol in her mouth and downing it with a bottle of water.

Pilot by profession, a flyer at heart, the Captain wasn’t the same doe-eyed lieutenant that she once was a mere two years ago. From the Magican Archipelagos where she faced her first taste of combat to the multiple air-to-air kills she scored over Aldorean ASU aircraft in the Vichnayan Intervention in the Aldar Kose Civil War only a year prior, she, like others, were the few ones that were privileged enough to have the honour of having more than five kill “marks” that signified that she was a fighter ace.

While not as ridiculously skilled as many would believe veterans would be, Lubya could still hold himself better than those who were assigned under her. Her wingmen that would be directly flying under her wing? So would they, even if they were younger than her. Though the events that occurred in the last Magican scuffle had been a black stain on both her and her wingmen’s records.

Nicely put, she alone was indirectly responsible for the MiG-41s fate.

With the crews busy arming her aircraft, she took a few brief moments to check around her aircraft. She’d turn over, dodging the loading arm that clamped a K-90M infrared short-range air-to-air missile into the side internal weapons bay. “Armament? I’m seeing K-110s and K-90s, chief.”

“Yes ma’am, armament for your bird is four K-110s for BVR engagements and four K-90Ms for merging engagements.” The maintenance chief pulled her aside, “As per usual, electronic warfare pods are mounted internally in the centreline and in the wingtips. The maximum number of standard countermeasure dispenser pods are installed in all units as per your briefing, chaff priority from what I’ve been informed of.”

A nod, “Thank you. Is that all, chief?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” He’d hand over his clipboard and a pen, leaving Lubya to sign off the sheet.

The tip of the pen glided, her eyes darting towards the man and satisfied with a nod. “Oh, and thank you for your services, Comrade.”

“My pleasure is mine, Comrade Captain.” The chief stepped aside. As he did, his hand lowered the folding ladder, her pathway into the open cockpit. It should’ve been a simple thought process of merely guiding her legs and arms to climb up. She’s done it countless times in scramble alerts that were greater in scope and scale than even this one.

But she could not. She could not. She could no-

She’d inhale nervously, giving the Chief a salute and a handshake. “Glory to the Sacred Stars.”

“Glory to the Sacred Stars,” He’d return the gesture in kind, “And may the Sister’s guide your righteous path, Comrade Captain!”

“To you as well, Comrade Leading Sergeant.”

With a final check around her aircraft by both her and the maintenance crew, the Veteran of two interventions climbed steadily into the ever-familiar cockpit of the MiG-41SM2 with the ease of one who has practised their craft thoroughly. The Veteran of two interventions connected her flight helmet and flight mask to the microphone cord, the oxygen mask and tube to the primary, secondary, and tertiary oxygen tanks, and the helmet power cord to the receiver adapter. The Veteran of two Interventions activated her HMD, initiating and engaging electrical systems, the canopy closing with a sharp ‘HISS.’ The sights, smells, and sounds of her craft of choice was ever so familiar, yet distinctly alien to her.

The Mikoyan MiG-41 was a peculiar thing. Introduced in mid-2022 to replace the fleets of MiG-25s and MiG-31s whilst also serving as the long-range counterpart to the Su-57Ms and Su-75Ms that once roamed the skies, the MiG, with their more refined radar, flight control, electronic, and radar systems, had the role as either an interceptor, air superiority fighter, heavy fighter, and if equipped with camera pods, a reconnaissance aircraft. For air-to-air missions, their powerful radars and long-range missiles were designed to intercept both enemy AWACs and bombers before they could ever get close to the motherland or friendly forces, whilst the reconnaissance variant could, in theory, penetrate deep into enemy airspace and quickly retreat if fighters were scrambled against them. Additionally, it can carry air-to-surface armaments, as it had infamously in the Second Magican War and Aldar Kose Civil War with their Kh-47M5 Kinzhals.

The MiG-41A was considered a masterpiece in Vichnaya, as was its more manoeuvrable, and even longer range upgrade, the MiG-41SM and the later MiG-41SM2 that integrated a whole host of new components from the Sukhoi Su-60SMT-O (much to the Mikoyan Design Bureau’s dismay and utter disgust of working with the Sukhoi Design Bureau) to produce an interceptor fit for the wars of the future. Most especially, its newer engines that were derived from the Vulture’s own; not as advanced nor cheap seeing as the production lines of the MiG-41 entirely halted a few months after the end of the last war, but it gave the beast a boost of capability that surpassed Vichnaya’s new favourite child, the aforementioned Su-60SMT, with a higher service ceiling and greater performance at said altitudes.

Senior Lieutenant Lubya Wodarska believed such descriptions.

Captain Lubya Wodarska, however, was more pessimistic.

Perhaps mother’s words were right after all? She was certainly far less optimistic than the young black-haired beauty she once was.

After all, getting shot down the first time was an experience that clung to her like a malignant disease. Traumatic in a sense? Incredibly so, her therapy sessions following the ‘Vichnayan Incident’ were indicative of that. But was it a valuable learning experience that forced her to remember the lessons ingrained into her by the Red Flag exercises? Also yes. Vichnayan training for all of the branches was difficult, intense, and harsh from an outside perspective, but it wasn’t abusive. It wasn’t a system that would berate them day after day for the smallest of mistakes and leave them be, but it would berate them day after day for the sake of tearing down and rebuilding an individual for service under the endless armies that served the thrones of the sisters that sat high above, the Sacred Stars.

The smell of jet fuel clung to her nostrils as if they were being actively poured into her cockpit– they were not, secured dozens of metres away in well-protected holding pens that even GBU-57 wouldn’t be able to scratch with sensors constantly active to alert personnel of physical or fuel leaks that may hamper flight operations. The lights and sounds that activated after each flip of the button and tap of the touchscreens were deafening – they were not deafening, but just loud, to notify her of anything important in any given situation. The G-Suit was strangling her– it was not, as her second skin had not yet entered into anything physically straining so far beyond the climb up the ladder. Her hands were cold–

They were not, they were shaking.

Her breath was shaky, “...Guide me, Sister Ustina.”

The screens before her burst with life with the flip of a few switches, her helmet-mounted display likewise filling her auditory, sensatory, somatosensory, and visual feed with bombardments of both direct and indirect information that told and cued her of the current state of function of her MiG. Aside from the rather colourful screens plastered before her that displayed compacted information for her to easily read (in-thanks to the rather advanced sensor fusion network installed on the latest MiG-41s), the onboard artificial intelligence program had also lightened the load with any other non-important and important function relegated for it to handle, as well as assisting her in the standard functions of the aircraft. Her helmet especially was a marvel in its own right, both incorporating the functions of the KL-80AM Next-Generation Mixed-Reality Helmet-Mounted Display System (NG-MR-HMD) found on the widespread Su-60SM and the later SMT for unparalleled situational awareness, but also a rather new and experimental function: neural augmentation.

By monitoring the brainwaves of the pilot via 57 sensors dispersed around the head that monitor the neural cortex, the KL-24M helmet hoped to more readily notify pilots of the situation around them by the release of hormones. A radar track and lock on a bogey or bandit? A small amount of serotonin. Mud spike from an anti-air aircraft platform? A spike of noradrenaline. Spiked and tracked by radar/radar-guided or infrared missile? A spike of adrenaline. A missile warning? Both noradrenaline and adrenaline are dumped into the brain, along with thyroid-stimulating hormones that produce a feeling of cold. Combined together? The MiG-41’s pilot would be innately aware of nearly anything they would come across, though the hormone dumping would obviously be regulated or cut off entirely if there was a detected fault in the neural monitors of the KL-24M.

Though the electronics and sensors onboard certainly have changed from the MiG-41 she first flew a mere two years ago, the feeling and feel hadn't.

Perhaps it was the briefing-

« Схватка! Схватка! Схватка! »

The massive hunk of metal lurched once more as a towing tractor guided it through the massive hallways of the underground complex of Charkov Air Force Base. The year-round active air base was officially home to the 16th White Guards Tactical Fighter Squadron, the 41st White Guards Interception Squadron, and the 111th White Guards Reconnaissance Squadron, but with the start of the tensions that boiled over to war in the Serene Federation, it was decided that two bomber regiments would ‘temporarily’ be re-stationed in Charkov until an ‘alternative solution’ was found.

The 41st White Guards Interception Squadron had seen its fair share of battles since its creation in the 1970s in the Second Astovkan-Vichnayan War, and the experiences of each passing pilot had rubbed off onto their counterparts. For Lubya and her wingman? They, too, had been deployed on behalf of the Vichnayan Federal Republic in both official and unofficial operations, with Lubya’s first operation was on the Magican Archipelago of the last war in a “survey” mission.

It was only a few dozen feet away from one of the many hanger gates when her radio crackled to life with the dull, nearly emotionless voice of the air traffic controller. “...JBAS Tower to RAPCON, registered an 8-ship flight of MiG-41SM2’s exiting centreline North-Western hangars for the primary East Ramp, also registered a 4-ship flight of MiG-41RB’s exiting the Western hangars for the secondary East Ramp. The first group is identified as ATLANT from the 41st Interception Squadron and the second group as SHAPKA from the 111th Recce Squadron. How copy?

“Copy. RAPCON, JBAS Tower, received and notified of the 41st and 111th dispatches. Be advised: the 16th, 41st, and 111th are under Scramble Orders 739-1 and 739-4 respectively, handle the situation as needed and relay them to RAPCON as needed.” The chilling, feminine voice of one of the RAPCON operators filled the net. “...Interrogative, confirm the status of the 8-ship flight.”

With a sharp whine, the operator connected to the channel her craft was on, “JBAS Tower to ATLANT-01 and SHAPKA-01, confirm status and readback. Copy?”

“ATLANT-01 copies, I copy 8-ship flight, I copy taxiing on the primary East Ramp. ATLANT-01 is requesting unrestricted climb on runway 33.”

”SHAPKA-01 copies, I copy 4-ship flight, I copy taxiing on the secondary East Ramp. SHAPKA-01 also requests unrestricted climb on runway 33.”

“JBAS Tower copies all. Standby for confirmation.”

Her eyes darted around with frantic movements. The air base was a busy one, sure, but it was incredibly busy now. From what she could see? The majority of the estate here was dotted with the grey hulls of the ancient but modernised Tu-16M5M – an ugly thing that relatively kept the distinctive appearance of older-generation Badgers sans the large radar nose cone – that was best summarised as a dedicated missile carrier– so dedicated was it to the missile carrying aspect, did the later Tu-16M6 remove the capability of even mounting bombs in favour of being able to operate more advanced missile systems and in greater quantities than its intended replacement for decades at this point, the Tu-22M3 and later M5.

As soon as the last of the bombers diverted away from the taxi and runway the radio crackled to life, “ATLANT and SHAPKA, this is Control Tower. Wind is 240 at 30, 400 at 60. Visibility 11/4, four-thousand scattered 102 kilometres from Bulls 133.2, eight-thousand overcast 89 kilometres from Bulls 135, temperature 59 to 80, due point three, altimeter 2992. Approved for unrestricted takeoff in accordance to scramble order 739-4. ATLANT-01 and SHAPK-01, runway 33 cleared for take off, contact DDG Shaykovka at approach 133.2, then either DDG Prinzessin Morana Wostoka or CV Orlova at approach 120.”

All so familiar, with her and her wingmen scrambling to copy down the conditions, weather, and other factors on their hip-mounted clipboards that counted countless maps of the maps along the coast, nautical maps, and finally, damn near-every geographical map of the Serene Federation. Sure, the several coloured LCD screens before her were useful, but backup functions were and still are necessary– even the Astovkans, inexperienced as they be after the 2000 reforms, understood redundancy was necessary.

Her hands were shaking still, still too familiar.

“Tower, this is ATLANT-01.” The pen slipped silently into its sheath, “Weather acknowledged, altimeter 2992. I copy runway cleared, unrestricted takeoff on runway three-three. I copy contact DDG Shaykovka at approach 133.2, I copy contact DDG Morana Wostoka or CV Orlova at approach 120. Request Uniform.”

“SHAPKA-01 to Tower. Weather acknowledged, altimeter 2992. I copy runway cleared, unrestricted takeoff on runway three-three. I copy contact DDG Shaykovka at approach 133.2, I copy contact DDG Morana Wostoka or CV Orlova at approach 120.”

A few seconds later, the words ‘РАСПРОСТРАНЕНО, ТАКСИ, E3’ popped up in her HUD, confirming that she and her wingmen, as well as her comrades in the 111th, were cleared to manoeuvre off taxiway E3 and onto the runway itself.

Only a few metres away were the hulking forms of the Tu-16M5Ms. She could see the crew, and though busy with the group going back and forth for a few minutes with the ATC Tower correcting and reading conditions and such, gave the pilot of the lead Tu-16 a salute.

He saluted back.

The whine of the MiG-41’s engines grew to a low roar as she and three other of her wingmen rolled onto the runway, holding their breaks and increasing to max throttle; a move that would destroy the brakes of most aircraft, the MiG-41 was specially suited for this although not intentionally. By doing this? Their acceleration would catapult them into the air the moment she released her brakes.

Finally, the ATC Frequency buzzed to life with the words she had been waiting for for the past two minutes– two minutes that seemed like a mirage, “ATLANT and SHAPKA Flights, readback and standby for confirmation of conditions.”

…

Two minutes that were nigh identical.

“RAPCON, this is ATLANT-01. 8 Ships of MiG-41s heading out of AFBC on unrestricted takeoff at heading 133, Angels 50 on dispatch. Are we clear on traffic?”

“RAPCON,” A now Captain Oni Harlicher came onto the net, “This is SHAPKA-01, 4 Ships of MiG-41RBs heading out of AFBC on unrestricted takeoff at heading 133, Angels 50 on dispatch. We’re going to be spacing out 30 miles out from ATLANT’s starboard and port, Angels 52.”

Before dusting off, however, they would need to confirm in with RAPCON or the Radar Approach Control Center for clearance. Lubya didn’t care to know who that woman was, only caring that she was the person giving the entry tickets to all military and civil aircraft in their area of responsibility.

And when she did, she was mostly certainly stressed but chilling at the same time. Understandable, given the traffic on the base.

“ATLANT-01, ATLANT-02, ATLANT-03, and ATLANT-04.” The operator’s voice returned onto the net, “All four of you are clear of traffic in accordance to scramble order 739-4. You have two minutes to dust off before ATLANT-05 to ATLANT-08 takes the tarmac, then the next group will have 4 minutes to dust off 2-ships per dust-off.

Shortly after, the ATC joined on the same frequency. “First ATLANT Flight Group, clear skies for the next 10 minutes, varying wind conditions 80 to 400 miles out, four-thousand scattered 102 kilometres from Bulls 133.2, eight-thousand overcast 89 kilometres from Bulls 135, temperature 59 to 80, due point three, altimeter 2992. You're all cleared to take off, Glory to the Sacred Stars.”

“ATLANT-01 copies, dusting off immediately. Glory to the Sacred Stars.”

“ATLANT-02 copies transmission, dusting off with ATLANT-01 at her port wing. Glory to the Sacred Stars.”

“ATLANT-03 copies, awaiting ATLANT-01 to dust off. Glory to the Sacred Stars.”

“ATLANT-04 copies, awaiting for ATLANT-02 to dust off. Glory to the Sacred Stars.”

Her head slammed back against the seat as her MiG sped down the runway. In the blink of an eye, her bird was climbing rapidly into the deep blue nothingness that was the sky.

It was serene.

So beautiful, and if weren’t for the machine of death she guided, she would reach out and just…touch it.

Another day in the office, so it seemed.

---

Chapter 2, Act 02 - Eternity At Swords’ Tip

Point 213, Eastern Ocean

---

We Are The Marines! (Мы - Морская пехота!)

We are the landing party, We are the Marines!
We cascade onto the shore like a whirlwind,
And onto their defences, we attack into them,
Before the main forces arrive.

The sea is like a telnyashka, of white and blue.
And into steep rocks, do grey surf hits.

The Three Sides - The Sky,
The Three Sides - The Sea,
The Three Sides - Surrounded By Wind
The Fourth Side - The Fight!

---

(VMS-FR; BDK712; 9FLTCOM; 0900EC) : Scramble Line Encrypted, Standby, Standby!

(VMS-FR; BDK310; 9FLTCOM; 0900EC) : Prep five thousand combat-ready naval infantrymen. Repeat, five thousand pending deployment with associated armour. Scramble line 122 at starboard, crossing MILDA’s aft at marks 3.5 at 30 knots.

(VMS-FR; BDK311; 9FLTCOM; 0900EC) : Four-thousand combat-ready naval infantrymen and associated armour. Repeat, four-thousand pending deployment. Standing by to deploy 4 BTR groups from PRIMANKA, standing by to receive Mi-8s from GERDA. Scramble Line 122 at starboard, maintaining direction for aft crossing, designated marks at 3.5 going 14 knots, lowering to ¼.”

(VMS-FR; BDK401; 9FLTCOM; 0900EC) : One-thousand of four-thousand deployed at Qiilura Sector of 3rd Beach. 1 of 4 BTR groups deployed, 3 BTR Groups from GERDA are pending deployment, Mi-8s pending to be received from PRIMANKA. Scramble Line 122 at starboard, maintaining hold and speed. Designated marks at 4.0 going 10 knots and slowing.

(NEBESA; PACTEASTCOM, CC; 0900EC) : Interrogative, MILDA. State deployment line, heading, speed, and condition.

(VMS-FR; BDK712; 9FLTCOM; 0900EC) : Acknowledged! Heading of 140, 10 knots and slowing, optimal condition. Two thousand marines are pending deployment. Scramble line encrypted.

(NEBESA; PACTEASTCOM, CC; 0900EC) : Acknowledged. Correction of…

(KAM-GRM; FRG090; 33FLOTTE; 0910EC) : Dorbach is ready to receive information packages from Halende and Shaposhnikov. Scramble line 170, 40 knots going 50, 130 kilometres from the immersion line, do you copy?

(VMS-FR; DDG331; 10FLTCOM; 910EC) : Shaposhnikov copies. On your starboard.

(KAM-GRM; FRG092; 33FLOTTE; 0910EC) : Halende copies. On your port.

(KAM-GRM; FRG090; 33FLOTTE; 0910EC) : We have clearance to intercept any unidentified vessel or aircraft leaving the Tambara zone, prevent incursions by any non-Pact vessels, and engaging any vessel or aircraft failing to comply.

(VMS-FR; DDG331; 10FLTCOM; 911EC) : Shaposhnikov copies.

(KAM-GRM; FRG092; 33FLOTTE; 0910EC) : Halende copies. Unknown vessel approaching the Tambara zone at 30 knots, heading of two-niner on a west-northwest axis, not responding to IFF chirps. Suspected to be a revenue cutter. Be advised: dispatching a Ka-27 to monitor, possible boarding actions if necessary.

(VMS-FR; DDG331; 10FLTCOM; 911EC) : Shaposhnikov copies. Recon approved, boarding actions are denied.

(KAM-GRM; FRG090; 33FLOTTE; 0910EC) : Dorbach copies. Dispatching a Ka-31 to assist Halende’s. Be advised: The Shaposhnikov’s…

“FIRST MOTOR RIFLE REGIMENT, 26TH WHITE GUARDS NAVAL INFANTRY BRIGADE, REPORT TO THE WELL DECK FOR DISEMBARKATION.”

“...follow the man in front of you, and move to the predetermined point. Understood?”

““Aye aye, Comrade Captain.””

“Good. Gunners? Check your belts, make sure there’s at least one tracer per three AP rounds.” The masked man pulled back on his sleeve, “If I’m correct? The Tsaplyas should be done refuelling and loading our BTR’s in around 6 minutes or less, so check your gear, and check your comrades, we’re going to be in for a gentle ride if all things go right. We’ve done this countless times before, you all know what to do.”

“If that is all, ladies and gentlemen,” The Captain stepped down from the small crate that made his impromptu podium or platform, “Then be ready to disembark. Good luck, may the Stars guide us.”

“YOU HEARD THE SKIPPER, GET YOUR GEAR ON, MOVE!”

““Aye aye!””

“How fun, how utterly fun.” Ekaterina slipped her helmet on, “Comrade Mishka, how’re you holding up?”

The Vichnayan-Usti Labanonskan man snapped his head over to her, “Ballin’ my Gal, how about you?”

“Fine.” She shrugged, “Guess I’m still tired.”

The man patted her back, “C’moon, smile a little bit more, don’t you? A frown ain’t pretty.”

“...Mhm…”

“What answer is that, Ekaterina?”

“An ‘Mhm’ is an answer, Comrade Mishka.”

“That’s a better answer right there, battle-buddy!”

An exasperated chuckle escaped her lips, “C’mon, check my powerpack, will you?”

She hummed as she adjusted the straps to her helmet and the cuffs of her uniform. A veteran of 3 of the 7 years of her contract, her unit had seen their fair share of deployments, sure, especially in the intervention in Aldar Kose only a year prior, but she herself had seen little in the way of combat. Would this mean she’s untested? Of course not, the extensive and rigorous training the White Guards received on a weekly basis by an innumerable amount of courses and exercises that she and her unit were forced/voluntold to take part in– and much more to her annoyance, taking part of exercises that rage from the comfortable cold to the utterly sticky, humid heat of the Adaki Far East, mainly, the Khanate of Caeruun-Olgii. So far? Her disdain for the Serene Federation was growing, laying of course for the ever-humid heat that led to such drastic measures such as having a mini-fan semi-improvised attached to the kevlar collar of her vest— a tad annoying with the fan requiring a battery replacement every dozen minutes or so, but it helped with the heat AND allowing her 10P330M goggles to not fog up.

In fairness, it could’ve been worse.

For one, she could’ve been the poor bastards in the accompanying 56. Kriegsmarine-Seebrigade wearing the stuffier EMR-patterned uniforms that were more or less hand-me-downs from the regular Vichnayan Army. At the very least, they were supplemented by having the Brigade’s mess truck with them.

Rather than the standard EMR patterned camouflaged that the other formations deployed to this operation, the White Guards of Vichnaya would be receiving far more special attention compared to their peers in the Astovkan Naval Infantry as usual; rather than the EMR Woodland, EMR Steppe, or EMR Desert patterns that were common across the Orlova Pact and most especially their country of origin, they were instead equipped with the relatively uncommon ‘EMR Universal Pattern’ or more known colloquially across the Armed Forces of nations around Lyceni, Multicam. Dominant as the Vichnayan Military Industrial Complex and Military in all sects of defence-related matters, even they can’t deny its effectiveness in nearly any environment. Additionally, their uniforms were more breathable and lighter compared to the others, though still providing all the protection that the standard offered, and as if to hammer it in, lowered the user’s infrared signature and scrambled their figure when used by digital devices— though the last features were more or less the works of the uniform itself rather than the pattern used.

But of course, there were other aspects. Aside from the multicam pattern that made them stick out from the the accompanying Astovkan Marines and regular Vichnayan Army personnel, the 26th had some rather distinctive identification patterns, mainly, a black-and-dark blue ribbon running down each of their sleeves and around their helmets. The helmets, rig, pouches, backpacks, vests, exoskeleton covers, and others on their persons? Merely standard PMPSP Program equipment in Multicam covers, although the newer of the Brigade received some mismatched EMR Woodland or EMR Steppe patterned covers for their stuff.

PAKs, splints, tourniquets, 6.5⨯51mm CTA OP-V and 9⨯21mm magazines & pouches, reserve ammunition boxes and pouches, spare batteries, radios, rations, and many more were the equipment she was given today, not even saying anything about all of the modifications she made to her own vest that was done to add additional protection, mainly, a second layer of Level IIIA soft body armour she purchased out of pocket. Her rifle? Outfitted with a grip, a suppressor, the standard 1P350 sight, and hastily spraypainted to at least attempt to fit the camouflage she wore today.

Then there was the main pieces of armour: four ceramic plates capable of stopping .50 BMG rounds and dispersing the kinetic energy around for her vest and fleshy body to handle, two on the front and back, and two on the sides, with her helmet capable of stopping 6.8⨯51mm rounds. Heavy? Yes, but worth it in her eyes.

“You’re fine, Kat.” He’d pat her on the shoulder, signifying that she, indeed, had done her chore correctly. “Can you-”

“Comrade Mishka, Comrade Ekaterina!” Their squad’s designated Grenadier, one Anton Wyckoff, ran up to them. “Is my gear in check? I can’t see if the straps are on properly– damn grenades in the backpack are blocking my view and they be uncomfortable as hell.”

A ‘Grenadier’ in the Orlova Pact wasn’t the same as a grenadier in Western militaries as, instead of something like an underslung grenade launcher, they were instead armed with RPGs. In the case of Anton? He was carrying an RPG-40, whilst everyone else was carrying two RPG-34As on top of the two Shrakrak loitering munitions.

“Mind the Sister’s words,” She’d turn to Mishka, “Check him out, I’ll check yours.”

A nod. “Understood.”

A rather simple process it was of checking it, mainly just seeing if they had properly secured their kit and/or had it on them in the first place.

“Mishka!” She’d pat his shoulder, “You’re good.”

But in turn, Mishka had something else to say. “Anton, bro, you’re missing everything on your backpack. I’m sorry mate, I think Ms. Ekaterina here sold all of your stuff!”

“I did not!”

Anton injected, “Damn girl, couldn’t even do it like the Riomlerians and sell it after we’ve landed huh?”

“Both of you,” She’d pout, “Fuck you.”

““Please do.””

“Uh-huh..” A pout led to a sigh, “I can’t win against y’all, can I?”

The two chuckled, with a firm tap on the shoulder and affirmative nod signalling to Anton that his kit was fully stocked, secure, and ready to be used. The life of Vichnayan Naval Infantry was difficult and by far different from what her recruiter said when she signed up for the 14-year contract back when she was the ripe-old age of 18 years old. Was the pay good considering she contracted herself rather than being conscripted like the rest of the alumni of Four-Year Public Education Complex №42? Incredibly so combining the 35,000В₽ sign-up bonus, the several courses she took for extra pay, and the potential of a 70,000В₽ spike hazard bonus. But did she enjoy whatever downsides that may have incurred? Her chronic back pain would be the judge of that.

“SECOND MOTOR RIFLE REGIMENT, 26TH WHITE GUARDS NAVAL INFANTRY BRIGADE, REPORT TO THE WELL DECK FOR DISEMBARKATION.”

“THAT’S US, LADIES AND GENTS!” The Company Sergeant cried out, “MOVE IT!”

“Third motor rifle company, third platoon, we’re up!” The Lieutenant raised his hand towards the bay doors, “Make sure you don’t leave anything behind and make your way to the well deck!”

A shot of adrenaline raced down Ekaterina’s nerves as the bay spiked up in volume, the rest of her comrades rushing to finish up whatever tasks were at their hands. As for her? The paranoia that ran down the genetics of her family already ensured that she had everything on her person asides, of course, her weaponry that rested on her olive-coloured bunk. The equipment she wore? Easily weighed a good 45 kg with an additional 22 kg in the equipment she stowed in her backpack. It should’ve been backbreaking, but the exoskeleton negated that— if anything, she was faster in her movement, speed, and manoeuvrability.

A perk of being a White Guard, seeing as the tech was prioritised for combat units on the Riomler-Adaki and Viridian Border. Everyone else? They just had to contend with what their forefathers had to experience for generations.

Simple. She’d rack the slide back on her sidearm, an SR-2, chambering a round, making sure the switch was on safety, and holstering it on her thigh.

Simple. She’d wrap the sling of her AK-32 around her neck before wielding it comfortably, racking the bolt back to check if a white-cased polymer round was in the chamber, before letting the bolt slam forward with a satisfying mechanical ‘clunk’ before it too, was switched to safety.

Simple. She’d lower down her 10P330M goggles that rested on her helmet after removing its cover, clicking the device on with a simple press of a button.

Her worldview lit up with each and every object and person within the company bay outlined in white. Something straight of a video game, say, Halo ODST, with how much her vision was so game-like— from aspects like friendlies being highlighted with the aforementioned white with blue tags stating their position, i.e rifleman or grenadier or squad leader, down to aspects like her bearings, where the crosshair of her rifle was pointed at, and even her bloody noise level. It never ceased to amaze her really, and to think this is a standard issue across the Federal Republic of Vichnaya.

An internal monologue here and there, and she and all 32 of her squad were at the good deck and joined the rest of the 300 or so members of their Motor Rifle Company, the ocean water gently splashing against the rubber skirts of two of the Tsaplya-Class LCACs. They were large and impressive things when one was standing directly before them, even if they weren’t the size of a Zubr-Class LCAC.

Contrary to what most internet denizens may think, the deployment onboard a Zubr-Class was incredibly rare with the amount of maintenance they took up per hour of operation in the field. Even with an operation of this scale.

“Comrades Marines of the 26th White Guards Naval Infantry Brigade!” Bellowed the Captain once more, “Remember to keep your comrades close, make sure your eyes are near them. We’ll be linking up with the 117th Independent White Guards Mountain Air Assault Regiment once we’re off the beach and en route to Veliky Ustinagorod. Good luck, may Sister Ustina and Sister Raya guide us all!”

“First and second motor rifle platoons,” He pointed now, “13th and 14th boats!”

The Company Sergeant followed up, “Third and fourth platoons, 17th and 19th boats!”

Finally, the whines of the four Tsaplya-Class LCACs that, weren’t for the sound protection she was wearing, would’ve extensively damaged her ears if they weren’t already. The propellers, thankfully, weren’t on or else everyone here would've been slammed back against the wall of the LHD's well deck. Inside the LCACs were her platoon's BTR-145s, massive things were the crews running around, doing final checks on those massive 57mm autocannons.

The two back doors of Tsaplya-677 opened. It was time for work.

---

Chapter 2, Act 03 - Eternity Of Glory

Hero City Orlova, Vozrozhdeniye Oblast

---

Song of the United Armies (Песня объединённых армий)

We'll strike in response to aggression,
The land of Vichnayans and Caeruuns,
Usti-Labnonskans and Astovkans, Aldoreans, Adaks–
Try to count us!

Friends, friends, keep your gunpowder dry,
Friends, friends, align your strong formation!
For children's laughter in sunny expanses,
For our motherland, for our motherland, We are ready for battle!

---

He is an old man.

His eyes spoke of meticulous calculation, one that may remind a person of their boss.

His skin spoke of an ageing being, one that may remind a person of their parent.

His lips spoke of a weary smile, one that may remind a person of their dedushka.

His uniform, however, spoke of times past.

He is an old man.

He had faint memories of a lifetime past. The ever-exhausted face of his father returning back to their summer dacha with the stench of gunpowder that even his mother revolted at by even being in his general vicinity. They loved each other— perhaps a bit too much with over 12 siblings, of course, always having playfully bantered back and forth between one and another and that horrid stench his father had was promptly rectified, but that was when he learned of something new: Disgust. When his brothers came back from raiding the neighbouring villages for supplies their family could use such as linen, bricks, rebar, or simply food and water, he was of course happy, but there was a new thing he learned of those passing days: Confusion. When he joined the Defences Forces of the Adak Provisional Authority as a Motor Rifleman, climbing through the ranks and fighting tooth-and-nail to not have whatever belongings stolen by the other conscripts around him, he learned of a new emotion: Annoyance. When he saw the world around him fall apart as the Adak Provisional Authority collapsed, he saw a new perspective on the harsh world that was Eastern Lyceni, the continent of Arcturus: Rage, and the urge for something more unified.

He have had memories of careers past. Barely 21 when he joined the fledgling Federal Republic as one of the many instruments of the most infamous internal security and intelligence agency of the Great Adaki Steppes, and indeed, the world itself, The All-Vichnayan Commissariat for Political and Social Security or known simply as the VPKO. As surprising as it may be for the viewers, the VPKO wasn’t entirely Vichnayan as the name of the agency may have proclaimed, but instead, made up of a multitude of people from groups across Lyceni, from Costa Resan barmen in the far West, the Alexandrian bank tellers, Harrosopian zookeepers, Riomlerian construction workers, Aldorean imam’s, Usti-Labnonskan cultists, Magican dock workers, and many, many more that the VPKO had kept tight lid on. He especially, being a former officer of the 41st Directorate for Internal Security — the arm of the VPKO responsible for counter-intelligence, political, and socioreligious control of the Federal Republic, would know.

It took years past two wars against the Astovkans, the quagmire that was politics and elections at a local, oblast, and ultimately a national level, all the while sorting through the various social and economic hellscape that was 1970s-1990s Vichnaya. Sure, the adoption of the National Automated System for Computation and Information Processing or OGAS had certainly helped, but the majority of the work that had to be implemented was done by hand, and saw through by man, not machine. Techno-fetishists to borrow what the Magicans had called them? Perhaps. But stupid? That could be left to the Riomlerians.

In the end, he had reformed the corrupt and despotic mess that was the ranks of the Adak Provisional Authority.

In the end, he straightened out the hundreds of ethnic groups that presided over the Federal Republic to be unified under one cause, under one religion.

In the end, he brought order to the vast Steppes of the Great Lyceni East, even if it came at the price of blood split over its black, fertile fields.

Andrei Yazov had lived through much, he was an old man now.

Before him were 88 members of Government, hailing from the National Security Council of Vichnaya, Chiefs of Staff for the Vichnayan Armed Forces, all three VPKO Directors and a multitude of sub-directors, and finally, representatives from the various V-MIC companies centralised under ‘AdakTec’. All of them were familiar faces seeing as he still maintained that ever-sharp memory of his throughout these years, and most notably, Mara Auclair of Mara Industries. The narcissist.

"Comrades!" One of the butlers yelled out, garnering the attention of everyone. "The meeting will be starting within five minutes, refreshments will be given out starting now and will be regularly refilled at the moment of that red button on your seat's right side!"

Next to him, a maid followed suit, pointing to two doors at the back of the room, "If you require anything else, then please ask one of your most humble servants or the gentlemen and women standing guard outside."

He'd nod, "As always, we thank you for attending this meeting organized by the President and his most holy Excellency. Glory to the Scared Stars, Glory to Comrade Yazov!"

«Слава, Слава, Слава!»

Applause went on for Yazov as he stood up, and following three to four minutes of it straight followed by the occaisional ‘Slava!’ or ‘Ruhm, Ruhm!’ died down eventually. Creepy, but it was more or less the consequences of his actions.

Of course, those 5 minutes were merely there for the servants to have out the proper refreshments and the civil servants to prepare whatever documents were necessary for them. Once those five minutes were up? It was game on.

"Ladies, Gentlemen, Misc," He'd clear his throat as he leaned in, "As of this time, the 271st meeting of the National Security Council of Vichnaya will begin after this speech, as well as the 89th meeting of the Covenant of Solidarity, Collaboration, and Collective Defense. Ms. Blake of the Government Personnel Accountability Office,” he motioned over to the woman sitting in the corner, “Will be designated as the timekeeper, whilst Political Directorate Leader 3rd Class Gregori Makovich of the VPKO will be keeping notes. This meeting will be relatively short as we’re having guests arriving from Viridia coming in for a hearing.”

“Questions may be asked to those presenting, remember that Ladies, Gentlemen, and all those in between, but do remember that I will be asking my own if I require…a bit more information.” Finally, much to the relief of his body, he leaned back onto his seat, “If that is all for me to say, are there any questions for you all to ask before this is properly starts?”

One brave soul, Reichsadmiral Frieden, stood up shortly followed by his assistant. “Meine Herr, if you may excuse my language as I’m not the best at this intricate tongue, how long will this meeting and the hearing last? E-Excuse me again, meine Herr, but I do need to head back to the 34. Flotte.”

Yazov applauded, “Good enough, Comrade. But this meeting shall last…” His eyes darted to the stack of papers on his desk for a second, “...For around two hours, then the diplomatic hearing will last for around 2 hours to 3 hours, then we’ll be back for yet another meeting between us Comrades in the Orlova Pact for how long it’ll be needed. Is that all for you to ask?”

The Reichsadmiral nodded, sitting down. “Yes, Meine Herr.”

“Good! Assign someone to take your place in the next meeting, and then you’ll be granted permission to head back to the Far East.” He clasped his hands together, “Is that all? We have two hours, comrades”

Silence with some heads bobbing up and down.

“Hmph,” He’d motion over to one of the tables now. “If that were the case, let this meeting begin. Ms. Blake and Comrade Makovich? Please set the timer and start the record. Comrades of the Vichnayan Aerospace Forces, Astovkan Air Force, Usti-Labnonskan Aerospace Forces, Aldorean Aerospace Forces, and Khanate’s Aerospace Forces, you may take the floor first with the Maritime Forces next.”

Then rose Pyotr II Nakhimov, the Sky Marshal of the Vichnayan Federal Republic. “I’ll make it short for the sake of time. The Aerospace Forces of the Orlova Pact has, and will continue, be on Readiness Level ELEVATED on a broad level and if you all may look at the documents before you…” Yazov navigated to one packet labelled “VKS-FR/UL/CU, LUFTWAFFE” on his desk, “All fighter aircraft and interceptor aircraft are combat-ready, and as the chart below has shown, ready for deployment given the order. As you all may know, the Western and South-Western Military Districts have the majority of combat-ready fighter aircraft, the Eastern Military District following closely with 2,314 in various airbases, with the remainder having the fewest. Because of the ongoing mobilisation and deployment order for the Special Military Operation in the Serene Federation…”

General Abdul Suhaila Cheragh-Ali of the Aldorean Aerospace Forces stood up, “Additional fighter aircraft from the South-Western Military Distract has been dispatched to assist our friends in the Far East. If what the military council has told me? Around 1,100 fighters have been sent and en route— due thanks to our brothers in the Vichnayan Air Force providing on-course refuelling.”

The Sky Marshal continued, “Aside from those, 440 strategic bombers and 5,341 tactical bombers/attackers are on standby for deployment. Cargo and transport aircraft are also present, although lacking from in the Eastern Theatre since prioritisation has been placed on the Western and South-Western Military Districts. Aldar Kose has also dispatched a number of either strategic bombers and attackers, with a smaller number of strategic transports included in the chart. Thus far? Most aircraft in theatre consist of Su-75UM3s, Su-75SMTs, Su-60SMTs and SMAs, Tu-16Ms and Tu-22Ms, Su-92As and a smaller number of Su-92SMs, and transport aircraft of varying purposes including the three of the P-400s allotted for the Aerospace Forces.”

One of the aides from the Khanate’s Air Force raised his hand, “Hold on, Comrade Sky Marshal— I’m looking through the chart here and seeing that around 4.42% of the aircraft consists of interceptors, yet another table on Page 40, if I’m correct, that 100% of all interceptors in the Orlova Pact.”

“You would be correct, Comrade General, that would indeed.”

“May I ask why? Please, I’m merely curious.”

Pyotr shook his head, “Not much point in the Western Military Districts if the majority of all Su-60s are there in the first place, no? Besides, the MiG-41s have shown to have a decent capability in being armed for anti-ship, air-to-ground missions, and air-to-air interceptions against aircraft of its generations. Not like we’re expecting them to go toe-to-toe with Magican ‘B-23-A Golubi’s’ over the skies of the Federation which, again, a brief summary of what that is on the packet handed out to you all.”

Such was the designation given to an unknown Magican Fighter that the VPKO first had their attention captured during the Riomlerian Civil War, and later information corroborated by the efforts of Astovkan Stasi agents later in the fall of the Magican Empire— though, recently those 23 assigned there were recently driven into hiding or simply killed. The VPKO, of course, was good at its job. By all accounts? A fighter that the Su-60SMT would be equal against in nearly all categories except its altitude, which later reports from satellites, air defence systems, and others would seem to indicate that it was far superior in that aspect. Measures were in place to counteract this, but in the end, the existence of that alone forced major redesigns in the upcoming Sukhoi Su-94 that had been delayed time after time.

“In summary? The Aerospace Forces of the Covenant will have a definite material and personnel advantage once mobilisation has been fully enacted. The Aerospace Defense Forces have likewise been active with our S-600 and S-700 Regiments and their supporting Air Defense components moving to and fro to throw off Magican ISR assets from locating each site. Combat air patrols are already active in all military districts,” He’d clear his throat, “Information of S-600 and S-700V assets in the Serene Federation will be given out by our comrades in the Ground Forces of the Orlova Pact. That is all from the Aerospace Forces.”

“Thank you, Comrade.” Yazov motioned to the middle table now. “Comrade Admirals of the Vichnayan Navy, Astovkan Kriegsmarine, Khanate’s Navy, Usti-Labnonskan Navy, and the Aldar Kose Naval Service, you may present now. The Ground Forces shall be next, then our honoured Security Services of each respective member state.”

A Mikhail Konstantinovich Pieck stood up, the Lord Admiral of the Vichnayan Federal Republic. “The Navies of the Orlova Pact are likewise standing at Readiness Condition ELEVATED for all Military Districts they are assigned to, with the Eastern Military District standing at Readiness Condition THREE - MILITARY DANGER. All but three fleets of the Vichnayan Navy are assigned at the Western and Northern Military District, with the 8th, 9th, and 13th Fleets assigned to the Eastern Military District. The Astovkan, Usti-Labnonskan, and Khante’s navies are at full readiness condition— however the 8th Fleet and the 34. Flotte are delaying their deployment as one of their Reichsadmiral Schäfer-Class Battlecruisers and two of the Kirov-Class Battlecruisers still require maintenance to their VLS Cells. Otherwise? The Akula and Khaski-Class Submarines have been deployed, and a few hours previously, the U-Boats of the Astovkan Navy were also deployed. All carrier task forces of the 8th Fleet and 34. Flotte have been deployed and are awaiting the rest of their respective fleets.”

Silence, then Reichsadmiral Frieden stood up, “Meine Herr, the Astovkan Navies alongside our Comrades in the Khanate’s and Vichnayan Navies are active in the Keltish Region— as I’m currently aware, the 33. Flotte and the 9th Fleet are currently transporting the initial reaction forces to the Serene Federation, whilst the 23. and 30. Flotte has been pulling guard duty in the Keltish and Northern Seas. As Herr Pieck has said, our U-Boats have indeed been launched, though we’re focusing more on securing control in the Keltish Sea which we are doing as we speak. Our comrades in the Aerospace Forces have been helping a great lot in those regards, and I wish them my best wishes.”

An aide yelled, “To you as well, Towarzyszu-Przyjacielu!”

Yazov nodded, scribbled something down, then spoke up. “And what of the Naval Infantry, Gentlemen?”

“A-Ah,” A person from the third table stood up, “The Ground Forces of the Covenant will discuss that, Wielki przywódca, I deeply apologise for interrupting you and Lord Frieden’s discussion.”

The room fell into silence again.

A sigh, “You needn’t worry, Comrade. Shall the Khanate speak?”

“Bi khariulakh bolno, my lord.” A Khanate Admiral raised his hand, “The Navy of the Khanate are at readiness condition ELEVATED as the rest of our comrades are. Same case here with our meagre fleets simply here to assist the transit corridor we’ve established according to the operation, however, we’ve been primarily providing security at the littoral areas whilst what destroyers and frigates we have designated to escort the convoys ferrying marines, materials, and equipment— which are located on Page 43 of the packet, seeing as this maze is rather…troubling.”

The Lord Admiral raised his hand, “That will be all from the Maritime Forces of the Covenant.”

“Thank you, Lord Admiral. Comrades of the Vichnayan Ground Forces, the Astovkan Army, the Usti-Labnonskan Army, the Ground Forces of the Khanate, and the Army of Aldar Kose, you may now speak.” Yazov coughed, “And please, do make it quick if possible.”

“Will do, M-Mój przywódca,” Stood the head of the third table now. “Because of Marshal Katskaya’s lack of presence due to illness, a representative to the Deputy Military Head of the Kingdom of Usti-Labnonska shall take her place. Seeing as the current aim of this meeting is directed towards the current operation in the Serene Federation, I shall be brief with the personnel and equipment situation: all divisions, brigades, and regiments are currently in readiness condition MILITARY DANGER with most stationed in the Western and South-Western Military Districts. As for the the Eastern Military District, we have 11 Motor Rifle Divisions, 6 Tank Divisions, 78 Motor Rifle Brigades, 23 Tank Brigades at the disposal of the Vichnayan Army, adding an additional 13 Motor Rifle Divisions, 5 Tank Divisions, and 44 Motor Rifle Brigades from the other Member States excluding Aldar Kose — from which we’re expecting an additional 2 million after denying the deployment of 8 million — currently mobilising or ready for deployment.”

A nearby aide coughed, tugged at Captain Kukuła’s sleeve, and whispered something into her ear.

“My apologies, my apologies!” She’d rapidly flip some pages on her packet, “A Vichnayan White Guards Naval Infantry Brigade, 2 Astovkan Naval Infantry Brigades, and a multitude of smaller regiments have been deployed on the Northern coasts of the island as part of the quick reaction force for the initial stages of the Peacekeeping Operation which includes 2 S-600 and 5 S-700 regiments. We’re expecting additional forces to be deployed soon in the coming days via the corridors.”

“That is all from the Ground Forces of the Covenant, M’lord. All military forces have been placed on readiness condition MILITARY DANGER, and mobilisation is currently in place for the Eastern Military Districts.”

A small applause rang out, doing good to bolster the jitterness of the Usti-Labnonskan liaison.

“You’ve done well and, at the very least,” The President motioned over to the Aerospace Forces, “Yours were the shortest. Now, may the All-Vichnayan Commissariat for Political and Social Security, the Ministry of State Security, the National Commissariat for Political and Social Security, and the VPKO of the Khanate and Aldar Kose may present as the last and final party?”

“So the Security Aparatus of the Covenant shall, Comrade President.” The Heads of the table, Internal Security Director Petrovich of the VPKO and Intelligence Director Eistmutas of the Stasi, stood up along with their aides. The former turned to his Vichnayan counterpart, with the simple question “Shall you?” followed by a simple “Yes.”

Director Estmutas read from his packet, “As you all know Magican excursions and buildup in the Eastern Tropics have built up until a week ago, they exploded with a full-scale invasion by their army, naval, and aerial forces and from which, observers on the ground have relayed to us that they’re slowly becoming bogged down by heavy resistance from the ground and being delayed in strike sorties from the air by older equipment that both us and ironically enough, the Magicans have donated in the past. The Main Directorate for Reconnassance, alongside our comrades in the VPKO-GRU, are in the process of or have identified key command and control centers, logistics points, logistics chains, vital roads for navigation, and many others both here and in Magica itself. Simple facts, I know, but I’m getting to somewhere— and please flip to Page 40 of the second packet.”

“By the time we’re through the packages, the damn Sorokis would have won the war!” One of the Usti-Labnonskan Generals yelled, eliciting a few chuckles from the others in the room.

“Comrades,” Yazov stifled a cough, “Quiet. Comrade Director Estmutas?”

“Mhm, but a few things doesn’t add up: Thus far we have observed large concentrations of Magican aerospace and ground force elements engaged in battle with the local forces of the Serene Federation and whatever mercenary or militia forces they’re proping up in the defense of the island.”

Petrovich stepped in, “But what of the Magican Navy? Well, we’re observing and reporting of naval gun fire and support from their fleet and their air arms, sure, but we’ve seen little in the way of actual usage of the Forces maritimes du Grand Magican on the scale the VPKO would’ve expected. Which comes to three documents and photos that Comrade Alina, a fellow Director in the VPKO, will give out.”

Yazov sighed briefly, “Ms. Blake, how much time do we have?”

“An hour and 40 minutes, Comrade Yazov.”

He’d shift to the noteaker, “Comrade Directorate leader Makovich, please continue until the 40 minutes are over, your counterpart serving under Comrade Alina will take you place soon enough.”

“Very well, Comrade President!”

Yazov turned to Petrovich, “Continue please, Comrade Director.”

“Well, if you take a look of the Intelligence Report regarding the Magican Navy in the Eastern, Polar, and Keltish Sea, I believe the Generals and Admirals here will have a rather eye-opening experience, no?”

“Indeed it shall,” Director Estmutas spoke after, “Rest assured, the documents will be burned once this meeting is adjourned.”

…

ГОСУДАРСТВЕННАЯ ТАЙНА, ТОЛЬКО УПОЛНОМОЧЕННЫЕ ЛИЦА!

ПАКТ ОРЛОВОЙ ОТЧЕТ КОМИССАРИАТА РАЗВЕДКИ И БЕЗОПАСНОСТИ О ГЕОГРАФИЧЕСКИХ ОБСТОЯТЕЛЬСТВАХ И РЕГИОНАЛЬНЫХ ПАРТНЕРАХ

[Aldar Kose]

Operation get out the way


The sun has set, the air is cold and calm but the sea is raging, over this raging ocean 2 million soldiers start to cross. great general Onufriy Vlad makes a final speech to his men
man we are at our final destination. As soon as these doors open we will be entering into a war zone. We, The 41st infantry division will be fighting in the front lines and heading south of paradise. Do not fret for our enemies have no hearts, do not surrender for the enemy has no guilt, and NEVER STEP BACK.
As soon as the doors open the first wave of infantry begin to move.First meeting up with friendly troops and then taking cities one by one. As soon as every city from the north is taken, they start to move South, continuously taking City after City, village after village, and farm after farm until they finally meet the enemy. As soon as they see the Magica flag over the horizon they begin to dig and fortify their positions. A little west from the island however a pretty sizable Island begins its rude awakening as all of a sudden Aldar Kose soldiers begin to land, take and fortify the entire Island. After this, generals from the 15th, 25th and 48th infantry divisions Meetup discussing what to do next. After receiving a direct order from Onufriy Vlad, they then declared the island under complete Aldar Kose control, and any resistance would be considered an act of terrorism. Up to the sky however things, begin to get heated as the A K.Y.J, A.K.A.F and the A.K.D.S.F finally arrive, at first they begin to simply defend the infantry below from aerial attacks, and also provide recon. After they begin to bomb Magica controlled cities on Mass.MQ-1 Predator,сонячний GJ-1 and Orbiter 1K drones begin harassing nearby Magica boats protected by A.K.Y.J AK AMCA fighters. As the sun begins to finally rise, Paradise starts to realize the weight this conflict might cause. In aldar however things begin to get chaotic, as the military prepares for retaliation from the Magica. At the same time up in space, engineers begin to write down coordinates of important military base and cities within Magica, waiting for their commanders to give them the green light to start launching the payload of the H.F.S . They also begin to release an EMP to completely wipe out all the satellites that Magica owns, they load in the shot and prepare to launch. Back in сонячний Pablo Bohuslav begins to wake up, and make his coffee when all of a sudden and head general Burgess in his room “The landings were successful” he says. Pablo Bohuslav puts his coffee down “good, then we begin stage 2 of the plan then" Order the entire military on full alert, and prepare another 14 million troops to Head East, just in case” the general leaves his room to repeat the orders along the chain. As he begins to put on his uniform, he looks up at his very own flag. the same flag he used to start his rebellion, and he begins to think of simpler times, and starts repeating a poem that is Father once told him “no matter the darkness, no matter the rain, no matter the sorrows, and no matter the pain, all Shelby clear for the new day, for no matter what they say, the Sun shall rise again. As this is happening a diplomat posing as a trade salesman finally enters into Hundermenschen. His purpose is to secure weaponry for the rebels in Hundermenschen. “I am willing to give you an offer that you will not refuse. As a representation of Pablo Bohuslav, I wish to make a deal with you” he slides one of the rebels a list of weaponry “choose wisely, we have a very huge selection of weaponry that you can choose. I'll be waiting for your answer”