Survive the Hounds of War (attn Central Asia, TG to enter)

[Cosacakaya]

This thread is closed to members of the region of Central Asia. TG me or Generic empire to join

A Thread By Central Asia

“It is well that war is so terrible, otherwise we should grow too fond of it.” - Robert E. Lee

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• OOC Thread
• [url]Map[/url]

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Mosograd had once been the lifeblood and seat of power of the Grand Empire of the Holy Russ - the personification of the Empire’s power and influence over the greater region of Central Asia. It was from there that Grand Tsar Vladimir the Great of the Russ was crowned their first Tsar to great celebration. He was later blessed by God in a great vision that the Holy Russ would be the protector of the Orthodox faith - eventually morphing into the desire to unify all the slavic people under the Holy Russ.

At its height, the Grand Empire of the Holy Russ spanned all of Central Asia, providing law and order to all. Through its Russification drives at the height of the Empire spread culture and it served as the beckon of true culture and civility to the savages. It was only through the Holy Russ could the Slavic language and Orthodox Church spread. Its capital Mosograd was the envy of many, while its control over such a large region allowed the Holy Russ to amass a wealth never seen before.

But expansion came at a price.

Costly and fruitless adventures in the Generian continent brought only debts all the while the costs of maintaining such a massive empire only built with time. Eventually tensions within the empire exploded out into a great war over the succession to the Empire that divided it as different factions fought to control the succession. In a few short years, the Holy Russ collapsed into disunity, its empire fell apart and only Russistan remains.

Now where once the mightiest Empire Central Asia had ever seen was reduced to an aging rump state a shadow of its former glory. Internal corruption, poor administration, and successive inept leaders have left the once great Russistan weak and slowly dying from a thousand internal cuts. Like vultures circling a corpse, Russistans neighbours became even more bold. There were a number of events between Russistan and her neighbors alone, starting after 2017 and escalating with time. Each incident received significant international condemnation.

16th July 2011: New King - Pro-Generian Grand King Nikolai Konstantinovich Gagarin marries Generian noblewoman Elena Manistina with Cosacakayan mediation. The new Kings proclaims grand new era of Generian-Russ relations

27th August 2017 Rose Revolution: 2017 election is marked by allegations of widespread fraud, corruption and interference from King Nikolai Konstantinovich Gagarin - with pro-Generian candidates leading in the early polls exit. Opposition candidate Viktor Gleb soon demands a recount and clashes with Grand King Nikolai. In the resulting chaos, King Nikolai is deposed following a popular revolution.

29th August 2017: Generian troops leave their bases in the Russ region of Zapolonsk and begin seizing government buildings, important roads, logistic hubs, and ports. King Nikolai Gagarin returns from exile and declares Duchy of Zapolonsk with himself as Duke.

2nd September 2017: New Russ King Lev Nikolainovich Gagarin announces counter-terrosism operation to reclaim Zapolonsk from his father. Generia warns against this and declares intention to intervene in conflict.

3rd September 2017: Cosacakaya diplomatically intervenes in the crisis - successfully forcing the new King to back down and unofficially recognises the rogue province.

17th March 2018: The Zapolonsk rebel and Russ Navies exchange fire as intense border clashes erupt. 2 Zapolonski Ships are damaged and dozens killed on both sides. Generia uses the situation to expand its military footprint in Zapolonsk and declares the incident "aggressive provocation" by Russistan.

8th November 2018: The Russ power grid is hacked and goes dark for several hours. It is later discovered by the Russ Intelligence Directorate that hackers originating from Cosacakaya were responsible for the attack.

23th March 2020: King Lev Nikolainovich Gagarin is assassinated - with conspiracy theories blaming Cosacakaya or Generia. The exiled King Nikolai’s nephew Crown Prince Ivan Fyodorovich Vorontsov succeeds him while the ruling anti-Generian Prime Minister Aleksey Mikhailovich’s coalition begins to crumble after a corruption scandal. Generia de-facto annexes Zapolonsk after Duke Nikolai Gagarin agrees to becoming it becoming a Generian tributary state.

13th June 2020: - A Russ Freighter makes the mistake of entering Generia’s occupied exclusive economic zone in Zapolonsk and is fired on by a Generian Warship Ship. The vessel is sunk and 10 of the crew are killed causing the collapse of the Coalition government and snap elections are called.

12th July 2021 New Era - Prime Minister Maksim Kuznetsov is elected under the mandate of solving the Zapolonsk question situation - though his election is full of allegations of foreign interference by Generia and Cosacakaya.

[Cosacakaya]

[Russistan]

“At The End Of A Stick”

Tsar Vladimir Square
Mosograd, Russistan

There are few in the world who could argue Russistan relationship with its neighbours was anything other than puppet and puppet master. Whether it was actually true or not, it was beside the point for the increasingly large crowd of people walking along Vladimir the Great boulevard. Weariness was growing in Russistan by the day over the influence of foreign interests in the government, slowly bubbling towards the surface and waiting to explode.

Those were the thoughts of Vlad running through his mind as he followed the crowd slowly filtering out onto the streets. “Why is our government arresting musicians now? What have they ever done to threaten our safety?” Vlad thought angrily, a sudden wave of rage, like cold water, running down his spine. He kept scrolling his phone, reading the latest of what had just happened a few hours ago - a concert raided, dozens injured by the police, and a foreign musician with a history of opposing the reign of a foreign monarch arrested in his country. “Can our spineless so-called leaders be any more corrupt - doing the dirty work of their foreign masters?”

All of sudden, an abrupt howl of cold wind came rolling in, and snapped at any exposed skin of those pouring on onto the streets. Vlad looked overhead at the bloated, malicious looking storm clouds hovering over him - a common sight for the locals of Mosograd even in the high of summer. It looked as though the sky was threatening at any moment to unleash its fury against the city’s residents for displaying such open resistance.

In spite of the freezing temperatures and poor weather, Vlad couldn’t help but smile as he saw the first groups of people, initially appearing in a light stream before gradually turning into a full flood. All of them followed Vlad in making their way to Mosograd’s most noteworthy site; Tsar Vladimir Square. “The people are tired and angry,” he thought with hands twisting into fists, walking past run down buildings with window frames creaking in the whistle of a cold wind. “How much more humiliation must we suffer due to our corrupt and inept leaders?” his heart was warming at the sight of so many people joining in the protest.

“Down with Sofia-Zapolonsk city-Mosograd Economic Corridor! Free Reeztochka! Liberate Zapolonsk! Our dear Russistan will not perish, so long as we live!” These were the chants of the demonstrators lining the enormous roadway of the Walkway of the Grand Empire which led directly to Vladimir the Great Square. Their voices echoing and bouncing through the narrow streets of the old city in their collective rage. “Liberate Zapolonsk! Free Reeztochka!” they screamed at the top of their lungs. “Down with Sofia-Zapolonsk city-Mosograd Economic Corridor!”

Walking through the crowded streets filled with a sea of masked protesters, he saw her - Andrea Petrova and her brother Victor Petrov. Both had their coat collars raised and faces hidden beneath masks. Nevertheless, Vlad could always recognise the pair of them as it was impossible for Andrea to hide with her height. He had met them at the Royal Mosograd University of Higher Learning and they had lured him in the underground Republican movement at the school. He had spent most of his time clandestinely spreading anti-Government propaganda through the school, but never had seen anything like this.

“Where is Sofya?” Andrea yelled out, but Vlad was barely able to make it out through the chanting. The air was electric with defiance and the will to resist as the crowd continued to move past them - their dark clothing and flags emblazoned with the colors of the Russ flag moved like a passing wave. “She was supposed to meet up here.”

“Dunno, it is impossible to recognise anyone in this crowd,” Vlad complained to angry looks by the siblings. “Maybe we will see her at Tsar Vladimir Square.”

“Yeah, sure,” yelled Andrea over the roar of the protest chants. “What are you doing?! Get out your phone and start recording this. World’s got to know what's going on here in Russistan. We are making history here.”

“Oh yeah, of course.” Vlad shouted back, dumbly realised that he was the only person not recording the march, gliding his hand into his rucksack and pulling out his phone- briskly pulling up the camera app and pressing record. He raised it high above her head and spun it 360 degrees, getting a general picture of the size of the protests, before descending it back to ground level. “I’m recording.”

“Finally, you idiot,” Vlad only just made out, but he was unsure which one said it. “Great, now that stooge Kuznetsov can’t claim that there are only rioters here or try to censor it out of existence like the last one.” one of them yelled out as they neared the Tsar Vladimir square.

At the square, the electric charge of protest was intoxicating. All around Vlad were people with masks over their faces carrying signs and banners brandished by the protesters bore anti-government with slurs and profanities, whereas others carried signs featuring a red X or skull over the face of the Grand King Ivan Fyodorovich Vorontsov. All around him the tricolour of Russistan flags soaked the crowd, their bearers' faces set with pride and indignation. The demonstration was a brazen act of disobedience, sparked by growing frustration with the government's perceived subservience to foreign interests. Despite claims from the Grand King and Prime Minister that they enjoy widespread support, the protesters sought to make a statement to the world: resistance is brewing within the Grand Kingdom.

For the first time in a long time, Vlad felt pride to be Russ at the sight he saw at Tsar Vladimir Square. There, he was completely taken aback by the size and scale of it - the entire square was filled with people. Tens of thousands...possibly hundreds of thousands of people had turned up. It was larger than any of them would have imagined. This was no ordinary day - It was a cry for independence, for self-determination, and for a government that truly represents the people. Tears filled the eyes of Vlad and his heart race - they were right! A free Russistan was inevitable - it was the beginning of the end for all those serving foreign interests.

But then the thought hit him - how would those in power respond to this show of defiance?

He continued to advance steadily through the mob of people until they reached the front of the crowd, his voices joining other protesters’ chants -Vlad’s phone captured the whole protest as it unfolded.

And then it happened.

They appeared from a side street - hundreds of them. A shield wall made of riot police, clad in full gear and helmets, formed a line across the Walkway of the Grand Empire backed up by a line by water canons and armoured vehicles. As they slowly approached the crowd, Vlad felt his heart race at the sight before him - a human wall made up of steel shields and batons. He could feel them, the eyes of the officers standing shoulder to shoulder, their eyes peeking through their helmets and their gazes burying into Vlad. They were silent and unmoving in their disciple. His legs started to lose all their strength at the sight of the impenetrable blue wall of steel drawing closer and closer towards him. “How are we going to stop them?”

“Attention everyone, on the authority of the Mayor of Mosograd vacate the Square peacefully and return home,” barked a riot police commander with a grizzled beard through his microphone. “Failure to do so will result in severe consequences. Disperse or else!”

He was met with insults - the collective chants and shouts from the crowd growing only louder. The tension in the air was palpable as the two sides faced off - the screams of the crowd clashing with the beats of batons against steel. Vlad’s inside started twisting up with a mixture of nerves and excitement - at times fearing his shaking hands might drop the phone at any moment. Seconds felt like hours and minutes felt like days as the two sides stood off - the tension between them being palpable.

“Why doesn’t the Mayor come himself and see us out!” roared a voice from within the crowd - he recognised it as Sofya. His heart skipped a beat at the side of her as Sofya pushed her way through the crowd and stepped forward - standing defiantly at the shield wall. “She looks stunning,” he thought, she wasn’t what many would describe as a great beauty, neither short nor tall with a thickness that seemed almost unhealthy - but in that moment, there wasn’t anyone more stunning than Sofya to Vlad. In the briefest of moments, Vlad’s gaze caught Sofya’s and he saw the fury blazing away in her eyes as she started to chant “Down with Sofia-Zapolonsk city-Mosograd Economic Corridor! Free Reeztochka!

“We’ll never leave Tsar Vladimir Square until our demands are met.” Sofya yelled, fist raised in an act of resistance. Vlad was clapping and cheering for her, admiring the way she stood tall. All of a sudden, things changed. He couldn’t make out clearly what or how it actually happened next - everything moved in a blur. At one moment, they were chanting, clapping, cheering and jeering the police at Sofya’s defiance and then there was absolute chaos…

The riot police closed in on Sofya, their shield wall fanning out encircling her before her fellow protestors could respond. In a single, a swift motion, a riot police officer brought his baton down on Sofya's head - sending her crashing down against the pavement. The officers struck her repeatedly with batons and kicks against her unmoving body. There was blood, so much blood pooling around her. Vlad tried to flee as barrages of rocks and bottles started to be thrown by the protesters in response - jeering as wounded police officers were taken away. Suddenly, a Molotov cocktail sailed over the police lines, landing with a whoosh on the pavement behind them. The flames shot up, engulfing a nearby car.

The riot police, their eyes fixed on the protesters, slowly advanced under showers of rocks being thrown against the shields they held high. The police responded with a flurry of batons, pepper spray, rubber bullets, and water canons - charging the crowd. The protesters fought back, hurling rocks and bottles at the police. Others clad in body armour and armed with shields of their own pushed their way to meet the riot police.

Vlad only just escaped the front of the protest as the first few lines of police crashed against the crowd. He feared he might only deafen from the building cacophony encasing his ears- the sound of shattering glass and screaming filled the air as the two sides clashed. There were loud bangs from flash grenades, orders to disperse, and explosions from molotov cocktails being flung over police lines. He saw glances of people being dragged away, screaming and flailing as they was taken into custody. The crowd growing more frenzied with each passing moment - their anger and frustration boiling over in an orgy of violence on the streets.

Crack, crack, crack Vlad heard a strange noise ringing around the square - loud enough to drown out all the other sounds. At first he thought they were fireworks, but then the screams he heard were a different kind he had never heard before. They were followed by more crack, crack, crack in quick successive volleys. The protesters recoiled in shock, and the riot police advanced, slowly but surely - dragging away anyone unfortunate enough to caught by them. Panic spread like wildfire through the sea of people and people scrambled away from the square in all directions

Vlad sprinted away from what was happening as fast as possible. He ran out of the square, passing through several major streets, before finally stopping at the relatively safety of a backstreet alley - struggling to catch his breath. He couldn’t believe that he had just seen. “Did they really just do that?” he struggled to comprehend what had happened, his legs finally giving from under him and collapsing on the grubby pavement beneath him. As it hit him, he started to sob uncontrollably with a single thought running through his mind - “They might have started it, but we will finish it.”

[Generic empire]

L’Opéra Sofia, Sofia, Generic Empire

"Gli occhi ti chiuderò con mille baci, e mille ti dirò nomi d'amor," sang Floria Tosca to the doomed Mario Cavaradossi. Yana Voronina was in fine voice this evening – indeed, one of her best performances in the opinion of Georgy Zakharov, the Foreign Minister, who watched from the Emperor’s box.

The Emperor himself was absent – Zakharov suspected this was a deliberate slight. It was well-known that he and Yana had had a dramatic falling out over the past month, and to miss her on opening night at the Opéra Sofia was an unmistakable shot across her bow. But, Zakharov knew well that the Emperor would regret it eventually. He had no heart for cruelty of this sort, and the soprano’s capacity for revenge was both deep and broad.

"Presto! Su, Mario! Mario! Su! Presto! Andiam! Su! Su!"

“Divine,” muttered Prince Cesar Pavelovic, enraptured as Yana, Floria tore her shawl from her head and raced to the side of her dead lover. Anton Prokofiev was a poor choice for Cavaradossi, far too fat: Zakharov could discern the rise and fall of his bulk even as the slender soprano threw herself across him.

"O Scarpia, avanti a Dio!"

Her silhouette was cast in bold against the azure backdrop, contrasting with the slim form of the blonde, who made herself a giant with motion – then she was over the mock-parapet, plummeting to the stage – the thud was audible, and after it the final chords, and silence.

“Bravo! Bravo!” The Prince was the first on his feet, and the entire hall following quickly behind him. Such thunder, Zakharov thought – even the jilted Emperor must hear it, on his white hill in the center of his city. That his cousin should be here to witness such an opening night would only make it worse.

“Brilliant!” called the Prince, barely audible in the general din. The curtain rose again, and the room shook until long after Yana had taken her final bow, showered with roses.

“Oh, one for the history books, Georgy,” said the Prince, as they left the box and descended the staircase to the main hall.

“Yes, but it’s bad luck, you know,” said the Foreign Minister, smiling for a cameraman strategically positioned to capture the dignitaries.

“What is?” asked the Prince, with a desultory wave.

“To open the season with a tragedy. Much as I do love Tosca.”

“Oh, nonsense,” said the Prince. “Wait until Alyosha hears about it,” he said, meaning his cousin, the Emperor. “He’ll be green with jealousy.”

“Yes,” muttered Zakharov. “Perhaps best to wait until after the cabinet meeting tomorrow, though.”

“Perhaps, perhaps. Is that - ?”

Zakharov followed the Prince’s glance. There, in a striking red dress, was the only true rival for Yana Voronina in terms of looks – the Lady Elena, erstwhile Queen Elena.

“My, what is she doing here?” asked the Foreign Minister.

“Oh, what a lovely sight,” said the Prince. “I don’t see Nicky though.” ‘Nicky’ was Duke Nikolai Gagarin. Nikolai the Unlucky, Zakharov privately called him. A decent man who made a habit of collecting white elephants. Chief among these was the Lady Elena herself, an expensive prize and now a disappointed one. Disappointed in her husband, disappointed of her crown, and, increasingly, disappointed in her own native country – the mighty Generic Empire that seemed impotent to return her throne to her.

“Well, we must say hello,” said the Prince. They crossed the floor, and the crowd parted. In the very center of the circle of opera-goers – all trying not to stare – stood a tall, dark-haired woman with jade eyes. These she turned first on the Prince, and then on Zakharov. Her smile only just wavered.

“Cousin Elena,” said the Prince, with a deep bow. Taking her hand, he planted a delicate kiss on the white glove. “How lovely to see you.”

“Cousin Charlie,” she said, and to Zakharov, coolly: “Excellency.”

“Lady Elena,” Zakharov said, bowing. “How lovely to see you. Your cousin and I were just remarking on what a wonderful opening to the season.”

“Yes,” said the former Queen. “The Emperor’s mistress distinguishes herself on stage as well,” she said, slyly. Prince Cesar reddened, and glanced around, making sure that the onlookers were maintaining a discreet distance.

“And where is your husband, the Duke?” Zakharov asked, aiming a retaliatory arrow.

“I don’t know,” said the Lady, her smile unwavering this time.

“How is Nicky?” asked the Prince. “It’s been ages. I didn’t even know he was back in Sofia.”

“Yes, well, our retirement plot in Zapolonsk doesn’t have quite the same society as Sofia,” she said, glancing around at the hall. “Or even Mosograd, for that matter – backwater as it is.”

“Though somewhat safer these days,” said Zakharov. The death of Nikolai’s successor – an even unluckier man, King Lev – had received little attention in the Generian press, but the news had reverberated through the Foreign Ministry’s offices as if the gunshots that killed him had been fired in the same building. Perhaps, in a way, they had been.

“Zapolonsk?” Elena asked. “Perhaps. Though, Georgy, I keep our suitcases packed, I’ll have you know.”

“Really?” drawled the Foreign Minister. “I can’t see why. Zapolonsk is perfectly secure. Your husband is well-liked, and the Army protects you.”

“Oh, Georgy, it’s not out of fear, you see. I happen to hold out hope that the Empire will keep its promise to us, even after all these years.”

“And what promise is that?” asked the Foreign Minister.

Elena’s smile flattened, and her green eyes flashed. He knew, of course, what she meant: restoration. An impossible thing – and a lie, at that: no one had ever promised to place King Nikolai back on the throne of Russistan. So long as he held his post, Zakharov would never play kingmaker in a foreign backwater. The Boguila affair should have hammered that lesson home. And yet, there remained some who thought that Generia’s role in Central Asia should be precisely that.

“I’ll have you know,” the Lady said, sweetly now, “next month is my birthday.”

“Happy birthday,” said the Prince heartily, his confusion at a subtext he didn’t understand vanishing behind a broad smile.

“And you, Georgy, I hope you’ll remember. You know just what I want.”

Zakharov brooded unhappily in the back of the I.L. Maksimum limousine as it wound its way through the narrow streets of the Old City. Ahead, the medieval walls of the White Citadel loomed over the low, ancient buildings. Behind them, the Dome of St. Michael’s was illuminated in brilliant gold by a full moon. That full moon had brought at least one wolf out already.

The Emperor, Alexei, turned elegantly in the water and kicked off, propelling himself into a furious stroke. Fifty laps had done nothing for his mood – even now the last notes of Tosca seemed to ring from the high ceilings of the swimming hall, every shadow in the low light concealing the beautiful face of his tormentor.

He pulled himself from the water and accepted a towel from a servant. He cursed loudly, spitting her name like an orange pip caught in his teeth.

Behind him, someone cleared their throat. The Emperor whirled, ready to vent all of his frustration on the unlucky intruder. But it was only Georgy, and so he relaxed.

“Don’t tell me,” said the Emperor. “I don’t want to hear about it.”

The Foreign Minister shrugged, and bent down to fetch the Emperor’s robe from where it lay on a chair. He passed it to the sovereign, who draped it over his shoulders. With a gesture to follow, Alexei stepped out into the warmth of the vestibule - a large dressing room off the swimming hall. He collapsed into an armchair. Silent servants brought a samovar and two glasses.

“May we discuss other, ancillary, matters?” Zakharov asked.

“I don’t see why not,” the Emperor said, reaching for a cigarette.

“The Lady Elena was there.”

“Oh God,” said the Emperor. “What did she want?”

“What doesn’t she want?” asked Zakharov. “You would have had less trouble if you’d married her yourself, instead of pawning her off on poor Nicky.”

The Emperor laughed. “That woman’s name is trouble.”

“And there’ll be no end of it so long as she’s here. You ought to send them home. It’s no good for our position if the Duke and Duchess of our protectorate are seeking protection here.”

“They’re not seeking protection,” said Alexei, shaking his head. “They want their thrones back. I don’t blame them. It was a travesty what happened. And what am I to say? I’ve put the Duke off for a month, now. With the Boguila matter in the past, I can’t continue to do so, without being rude.” Social rudeness, of course, was a cardinal sin in Generia.

“There was nothing we could do about it,” said Zakharov, a little defensively. “Generia does not -”

“Does not meddle in the affairs of sovereign neighbors,” said the Emperor, “I know, I know. But this thing in Russistan,” he said, lighting his cigarette. “It concerns us.”

There was the ‘royal we’, a sign that the Emperor was speaking officially, on behalf of the people and the Empire – no longer simply as a man who knew and liked Zakharov. A man who had shielded him from the fallout of the Boguila affair.

“Kuznetsov has a mandate,” said Zakharov. “It’s his responsibility to ensure peace in that unhappy country. Not Generia’s.”

“It seems to us that he isn’t doing a particularly good job. Arresting singers? What on Earth is he thinking.”

The Emperor had been reading Bunt again, Zakharov thought, unhappily. He had tried to wean the man off of the popular social media website, where he occasionally even posted pseudonymously. But social media addiction affected those of all ranks, apparently.

“He’s not a subtle man,” agreed Zakharov. “But he is our friend.”

“Well,” said the Emperor, “why can’t we just put Nicky back in, after all? They’ve killed that other one.”

Emperor Alexei would not bring himself to utter the name “King Lev.” The deposition of Nikolai had rankled him in an oddly personal way. In Boguila, he had found himself drawn into supporting a anti-monarchical coup – this was largely Zakharov’s fault – and the foreign minister wondered if the Emperor wasn’t now trying to atone for it.

“It would be impossible,” said Zakharov. “King Ivan has already been crowned, and there’s no reason to ruffle feathers. Plus, there’s no way the people would support it. Nikolai’s life might even be in danger.”

“A sovereign’s life is always in danger,” said the Emperor. He had more firsthand experience of this than most. Zakharov had been there with him at the gates to the White Citadel on that fateful day, years ago, when it seemed that everything might fall by the wayside – when Generia itself might be lost…

“And besides, does Generia not have a duty to Russistan? The Generian people were once one with the Russ.”

“That was a long time ago, your Majesty,” Zakharov cautioned. This was not the first time Alexei had suggested that Generia and Russistan might once again be joined under one crown. The thought terrified the pragmatic Foreign Minister.

“Yes,” agreed the Emperor. “But surely we must make sure that Nikolai’s position in Zapolonsk is secure. We can’t risk trouble in Mosograd spilling over the border.”

“The local defense forces have the matter under control.”

“I do hope so. I hate the idea of our troops being exposed – depending on the protection of foreigners.”

There was the lesson of Boguila, again. The Emperor put too much thought to the lives of the fighting men, the Foreign Minister thought. It could make him overly cautious in some respects, or – paradoxically – overly aggressive in others.

“The Ducal troops are perfectly capable,” said Zakharov. “Your Majesty must trust the government to manage matters.”

Alexei frowned at the end of his cigarette. “Certainly, Georgy. Certainly.”

---

Airborne, Zapolonsk-Russistan Border

20,000 feet above the Nyevsk river valley, Lieutenant Kalyshev piloted the Gunslinger in a long, slow curve that paralleled the border with Russistan-proper.

“You see that, 2 o’clock?” asked Maksim, his weapons officer.

“What? The mountain?”

“Mt. Cerberus,” said Maksim. “7,600 meters. My father summited back in 1982. Tallest peak in the Verekhovas.”

“You’d have to be crazy to do that.”

“You’d have to be crazy to do what we do.”

“What, flying?”

“Flying Gunslingers.”

“True enough,” laughed Kalyshev. The Gunslinger, Generia's aerial workhorse, was as sensitive as a young bride, but would buck you like a mule if you didn’t know what you were doing. Overloaded with ordinance, the thing was a crate; low on fuel, it pulled you in every direction except the one you wanted to go. Kalyshev understood that the latest upgrade packages made things better, but their bird – “Smiling Nina” – was vintage.

Generia wasn’t supposed to be in Zapolonsk, after all – not according to the egghead international law scholars and the hardheaded politicians of the Empire club – so Generia couldn’t very well be sending frontline fighters for peacetime air patrol. So he was told at least.

Peacetime. There was a word. There was nothing peaceful about that border down there. The Zappos – the Generian nickname for the local armed forces – were spoiling for a fight. It was everything the Imperial liaison could do to restrain them from rushing the border every week to take potshots at the Russ soldiers. Though the Russ were supposed to be friendly, this referred more to their government: the citizenry and the troops that garrisoned the border were patriots to the core, and they resented what they saw as an illegal occupation of an ancient province.

And even with a friendly Prime Minister, the Russ weren’t helping things. He’d been airborne when that damn freighter crossed the line and caught a burst of 130mm right below the waterline. The inquiry had found that the Generian captain meant to fire over her bow, and that the targeting system was bugged. Kalyshev didn’t know what to believe – software bugs in a 25 year old warship, built on contract by the lowest bidder, or the Captain getting fed up with the itch in his trigger finger. The point was, they were cutting things too damn close. If the King and the Prime Minister in Mosograd wanted to avoid a war, like they claimed, then they were giving a very poor showing.

“Alpha 7-2,” crackled the radio. Kalyshev returned to the present.

“Go ahead.”

“Two bogeys converging on your position, designate Kappa 1 and 2.”

The air defense controller, high above them in a “Vulture” AWACS, relayed the bearing. “Smiling Nina” was flying dark, her own RADARs switched off per standard procedure. They’d found early on in the deployment that the Russ air defense officers on the other side thought it was hilarious to paint every Generian fighter they scoped – sometimes running through a full launch sequence before aborting. It caused innumerable headaches, even if the central government offered its apologies every time, and promised to discipline the men involved.

He cursed Lada again, not for the first time today. His wingwoman had begged off sick, and instead of assigning a replacement, Squadron had just sent them up alone. It was peacetime after all.

It wasn’t unusual for the Russ to send a few birds up to intercept the afternoon patrols. So long as they stayed on their side of the border, the Russ were within their rights. Presumably, they enjoyed the practice as much as the Generians did. Kalyshev sighed and confirmed the information.

“So they want to play,” said Maksim. “Fine. We’re nearly at bingo, anyway. What do you want to do?”

“Maintain,” said Kalyshev. “They can look, so long as they don’t touch.”

They kept on their current course, following the winding river down below. The sparkling sea came into view – azure becoming a dark, deep blue as it drew towards the horizon.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it,” he said. “This place really could be something.”

“It was something,” Maksim reminded him. “If the politicians hadn’t fucked it up, it still would be.”

“You could be talking about anywhere,” said Kalyshev.

“Not home,” said Maksim. “Not Generia.”

Kalyshev smiled. Maksim was a patriot, after all – none of the cynic in him. He still believed in Alexei VI – the “Young Emperor”. He thought the Reforms were the best thing to happen to the Empire since the very first Alexei climbed over a pile of bones to found the damn thing, for good or ill.

“Well, you’ll be back there soon enough.” That was true for both of them, he hoped. Maksim’s tour was ending next month, Kalyshev’s the month after. They’d both be going to the Aerospace College, and then – with God’s grace – on to promotions and squadron command. Somewhere else – far from this backwater.

“I’ve got them, 4 o’clock low.”

Kalyshev turned his head. He could barely discern them from his low seat in the cockpit – two dark shapes moving impossibly fast, emerging from the cover of a bank of nimbus.

“They’re really moving,” he said.

“Interceptors,” said Maksim. “Old interceptors,” he added, contemptuously. Kalyshev watched as the aircraft changed course, settled into a groove on the other side of the Nyevsk river, and slowly began to climb.

“Stay over there, you bastards,” he muttered.

“What do you want to do?” Maksim asked again.

“Maintain,” Kalyshev repeated. “Waypoint is the coast. Then break for home.”

The shore drew closer, the sea clearer. Beside them, the interceptors climbed nearly to a level. They had closed to well under a kilometer.

“That’s bingo,” said Kalyshev. “We’re going home.”

“They’re banking – looks like they’re breaking off.”

Kalyshev heaved a sigh of relief. Sure, they wouldn’t do anything, but it made him nervous all the same. He leveled and then banked into a slow curve.

All the sudden, the cockpit went haywire with warning alarms. Suspecting mechanical failure, he instinctively looked at the fuel gauges, then the master alarms, seeking the source of the warning.

“Spike! They’re painting us!” came Maksim’s shout in his ear.

“Christ! Fence in!”

He pulled the Gunslinger into a steep dive – the thing was nearly empty, and it didn’t like the maneuver at all. “Come on, you old bitch,” he said, through gritted teeth. She stabilized, and he pulled off in a long curve. The alarms ceased. Nearly on the deck, he turned towards the contacts. His targeting systems engaged, he searched for them.

“Lima,” he said into his radio, “We are defending against Russ interceptors, flight Kappa. Request permission to reengage.”

“Negative, Alpha 7-2.”

“Do you see them?” Kalyshev asked Maksim.

“Negative." Then: "There – got ‘em. Altitude 15,000, 12 o’clock, closing.”

“Shit.”

Kalyshev broke off, and engaged his afterburner, bearing northeast.

“Watch it – you’re going to cross the line,” Maksim said.

The alarm sounded again.

“Warning red,” Maksim said, quietly, then with more urgency: “missile launch!”

“Defending hostile air-to-air missile,” Kalyshev said into the radio.

The Gunslinger didn’t fight him this time – low, nearly empty, Smiling Nina behaved like a proper lady. Dipping, gaining speed, then popping up and over into a long roll, and turning in on their own path again: flares falling like embers in the clear sky behind them. The white contrail of the pursuing missile curved with them, though – Kalyshev could have sworn he saw the projectile itself, as it crossed a few hundred feet above his head, before exploding harmlessly.

“Break, break – we have been engaged by flight Kappa. Request permission to return fire.”

“Negative. Break contact.”

“You have them?” he asked.

“They’re banking. Turning northeast.”

“Sons of -”

Kalyshev fought the urge to cross himself. Don’t tempt fate. He merely leveled out and pointed the nose towards home. “Good girl,” he said to himself, tapping the side of the aircraft. And to Maksim – “This is going to get out of hand.”

“Going to?”

[Cosacakaya]

“Summer Plans”

Krasnoyarsk Palace
Lake Krasnoyarsk, Cosacakaya


There were few places as relaxing as Krasnoyarsk Palace in the summer, Cyrene thought, slipping on a cold glass of lemonade on a warm summer’s evening. ‘A fine summer’s day to celebrate all the successes of the High Archduchy!’

“Have you heard the latest from Sofia and the Lady Elena?” asked her dear cousin Grand Queen of Russistan Yelizaveta Fyodorovna Ivanava with a soft smile. Looking at her, there was no doubt in Cyrene’s mind why the foolish King Ivan was so obsessed with her - much in favour of the interests of Cosacakaya and Cyrene in Russistan. She had a soft radiance about her that captured the hearts of so many men, complemented nicely by her light blonde hair styled in soft waves and stunning blue eyes which she highlighted with makeup. Although no longer the young girls they both had been what felt like a long time ago, Cyrene was surprised by how she somehow managed to keep a physique of a longer woman - seeming to glow in the floral summer gown she wore.

Yet for all her beauty, Yelizaveta lacked any smarts and often seemed content to fret about the intrigues of court and worry about keeping up with the latest fashion trends. ‘Even happy to discuss the comings and goings of a foreign court that illegally stole part of your nation,’ Cyrene thought, hiding her reaction behind slipping more lemonade. Of course it served a use for Cyrene - knowing what her rivals were doing, who they were meeting, and what they might have planned. However what worried Cyrene most was Lady Elena was a traitor, and unlike her halfwitted husband, was a viper masquerading as a gentle flower. Soft and sweet when she needed to be, and always working an angle to advance her agenda. A great beauty masking a deceitful political operative. ‘That Generian whore wanted to marry a King, not the puppet of the Generian Empire - whatever she is doing in Sofia is not good.’

“The Lady Elena is in Generia?” Cyrene said, faking surprise. For almost a month now, agents from her OGRUZKA had been following Lady Elena and her husband since they had left for Sofia and sending regular reports back on their movements - it wasn’t good. It seemed like this year’s addition of her an annual migration for Elena to use her womanly charms on Duke Nikolai Gagarins’ masters back in her homeland to restore her place as Queen and often receiving a similar cold shoulder at her requests for greater Generian action against Russistan was different. Normally this would not have bothered Cyrene, but recent developments in Russistan were concerning and the Generians were infamous in Osti for striking the moment blood was in the water. “Why on God’s green Earth is she in Sofia?! Doesn’t she have a duchy to rule?”

“I know right!” Yelizaveta giggled, holding one of her hands against her face. It was the same kind of giggle that sent Cyrene straight back to when they were kids. “I told my ladies-in-waiting the exact same thing! Apparently, I don’t tell anyone that I told you this, she was seen at L’Opéra Sofia in Sofia harassing the Georgy Zakharov, the Foreign Minister and the Prince Cesar Pavelovi about something,” Yelizaveta shook her beautiful as it was dumb head disapprovingly. “Does that abhorrent woman have no shame? And with what happened with the Emperor as well!”

“The word abhorrent is one of many choice words I would use to describe that woman. I had the misfortune of meeting her once, back when she was Queen-Consort. Somehow she truly believes that she is God's gift to the world and that all men will simply fall at her feets,” she chuckled bitterly, even though many years had passed, the memory stuck with her - she could still smell the obnoxiously strong perfume she wore. “Please tell do, what happened with Emperor Alexei before this concert, dear cousin?”

“Well…” she started, gushing with excitement like a gossiping school girl. “The word is that Emperor Alexei totally dissed Yana Voronina and never showed at her concert in Sofia! Apparently the pair of them are an item and had some kind of falling out…what about, I don’t know yet, but that Lady Elena showed her utter lack of class by showing her face there when we all know that she wanted to be Empress.”

“Shocking!” Cyrene said, half-bored by the ladies of the court gossip that she had been forced to grow out since becoming High Archduchess. But there was a small bit of information that did peak her interest. ‘Sleeping with some whore singer,’ Cyrene silently sighed with a subtle shake of her head. ‘Now I know why Alexi seems so content to ignore my suggestions of a match between himself and dear daughter Corynna… His line is dying out and instead of working to produce heirs, he sleeps around like a common whore.’ His selfishness was overwhelming and frustrated Cyrene - dreaming of Ivanovna sitting beside him at the Imperial Court in Sofia. “Although the Emperor should be concerning himself with securing his line and the stability of his Empire with a suitable match - not playing games like a schoolboy.”

“Oh Cyrene!” Yelizaveta blushed, as though she had just heard an embarrassing secret. “You shouldn’t speak of a man at his station like that! He is an Emperor! Not some common whore at court.” she reached out and slipped on some red wine - leaving a mark around her lips. “Would you say something like if he was standing right in front of you-”

“Of course I would,” Cyrene cut her off bluntly, not needing to be told how she would react to a powerful man by someone like her. “I would tell him he is failing to do his duty to his country and the stability of the region by failing to produce a male heir and then offer my daughter in marriage. Maybe,” she paused and thought about it for a moment. “Exchange one of his daughters to marry my son to ensure regional security between our great nations. Nothing is quite like marriage to secure an alliance and who knows, God willing, he will die and my son could be Emperor of Generia,” that brought a smile to her face. “Of course, I don’t pray for that…but he should do his duty as have I.”

“You certainly have done your duty to our nation,” Yelizaveta remarked, looking out to watch her daughter Ekaterina laughing and playing with Corynna by the lake. “How many children do you have now? Six, seven -”

“With the Lord’s blessings, I was graced with eight and three lovely children adopted,” Cyrene placed her free hand against her belly and rubbed it - unfortunately not subtle enough for her cousin to notice. “The Lord has truly blessed me with his bounty.”

“The Lord’s blessings, Cyrene, are you…no…are you with…with child again?” Yelizaveta asked, her bright blue eyes full of surprise and excitement - clapping eagerly. “The Lord truly blesses you with such a bounty and I thought my five children were a large family!”

“I do my duty for God, my duty, and my country,” said Cyrene, a smile nagging at the ends of her mouth. “I do my duty unlike so many other women nowadays, God willing, we shall restore true traditional Christian values again. Unlike them, I am content to help bring up the next generation of children piously and do my duty as a wife and mother.” Cyrene reached out to slip some more lemonade to hide the smug smile on her face. Then she received a notification that OGRUZKA Director Vasily Petrov had arrived with important information regarding the topic they were just speaking about. “My dear cousin, I am terribly sorry, but I must speak to someone in private…would you mind, and I shall be back, God willing, as soon as possible.”

“No worries, of course!” she said, rising from her seat and waving towards her daughter Ekaterina who was swimming in the lake. “Take all the time you need! I have been dying to swim here again! They don’t have lakes like Lake Krasnoyarsk in Russistan!” she laughed, finishing the last of her wine. “Ready or not, here I come!”

Yelizaveta slipped off her summer dress into a bikini and started running towards the lake - yelping and chanting excitedly the entire way there. The sight brought a smile to Cyrene’s face - bringing back to better times when she would do the same thing as a girl with her cousins at the very same lake.

“If there is one thing we know for sure, the Emperor cannot be trusted,” said OGRUZKA Director Vasily Petrov, appearing from a back door onto the desk with vanilla folders in hand. He looked out of place in his OGRUZKA uniform and uncomfortable in the heat of the summer evening - perhaps struggling to adjust moving from the air conditioned room of his office to the outside air. “In recent years, the Generians have had a growing divide within the government between those who want a more assertive foreign policy and one that wants more of the same.”

“Let’s hope the latter win out in the end, the Generians are about as subtle at geopolitics as a child with a hammer living in a house made of glass - you only know that things will get worse,” she said, shaking her head. “Their decision to seize Zapolonsk hiding behind that puppet Duke was misguided, but the fact they seem determined to continually enraged the Russ and kill Russ soldiers is a massive mistake and is only making harder to keep the country in line…” she sighed heavily as she read the latest incident at the Zapolonsk-Russistan border being the most recent event in a long line of moronic decisions that seemed only to push the Russ further and further away from Generians. “As the Lord as my witness, I have no idea what they are thinking? Do they want a war?”

“It remains difficult to accurately gauge Generian intentions regarding Russistan,” Vasily began to explain, suddenly distracted by a large splash as Yelizaveta jumped into the lake - Cyrene noticing his gaze lingering for a bit too long. Stiffly, he looked back at Cyrene. “According to our spies, there is an increasing faction that want and are pushing for Emperor Alexei shift the Generian Empire’s foreign policy, not just in the near abroad, but globally to a more aggressive one based around expanding Generian economic, military, and political influence globally. Perhaps in the past, the Generians may seek to de-escalate, but now it is difficult to gauge what direction he will take. ”

“He wants Russistan for himself,” Cyrene said in spite of herself, cheeks reddening - it was a rarity that she spoke before carefully considering what she was going to say beforehand. “Boguila was a teaser of new Generian designs for Russistan. We had seen what they tried to do at Ouangore International Airport. We stopped them in Boguila and we shall stop them, God willing, in Russistan - what are my options?”

“Following the success of the Boguila Operation, we have considerably expanded our asymmetrical warfare capabilities in the last few years and this gives us an edge in Russistan. This is extremely important if the situation in Russistan continues to deteriorate,” he explained, handing her a vanilla folder titled Operation Eagle’s Shadow in big, fat bold letters. “Operation “Eagle’s Shadow” was established following Generian troops started seizing government buildings, important roads, logistic hubs, and ports in Zapolonsk in order to ensure Cosacakayan interests in Russistan are protected - especially with the current King being so friendly to our interests. The primary objective of Operation “Eagle’s Shadow” is to promote a pro-Cosacakayan sentiment in the eastern frontier close to the Cosacakayan-Russ border - encouraging pro-monarchist movements, supporting civil society groups aligned with our values, and fostering a political environment conducive to our interests.”

“Intriguing,” Cyrene smiled, finishing the last of her lemonade as she carefully considered what she would do next. The arrest of Reeztochka in Russistan had done what her government had tried and failed to achieve several times - silence her and an end to her dangerous messages. ‘Can we really afford to let ourselves get caught by surprise again by Generian recklessness?’ “And what about the government’s response? Or Generian? If they catch wind of our involvement, they might undercover our propaganda operations targeting them in Operation Hawa Vengeance. God willing, how do we mitigate that risk?”

“Good question. As part of the operation, my agents will establish a robust cover story and rely on proxies for plausible deniability.” said Vasily with a big fat smile on his face - the failure of the Generians to undercover Operation Hawa Vengeance still fresh in his mind. “If things heat up, we’ll position our presence as a grassroots movement fueled by local dissatisfaction. But the most important part here is that we maintain constant plausible deniability.”

“Make sure to put in place the necessary moving parts to target the Generic Empire with disinformation and propaganda campaigns should they take actions, God willing, against our interests,” Cyrene said with a serious look in her eyes. “I want everyone prepared - troll farms, creating false accounts and spreading disinformation to erode public confidence in the Emperor’s policies in Russistan, and Russ proxy hacktivist groups and useful idiots abroad to hide our involvement. I won’t allow Generians to move into Cosacakaya’s sphere of influence.”

“It will be done, your imperial majesty,” said Vasily, handing her the necessary documents to approve of the operation. As Cyrene signed, she gazed out at the sight of her cousins and daughters hanging out on the shores of Lake Krasnoyarsk and smiled knowing that the Generians wouldn’t be allowed to bully Russistan and step closer towards dominating Central Asia.

To the Office of the Emperor of the Empire of Generia,
Emperor Alexei,

The High Grand Duchy of Cosacakaya would like to express its horror at the incident in the skies of Zapolonsk-Russistan Border and hopes to work with the Empire of Generia in avoiding conflict in Central Asia and stabilizable Russistan.

In light of recent developments with the unrest in Russistan - which is eerily similar to the event preceding the military coups in Boguila which left several royals dead and nearly brought the region of Meillur into a global war - the events in Russistan has raised significant alarm in the High Grand Duchy. Naturally it is the position of her imperial majesty as war only causes suffering and Cosacakaya stands ready to do everything it can to deescalate the situation.

Thus, the High Grand Duchy of Cosacakaya feels it is necessary to formally address the intentions of the Generian Empire regarding its activities in Russistan and Zapolonsk. How does the your government envision its role in Russistan in the long term? What outcomes are you attempting to achieve with Generian protection of the rogue region of Zapolonsk?

The High Archduchess hopes to create lines of communication in order to collaborate and work together in stablising the situation in Russistan and we are keen to understand Generian intentions fully in order to shift our own policies in a manner that promotes peace and stability in Russistan.

We look forward to your response,

May god bless you and protect your country,


Office of Her Imperial Majesty

[Russistan]

“The Pages of History”

Tsar Vladimir Square
Mosograd, Russistan

How will the pages of history ultimately judge me?

That was the singular thought constantly running through the mind of Prime Minister Kuznetsov since things started spiraling out of his control. The pages of history were kind as they were brutal to those who came before him. Some men were risen to legendary status for their great deeds or achievements in life while so many others were dismissed for their mistakes that brought chaos upon the Russ nation. It turned his stomach, wondering how future historians would consider him in the pages of their books - a great man who did great things for the Russ or the fool who only brought ruin to an already dying nation?

He already knew that the thousands upon thousands that were taking to the streets across the country everyday would certainly not write him in a favourable light should they have their way. Across every major Russ city, they made their demands and called for his resignation - growing in size by the day. Anger and frustration about the direction of the country was bubbling uncontrollably to the streets of Russistan in demonstrations and running street battles with police. Russistan was the successor to the Holy Russ - the most powerful empire ever seen in Central Asia - and now was being bullied by foreign powers that once had been part of that very same the great empire which ruled the world. ‘No wonder they are angry,’ Kuznetsov thought as he finished the last of his cigarette and closed the latest report on the unrest.

The battle for Tsar Vladimir Square as it had been nicknamed lasted for several hours and ultimately his officers cleared the square before the protesters could dig in and repeat the Rose Revolution - where it became the symbol of defiance that ultimately brought down King Nikolai Gagarin. But the way things unfolded at the square, the violence recorded for the world to see and the use of lethal force by the riot police had escalated things well beyond what Kuznetsov could control. He won the battle, but seemed to be losing the war as while things had returned to normal in Mosograd after the brutal police response, its handling had sparked protests across the country - from mid-sized cities to small rural towns. There demands all the same: The end of Sofia-Zapolonsk city-Mosograd Economic Corridor, Free Reeztochka, Liberate Zapolonsk, and now the end of foreign influence over Russistan.

He tried to put that all out of his mind and he put down the phone - finally there was quiet.

The call with the Generian ambassador was the third one in as many days, howling at him over the phone for what felt like hours about the attempted shooting of a Generian fighter close to the line of contact between the local separatist and Russ border. As usual, Kuznetsov was forced to be careful which words he used regarding the Zapolonsk situation as the ambassador was a man who was always quick to correct any misused words. “There are only Generian peacekeepers in Zapolonsk and this was a routine peacekeeping patrol,” the ambassador would frequently remind him - as though the Generian Empire needed fighters and warships on a peacekeeping mission. Of course, Kuznetsov could never actually say that to that bastard of an ambassador unless he wanted to be reminded about the number 1 billion.

‘One billion, that is how much they spent to put me in this position,’ Kuznetsov didn’t need reminding how he really came to the position of Prime Minister during that chaotic election of 2021. That was the amount they spent in flooding the airwaves and social media Party of Region with ads, the series of corruption scandals that destroyed the credibility of all the other parties, the internal leaks that aired the dirty secrets of his rivals, and the buying off loyalty to his Party of Regions. Then there were the Cosacakayans' role in the election - who gladly bused in by the thousands of dual-Cosacakayan-Russ nationals to vote in key districts to swing the result or the spoiler candidates running only to split the vote of the opposition. All this to buy an historic election landslide victory.

Yet in spite of it all, beyond the fancy graphics and celebrations - Prime Minister Kuznetsov realised it was a hollow victory. Despite the landslide result in Parliament, a deeper look into the result quickly found that his Party of Regions had won less than 35% of the popular vote and that only a split in the opposition vote had allowed him to win such a big majority in Parliament. Instead there were only three provinces where his Party of Regions had won the majority of the vote. In the eastern Serafimovka and Zaroslavl Provinces close to the Cosacakayan border his party won over 78% of the vote while in the majority Generian Orthodox province of Zaretskaya along the border with rebel Zapolonsk region - it was 89%. Everywhere else, the Party of Regions never won more than 40% of the vote.

‘This is why I am arresting singers and concert goers,’ he wanted to scream down the phone. His head was still ringing from the frequent questions by Generian Foreign Minister Georgy Zakharov's office about the arrest of singers and how he planned to deal with the unfolding unrest gripping the nation. He couldn’t just admit that he was arresting so many of them so he could add a clause that stripped the right to vote of people with a criminal record. ‘Purge the voter rollers of those who will never vote for me before the election and secure my victory - but of course I won’t admit that to Zakharov.’

Suddenly, the heavy oak doors leading into the circular conference room, for which served as the meeting place for the Grand King’s Privy Council, slowly creaked open behind him. Members of the Grand King’s Privy Council slowly filtered into the room and the high, vaulted ceiling seemed to soar above them bathed them all in a wave of light as the magnificent crystal chandelier turned on - sparkling like sun lit snow on a bright winter’s day. The Privy Council had finally convened, each one of them preoccupied with a discussion with aid or colleagues as they entered the room.

Kuznetsov made a point to personally greet his political allies, and exchange pleasantries with his enemies. One- by-one the members took their seats at the massive round table made of dark mahogany, which filled the centre of the chamber. However the most important member of the privy council remained noticeably absent from the proceedings - Grand King Ivan Vorontsov

He is running late again...

It was another 20 minutes before the first aids to the Grand King started to filter through the door, and by the time Grand King Ivan Fyodorovich Vorontsov had, many of the Privy Council members were already deep in conversation amongst themselves and barely noticed the Grand King’s entrance. Ivan gave his Privy Council an annoyed look, having an aid fiddle with his enormous richly embroidered robes adorned with intricate designs to make enough space for him to sit at the head of the table. After playing with the stack of vanilla folders in front of him and briefly reading them, although Kuznetsov doubted he was even capable of that, Lord Vasily Petrovich Orlov - Chancellor of the Court Realm, called the meeting to order.

“Today my good men and ladies, we have gathered today not only as representatives of our government but as guardians of the crown,” Lord Vasily began, his voice resonating off the thick walls. Kuznetsov rolled his eyes - the one thing that Lord Vasily loved more than the sound of his own voice was the pageanties of court. “Our beloved Russistan is falling apart before our very eyes! What are your thoughts on the current situation, your Majesty?”

“Russistan must remain firm in its pursuit of maintaining peace with the Generians,” Grand King Ivan began, rising from his chair as though he were about to give a long speech - although Kuznetsov doubted he was capable. “It is the opinion of the Crown that war with the Generian Empire must be avoided at all costs and peace must reign over Russistan again. What ideas does the Privy Council have to fix this situation and return to peace?”

“Exactly, we must stop the unrest,” said Baron Nikolai Arkadyevich Malikov. He was the Minister of the Interior and wholly ill suited for the role. It had been his job to stop the protests and maintain internal peace and order. Yet somehow, his decisions only seemed to make things worse and more out of control. As a favour to the Grand King, no one could confirm it openly, but rumor had it had been his order to fire live ammunition during the battle for Tsar Vladimir Square. “The Ministry of the Interior in conjunction with local enforcement are in the process of mobilising Ministry of the Interior troops to quell the protesters, but they only seem to be growing.”

“Something has to give, if we want to avoid Russistan collapsing into chaos,” Viktor Petrov, Chief of Staff to the Prime Minister explained calmly. The well-tailored suit he wore looked as though he hadn’t changed from the previous day and his salt-and-pepper hair looked greasy from sweat. “Reeztochka, the Sofia-Zapolonsk city-Mosograd Economic Corridor, we handover the pilots, or somehow free Zapolonsk from Generians - we have to do somehow either to stop a war or appease the protests.”

“We can not allow that whore Reeztochka to walk free!” howled Grand King Ivan Fyodorovich Vorontsov, also known as the Grand King Ivan the pussy-whipped by Kuznetsov for Ivan’s pandering to his wife’s wishes. Far too old to be called a boy, Ivan certainly behaved like a schoolboy with a crush every moment his wife’s wishes were involved - no doubt with Yelizaveta’s cousin and sovereign in her own right whispering what to think in her Yelizaveta’s ear. “She and her music are threats to our national security! Do we really want some foreign dog telling our people to revolt? Do we really want another Rose Revolution?!”

“What of the Sofia-Zapolonsk city-Mosograd Economic Corridor?” asked Prince Viktor Alexandrovich Tikhonov, the Envoy for International Affairs and yet another half-witted friend of the Grand King. His eyes fell to the thick binder in his hands - Kuznetsov could almost see him struggle to comprehend what had been written. “Look at this,” raising up and showing it to those in attendance. “71% of Russ polled said they oppose the deal! Just cut it and appease the protesters.”

“The Sofia-Zapolonsk city-Mosograd Economic Corridor is the one thing keeping the Generians at the table talking about peace!” Kuznetsov howled at the inept Envoy, clenching his fists in vexation. There was one thing he couldn’t afford to lose and that was his Economic Corridor - especially because a fool like Prince Viktor thought it was a bad idea. “What message would that send to Emperor Alexei if we simply pulled out of negotiation for a lasting peace because some left-loving hippies think it is a bad deal?!”

“That is even if they want to strike a deal,” mummared Duke Mikhail Sergeyevich Volkov, the Minister of Defence and secondest highest commander of the Royal Russ Armed Forces after the Prime Minister himself. He was a proud man from a noble family with a long line of military service to Russistan dating back to the days of the Holy Russ. “We have been talking to the Generians for what? Months? Years? And for what? We are not closer than back when we started!”

“The Crown must concur with my Prime Minister,” announced the Grand King in his best Kingly voice, and the proud and loyal Duke Mikhail immediately went silent. “We must secure peace with the Generians and find a way to unify my Kingdom with the rebels of Zapolonsk.”

“What of the pilots?” asked Lord- Chancellor Vasily meekly, almost forcing himself to shrink behind the King. There was an almost awkward silence as the members of the Privy Council turned to look at him - trying to gauge whether they understood what he truly meant. “If the Crown views Reeztochka too dangerous to free and the Sofia-Zapolonsk city-Mosograd Economic Corridor too important to leave, perhaps we give over those responsible for putting us in this situation in the first place?”

“You can not be suggesting what I think you are suggesting, Lord Chancellor?!” burst out Masha Moskalyova, not even a full member of the Privy Council, suddenly. “These men are serving their country and doing their patriotic duty to all Russ and Russistan and you just casually mention throwing them to the wolves!”

“If we want peace, this is what we need…Russistan needs to do it unless we want the boot to fall on our throat,” Prime Minister Kuznetsov countered passionately, hitting his fist against the oak table. He had more to lose than just his pride - the Generians had dirt that could bury him and he needed to show that things were still on track. “These idiots fired at a Generian aircraft and very nearly shot it down! What they did is inexcusable and they must be punished how the Generians think best.”

“These men believed that their lives were at risk!” General Alexei Volkov for the Chief of the General Staff of the Royal Russian Armed Force howled, rising from his seat and pointing one his fat fingers directly at Kuznetsov. “I won’t allow them to be sacrificed to appease the Generian occupiers and their puppets in Zapolonsk! The rank-and-file of the Royal Armed Forces won’t appreciate this move - that their lives are exchangeable so long as the Generians are happy.”

“You know what I don’t appreciate, General?” Kuznetsov said angrily, staring directly into the man’s eyes and giving him that look. “You serve at the pleasure of the Prime Minister…general!” he practically screamed at him. “A general believing he knows what is best for Russistan doesn’t know what he is doing - just look at what happened to General Daramy! You serve me, and I will not have any further word out of you!”

“We can not afford to keep plandering to whatever flavour of the months complaint the Generians or even the Cosacakayans have and we cannot…I cannot in good conscience condemn Russ patriots to certain death in a handover” explained Masha Moskalyova, lead negotiator in Initiative For Peace And Reintegration Of Zapolonsk peace talks with the Generians and their proxies. The process had aged her - the Generians always had just one more demand to push the deal over the line. Where once she had medium-length ginger hair had turned gray and the once confident and competent image she once had turned into one of a weary and tired woman ready to give up. “I have been negotiating with these fuckers for nearly three years now and the one thing I have learned the hard is this - you give them an inch, they will try and take a mile.”

“Is that worse than war with one of the greatest military powers in Central Asia!” yelled Lord- Chancellor Vasily, slowly starting to become more confident of his position. “They have the military power to involve themselves in some backwater shithole a world away and didn’t blink at the prospect of war with other major, global powers! What can Russistan do?”

“You make me laugh!” Minister of Defence Duke Mikhail forced a cruel laugh at the Lord-Chancellor. “They are nothing more than a paper-tiger! Do you know how many men they lost during their campaign in Alberia? They blooded themselves badly trying to recapture it! Back in 2017, we were caught by surprise and unprepared that our so-called allies would illegally seize sovereign Russ territory. Now we are ready for them!”

“Are you itching for a war, Minister?” Kuznetsov said dismissively, shaking his head. “Our great country is already tearing itself apart! Are you really suggesting that we sacrifice god knows about many young men and women in a conflict that was entirely avoidable?” Kuznetsov’s eyes caught that of the King’s. “Generians would destroy us in a direct armed conflict. How will the Lord judge you knowing that you signed the death sentence of thousands…tens of thousands of people whose fate was wholly avoidable?”

“If we must sacrifice two men, to save tens of thousands of lives,” Grand King Ivan abruptly said, rising from his seat to command the attention of the room. ‘His wife must have prepared him well for this meeting, there is no way he could do something like this by his own accord,’ Kuznetsov thought, relieved at Ivan’s decision. “Then it should be done,” he added with a heaviness to his voice. “Make the necessary preparations.”

To: Emperor Alexei
CC: Ambassadors to the Grand Kingdom of the Russ
From: Prime Minister of the Grand Kingdom of the Russ
Subject: The Border Incident
Encryption: Hand-delivered in sealed pouch by diplomatic courier, eyes-only

---

Salutations Your Majesty,

Upon careful consideration and reflection - it is the opinion of the Crown that war with the Generian Empire must be avoided at all costs and peace must reign over Russistan again. Therefore the Grand Kingdom of Russistan is prepared to hand over the two pilots responsible for firing at your fighter.

The Crown firmly concurs with the viewthat the unnecessary loss of life must be avoided at all costs and remains our main priorities regarding our relationship with your Empire. It is the hope of the Crown that this token of peace will allow our governments to reach a lasting peace over the Zapolonsk Situation, the withdrawal of Generian forces from the rogue province, and its reintegration into Russistan proper.

We hope that rational minds will come together and peacefully resolve the crisis so that Central Asia can return to an era of peace.

Sincerely,
Prime Minister Kuznetsov

[Cosacakaya]

Mosograd Times

---

The End of the Party Of Regions?

---

By Maxim Reznik
^{@Maxim_Reznik}
Published: DATE.4 2023

---

Mosograd, Russistan - Prime Minister Kuznetsov's reelection campaign faced a significant setback today as Masha Moskalyova, the chief negotiator for the Initiative for Peace and Reintegration of Zapolonsk, along with several cabinet members, dramatically resigned during the morning Parliament session.

These developments raise doubts about Kuznetsov’s ability to withstand the rising challenge posed by Olga Mikhailova, leader of the increasingly popular Alliance For Russistan, and the radical ultranationalist Vladimir Mikhailov, head of the National Front. According to polling, Kuznetsov's Party Of Regions has been steadily losing support to the Alliance For Russistan and fears are growing that this latest public split could give Mikhailova’s party significant momentum in the impending election.

Tensions within Prime Minister Kuznetsov’s government over Generian intentions in the Initiative For Peace And Reintegration Of Zapolonsk, IFPARZ Talks for shorts, have been growing for weeks now since Generian attempted seizure of Ouangore International Airport and have accelerated amid violent unrest in Russistan.

“I shall no longer be a member of the current corrupt system that actively works against the common people and seeks their exploitation for foreign interests!” Mrs Moskalyova said, before pulling out her Party Of Regions membership and burning it in front of the entirety of Parliament. “Earlier this very morning I formally resigned as lead negotiator in Initiative For Peace And Reintegration Of Zapolonsk peace talks. From now on - I will work to end foreign influence of our current government in Mosograd!.” she proclaimed, before leaving parliament with several other government ministers.

Today’s public Party Of Regions split has been brewing for months according to most observers of Russ politics and is centered around Prime Minister Kuznetsov’s push for an agreement with Generians over the separatist region of Zapolonsk through the deeply unpopular Sofia-Zapolonsk city-Mosograd Economic Corridor, his harassment and arrest of musicians and concert goers, followed by the decision of his government to hand over two pilots responsible for firing at and attempting to shoot down a Generian fighter close to the Zapolonsk-Russistan Border. Internal leaks show that the Party Of Regions has suffered numerous defections and losses in membership over the last few weeks.

Sources close to both Kuznetsov and those who resigned indicate that their relationship had deteriorated severely in recent weeks, with reports of frequent and heated arguments over policy decisions over the Zapolonsk Situation leaking to the press almost weekly.

Masha’s public resignation from departure from Kuznetsov' cabinet s couldn't have come at a worst time for the Prime Minister, whose approval ratings have plummeted to historic lows and faced mounting criticism for his handling of the Russistan-Zapolonsk air incident, his support of the Sofia-Zapolonsk city-Mosograd Economic Corridor, and mass demonstrations against the backdrop of a faltering economy.

[Cosacakaya]

[Generic empire]

Overture

Airbase Nevsky, Zapolonsk

Kalyshev felt a bead of sweat building on his forehead, poised to drop precipitously onto the edge of his nose. It was hot in the debrief room – it was hot in Zapolonsk. That was what he told himself – but he had to admit that the presence of a full General might have had something to do with the perspiration.

“Lieutenant, I’ll ask again. Did your aircraft at any point during the encounter cross the line of control?”

It wasn’t the General speaking, but a man he had never seen before, wearing the uniform of an Air Force Major. He was much too round to be an air force major, though, and the sense was that the man was something else entirely.

Kalyshev fought desperately against the urge to glance at Maksim, who sat in the chair beside him. He couldn’t quite say why, but he knew that the slightest signal between them might spell disaster.

“No, sir,” he said.

A lie spoken was a truth, in some ways – or so he rationalized. In any event, they were committed now. Again, he couldn’t say why, but something in his gut told him that this was the answer that the General and the strange round little man both wanted from him.

As if to validate this, he detected the ghost of a smirk on the Major’s lips. And further, the man offered him the slightest nod, and glanced at the General, a slender, sourfaced man whom he had only ever glanced at a distance – a man he knew to be called Katalsky, and who had something to do with intelligence. The General said nothing, continuing to gaze stupidly into the middle distance.

“What the hell was that?” Maksim asked, after they had been dismissed.

“God knows,” said Kalyshev. He had the sense that they might have been better off had the Russ missile simply blown them out of the sky.

---

Contingency. That was the word that hung in the room, vibrating against the backdrop of the air conditioner, after he hung up the phone. Lieutenant General Timofiy Galynin had hoped to be reassured by the call with his superiors at the Southern Military District, headquartered in Port Belgrade. Instead, the discussion had served only to increase his anxiety.

He had a terrible feeling that the Generals in continental Generia, even those of the purportedly omniscient General Staff, had little grasp of the situation here in Zapolonsk. Their insistence on the use of the term “peacekeeping,” for instance, belied a certain laxity that reflected little of the evolving chaos that he found himself in the center of.

His superiors and colleagues back in Generia had fixated on the aerial encounter on the line of contact, which the media had somehow gotten wind of. God knew how – certainly the Zappo troops (if you could call them that) seemed intent on posting video of every military maneuver on Bunt. Even vicious threats of corporal punishment from their Generian advisors did little to clamp down on the problem. He’d requested time and again that the local intelligence liaisons upgrade the cyber component of the deployment’s security profile, including blocking access to social media and jamming cellular transmissions in the vicinity of Imperial bases, but they were as good as useless. The GIIS spook factory was equally unhelpful – they barely talked to him. Indeed, the civilian operative who ran the spook shop had recently told him quite bluntly that he wasn’t cleared to receive briefing on GIIS operations in-country. He’d nearly struck the wiry little shit.

If it wasn’t for his Divisional Intelligence Officer, Katalsky, he wouldn’t know a damn thing that was going on in the country. It was Katalsky who had him convinced that GIIS was running illegal cross-border operations in violation of assurances he’d received from the General Staff that such measures would not be run out of his territory. Let the Embassy in Mosograd play its back alley games, he thought, just keep it away from our boys. He had a sense that the recent encounters along the line of contact were direct blowback from these black operations – and the aerial duel was just one of dozens of similar incidents, any one of which could have cost the lives of valuable soldiers: good men, professionals, volunteers serving out their contract on a post that was very quickly becoming a razor’s edge.

But at least this wasn’t Alberia. The stories he’d heard from the men serving under that dolt political hack Yakov made his skin crawl. The decimation of the 4th Motorized Rifle, the bloody siege of Ploz: the losses in equipment and men piling up so far beyond the estimates that they’d simply stopped counting. Sure, they would win in Alberia: Generia always won, if through persistence alone. But somehow it always cost more than it should – more even than the victory was worth.

It was a cynical hypothesis, and he prayed that he wouldn’t have to test it here. Not in the mountains and the river valleys of Russistan.

But that word still hung in the air: contingency. He had asked for support: diplomatic support, a proper military intelligence section, equipment that wasn’t a generation old. Failing that, send him more men: another two Regiments, at least. Hell, send two more Divisions and relieve him – bring an Army General down and let them deal with the problem. The understrength Division he commanded could barely control the Zappos. Maybe they weren’t meant to, he mused, the cynic always dancing just beneath the surface of his subconscious.

They had told him ‘no’, of course: no more troops; rely on the local liaisons for intel. This was a peacekeeping effort, after all, they said. But then, at the same time: “Take measures to prepare for every contingency.” How was he supposed to do that, when every day brought a new damned contingency?

A knock on the door and he nearly barked at the man who entered, before he recognized Katalsky. The sour face of the Major General, his Intelligence Officer, was the only one he would have been happy to see at that moment. Katalsky closed the door and took a seat without ceremony. He had a sheaf of papers in his hand, and placed them on the desk. Galynin recognized the top page as a printout of news headlines and social media postings.

“It’s getting worse,” Katalsky said, slumping in the chair. “Our defense liaison in Mosograd confirmed that the protests are much larger than what’s coming through in the daily intelligence estimates – larger even than they’re reporting in the media. Tens of thousands – at least – in Mosograd last week. They’re calling it the Battle of Tsar Vladimir Square.”

Galynin groaned. “There’s no way that prick Kuznetsov holds on until the next election.”

“Funny you should say,” Katalsky said, pulling out another sheet from the pile and sliding it across. The End of the Party Of Regions?, asked the headline.

“Moskalyova was always a two-faced hack. She hates Generia,” said Galynin, who had followed Russ politics casually since arriving in the country.

“She was the lynchpin of the Kuznetsov coalition. Without her, they’ll never accept Kuznetsov as anything other than an Imperial puppet.”

Galynin snorted. “If he’s a puppet, why not yank on the damn strings?”

Katalsky frowned. “This is serious.”

“I know it’s bloody serious,” Galynin nearly roared. “I almost lost an aircraft and two good pilots. I’ve got a horde of bloody Zappos trying to do everything in their power to start a border war, and the wise gentlemen in Port Belgrade won’t release any more ammunition.”

“If his government falls,” Katalsky went on, ignoring his superior’s outburst, “it’s almost certain that the Russ will cross the line.”

“Maybe then they’ll send us some reinforcements,” Katalsky said.

“They would have to. My estimates give us a week of combat power, in a purely defensive posture, if nothing changes.”

“Jesus,” Galynin cursed. He knew the estimates, of course, but now they seemed even more unbelievable. “We’re a speed bump.”

---

Sofia, Generia

“He’s asked for reinforcements,” said Kabalevsky, the Army Chief. “Again,” he emphasized.

Naumov, the Defense Minister sighed and drummed his fingers on the table. Zakharov found the habit incredibly annoying, and he suspected Naumov knew that. There was little love lost between the two men: Naumov held a General’s rank but had never served a day in a combat post – he was a Democrat Club supporter who’d been brought in by the Emperor as a clever political play. Or so it seemed at the time.

But Naumov had taken to the role, no doubt spurred on by his friends, the oligarchs of Generia City – men who’d never been exposed to anything more violent than a bad dinner, but who were convinced that the mighty Imperial Army should be doing its part to make them richer.

“So the man is practically begging us for support,” said the Defense Minister, every word of his affected faux-aristocratic drawl grating on Zakharov’s ears. Zakharov, the son of a Count who had grown up on a vast estate near Sulenzk, wondered if his own dialect was Naumov’s model – his tone of voice, if not his own effortless erudition. Naumov was far too stupid to copy that.

“Begging is a strong word,” Zakharov drawled back. “Is it not reasonable to assume that General Galynin is just finding himself a bit shaken by recent events?”

“How dare you, sir,” fired Naumov, barely raising his voice or an eyebrow. “To call the man’s courage into question – have you no shame?”

“I think you misunderstand, Defense Minister.” Chancellor Pyotr Leontev hated Naumov nearly as much as Zakharov did, though the two agreed on more things than Zakharov would like. Leontev’s waffling on the Russistan issue had been particularly disappointing. Perhaps his old Democratic Club bona fides were coming back after a hiatus. Or perhaps somewhere in the depths of his cynicism, the old Chancellor actually believed the Empire could somehow benefit from meddling illegally in the affairs of a neighbor. Certainly, that was what Leontev pitched to the Assembly, when he wasn’t being grilled about the Alberian “pacification operation.” Always an “operation,” thought Zakharov – never a war. Never call a thing by its name. Not in Generian politics.

“I don’t see how I can possibly misunderstand,” Naumov fired back with a glare at Leontev. “The man clearly stated that he believed General Galynin is ‘shaken’.”

“Well,” Leontev said, pausing. “Perhaps he is. He’d be right to be. I would say that I’m shaken as well, as we all must be. The provocations of the Mosograd government would shake any man – especially while they hold out their olive branches with the other hand.”

“IFPARZ.” Naumov spat the acronym out like it was a piece of rotten fruit.

“Exactly,” Leontev said, glancing at Zakharov. IFPARZ, for better or worse, had become the albatross around Zakharov’s neck. Why the talks had failed to achieve the agreements that should have been common sense was beyond his understanding. The Russ had a peculiar habit of failing to grasp a boon when it was handed to them. It was almost as if they didn’t quite understand what they were facing – the kind of men that even now were sitting in this room. Some of them, like Naumov, deeply stupid, yes; others, like Leontev, quite brilliant, if cynical. All of them a threat to the very existence of Russ if the winds did not blow the right way – were not directed in the right way, by good men like Zakharov.

“I can’t help but worry,” Leontev said, “that these bilateral negotiations are teetering on the brink of collapse, with the lead negotiator’s exit. Though I was disturbed to have to read about it in the paper,” he added, with raised eyebrows. “I would have thought that the Foreign Ministry might dispatch a memorandum to the Chancellor of the Assembly.”

Zakharov smiled at the barb. Leontev was a master at picking a vulnerable point and stabbing deep. It was admirable. “I’m certain our analysts merely wanted to ensure that they had the most up-to-date information before informing your office. The Emperor himself expects to be briefed on the matter this afternoon.”

Leontev smiled back. “Very well. But is this not a cause for concern?”

Zakharov shrugged in his chair. “It strikes me as fairly typical Russ politics, though I don’t pretend to be an expert. And it may benefit us. As you all know, Moskalyova was not our biggest supporter.” An understatement, he thought. “This does provide Prime Minister Kuznetsov with the opportunity to select a more diplomatic diplomat.”

“And what about this business with the pilots?” Leontev asked.

“Finally, some good sense on their part,” drawled Naumov.

“Possibly,” said Zakharov. “Or a poisoned apple.”

“How so?” asked Leontev.

“Well, consider the situation in Mosograd – throughout the country, really. Do we really want to humiliate Kuznetsov, when he’s this vulnerable?”

“Perhaps it’s time for a change,” shrugged Leontev. “He hasn’t proved to be the ally that I think we all hoped he would be. A counterbalance to that waffling King.”

“But you must think about who would replace him,” frowned Zakharov. “We may not love Kuznetsov, but the alternative,” he paused, looking around the room, “might be the abyss.”

Leontev smiled. “A tad dramatic, don’t you think? What do you think, General?”

Bek Timurov, the Kalza General who ran the Interagency Intelligence Commission, hadn’t said a word. It wasn’t out of character – a taciturn man by nature and professional discipline, he always waited to be asked his opinion in Defense Council meetings. Now, the big Kalza turned his round face on the Chancellor as if seeing him for the first time.

“Minister Zakharov is the expert on the political terrain,” he said. “But from a military standpoint, General Galynin is within his rights to be concerned.”

“How so?” Leontev asked. Zakharov raised an eyebrow – there was the slightest glimmer in the Chancellor’s eyes, as if he was back in the courtroom, asking questions of witnesses that he had personally coached.

“Simulations of a potential conflict with a hostile government in Mosograd show less than favorable results.”

“And?” Leontev prodded.

“Significant territorial loss. More than fifty percent equipment loss.”

“Casualties?” asked Leontev.

“Significant,” nodded the Kalza.

“What does GIIS think?” Zakharov jutted in. The acronym for the Generian Imperial Intelligence Service, which was not part of the Interagency Commission nor the Defense Council, landed like a wet fart in the room. GIIS was not included in these discussions because the Emperor himself did not trust them. It was only through the maneuverings of certain influential parties that the agency continued to exist at all – and now strictly as a foreign HUMINT-focused organization. As GIIS operated under diplomatic cover, Zakharov was – unwillingly – the closest thing to their voice on the Council.

“I don’t know,” Timurov said, glancing coldly at Zakharov. “They haven’t told me.”

Zakharov knew what GIIS thought, of course. He was one of four men that received their daily assessments, including the Emperor and Leontev. GIIS thought what he thought: that sending even a single additional Regiment to Zapolonsk risked throwing a lit match on a powder keg. That the slightest overt Generian pressure on the Kuznetsov government would push it over. And then, the whirlwind: an ultranationalist government, or (perhaps worse) a government controlled from the shadows by the devious Cosacakayans – a people who made the ancient Byzantines seem forthright and transparent.

There was the other piece of the puzzle – a piece that remained missing, as far as Zakharov was concerned. What did Cyrene seek to get out of all of this? She had helped to put Kuznetsov in power, supported the Party of Regions. But as far as he could tell, they were letting their neighbor crumble into anarchy without lifting a finger. People like Cyrene didn’t allow things to happen unless they were quite sure they liked the outcome. It was another damn fine reason to steer as far away from a militaristic course as possible. Sure, they could fight the Russ, and beat them – at a cost. But it wasn’t just the Russ that they would be dealing with in the end.

“I’ve read the assessment you’re referring to,” said Leontev. “And I think it’s safe to say that I take it seriously. No one at this table,” he said, gesturing at the dozen men seated there, “wants to do anything that will bring Generia into a war – not even close to one. We don’t want to repeat the mistakes that were made in Boguila.”

There was another well-aimed barb: Boguila had, thanks to the machinations of some of the men sitting here, become his failure. That despite the fact that he alone had been the one counseling restraint – negotiations with the successive governments. Peace, for God’s sake. Alexei had saved him from the wolves on that one. Now he felt it was his duty to save his sovereign from being talked into a similar miscalculation.

---

The White Citadel, Sofia, Generia

That sovereign now puzzled over a pair of diplomatic communiques that had arrived nearly in tandem. He still wore the ceremonial kaftan and the skullcap that marked him as the head of the Generian Orthodox Church – today had been the celebration of the feast of Saint Demetrius of Mosograd, of all things.

“She is a blunt woman, isn’t she,” he said, reading Cyrene’s missive. “And I don’t think she quite likes me,” he said, smiling.

“Your Majesty did demur when it was suggested by the Cosacakayan representative that you remarry.”

“Ah, that,” said Alexei, frowning. “You know what I’ve said. There was only our Natasha.”

The Empress Natalia, a beautiful, vibrant, and decent woman, had died nearly seven years ago. Since then, the Emperor had been insistent on one point: that the Empress could never be replaced. Even the pragmatic Foreign Minister found it to be a touching sentiment – he had been as charmed by the Empress as anyone else – but it posed certain practical problems. The Emperor had two young daughters, and no son.

While Zakharov was not as convinced as some that Generia would not survive the passing of the direct descendants of the first Emperor, Ivan the Christian, he also wasn’t convinced that it was worth taking the chance for mere sentiment. But every effort to convey this point had been met with cold refusal.

It was no surprise to Zakharov that Cyrene resented it: he viewed her as a sensible and ambitious woman with an iron will. Zakharov was sure that she had taken the Emperor’s deflection of her suggestion to heart. A keen enough student of government and the author of the reforms that had saved the Empire, Alexei still seemed unable to grasp that his own person remained absolutely central to Imperial policy, foreign and otherwise. In some respects, his attachment to his late wife could become the catalyst for real problems.

But now was not the time or the place to argue the point again.

Zakharov accepted the letter from the Emperor’s hands and placed his glasses on his nose.

“So, what shall we say?” Alexei asked. A ghost of a smile crossed the Emperor’s lips as he glanced at Zakharov.

Handing back the document, Zakharov frowned. “The truth, such as it is. Knowing her reputation, she’ll discern it eventually.”

“Fair enough,” shrugged the Emperor. “And this,” he said, handing over Kuznetsov’s note. Zakharov had seen this already, having been present when it was delivered. He had had some time to consider the problem of the Russ pilots.

This was a particularly ugly business. Certainly, if Generian pilots had acted so recklessly as to provoke an international incident, they would be punished. But in their own courts, in their own country. That the Russ would hand their own people over the lines was so unthinkable that it smacked of a trap. Had it been the King’s idea? Was Ivan playing another game, looking to rid himself of Kuznetsov? These were questions to which he would never have a satisfactory answer. Not even the sphinxes at GIIS could divine the rationale.

“If there is poison in the cup,” he said, slipping easily into the old Slavonic from his seminary days, “don’t drink from it.”

“Who said that?” Alexei asked.

“I did,” Zakharov replied.

The Emperor frowned. “The people are asking for justice.”

“Where? I saw no hordes in the street outside the White Citadel.”

The Emperor dismissed the remark with a wave of his hand. “You know what I mean. On Bunt. In the Assembly.”

“You speak for the people. The decision rests with you, not them.”

“And then what should I decide? I’d like to see those dogs strung up in St. Paul’s Square.”

“It would be an error. You know that.”

“Of course I do. But isn’t the Empire entitled to at least some vengeance? If I listened to you, we’d have whiplash from all the cheek-turning.”

The Emperor had a point. Border incidents in Zapolonsk weren’t merely the paranoid fantasies of General Galynin. But the dagger cut both ways: he only had so much control over the local GIIS operatives – those in Zapolonsk included some of the most aggressive in the service. And their local allies were only too quick to vanish over the line of control with knives in their hand. It wouldn’t do to make too much of the matter.

There was a part of Zakharov that sympathized with Kuznetsov. It was a terrible thing to be a Quisling, dancing at the end of a marionette’s strings. He suspected that, deep down, the Prime Minister hated the Empire as much or more than the most reactionary citizens. But he loved power, and he had sold his soul for it. Leased it, really – and those payments had to be made.

“So?” asked Alexei.

“We can’t try them in Generia,” the Foreign Minister said, slowly. “But you’re right that they must be punished, to preempt another incident. But let them be punished in Mosograd, by their own courts.”

“How do we know that they’ll follow through?”

“Send an observer,” said Zakharov.

“The Ambassador? Artemyev?”

“No, it would be too inflammatory.” Artemyev was one of the least diplomatic people Zakharov had ever met – a drunken second son from a landed family of the central plains. It made him well-suited to represent the Empire in Russistan in some ways – he was tenacious, and he did what he was told. But he couldn’t handle a delicate task.

“Then who?”

“Why not -” Zakharov considered. “Prince Cesar Pavelovic?”

“Our cousin? Really?”

The more Zakharov considered it, the more he liked it. Pavelovic was well-liked – he had a dilettante’s reputation, of course, but he had that natural instinct for diplomacy that the best sort of aristocrat possessed. And he had developed some standing as a pan-regionalist, promoting Central Asian unity and other platitudinous nonsense. He would, at least, be the least offensive Generian to send to observe a foreign military trial – the lightest possible finger to put on the scale.

“Yes. He’d be perfect.”

“Well,” Alexei said, seeming unconvinced. “He has been asking us for something to do.”

---

A Communication from the Emperor of the Generians

Her Imperial Majesty, High Archduchess Cyrene
By courier

Your Majesty, My Sister,

We were pleased to receive your letter, despite the difficult circumstances. Our understanding of the event you reference is even now incomplete, despite the efforts of both our own authorities and those of our friends in Russistan to get to the bottom of things. Certainly, it appears to be the result of an unfortunate misunderstanding – itself the outcome of a situation in which warlike forces find themselves operating in close proximity in the area of the Zapolonsk Security Line. We are consoled only in that no one appears to have been harmed as a result.

We agree that there are uncomfortable similarities between the events that recently transpired in Boguila and those that appear now to be developing in our mutual neighbor, Russistan. It is still the hope of our government that the tragedy of Boguila will not be repeated, especially so close to our own doorsteps. Though we have great faith in the commitment of King Ivan and his government to maintaining peace and order within the Kingdom, in spite of the efforts of certain street people and rabblerousers within Russistan.

As you have asked a direct questions about the Empire’s policy towards Russistan, we feel that you are owed a frank and complete answer. Naturally, our sole interest is ensuring peace – both in Russistan and the wider region. It was to this end alone that we directed our government to provide peacekeeping assistance to the Ducal government of Zapolonsk, and to His Lordship, Duke Nikolai, our esteemed cousin.

We must emphasize that we value the territorial integrity of Russistan and have a deep appreciation for the position of the authorities in Mosograd, though these take a different view of the status of Zapolonsk than perhaps our government in Sofia. These appear to us to be disputes of a legal nature that must be solved through careful negotiation and consideration – as I am not an attorney, I feel that I must delegate these discussions to those within my government who are more qualified than I to navigate them. Indeed, these subjects have been under consideration already during our bilateral talks with the government in Mosograd.

We are hopeful that the eminently clever diplomats and experts who are so-engaged will be able to find a solution that is acceptable to the people of Russistan as a whole, including those citizens who reside in Zapolonsk and Zaretskaya. It was precisely with their interests in mind that we agreed to provide the Ducal government with our support, in order to dissuade certain aggressive elements within the government of Russistan from engaging in military maneuvers that we saw could only result in a massacre of innocent residents.

We recognize that an armed force alone cannot guarantee the security of a people – a political solution must be found that ensures lasting civil peace within Russistan. We are working closely with the legal and elected government in Mosograd to secure such an outcome. Naturally, we welcome the close cooperation of Your Majesty’s government in achieving this goal, which we are sure is as important to Your Majesty as it is to us.

With Generian intentions as plain and straightforward as they are, we feel that the only true obstacle to achieving lasting peace in Russistan are provocations such as those that developed in the skies along the Security Line. We have communicated our concerns along these lines to the government in Mosograd through the appropriate channels, and have been assured that efforts will be made to restrain elements that might prove to be obstacles to peace. For the avoidance of any doubt, we have personally instructed Imperial peacekeepers to avoid any action that might be seen as provocative, though naturally our peacekeepers must defend themselves if their lives are in danger. We are hopeful that continued engagement between our government and Mosograd will make such a scenario even more unlikely than it is now.

We hope that our letter conveys our thoughts on this matter clearly. As always, we extend our warmest fraternal greetings and hopes for your continued good health and wellbeing.

Yours,

Alexei, Emperor and Autocrat of the Generians

---

A Communication from the Emperor of the Generians

Prime Minister Kuznetsov of the Grand Kingdom of the Russ
By courier

Your Excellency,

We are grateful for your recent communication. The unfortunate aerial incident that you reference has caused our government the gravest concern. As you know, Generia has always had the most fraternal regard towards Russistan, and we are grateful that your government has always maintained a friendly posture towards the Empire, in spite of the disruptive efforts of some reactive elements.

As concerning as recent events along the border with Zapolonsk are to us, we assure you that war is the furthest thing from our minds. Indeed, we had looked favorably on the progress of the ongoing bilateral discussions with your government, which seek to ensure a peaceful reintegration of the Duchy under a federal arrangement, and the protection of all Russistan’s citizens.

We appreciate the difficulty that this situation must place your government in. While we believe firmly that those who instigated the incident must be punished, in the interest of dissuading others who might engage in similarly reckless behavior, we are certain that we are not the ones to decide the matter. We have the utmost confidence in the Russ justice system, and are certain that the measures you have in place to handle these types of incidents will prove more than adequate.

At the risk of imposing on your courtesy, we would ask that a representative of the Imperial crown might attend these proceedings, to observe and demonstrate both the seriousness with which Generia takes the recent incident and its faith in the ability of your government to administer justice.

We eagerly await your reply.

Yours,

Alexei, Emperor and Autocrat of the Generians

[Cosacakaya]

“With the Changing Winds”

Undisclosed Location
Close to the Russistan- Cosacakaya

“You may proceed with the demonstration,” said Grand Prince Alexey, the commander of the famous 2nd Royal Cyrene's Own Naval Infantry Brigade over his radio circuit - hiding his nerves behind the firmness in his voice. His sun-kissed head was covered in sweat as months of hard work, since the crisis in Boguila, was about to come full circle. “2nd Battalion, prepare to advance.”

The Grand Prince and favoured son of the High Archduchess stood on a hill several hundred meters west of his Brigade’s command post dug into the earth and hidden beneath camouflage nets and thick branches. He ground his teeth and carefully watched the military exercise begin with a series of loud booms. Watching alongside him was the forever loyal aide, and close advisor to his mother Count Sergei Mikhailovich Romanov-Slavsky. ‘As if I need the distraction of my mother’s latest pet’, Alexey thought bleakly - feeling the Count’s eyes burying into his back.

The first thing they heard were the guns - in loud, successive whistles from far behind them followed bright flashes, and then the even louder, thunderous explosion of artillery shells hitting their marks. Fired from behind another hill three kilometers away, the shells arced through the sky to their left, cutting through the air with a sound like the ripping of linen. Alexey noticed Count Sergei cringed at the noise, and with a subtle smile he noted - another soft nobleman playing soldier.

“I never knew how loud war truly was,” remarked the Count, taking the binoculars from an aid and raising it to his eyes. He winced every time there was a loud explosion or the roar from the helicopters flying overhead. “Even though I never did like these sounds, they never sat right with me.”

“You did your duty, Count?” asked Alexey, surprised by the Count’s statement. Few men of high birth ever served in the Armed Forces and those who did, often did so at the behest of an overbearing father or out of ambition due to their poor order in birth - Count Sergei was none of them. From what Alexey could recall, the man was the first and only child of some noble and inherited everything upon the death of his father. “Where did you serve?”

“Surprised?” Count Sergei smirked at his reaction, lowering the binoculars and handling them to Alexey before the Count crossed himself and mumbled some kind of prayer that his mother often repeated. “My father was religious as he was determined to continue my family’s long line of military tradition,” he smiled at the sight of Alexey's surprise - ‘You are dressed as a priest right now!’ Alexey held his tongue as Sergei continued: “I did my duty as a common soldier in a motor-rifle regiment,” he remarked drily. “One thing I took from my experience is that it is always better to be the man giving the orders and following them. Excuse me, Grand Prince.”

Sergi took another pair of binoculars and watched the main event - the tanks. Taking centre stage, they observed through their binoculars a formidable line main battle tanks emerging from the woods like a vision straight from nightmare - their enormous barrels erupting in flames as they fired at unseen targets. They moved unopposed around the rolling fields of the exercise area. Following the tanks were the infantry fighting vehicles, maneuvering across the terrain slightly behind the tanks. Then attack helicopters appeared behind the observation post, sweeping down from both flanks and unleashing hell upon the trenches and armored vehicles below.

Sergi sighed. By the time the advancing marines made their final approach towards the hilltop objective, it was completely hidden by the flying dirt as the artillery unleashed even more hell upon the target. Alexey wondered how anyone stationed in that hilltop would survive such a bombardment - even in the protective holes and trenches that were supposed to protect them. He knew from personal experience that such concentrated artillery fire would be terrifying for even the best trained men and hopefully enough to distract the officers barking orders that the men manning their own lethal weapons.

‘But what of return fire from the enemy? Or TOWs waiting for my tanks companies or infantry killers waiting for the moment to blaze away at my men the moment they disembarked from their armoured personnel carriers?’ these thoughts ate away at his nerves. There were so many unknowns in battle - in an actual battle and not an exercise like this one- that were impossible to train for in military exercises such as this which looked so good to the naked eyes. ‘But at least it ticks a few boxes and looks visually appealing for the nobles at court.’

It was all over in twelve minutes when the tanks and infantry carriers were atop the hill and all objectives had been completed. The exercise was over- a few more boxes ticked and self-congratulatory celebrations among the Ministry of Defence pencil pushers would happen for a job well done. But Alexey couldn’t help but wonder whether his men actually prepared for war?

Alexey doubted it.

“Nicely done, Grand Prince,” remarked Sergi as he removed his ear protectors and handed his binoculars to some nameless aide at his side. Sergi would soon enough return to his master in Osti and report back that the Royal Armed Forces were ready to execute the will of the High Archduchy. ‘And yet no one knows what games my mother is playing in Russistan,’ Alexey wondered why the Count was here and what plans were in the works, but the Count was toying with him - seeming to enjoy himself playing soldier. “Executed perfectly…my report told me that the standard for this particular drill is nearly sixteen minutes. The all-mother will be pleased.”

“The greatest improvement was the coordination of artillery fire and infantry in the final assault,” Alexey explained, forgetting himself in a child-like enthusiasm for the dark arts behind war. “Before, they failed miserably and an entire company would have been wiped out. This time it was done properly--a tricky procedure to execute correctly.”

“The tanks and infantry vehicles cooperated well. During my time in uniform, I've never seen the use of armed helicopters, but that too was impressive.” the Count said, sounding genuinely impressed. He looked around and saw the one or two dozen other observers, regimental staffers, officers from other units, and aides from the various men in the room applaud the end of the exercises and slowly start to disperse. “With the Lord’s grace, it is rather crowded in here,” he said, leaning closer to Alexey, “Is there anywhere we could speak, with a bit more, you know, privacy?”

“Follow me, Count,” Alexey said, gesturing for him to follow him. “I am guessing what you are going to tell me we will require speaking while sitting down?” he asked, to which the Count smirked a yes. The two men walked back to Alexey’s armored command vehicle and the Grand Prince’s aide dismissed the vehicle's crew and himself - leaving the two men alone inside the converted infantry carrier. The Count looked ridiculous in his religious clothes inside a weapon of war, but still hadn’t lost it and moved like a former army man who knew his way around an armoured vehicle. “Once a soldier, always a soldier.”

“With the Lord’s grace, I haven’t heard a truer statement in a while,” the Count chuckled, taking a seat and withdrawing a thermos of freshly boiled tea from a compartment. He fiddled around the interior of the vehicle as though he were looking for something - eventually giving up with a loud sigh and poured the thermos’s contents into two metal cups. “To your health, your imperial majesty!”

“And to yours, Count,” Alexely said, sipping it briefly, and then set the cup down a map table of Russistan, Cosacakaya, and Generia’s rogue puppet region. After a small sip from his cup, he released the question which had been burning at him for weeks now. “Why all the preparations now?” Alexey asked awkwardly, unsure of the answer he was going to get. He had fought in Buryatya and was celebrated as the hero of Novovelkiaya for his defence of Cosacakaya during the battle of the same name. He had killed, lost good men, and done awful things during the city’s defence. He knew war wasn’t a game, he had seen it with his own eyes the hell it was, but his mother seemed so determined to treat it as one and throw another generation of boys into the meat grinder. “The crisis in Boguila is over, yet we still train as though it is still ongoing.”

“Russistan is the new Boguila,” the Count replied curly, placing his cup on the side and giving the Grand Prince a stern look. “The unrest currently gripping our brothers in Russistan is, may the Lord grant us his grace, a tragedy of the highest magnitude, but is an opportunity that we must not miss nevertheless. We have little knowledge of Generian intentions regarding the Zapolonsk and Russistan, but that mustn’t stop us from securing our own interests before the Generians prevent it.”

“I never did understand the games of politicians,” Alexey remarked casually, shaking his head. Not long ago, they were preparing to intervene in Boguila and get into a shooting war with powers much stronger than his precious Cosacakaya. Then, all of a sudden, the risk of war disappeared like that and now the guns had turned towards their neighbour Russistan - to what end was lost to the Grand Prince. “Why Russistan? Why all the military exercises and readiness drills? What are these interests that my dear mother wants to protect on her behalf?”

“The mission that you are preparing for is named Operation Rush,” the Count remarked, handing Alexey a heavy folder with the word CLASSIFIED written on top of it. “This is a planned pacification of Russistan by the Royal Cosacakayan Armed Forces should things in the country continue to deteriorate and those opposed to the natural order of things threaten to take over our Russistan,” Sergi explained as if it were the simplest thing in the world. Alexey had fought in a war before - he had seen first hand what it was like and how it was easy to start one, but once the genie left the bottle, it was impossible to control. “With the collapse of the central authority in Mosograd, it will be simple enough to restore the King.”

“Simple enough Count,” Alexey replied simply, reaching out to fill his cup from the thermos - giving himself some time to think. The meeting with the Count, a favourite of his mother, was strange and with him divulging sensitive information like that to him - the kind of operations discussed behind closed doors in the deepest parts of Zlatovodskiy Palace - was even stranger. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Beyond the flattery and word-play, are you young Prince?” the Count laughed and smiled, looking to see if there were anyone in ear shot. “Certain conditions are required before such a grand plan be enacted, Grand Prince,” Sergi remarked, stirring the tea inside his thermos - he was enjoying the power of knowing something that the Grand Prince didn’t know. “These military exercises and the testing of the operational readiness preparations give us the cover we require to train agents ready for their mission to restore the natural order and before their deployment to Russistan. It is the all-mother’s wish that you personally oversee their training and deployment to Russistan. Once there training is complete, these agents will be deployed to the border regions of Serafimovka and Zaroslavl close to the Cosacakayan border in order to build a base of support for Grand King Ivan Fyodorovich Vorontsov to counter the rising power of the so-called revolutionaries in Russistan trying to upset the natural order.”

“So now I know the true purpose of your visit, Count,” began Alexey, feeling a bit better knowing the why - he was one who had always hated secrets. “What is my role in the inner-workings of my mother and her interests in Russistan?” he asked, pausing to take another small sip of tea and closely observing the reaction of the Count. “You did not come all this way just to play soldier now!”

“Of course, not, god as my witness,” laughed the Count uncomfortably, reaching out to take another long sip of tea. “As you prepare God's soldiers for the ultimate battle against the faithless, we will begin to move in volunteers amongst your ranks - who you are to train in the ways of war before they are given leave for Serafimovka and Zaroslavl. These brave volunteers, god willing, shall build that base of support to counter those who want to destroy our way of life and prepare the way, should the worst come to pass, for the pacification of our brothers and sisters in Russistan before the Generians.”

“Have you considered surprises from the Generians?” Alexey asked, leaning closer towards the Count to look him in the eye - ‘He is serious in his endeavor,’ “Or even the Russ by that matter? What if the Russ surprise us and ally themselves with the Generians? What if resistance is stronger than anticipated, Count?”

The Count leaned back. “By definition you cannot predict surprises, Grand Prince,” he responded with that annoying smirk back on his face. “That is why we have the intelligence organs, to reduce or even eliminate them. The Russ cannot ally themselves with the Generians so long their interests fail to align over that rogue province nor would the Generians ally themselves with revolutionaries so close to their own borders. Boguila is an alien land a world away - most Russ can speak Generian, how would the Emperor feel if would be revolutionaries were calling for his head?”

Silented, Alexey nodded in agreement and quickly skimmed the folder. “So, this unit will lead the way in Russistan?” he asked, feeling a wave of worry for his men. Sending volunteers to go cause chaos in Russistan felt strange and the fact he would be helping them do it felt like a betrayal of his soldierly honour. “It says here that the operation is to begin at the end of the week.”

“God willing, it is,” the count said, finishing the last of his tea. “In spycraft, I trust no one and neither should you,” he warned more than advised. “I hope that none of this makes its way to the ears of unfriendly people to the all-mother’s designs?” The formal agreement was made with nods, with Alexey wondering what other things his mother had planned. “Good luck, Grand Prince, may you successfully execute the will of God”

By the end of the night, the first round of cash transfers were made to Russ accounts and buses full of Cosacakayan activists drove past the border into Russistan - ready to fight for the King and the interests of Cosacakaya.

To the Office of the Emperor of the Empire of Generia,
Emperor Alexei,

I am grateful for the transparency with which you address the unsettling situation and your great Empire’s agenda unfolding in Russistan and, God willing, we shall together find a solution to the crisis that is gripping our Russ brothers and sisters.

It is indeed a comfort to learn that, thus far, the unfortunate incident at the border didn’t result in any harm to innocent lives. God willing, we must remain vigilant in our collective endeavors to avert any further escalation in Russistan and ensure peace in our region— especially as the escalation is easy to start, but difficult to control as we have learned in Boguila.

In order to ensure further peace in the region, it is the belief of the High Archduchy that our great powers should explore further the matter of expanding our intelligence-sharing efforts regarding the unstable situation in Russistan and the expansion of intelligence sharing between us. It is my position that we should consider the establishment of a formal exchange of intelligence between our intelligence services in order to facilitate timely responses to provocations along the Security Line but also strengthen our diplomatic leverage over Mosograd and have a better understanding of the ever chaotic situation in Russsistan.

We look forward to your response,

May god bless you and protect your country,


Office of Her Imperial Majesty

[Cosacakaya]

“Escalation”

“The fact is that when you make the other suffer, he will try to find relief by making you suffer more. The result is an escalation of suffering on both sides.” - Nhat Hanh

---

CHAPTERS

• Chapter 1: “Under The Shadow of The City On A Hill”
• Chapter 2: “A Wedding Surprise”
• Chapter 3: “Revenge”
• Chapter 4: “Time Waits For No Man”

[Russistan]

“Under The Shadow of The City On A Hill”

Downtown Zapolonsk
Zapolonsk City, Russistan

What happened to Zapolonsk? How have the Royal Zapolonsk People’s Unified Militia descended to become jokes among the Generian regulars?

Zappos were the name given to the poorly trained, equipped, and led men of the Royal Zapolonsk People’s Unified Militia who gathered around the exit of the base. They all had their phones out, taking pictures, recording videos, or even live streaming on the Bunt the Generian military convoy departing their base. They were chatting, laughing, lively jeering as though it were some kind of parade as the procession of armored vehicles, troop carriers, and logistical trucks drove past them. The more professional Generian soldiers frustratedly barked at them to stop recording for security purposes and to put away their phones - only to be met by insults and jeers. A routine event for those unfortunate enough to encounter the less than professional conscript regiments that made up the majority of the force as it was expanded.

“Too rapidly if you asked me,” Vlad said, voiceless as he watched the mass of people standing by the barbed wire fences that separated them from the real soldiers. Of course, there was no way any nation could expand its forces from 30,000 volunteers and professional Russ troops who defected to Zapolonsk back in 2017 to nearly 200,000 strong within a matter of seven years without something having to give. The Generian leadership back on the continent, in all their wisdom, expanded the force without much thought to training nor equipment. There were too few Generian trainers and too many Zappo conscripts filling the training camps - being equipped with weapons brought out of storage from the 1970s and 1980s. All the while the Zappo commanders seemed content with lying about the true state of so many Royal Zapolonsk People’s Unified Militia regiments and pocketing the difference.

It always wasn’t like this.

It had been the locals like Vlad that had been the sword that struck the heart of the Russ forces stationed in Zapolonsk. He and volunteers like him sabotaged communications, captured or killed those opposed to the Zapolonsk project, convinced many local Russ elite to switch sides, and directed the Generians operating in Zapolonsk towards strategically important objectives. Within a matter of days, volunteers like Vlad helped the Generians bring over thousands, maybe even tens of thousands of well-trained Generian troops and forced the provisional government in Mosograd to back down. The exiled King returned to Zapolonsk City, a hero ready to drive the republicans out of his ancestral home. Vlad himself collected groups of assault troops ready to hit Zaretskaya next and free their fellow Generian Orthodox brothers and sisters in the region.

He could still remember as if it were yesterday - a dozen or so men sitting in the back of a truck on the side of the road, anxiously waiting for their GIIS handlers to give the order to move into Zaretskaya. They had everything prepared and ready to go at a moment’s notice - Vlad could still feel the itch of wanting to get going. And yet, as the minutes turned into hours and no order was given, anticipation gave way to disappointment when they finally did receive their orders - stand down.

Just like that the opportunity of a lifetime slipped away. The chaotic situation perfect for slipping small groups of sabotagers to rile up the population to rebellion before the Generian tanks came rolling in gave way for a stalemate marked by trenches, fortifications, and endless talks that led to nothing. The Russ reorgansied themselves - purging suspected sympathizers of the exiled King and GIIS agents within the ranks of the Armed Forces. They reinforced the Russistan-Zapolonsk border with ever more heavy weapons, a growing number of troops, and a determination to end the Zapolonsk project. With every passing day, Vlad dreaded the fact that the liberation of Zaretskaya felt as though it were becoming an increasingly unachievable dream and that the mistake of 2017 would be harder and harder to undo.

This sharp feeling of dread came over him as he stood rooted in place - staring out absentmindedly through the dusty window as the last of the Generian convoy departed. He wondered how many Generians would die unnecessarily because of the foolness of their superiors back in Sofia. He dropped a hand into his coat pocket and found a packet of cigarettes; slipping one of the sticks into his mouth and lighting it with a grubby cigarette lighter. ‘A thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand dead and for what?’ Vlad found the numbers mind bogglingly as they were completely avoidable.

He finished the last of his cigarette and walked out of the lobby - waiting for him on the side of the curb was a car; the engine was still running and a man was standing outside of it watching with disgust the sight of the Zappos started to disperse only after the Generians left. He looked laughably out of place with the trench coat he was wearing during the middle of the worst heatwave in 10 years.

“What took you so goddamn long? You better have been getting freaky with the Generian Emperor’s mistress with the time I have been waiting here” the man yelled at Vlad, glancing at his watch before looking back up at him. “I’ve been standing here like a total jerk off for twenty minutes?” he said with an annoyed tone. “Get your shit in the car before we are late.”

“Why do you think that she and the Emperor had a falling out, Yevhen?” Vlad said, bursting out into laughter and gesturing towards his pants as he lazily threw his things into the backseat. Yevhen said nothing, but couldn’t help but laugh as the pair of them got into the car. “Alright, let’s go already!” Vlad said irritably, throwing the last of his cigarette out the window and staring out the window as they left off towards a destination unknown to Vlad.

“My god, it has been hot...this fucking heatwave man…isn’t it the hottest autumn on record?” he meandered as the engine of the sleek sedan hummed softly. Yevhan might have said something in reply, and Vlad may have even mumbled a response but Vlad felt unable to focus on what was being said. He felt his mind starting to wonder again and soon found himself staring out the window - watching the City of Zapolonsk pass him by.

His city had changed so much since its liberation at the hands of the Generians and those opposed to the coup of 2017. Glistening glass skyscrapers, fancy apartment complexes, expensive restaurants, massive shopping centres and various entertainment areas had been constructed to accommodate the influx of Generians to the region since 2017. While many were the families of the soldiers garrisoning Zapolonsk, many others were specialists, teachers, and high skilled workers attracted by healthy signing bonuses to fill out the many jobs Zapolonsk needed to catch up with Generia and become a high-income economy in its own right.

He saw many of these Generians who moved to his country for an easy life at the iconic Zapolonsk Plaza—a vast open space framed by a larger-than-life statue of the Duke of Zapolonsk and exiled King of Russistan - Nikolai Gagarin. Those were the same Generians who lounged on benches, sipping coffee from takeaway cups and lazily ate food while children chased after pigeons, their laughter ringing like music through the air. Would these same people be willing to take up arms when the time came? Vlad wondered as he watched them thoughtlessly going about their daily life without a care of the impending crisis building across the border. ‘Or would they flee back to the safety of big cities like Sofia while the true patriots suffer in their place?’

In the end, the drive took forty minutes, mostly because of the traffic, before Vlad was jerked back to the present as the car pulled up at a house in a rundown part of Zapolonsk City - far from the glamor of downtown. The smell of filth and trash flooded his noise the moment he opened the car door - ‘Far from where those continental elites would ever dare live.’ Standing out the house were a pair of greasy looking men drinking out of a flask. The oldest of the two men, no younger than 57, rose to his feet and gestured for him to come closer.

“Vlad, Vlad, my old friend!” yelled out the older man - his big, penetrating voice had the harsh and very distinctive accent of a Generian. As he smiled, he revealed that what few of the old man’s teeth weren’t fake or golden, were instead slowly losing the fight against decay. “It has been way too long, my old friend!”

“It truly has, my old friend Mikhail,” said Vlad, embracing the man as though he were his father - following the man deeper inside the house. Vlad anxiously glanced around the house, nervous of what might be hiding in the shadows as the wooden floorboards creaked under their weight. They reached the centre of the main dining room where Mikhail turned on a small, battery-powered lantern. From its warm glow, revealed a table strewn with maps of Russistan and dossiers with the word CLASSIFIED written on top.

Second laters, the door creaked open again, and two more people joined with - one he recognised as Tatiana Sokolova, a competent agent he had already met several times in the past with her sharp wit and an owl shaped face. The second operative was a younger man who had never met before. They exchanged nods, before the pair of them took their seats

“Tatiana, it is a pleasure as always to see your wonderful face,” laughed Yevhen, blowing her an exaggerated kiss - her reply was in the form of a curt, cut eye and pouring the men a drink. “Who is that little baby agent that is joining us?” he half-asked, half-mocked. “And why should I trust him?”

“This baby agent’s name is Dmitri Volkov,” Dmitri replied coldly, sliding a vanilla file to the pair of them. “And this baby has a plan to strike our enemy while the Emperor considers his actions.” he smirked at the involuntary uncomfortable looks he received. “Soon enough, our brother across the ocean will be forced to act.”

“There are riots in Mosograd and the Emperor still fails to act?” Vlad asked incredulously, quickly noticing that he was sitting at a table with some of the most powerful men and women in Zapolonsk - not the Emperor back on the continent, not the politicians in Mosograd, or the Duke of Zapolonsk. The true power brokers of Zapolonsk were none other than the local Generian Imperial Intelligence Service GIIS in Zapolonsk - who operated with near impunity. “We saved Zapolonsk from the so-called Rose Revolution seven years ago, and what the fuck has ours friends back in Generia done?”

“The Emperor has a plan,” assured Yevhen, reaching out to pat Vlad on the shoulder with a confident smile - Vlad wasn’t feeling that confident in placing so much trust in an Emperor half a world away. They could have struck when the metal was still hot in 2017 and driven all the way to Mosograd with the full power of the Generian Armed Forces while the Russ were still weak. Instead, they sat on their hands for the better part of six or seven years negotiating with them and waiting around as the Russ recovered. “I am right to guess that, agents?”

“We saved Zapolonsk from the republican Russ in Mosograd when those traitors overthrew the true Grand King of Russistan and exiled him to Generia,” Mikhail began to complain with a seriousness to his voice. “But why not our brothers and sisters in Zaretskaya? I have spoken to him, and the true Grand King of Russistan grows frustrated with the Generians' failure to restore him to his position - even with provocation to do so happening just a handful of days ago. I think we all know that the Russ fifth column won’t stop until our Zapolonsk is back under their thumb. What difference are these two agents going to make?!”

“These two agents have a plan in place to undo the damage of the mistakes of 2017,” Tatiana shot back at him harshly, a scold forming atop her eyes brows. “The situation in Mosograd is different from 2017, more volatile and uncertain - had we followed your advice the Generians would have been universally criticised for an invasion of a sovereign nation and that is not even including what those cowards who hold back Generian greatness would have done to the Emperor had things gone south. As we speak, the plan is in motion to destroy the republican fifth column held up in Russistan.”

“That whore Olga Mikhailova needs to be finished with,” interrupted Yevhen, pouring himself a healthy amount of alcohol which nearly poured over the edges of glass and took a single, large slip. He reached into his coat pocket and threw a piece of paper onto the table - it wasn’t good. She was leading by 15 points nationally and even with Generia meddling, could still win a healthy majority in parliament. “She could ruin everything and with Prime Minister Kuznetsov’s approval ratings spiraling down the shitter, we can’t kick out that dick Prime Minister Kuznetsov without replacing him with a cunt.”

“That cunt has already signed her death warrant,” replied Tatiana brusquely, but her face remained stoic and unreadable except for a sharp look in her eye which she directed towards Yevhen. “Which is where the pair of you will play your part. As instructed, the both of you have been developing and building up cells of sympathisers in Russistan proper - in the bags behind you,” Vlad turned to see several thick duffle bags lying on a table behind them. “Is the money the pair of you will need to get the operation started. At first, one of us will need to be sacrificed for the greater good, and then Olga.”

“With enough chaos in Russistan,” Dmitri continued in Tatiana’s place with a confident, almost smug hum to his voice. “The Generian fools back in Sofia will be forced to act and secure our lost brothers and sisters in Zaretskaya. Most importantly, still time there won’t be traitors like the Generian Foreign Minister complaining about escalation when Mosograd is burning and the people of Zaretskaya.”

“Wait,” asked Vlad, interest peaked as he poured himself a glass of whatever his friend Yvehen was drinking. “Are you referring to that backup plan that was talked about and never implemented at the beginning of the 2021 election?” His answer came in the form of a nod from Tatiana. “They’re ready to move on Zaretskaya?”

“It has come from the top.” said Dmitri, pulling out a different coloured folder and sliding it over to the pair of them. “They are ordering us to activate the operation, right now.”

It was several hours later, when the final details were ironed out and the last of the duffle bags in the back of the car, that Vlad could feel palpable tension in the air, a feeling that something was brewing just beneath the surface—an undercurrent of both fear and excitement. It was with an extra kick to his step, Vlad found his way back to his car and, for the first time in a long time, smiled.

“Did you hear what they said?” Yevhen leaned in, his voice low and conspiratorial. “We finally have the backing from the top. They’re ready to move on Zaretskaya. The timing is perfect; we can strike while the Russ are still reeling from the riots in Mosograd.”

“Things are looking up for the reunification of Zapolonsk and Russistan,” he replied, beside himself with elation and unable to hide the beaming smile stretching from ear-to-ear. “Finally...everything is a go, we are doing this. Those republican leaning puppets and traitors in Mosograd will finally pay for the crime that was the 2017 Rose Revolution.”

‘Traitors will die in the fury of the true King and victory will be ours’

[Cosacakaya]

“A Wedding Surprise”

Central Mosograd
Mosograd, Russistan

It was a nice warm summer evening in Mosograd - peaceful even. The first one Mikhail could clearly remember since this whole mess with the singer, Zapolonsk, and the street protests broke out. Hours had felt like days and his days felt like entire lifetimes had already been lived and the respite of his daughter’s wedding was a welcome relief to the chaotic, dangerous storm consuming his beloved Russistan. ‘The calm before the storm,’ the proud Duke thought, realizing that soon enough the Prince Cesar Pavelovic would be arriving

Before his very eyes, Russistan, his home was being sold out by those around him and the proud Duke Mikhail Volkov was increasingly feeling like he had to do something to save his homeland from destruction. The Prime Minister was nothing more than a puppet of the Generians and their designs for Zapolonsk while the Grand King, the symbol of the people, seemed more worried about keeping his wife happy and playing King at court than ruling his own Kingdom. As he stood, watching his daughter, a beaming beautiful bride having her first dance with her new husband, he feared what the future held for her.

“You don’t look that happy, Mikhail?” said the familiar voice of Masha Moskalyova from behind him. She was wearing a simple dress that flowed elegantly to the floor and a modest shawl with floral patterns. The Duke was surprised at how simple she dressed considering recent events and Masha’s tendency to put on a show. “Shouldn’t this be the happiest day of a father’s life?”

“It should be the happiest day of my life as a father, but I have seen what war does to men and I fear this time of peace is coming to an end,” he remarked, watching his daughter with a father’s pride. “My son-in-law is a good man and an even better officer - but war turns even the best natured men into monsters and I fear for my daughter’s future.”

“Surely you do not believe that, Duke?” Masha said shocked, putting her drink down and turning to look him directly in the eye. “What is that saying, Love conquers all even or something like that!” she forced a laugh and took another sip from her glass. “The Generians aren’t stupid enough to start something and those in charge of our country are too indebted to them to begin a war!”

“You can never be surprised by the hubris of politicians,” Mikhail chuckled darkly, turning to watch his beautiful daughter continuing to dance. She looked stunning in her summer dress, arm-in-arm with her handsome husband. Mikhail had always thought events like this always seemed to be so self-indulgent, stuffy and outdated. “My cousin married a Generian officer before the war in that hellhole called Alberia…a nice kid much like my son-in-law who just wanted to do his part for King and country,” he laughed painfully, the memories flooding back to him. “The man who returned from that war was a monster who beat my cousin and her kids for fun…last I heard of him, he lives in Sofia whoring and drinking his way to an early grave.”

“Well, that is certainly a story that kills a party,” Masha laughed and emptied the final contents of her drink in front of him. Mikhail wanted to say something rude and cutting about her behavior, but as usual, the right words avoided him and Masha slipped away unscathed. “I think I'll be seeing you, my charming and fun loving Duke.”

“Duke Mikhail, is that you I am looking at,” he heard a loud, familiar yell out and move towards him. It felt like a welcomed distraction from his internal lambasting of himself and his failure to properly teach Masha a proper lesson for that tongue of hers. “It has been quite a long time since I had the pleasure of your company and with this mess in Mosograd,” he paused and shook his head several times. “I feared that our paths might ever cross again!”

“Is that you, old Igor?” said Mikhail as he turned to see the familiar face of Igor Borodai, the Chief of the Office of Strategic Planning for the Imperial Russ Ground Army clad in his favourite military uniform. He looked slightly older than the last time he saw him - tired from the passage of time, but his boyish enthusiasm for life kept him having an almost youthful look to his old face. “Now, what do I owe the pleasure?”

“We need to speak old,” Igor said with seriousness to his voice that took Mikhail back - ‘I have never heard him speak like that before,’ his curiosity cautiously peaked. “I am terribly sorry to do this during your daughter’s wedding of all places, but this cannot wait nor can it be ever known we have spoken.” Igor paused, placed a hand on his shoulder, and looked Mikhail directly in the eye with a gravity that made it obvious how serious it was. “This concerns the future of the Grand Kingdom.”

Without another word spoken between the two men, Igor made a point to subtly gesture to Mikhail for him to follow Igor through the crowd into a completely different part of the ballroom...or at least that was his first thought. Following the lead of Igor, Mikhail entered into a far more secluded and baroque section of the mansion - restricted only to those fortunate enough to receive an invite.

Next they entered a dark room, with red carpet, jet black leather couches, dark oak tables and no windows - which made the old Duke feel a sense of dread. His eyes crawled the walls and ceiling for any signs of a secret camera or audio device. Sitting in the seats were several men and women for whom Mikhail had become all too familiar with since the chaos of the Battle of Mosograd and its aftermath had consumed every waking thought of the Duke.

“Please, my old friend Duke Mikhail, take a seat of your choosing.” Igor said, gesturing towards one of the empty seats - his smile unmoving as he spoke. Mikhail gave the room a quick once over and saw Masha sitting there, a smug smirk nagging at the ends of her mouth as she cooly sipped her drink. She caught his eye and gave him a smile that grated at his nerves. “We have much to discuss.”

“There is a plot to assassinate Prince Cesar Pavelovic when he arrives at Mosograd International Airport,” began an intelligence officer for the Russ Intelligence Directorate Ivan Petrovich Sokolov matter-of-factly - as though it were the simplest and least surprising thing in the world. “Diaspora members of the Alberian Liberation Front and Russ Ultra-nationalists have the parts in motion to strike after the Prince arrives. My sources tell me several members of the security detail involved in the planning of the event have been compromised and are actively working to ensure the success of the operation.”

“How in God’s green earth do they know that already!” Duke Mikhail practically screamed across the room - he swore that it was impossible to keep anything a secret in Russistan anymore without it leaking to someone. The news about the pilots was bad, but this is worse. “The Cosacakayans are great at spycare, but the Generians are like a cargo ship, so to react, difficult to move, and barely knowing which individual part of the ship was doing at any time - but they adjust course, nothing can stop them. Then there is Russistan a ship with so many holes that it is already on the verge of sinking and the crew is still dumping more water into the sinking ship. ”

“There is someone or a group of them within the Russ Intelligence Directorate working with radicals in Zapolonsk,” continued the intelligence officer with a hint of concern in his voice. “Not everyone inside the RID backed the Rose Revolution and still considered the former Grand King exiled in Zapolonsk the true King. Even getting the information that I am telling you all here today cost the lives of several RID officers by, I and my allies suspect, one of our own.”

“They are truly willing to destroy everything and plunge the region into the kind of war we haven’t seen in decades over Nikolai Gagarin?” the proud Duke laughed at the notion. Good old Nikolai wasn’t a bad person but he made a terrible King. Helpless to the whims of his stunning wife, his own impulses, and poor decision making which caused his own downfall and the mess that Russistan found itself in today. ‘He trusted the Generians and let them build a military base in Zapolonsk - the same base which they used to illegally seize the entire region.’ he thought angrily, utterly perplexed why any Russ patriot would work to install him as Grand King once again. “The man was a poor terrible and an architect of his own downfall! Why would anyone in their right mind work to restore him as King?”

“Poor Kings make great puppets,” Masha Moskalyova said cooly, reaching across the table to pour herself a glass of water - her hand steady and stable.“And we all know the kind of men who make the best puppet masters,” she sighed a shake of her head, “I fear that our current King is a watered down version of old Gargerin, heeding to every beck and call of his puppet masters in Osti.”

“You should watch that tongue, Masha, unless you prefer it to cause yourself unnecessary trouble,” snapped Duke Mikhail, her words too much not to address. “To even mention something like in the same sentence as the Grand King is treason and can get you worse punishments than death.”

“I will watch it when I want, Duke,” Masha smirked at the proud Duke - she enjoyed it, got off on the tension and strife that her words caused. “I worked my way to the position I find myself in today because of my own hard work...I wasn’t gifted the position because of who my father is or who my mother decided to screw.”

“Have you no shame?” Mikhail glared at her. “How have you worked for your position? Oh yes, it must have been so hard opening your legs all the way to the top? You should shut your mouth before I shut it for you!”

“I have kept my mouth shut for most of my life in service of idiot kings and what has it gotten us or our beloved country? Answer me that, Mikhail!” she yelled to a dumbstruck Mikhail, who felt himself, yet again when confronting Masha, lost for words. He knew deep down what she said had some truth to it - what had following the whims of Kings done for him or his Russistan? The country was yet again facing revolution at the hands of a foolish King more obligated to a foreign power than his own people. Perhaps it was a time for a change, something different? “Our current King is as bad as the last one - his decision to arrest that singer…whatshername, caused this whole cluster fuck in the first place.”

“But what of the general direction of our beloved Russistan?” interrupted Nikolai Sergeyevich Rusanov, raising his voice for the first time during the meeting. His voice carried a weight that neither he nor MAsha had or could dream of having. A naturally quiet man, he carried the sort of authority that the balless Prime Minister Kuznetsov could only dream of having. “Are we to continue permitting traitors loyal to a foreign power to dictate the direction our beloved Russistan takes?”

His words hung in the air as the room went quiet and contemplated what had just been said. He was a hardened traditionalist and even at Gargerin’s worst, he never suggested something like that. He commanded the respect and loyalty of most of the aristocratic elite - so what he suggested was even more shocking to the old Duke. ‘Had they begun discussing such an idea behind closed rooms?’ he thought, wondering what was truly being discussed behind the back of the Grand King and the Prime Minister. Things were changing in Russistan so fast, he feared everyday what he would learn next.

“The direction the Grand Kingdom is taking, well, it is mighty concerning.” said Chief Igor Borodai with a shake of his head and a long sip of his glass of wine. “I have spoken with several important members of the aristocracy and important members of the elite agree that we cannot wait any longer and continue to allow those in power to direct our country towards implosion.”

“Action…that is what we need to do to save our Russistan,” began Andrus Solberg whose overpowering aftershave announced his presence long before he came into view. Clad in a vibrant red designer suit—likely from an exotic label, if Mikhail had to guess—he nonchalantly puffed on his cigar. His head was full of dark brown hair, artfully dyed to conceal any hint of aging, while his sun-kissed skin boasted a deep caramel hue from frequent tanning sessions. “The enemies of the Grand Kingdom are gaining strength and putting Russistan in an ever increasingly worse position with each passing day. Should events continue at present, we risk the complete loss of Russ sovereignty and the de-facto vassalisation of the Grand Kingdom.”

That was when a folder was handed out to those in attendance detailing what actions Andrus Solberg was hinting at and it deeply unsettled the old Duke. It was from a part of the Russ Intelligence Directorate that Mikhail had never heard of before and was a report on the political climate in Russistan and a recommendation for them to take.

The document outlined the “unreliability” and “volatility” of the Prime Minister Kuznetsov government, describing how the King posed a significant national security threat through his marriage ties with Cosacakaya, and how the two men posed a pronounced obstacle to the longer term stability and sovereignty of Russistan. The most troubling aspect of the report for the old Duke was the introduction of an unprecedented proposal titled “Saving Grace.”

This plan called for a military coup in Russistan to oust the Kuznetsov government and install a military junta. More disturbing was its plans regarding Grand King Ivan Vorontsov and his family. According to the report, the important questions of the monarchy, succession, and its future would be left unanswered until stability had been restored and the question of Zapolonsk had been answered. Mikhail felt a surge of outrage as he read the RID report and was disheartened to find that most around him seemed to back the plan.

“This is a contingency plan should certain criteria be met,” continued the intelligence officer, hands interlocked, voice calm as though he were giving a briefing on the simplest of idea in the world. “If the situation continues down its current path and reaches a point where the Prime Minister and the Grand King can no longer maintain order, the Russ security apparatus with full support of those above them will mobilize forces to take control and restore stability, even if it means suspending the monarchy temporarily for the sake of our nation. ”

Shock struck Duke Mikhail like a brick falling on his head - he immediately felt his heart begin to race at the implications of what he was hearing as the words left that intelligence officer's mouth. “So, you are telling all of us that you are willing to risk everything – the monarchy, the heritage, and the very soul of Russistan,” his words cut through the thick tension in the room as they all glanced at one another, silently weighing their options. “The cultural soul of the Holy Russ to stop that fool of a Prime Minister and his equally dumb King?!” he practically yelled, completely incredulous at what he was reading.

“This is about the very survival of Russ sovereignty against a kind of threat we have never faced before!” Igor replied, his voice steady as it was imploring for him to come to his side. “Our country is facing the brink of destruction at the hands of traitors and fools! We cannot continue to simply stand by as traitors sell out Russistan to the highest bidder!” he continued, to Mikhail’s angry face. “If we fail to act when the time is right, it will be too late.”

“What is your plan then, Mikhail?” Andrus said, visibly agitated at the sight of the impetuous look on Mikhais face. “Complain about Russ culture and heritage until the facade of Russ sovereignty crumbles around you? Or maybe until that Generian Emperor is crowned King of the Russ?” he laughed at Mikhail. “Yeah, you sit there and condemn us while our very country is sold out.”

“I refuse to accept that violence towards the King and the elected government is the answer to our problems!” he yelled at Andrus. “You’re talking about bloodshed, about losing everything that we’ve fought for—our rights, our history,” continued Mikhail, his voice rising with emotion. “This whole operation, so-called ‘Saving Grace’ will only lead to the death of and destruction! Are you prepared for a war against the Generians or the Cosacakayans?”

“The time for debate is past,” announced Masha as Mikhail looked around desperately for a friendly face, but it seemed his words only fell on deaf ears. His gaze caught the gray eyes of Masha, who leaned in and smiled at him. ‘She is enjoying this,’ he realised with a sinking of his heart. “If you are not prepared to take an active role in the future of Russistan and do what is necessary, then perhaps you are better off letting the winds of change sweep you aside.”

“Do you not see the danger in this course of action? ” Mikhail asked them all, feeling the weight of those around him press down like a lead blanket. He was an old soldier—he spent his life serving Russistan and preparing for the day he would have to lead men into battle but had never considered using his force in this fashion against his own people. He turned to Count Nikolai Rusanov, who had remained quiet but observant throughout the conversation. “Have you forgotten who you are? Of our history and traditions?! We are not regicidal tyrants so callous towards our own people! What would your ancestors, who so nobility served the Holy Russ, think of toppling the monarchy!”

“Do you have any better suggestions for the room, Duke?” Rusanov said, meeting Mikhail's gaze steadily. “Watching as our homeland crumbles around us? The monarchy’s bidding to foreign powers only make us weaker while our enemies grow stronger by the week? Your benevolent ideals may lead to our undoing.”

Mikhail stared at himdirectly in the eye, searching desperately for some sign of dissent or doubt in the Count’s eyes against the plans laid bare before them all. But all he saw were faces illuminated by the naked ambition and fear of a change long overdue in their minds. The waves of despair washed over the old Duke as he processed the implications of what they were all agreeing to: power plays, schemes, betrayal among ranks, the very foundation of their society at risk of being dismantled by those who swore to protect it.

“If you are all determined to follow this path,” he declared, in that moment, a decision crystallized in Mikhail’s mind. “then I will not be complicit in this treason…I bid you all good evening.”

Igor stepped closer, a grim expression twisting his usually jovial demeanor. “The moment you step out of here with that knowledge, you become a target, Mikhail.” he said, his eyes imploring him to reconsider, “There is too much at stake here.”

Without another word said, he got up and left - swinging the room behind and sealing his fate. He wouldn’t just stand idly by while the very essence of Russ culture was threatened by forces from within. Stepping out onto the polished marble floor of the ballroom - the sounds of joy and celebration of his daughter's wedding felt as though it faded into a distant echo. The wedding carried on, everyone so blissfully unaware of the events transpiring just under their noise and a wave of disgust came crashing down upon him.

As Mikhail navigated the sea of elegantly dressed guests, laughter and clinking glasses surrounded him, he felt utterly isolated amidst the throng. He scanned the crowd for familiar faces, but every smile felt like it was a mask hiding motives of greed and ambition. The candles flickered, casting long shadows that danced ominously along the walls, and the old Duke felt his whole world start to close in on him.

Suddenly he felt a cold, a sharp pain stabbed through his arm — a fleeting sensation like a cold flash of lightning. But in the corner of his eye, he noticed a figure slip away — a server carrying a tray. The figure’s face was obscured, but something about their hurried steps sent a shiver racing down his spine.

“What—” he started, but his voice faltered and faded away to a sudden wave of nausea enveloping him. The world around him started to blur and the laughter, the music, the brilliant lights of the ballroom dimmed as darkness crept into the corners of his vision. His legs wobbled, the polished marble floor suddenly feeling like shifting sands beneath him.

He fought to push through the maze of bodies, light and laughter closing in around him. Darkness pressed at the edges of his mind, blurring the faces of concerned guests, their eyes wide with questions, their lips moving in slow motion.

Finally, his vision sharpened for a precious moment, and he spotted her — his daughter Lila, laughing with her new husband. He lunged forward, but his legs betrayed him, collapsing beneath him. The room spun violently as he crashed to the floor, panic etched across his daughter’s face.

“Mikhail…dad!” he heard his daughter call out to him, her voice piercing through the haze of his final moment. He struggled to call out her name as he realized the bitter truth: he had been poisoned by those he had spent his life serving. For the briefest moment, he felt a twinge of pity for them – not due to any innocence on their part, but because of how the pages of history would ultimately judge them…

[Russistan]

“Revenge”

Mosograd International Airport
Mosograd, Russistan

The streets were bustling with people going home after a long day of work or picking up their children from school as the clock struck 5:00pm Russ Standard Time.

While much of Russistan was burning in a wave of violence unrest, since the Battle of Tsar Vladimir Square, Mosograd was enjoying a period of relative tranquility compared to the rest of the Grand Kingdom - more often than not under a heavy police presence. And yet, in spite of the reposefulness the city’s residents had enjoyed since the first days of the bloody protests, few would argue against the fact that the effects of the unrest still loomed heavily over Mosograd and its residents. The city’s mayor ordered curfews and organised sweeps of certain neighborhoods to root out suspected agitators that happened daily.

One of those districts was named Novoslonik - known better as the The Forgotten Enclave. It was a slum on the outskirts of Mosograd known for its maze of narrow alleys, makeshift homes, and general poverty its inhabitants resided in. For years Novoslonik was subjected to a constant stream of refugees from Alberia during the fierce fighting and subsequent insurgency in their homeland. While the elders strived to build a culture of resilience and solidarity among its residents - the horrific crimes witnessed by its inhabitants had ingrained itself in such a way to make it the most violent and crime ridden part of Mosograd.

At night Sergi Chechenov could still see the brave resistance fighters of a city or town whose name he had long forgotten killing the invaders. The memories of barbed wire fences, a seemingly endless network of underground tunnels running the entire length the city, of hiding in bomb shelters from the occupiers bombing still rug around his head every time he closed his eyes. It was men like his older brother and father who fought with the militias armed with second-rate assault rifles, APCs, technicals and a few MANPADS desperately fighting off the Generian hordes.

But he had been too young to join them in his people's collective struggle for a free Alberia when the mayor ordered a mobilization of the town’s inhabitants and to begin war preparations for when the invaders would arrive. Sergi watched his mother and sister dig a seemingly endless network of underground tunnels and put up barbed wire fences. Even his old grandfather dug bomb shelters as the towns’ men and boys familarised with these with old assault rifles and whatever heavy weapons they could get their hands on.

The guilt of not doing his duty fell heavily on him as his town was flattened by the invaders and the women of his family trudged through the destroyed roads to refugee camps far from the fighting. Despite coming from all walks of life, different income brackets, towns or even ethnicities, the people standing out the refugee registration in Mosograd all told him the same thing - You are lucky. Over and over again, he was told how fortunate he was for being too young to fight and able to be resettled in Mosograd - far away from the battlefield of his homeland.

Sergi didn’t feel lucky - he was an ancestor of the brave warriors who fought the Generians through and through. He felt cursed not to have joined his brothers in resistance against the invaders - killing them by the hundred and protecting the place where he had been born and should have died. Instead he had spent the last few years living in one of the many ugly rectangular apartment blocks hastily built to cope with the massive influx of Alberians refugees looking to rebuild their lives as the war died down. There had once been a time when Sergi couldn’t imagine a world outside of Novoslonik, but now he couldn’t wait to leave in the loudest possible way and leave a lasting mark on the world that few would forget.

Now even the Generian Emperor from his golden throne will see me and know my name…

Today was the big day he had been preparing and training for what felt like his entire life. A puppet of the invaders would soon be arriving in Russistan to oppress the Russ people just like the Generians had done to his homeland, but unlike back in his native Alberia - he could do something about it and the Alberians people would remember his name for forever.

In fact, part of him still couldn’t believe that the day had finally arrived and he was still day-dreaming about doing something, anything about the Generian plague while laying on his uncomfortable mattress in his cramped apartment with his family. Something about the whole situation felt so unreal to him, almost as though he couldn’t get over the fact it was truly happening and that he at last was doing something to advance the cause of his people.

At the corner of the Pushkin Boulevard, Sergi took a hard right as his eye caught the sparkle of sunlight bouncing off the automatic weapon being wielded by the heavy security presence close to the airport. The collaborators in the Russ government were doing everything in their power to protect their masters with the many checkpoints throughout the city and the thousands of police and soldiers deployed in preparation of the visit. But no matter how much they tried, what was going to happen was inevitable and soon enough everyone would remember the struggle of a free Alberia.

They were right, Sergi thought with a slight smirk as he turned down a hidden side street far away from the main road that led straight to the airport. They were narrow and forgotten from those at the top, and his handler had made sure that the Russ security services would be sparse around these parts. It was tough going - they were a labyrinth of side streets to his target, a seemingly endless maze even with the assiduously well researched and scouted out map delivered to him by the higher-ups. Then, after what felt like hours - he had finally arrived completely unnoticed by security.

At Mosograd International Airport he stopped and took it all in- a modern design inspired by the sprawling international airports of Generia; it was a colossal blend of steel, stone,and glass that sparkled like a gem in the early morning light. Its sheer size took Sergi’s breath away, but not long enough for a renewed sense of purpose to overcome him - soon enough that Generian pig will be here just going through the motions without a care for the daily slaughter of the Alberian people

His hand fell into his right side pocket as he did a final check of his fake identification and secured the device once more time. The nerves were really hitting him out and not even the long, drawn puffs of his cigarette could calm his nerves. Breath, just breath god damn! he wanted to scream as he examined the yellowish fingernails and small burn scars from hisless careful days of smoking. Don’t screw up now, when you are just so close!

Once inside the enormous building, he made his way to the centre of the airport - right in front of some of some security guards and decided to take a seat on one of the benches on the second floor. It gave him an elevated view of the ground floor. It is all a waiting game now, he thought, glancing at his watch and keeping another eye out for surprisingly light security. It was boring as it was painful as he winced everytime he moved as the explosive belt hidden within the lining of the coat pressed itself painfully against his flesh. That Satan loving dog fucker Prince Cesar Pavelovic will be arriving in a couple more minutes, he realised as he looked at his watch.

The minutes slowly crawled by every time he looked at his watch, and suddenly sped up the moment he peeled his gaze away, ‘Fuck, did that Satan lover skip past me?’ he worded silently to himself as doubt struck him. He felt his grip tightening around the detonator and his teeth starting to grind. Caim yourself fucking down, damn you…you are going to expose yourself to the collaborators doing that.

Sergi climbed to his feet and felt his stomach tie itself into a tight knot- he felt like he was going to throw up right there. And then he started to creep into his mind - a sense of pessimism and doubt slowly but surely slithering into his thoughts. ‘What’s even the purpose of doing this? How am I going to change anything? The truth is I am not and it would be better just to go...leave back the way you came, ’ that powerful thought ate away at his purpose, his heart now in his throat.

The anxious feeling of doubt came at him in ever increasingly powerful waves and for the first time since he had been honoured to be selected to avenge his family - he wanted to give up and flee. All around him were hundreds of people going through the motions of their daily life - completely unaware of what was about to occur. He saw normal people who had welcomed the Alberians to Mosograd in open arms and a dangerous thought popped into his mind.

‘Who am I to take away everything from them?’

Prince Cesar Pavelovic appeared with a roar from the crowd as if a celebrity had just arrived. He was barely visible past the heavy escort made up of local Russ police and his own Generian security. Prince Cesar may have been the most handsome man in the world, but when Sergi saw him - he was nothing more than a monster. ‘A monster who is being applauded by the same people who so-called wanted to help people like me!’ The rage he felt was overwhelming, but also calming.

Any feelings of skepticism and doubt at her task receded from his mind and a desire to complete her mission which had allowed him to get to this moment returning to the forefront of his mind. He remembered his brothers, uncles, and cousins who died for the cause and a sense of pride renewed him.

‘Soon we will be reunited, brothers’ the thought bringing a smile to his face past the feelings of hatred which had fueled Sergi and restored his stern clarity. Pushing past the Russ security felt almost too easy as he descended a staircase and shoved his way through the throng of people trying to get a glimpse of the exotic foreign prince. ‘Soon our people will be avenged!’

His eyes narrowed at the mere glimpse of the Generian war criminal and his hand tightened its grip over the detonator. Soon, my parents will finally be proud of the son who failed to protect his people..., Sergi thought to himself - heart racing and grip around the detonator becoming weaker from all the nerves.

One of the security guards of Prince Cesar Pavelovic, Generian by the high quality body armour they wore, immediately clocked Sergi’s approach as he moved ever closer through the crowd of people coming to see the exotic prince. The security guard tried to yell out, but his voice was drowned out by the exciting murmurings of the crowd. Unlike the incompetent Russ guard, he took action and shouted again, louder this time and began gesturing for his men to immediately evacuate the Prince from the building.

Bang, bang, bang rangout as the security guard pulled out his pistol and fired it into the air. “Everyone needs to leave, right now!” he screamed, pushing people out the way to get a light of sight on Sergi. “There is a terrorist operation happening right now!”

Sergi grinned malevolently, on the verge of breaking out into a manic laugh at the sight before - the Generian dog responsible for so much suffering of his people, now helpless before him and his vengeance. The security guard’s blue eyes went white with fear as he brought his weapon round in the direction of Sergi - but he wasn’t fast enough.

“You're too late!” he shrieked at the top of his lungs, feeling the spirit of his family willing him on. “Glory to the heroes of Alberia!” Within a few milliseconds, long before anyone at the Airport could truly comprehend what was going on, he detonated his explosive belt and exploded into a massive human inferno. The enormous fireball consumed everything in its path and the massive pieces of shrapnel flying in all directions - turning the surrounding area into a hellish cauldron of flames and fragments.

[Cosacakaya]

Mosograd Times

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BREAKING NEWS:Terror in Mosograd International Airport - Prince Cesar Pavelovic Feared Dead

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By Maxim Reznik
^{@Maxim_Reznik}
Published: NOV.3 2024

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Mosograd, Russistan — Chaos erupted at Mosograd International Airport in the early morning hours after a devastating series of explosions left at least sixty people dead and over three hundred wounded. According to videos and social media posts, the explosions destroyed much of Mosograd International Airport. The attack has prompted an evacuation of much of the downtown by local police. Local officials have warned the number of dead and wounded could rise over the week.

The explosions took place just moments after the controversial arrival of Prince Cesar Pavelovic of Generia amid ongoing tensions between the Generian Empire and the Russistan over Zapolonsk. Eyewitness accounts describe scenes of panic and horror as the airport transformed into a nightmarish landscape of fire and destruction. “It was like something out of a movie,” recounted one traveler, who witnessed the explosion from a distance. “One moment everything seemed fine, and the next, there was just an enormous fireball.”

Authorities remain tight-lipped about the exact number of casualties, but preliminary reports suggest potentially hundreds of injuries, with several in critical condition and dozens killed. Eyewitnesses recounted that as panic spread through the airport, people scrambled for exits amid the chaos of screams and smoke. While unconfirmed, early reports indicate amongst the casualties include the several Generian security officers and Prince Cesar.

Dozens of people also remain trapped underground of the burning airport as firefighters and local volunteers continue to work late into the night to put out the fire and rescue the trapped. The blast from the explosions has also severely damaged various buildings for several blocks, forcing local authorities to close down buildings and schools within a five-block radius of the blast site.

The attack has drawn condemnation from both local authorities and the international community. Mayor Irina Petrova of Mosograd stated, “This is a tragic reminder of the lengths individuals may go to when pushed by despair and violence. We must find a way to address the root causes of this unrest to ensure safety for all our citizens.”

Meanwhile Prime Minister Kuznetsov has also ordered local law enforcement agencies to take all necessary measures to ensure security in the city of Mosograd; promising that security would be stepped up at rail stations and airports in the Grand Kingdom.

“We shall find and destroy this evil that lurks in the shadows of Mosograd,” PM Kuznetsov declared to reporters while inspecting the damage and meeting with survivors of this gruesome attack. “This heinous act of violence against the Russ people will not go unpunished. We will bring those responsible to justice.”

In the aftermath, the airport has been placed under heightened security measures, with officials vowing a thorough investigation into the attack. Mosograd, which has experienced relative calm compared to other regions of Russistan, is now grappling with the stark aftershocks of this horrific event.

We will continue to update you on the situation as it progresses.

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[Russistan]

“Time Waits For No Man”

Fifteen Minutes Later
Zapolonsk- Russ border
5 kilometers from Zelenka, Russistan

The heat was something else here- even for in the warmer parts of Zapolonsk - just standing under the summer sun for more than a few minutes felt impossible. The intensity of the heatwave was overwhelming for most, but did little to dissuade Captain Alexei Sokolov from continuing as scheduled.

The advanced elements from the Spartic Brigade composed of ideologically driven volunteers from Zapolonsk, Russistan, and Generia had moved into their assembly areas overnight and now, under strict zero coms orders, waited for the clock to strike 12:00 hour. These men were not the Zappo conscripts from the big city who had never held a weapon before that filled the ranks of so many of their units. Instead most had served in the military before and most of the Generians were veterans themselves of the bloodbath campaigns of Alberia. They wouldn’t break or flee - these were the type of men who would be the first ones to drive the Russ traitors from the village of Zelenka and open the way to further advances in the future.

From his binoculars, he watched his prize laying parched under the unrelenting sun - the once vibrant colours of the valley now bleached to the muted browns and dusty yellows. Captain Sokolov’s gaze swept over the landscape at the many trenches, fortifications, and hazy trees filled with enemy troops - which were soon to become the targets of his wrath. That thought brought a smile to his face

Captain Alexei Sokolov, an artillery commander seasoned by years of service, stood atop a desolate hill, his breath visible in the crisp air. He looked out several times over the valley, where enemy positions would witness the full power of his artillery battery. He had a feeling that the Generians and his Zappos bosses would be far from happy about what would soon happen at a village few knew existed - but he listened to a power higher than the boots licking Generians who were waiting out the clock before their redeployment or Zappos officers more concerned with lining their pockets than serving their people.

“Are you sure about this?” his aid Dmitri Volkov, an artillery commander in his own right with a sharp gaze and a weather-beaten face, asked him as he joined Alexei at the atop of the ridge overlooking the village. “The Generians won’t appreciate it, and Zapolonsk City is going to yell down your throat.”

“There is an understrength battalion barely a company strong down there,” he said as even more sweat trickled down his brow, stinging his left eye. Of course the higher ups would certainly not be happy about what was about to happen here, but what else could Captain Sokolov do? The mistake of 2017 left his country divided and slowly dying at the hands of the republican fifth column who seemed determined to drag his beloved country down with the dogs. How long before radicals called Mosograd house? “When we show them how weak the enemy truly is, then they will listen.”

Russistan was yet again weak and divided - the perfect time to strike. And yet waiting for that time to hit them while they were distracted felt as though the minutes were crawling past him, even if he knew that sooner rather than later he would give the order.

“Are you ready, Lieutenant Dmitri Volkov?” Alexei asked his worried friend, who was busy doing the final checks of the artillery. The heat was truly relentless, but their determination to free their homeland was even greater. “4 minutes until the barrage begins.”

“I could say I am ready, but are we ever truly ready in battle, Captain?” he replied, adjusting the aim of one of the field guns aimed down at the enemy positions—a series of hastily built bunkers camouflaged with branches and dirt. The combination of anxiousness and excitement was building between the two of them - the air felt electric. “Good luck, Captain.”

“Good luck,” he replied, watching his friend disappear as he returned to his command his own artillery battery. He grabbed his radio and said: “Battery, report in!” his voice sliced through the excitement and dread churning in the air. “One minute!”

“Target coordinates confirmed,” called out one of his men through the flurry of activity “Enemy positions are marked, Captain.”

The final sixty seconds felt the longest - his eyes were glued to his watch. ‘Anytime now,’ he thought over and over again - doing everything in his power not to yell at God himself for not making time go faster. With a final glance, Alexei tightened his grip of his binoculars and counted the enemy targets one last time. “Prepare to fire on my command!” he screamed at his men, raising his arm in the air as his men swung into action, loading shells. ‘20 goddamn seconds!’ the nervous filling his body becoming unmanageable and growing to a beast of its own.

“FIRE!” he yelled with a combination of relief and fear, followed up by his mighty cannons erupting in a hellish cacophony - plumes of smoke filling the air. Alexei pressed his binoculars and watched the first rounds crashing down upon enemy positions - shaking the ground with each explosion. It quickly became apparent that the enemy was caught off guard and all semblance of command shattered under the weight of the bombardment. From the ends of his binoculars, he watched debris go flying and trenches collapse. The enemy had no time to recover as the advancing friendly troops reached the first line of trenches within minutes.

It was almost horrific to watch the events play out in real time; confusion and panic spread like plague through the Russ ranks as many threw up their hands to surrender or found the end of a Generian bullet. The original plan prepared for the first line of trenches to be cleared by the end of the second hour - it had barely been fifteen minutes and the enemy was already collapsing.

“Prepare to engage secondary targets!” he yelled down the radio, his well drilled crew springing into action. “Adjust for the next round! We won't give them a moment to breathe!” straining his voice to rise above the cacophony as more shells fell on the enemy in a relentless storm. But the heat was beginning to make itself be felt - his head was pounding no matter how much water he drank.

“Enemy strong point got us pinned!” a voice yelled down the radio with a heavy Generian accent, a man with what could have been an ipad appeared behind him. “It is there!” It was a bunker that they had missed. He saw on the screen a fireteam of about five or six were hiding in a crater from the machine gun going to work on anyone caught its sight.

“Target that bunker next! Fire!” Alexei commanded once again, and as the cannon fired, he saw its intended destruction unfold before his eyes. The enemy’s position exploded in a fireball made of dirt and flame. But then he also saw the remains of the three soldiers, torn up and shredded by the shell in real time and a wave of guilt suddenly struck him.

‘Those men had families,’ the realisation hitting him like a bag of bricks. How many more families would be destroyed because of the fifth column in Russistan? How many more of his countrymen would die because of self-serving politicians who care only for themselves and not for the greater good of his Russistan? How many men like his artillery crew would lose their lives in this conflict before a resolution could be reached? As these thoughts ran through his mind, the artilleryman froze - unable to move or speak. ‘How many good men will continue to die before the Emperor does something?!’

Then it appeared on the live drone feed in real time - a massive armour personnel vehicle emerged from behind the treeline and its cannon blasting away seemingly at random at anything that moved. Incredulously, Alexei watched its crew miss every single shot before disembarking its infantry to engage their men trying to breach Zelenka’s defenses on the flank. He should have already given the order and sealed the enemy’s fate but a pang of doubt ate at him. He could see the once-peaceful families of Zelenka going about their daily life - the same kind of people like his own family. Would the liberation of their town be worth the blood and destruction brought down on it?

“CAPTAIN!” screamed one of his artillery crewmen and snapped him abruptly back to actual reality of the situation before him. “They are grouping and preparing to hit us hard! Permission to engage the APV?!”

“Call for an adjustment—target that vehicle!” he yelled with a renewed resolve to prosecute the war; no matter the cost. The liberation of Russistan required sacrifices and at this moment, it would have to be the locals of Zelenka turn. The crew adjusted their mighty guns' aim and loaded the next shell as they awaited his command. “FIRE!”

It felt like the world stopped as he watched the shell leave the barrel in front of him and whistle through the sky - arcing beautifully before it plummeted back towards its mark. The shell struck slightly behind the armour personnel vehicle with an ear-splitting explosion, funneling lethal shrapnel through the open back hatch of the vehicle. Then, all of a sudden, there was a second explosion that sent waves of fire and smoke up in the air and just like that enemy vehicle disintegrated and so did organised resistance on this flank.

Three hours later the guns went silent as the same order went around on both sides -- cease fire

[Cosacakaya]