Commonwealth of Sovereign States

Philippic’s eyebrows shot up. He had just trotted into the warehouse alongside Zazen and Apotropaic, watching the Exegesis’  rapacious speech. 

He could feel the air becoming electric as cheers went up as Exegesis preached to the Orange mass, offering them hope and salvation… 

His gaze hardened at the sight. “This… this seems like madness.” He said to Apotropaic. 

“Madness?” Apotropaic’s eyes widened. “How so?” 

Philippic lifted a hoof to point at Exegesis. She was tiny, standing a great distance from where they were, yet it seemed like her words commanded the attention of the crowd. “She’s preaching about Penned’s idiotic theory on iconoclasm! Heresy isn’t caused by material wealth! But the love of wealth!” 

His eyes were wide as he continued listening. And his teeth grinded sand. 

“You have to say something,” Apotropaic remarked, pointing at the way Exegesis spoke. Her tone almost a whisper,  “She’s winning them with the same lies!”

“No,” Philippic paused, “I mean, not really. Just let them decide on what is the best course of action. I’m no orator…”

“But,” Zazen protested as he glanced back at Exegesis, his hofo leant down to his sword “You do have a different viewpoint. You should just speak plainly! State your opinion! Nopony’s stopping you.” 

“Plainly?” Philippic gulped as he eyed a nearby box, “Would that…” 

“It works,” Zazen waved off his concerns, turning and putting a hoof on his shoulder. His eyes blazed with worry,  “As long as you speak passionately? You;ll be fine. You have respect. You are older than most of us. Most of the ponies here! Just… just do it.” 

Phillipic looked at Zazen, the stallion would never lie to his friend right? The blood in his hooves felt as if it was slowly becoming colder as he considered. The way Zazen’s face blazed with both worry and panic.

Apotropaic own usually skittish eyes and her snarl were looking at him - waiting for him to take command.

Friend… 

Commander. 

The stallion bit his lip, Chickpea’s death wasn’t in vain now it? 

He pushed himself forward towards and jumped upon the box, and when he did - there was no other word that fit his lips. 

“Bullsh*t!” 

Sharp gasps elicited from the Vigilants gathered around. Philippic felt a thousand eyes and viewpoints enumerable in the four digits face him and draw their blades. Even Exegesis paused, flabbergasted at his arrival. 

“Are we really not focusing on what’s at hoof?” Philippic exclaimed as he gestured at the gathered crowd. “The traitors amongst us! This is not a failure on our part. Of morality! But of VIgilance! The enemy who  snuck in between us,  who smiled at us and who made friends with us! And look! Behold! The winged traitors and the Mystics! They were the ones who cost us this battle!” 

Those blades of thought were sharp. They always were when pointed inwards. 

Philippic swallowed, “How many amongst you have noticed that some that we used to know have fled to the north, with the traitorous Radiant! Those who were supposedly neutral! Have we not all learned in Seminary that neutrality is siding with the Archheretic through inaction?” 

Mutterings, as Philippic surprised himself with word after word. 

“We cannot point the swords inwards! An enemy infiltrated amongst us and we could only blame ourselves! They abused our trust! Our love! Our piety towards our order!” 

Philippic could feel himself smile as he watched the crowds turn to him. Yet not everyone was convinced. Several, still looked over back at Exegesis expectantly for a retort. 

And that, a retort came. 

“It is alluring to say that the fault came from without!” Exegesis exclaimed, slamming her hoof against the table she stood on. The table creaked underneath as her assault flew, “But the most observable reason is often not the truth! It is the fault of within which creates the most devastating issues! We cannot fall back to the faults that caused us this issue in the first place!” 

The crowd seemed to move, there was a series of gazes split looking between one and the other as Philippic resisted as best as he could, to simply sneer. 

“I don’t need to be a doctor to know that a gunshot is fatal and not the cause of some disease!” Philippic exclaimed, his voice reverberating, “It's clearly been coming from the outside! Traitors coming in to hurt us! We’ve literally seen them! Are we just going to turn inwards and say it was our own fault!?”

“We are prideful creatures!” Exegesis retorted as she tried to drag the crowd back through her words. “Of course, it is natural we don’t want to admit the truth. We must ascend beyond petty hoof–pointing to see where we ourselves are wrong!” 

“Pride is who we are!” Philippic pointed up to the skies, “Are we not to be proud of who we are as ponies? Of what we have done as Knights? Everything was working! We were on track to reforming ourselves before the Battle! Ridding the Diarchy of corruption and then they betrayed us! Those who claim to be neutral! Those who were supposedly above us by being more moral and caring! What is morality without piety to one’s community?”

“Insanity!” Exegesis shouted back, “That is what Sir Philippic is trying to suggest we do! Morality with conditions! Morality and piety to the Saints is more important than the community. For if one has to choose between the deviation of the community or the sanctity of the Saints, one must go to the Saints!” 

Her hoof had pointed up to the skies as Philippic gestured about. 

“Better insanity than to leave one’s fellows to the sh*thole of life! We are meant to work together! We must lift one another up to the right way than just abandoning us! Who are they to judge us, they who too bear the sins of those who came before!” Philippic proclaimed, looking at the gathered Vigilants, “Who are they to say that we are more evil for the fact that we choose to care about our family! Our friends! Our lineage and our homeland! If the Diarchs wished not for us to care for them? Why would they put us here? WHY!?” 

Cheers came, jeers came, as peers rounded and reared with ideas searing in their minds. And Philippic stood at the forefront as one of those leading the searing. Philippic raised a hoof in the air as a cheer raised collectively, “Never again!” 

Like a sea, the group began to split into two. Between Philippic and Exegesis… and the chasm of politics began to emerge amongst the Vigilants. 

And for Philippic?

It felt right. 

April 30th, 2026

“How the hell did this happen? I was gone for two weeks, and as soon as I get back, I hear that we have the wreck of a tanker in our harbor.” Cicero Nossorowski was fuming, marching down the hallway of the Palace, as Pavel Lasecki struggled to keep up with the President. As he caught up with Nossorowski, the presidential secretary noticed the President was turning red. Nossorowski’s fists were clenched, stomping almost robotically as he turned the corner to his office. He saw the entrance to his office, and next to it, two people who seemed deep in conversation. Nossorowski saw an older man with silver hair, wearing a navy blue suit slightly hunching to a younger, balding man with black hair, who was wearing an outfit that Nossorowski recognized as belonging to his presidential security team. The younger man was talking, smirking while he spoke to the older man. Nossorowski could not hear what they were talking about, but the conversation seemed to die down as the older man turned and looked at the approaching President. The younger man also turned to face Nossorowski, but quickly moved his head back and stuck out his hand. The silver haired man shook his hand, turned back and shook his hand, just as Nossorowski reached his office. The silver haired man turned and smiled at Nossorowski.

“President Nossorowski, always a pleasure.” The man said. Nossorowski could only manage a half smile at the gesture, hiding his anger.

“District Attorney Stanisław. It’s very nice to see you visit our office with your busy schedule.” Nossorowski replied, trying to sound cordial despite the anger he was feeling. The district attorney nodded in appreciation, before taking his leave, disappearing into the hallways. Nossorowski turned his attention to the younger, balding man. The President returned to his more agitated look. “Radjke, since you’re here, you’re needed for this meeting. The Interior and Commerce Ministries are already present, maybe your background can be of use to us.”

Miroslav Radjke only nodded at the President's orders, as he opened the door to the Great Chamber of the Presidential Palace, letting Nossorowski and Lasecki in, before he followed them inside, closing the door behind them and locking it. The three men walked over to the end of the room, where two men were already standing next to the mahogany desk that Nossorowski spent most of his time sitting at. Seeing the President making his way over to the desk, Minister of the Interior Augustyn Zdeslav and Minister of Commerce Eva Josipa stood aside, as Nossorowski walked around his desk and sat down, moving aside the piles of papers that populated the desk, giving him a clearer view of the faces that stood in front of him. He only sighed, rubbing his eyes. His face was still red as Zdeslav stepped forward, his hands behind his back, walking a bit nervously.

“Mr. President, I’ve taken it under my authority to allow the National Police to investigate the explosion in the harbor over the local police while you were in Utopia.” Zdeslav explained, as Nossorowski slowly nodded. He expected nothing but preemptive action from the man who helped rid the country of the Vanguardists twenty years ago when he held the same position in the Chienewicz administration.

“Have your people found anything of note? Leads or theories?” Nosorowski questioned the Minister of the Interior. Zdeslav nodded in response.

“The National Police are still very early in their investigation. The ship is at the bottom of the harbor now, and it will take a while to fully salvage the ship. However, my contacts within the National Police say they have their theories.” Zdeslav mused, as he rubbed his chin.

“It could have been the communists. Axon knows they could still be operating under our noses.” Josipa proposed, giving a dirty glare to Radjke. The Chief of Security’s face turned red, but he kept his mouth shut. Zdeslav nodded along with the Commerce Minister's ideas.

“I mean, it’s not out of the realm of possibility that the north of the continent could be funding agitators. But, since the Republic was restored, most successor groups of the Vanguardists have just kind of fizzled out with basically no fanfare. They’re barely political entities, especially within our borders. As I said before, the people I talk to in the National Police have their ideas, but we can’t act upon them yet. " Zdeslav replied. As the Interior Minister finished, Josipa crossed her arms and grimaced as she once again began to speak.

“Mr. President, in light of the incident, Republic Shipping declined our offer to head and maintain the Vytez merchant fleet, out of fear we couldn’t protect their ships. Farina Holdings was the only company willing to take the contract. We had no choice but to renegotiate with Mr. Farina, and my people met with him last week. We agreed to renew the contract, at a more expensive rate than we had hoped.” Josipa told Nossorowski wearily.

Nossorowski could feel a chill go up his spine. Farina had made his time at Cian Ó Súilleabháin’s inauguration unpleasant with the constant threats of no-showing renegotiations, and in the end, the shipping magnate got what he wanted, and received more money as a result of being the only horse in the race. Nossorowski knew what Antonin Farina was capable of, and in the back of his mind since he heard the news, Farina was suspect number one. But he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want to jump into anything without evidence, especially going after the richest man in Vytezhevia. Nossorowski only sat back in his chair.

“Gówno” Nossorowski mumbled under his breath, crossing his arms.

“One other thing before I return to my office.” Josipa said. “Some of the members of the League have been ringing my phone for the last week or so. They’re concerned we won’t be able to protect shipping and trade with them, especially our fellow Noskyavian allies.”

“We could give these ships naval escorts. I’ve worked in the private security sector and from experience, if there’s something big and scary protecting the client, not a lot of people will want to mess with them. I know we can’t use the full might of the navy, but I think patrol boats could give the shipping companies and our allies some guarantees that we can keep these ships safe.” Radjke spoke up. Both Nossorowski and Zdeslav nodded along with the idea, but Josipa gave a stern look to the Head of Security. She turned back to Nossorowski.

“Anyway, it has been a pleasure speaking to you Mr. President, but I have some calls that need addressing.” Josipa said, courtesying before walking over to the office door. She unlocked it and stepped out, closing the door behind her with a loud thud. Zdeslav, who was watching his fellow minister leave the room, focused on Nossorowski, giving off a more serious demeanor.

“Now that’s been discussed, there is some other news to discuss.” Zdeslav said. Nossorowski leaned forward in his chair, his brows furrowing. He noticed Zdeslav did not look happy, and he knew this news was not going to be good. Zdeslav walked over to one of the many cabinets lining the room, and picked up a newspaper roll. He moved back to Nossorowski’s desk and unfurled the newspaper, placing it in front of Nossorowski. The President took one look at the headline and grumbled to himself, with the other three men not being able to make out what he said. Radjke and Lasecki leaned over to look at the newspaper, with the headline reading “Blackstone Mining Corporation Strike Ultimatum: Guild Accuses Company of Awful Conditions and Abuse.”

“This is perfect, now I have to deal with the largest mining guild in the country going on strike, along with the shipping investigation. Great sights to come back to.” Nossorowski said sarcastically, giving off an obvious scowl.

“This could be bad for our exports, that mine accounts for a good chunk of our coal sales. If the miners don’t work, we’ll be out of millions.” Zdeslav replied in a low voice. As the Minister of the Interior and President talked, Radjke picked up the newspaper and began reading through the article. As he read, his face turned more disgusted the more lines he read.

“‘Guild leadership accuses Blackstone of abuse by corporate security, paying way below the minimum wage set by the government, old and inefficient equipment, and more allegations of security state-esque surveillance systems used by the company. This is inhumane.” Radjke said, throwing the newspaper on the coffee table behind him.

“I want to agree with you Miroslav, but these are just allegations for now. We need to wait for Blackstone’s response, see how they’re willing to handle the strike.” Nossorowski posited. He was calmer than he was before. He needed to be, the less clear his mind was, the harder it was to think things through. He obviously knew these allegations were most likely true, he’s represented many workers against corporate abuse before, but he was the president now. His already shaky reputation would plummet if he openly sided with the strikers. “For now, we watch.”

Radjke gritted his teeth hearing Nossorowski’s plan, but like with Josipa, he kept his mouth shut. He was only Head of Security, he had no true power unlike the cabinet members. Nossorowski watched his face, and knowingly sighed with exasperation.

“Mr. President, we can talk about how to deal with the situation more if you want to.” Zdeslav said. Nossorowski nodded, and looked back at Radjke.

“Radjke, I thank you for your advice. You may return to your work.” Nossorowski told Radjke politely. Radjke could only force a half smile through, before saluting Nossorowski and walking toward the door. He opened the door and walked out of the office, closing it behind him. As he walked away from the office, he pulled out his phone and dialed a number. He placed the device next to his ear and heard ringing for a few seconds, before a click and a voice on the other line. Radjke spoke first.

“As I was telling you before the President came upon us, I have the documents. Things look like they are about to blow up, and it might be the opportune moment to bring down a bird or two with a stone.”

Il Sole General Hospital, Il Sole, Restored First Ridnez Republic

April 11, 2026, 3:02 AM

“Took you about long enough, Indigo. What held you up? Needed to get your hair done…?”

The woman called Caracal approached the nursing station of the intensive care unit with a confident swagger in her step. No longer was she clad in the black stealth wear from earlier in the night. Instead, she had changed into a more acceptable civilian attire: purple blouse, black slacks and flats, and leather driving gloves. Her hair was done in its typically extravagant style, dyed blonde with violet streaks, artificially straightened, and styled into a mid-length bob. “What, you said Yevgeny woke up, right? If I walked into the hospital looking like I did about an hour earlier, the nursing staff would kick me out for sure…”

The slightly older Heisenian woman gave Caracal a disapproving look, clad in tactical police gear with a military-style buzz cut. She wore a Kevlar vest with a single word painted in large white block text: POLIZIA. “Hey, look, I send you people notifications because I owe something to Drakos, alright? If it weren’t for the Ocelot, a lot more Heisenians would be dead today… so I return the favor. Still, I don’t appreciate my time being pissed down the drain just because you had to attend to your beauty needs. You’re supposed to be a professional, not some boozed-up socialite at a pageant…”

Caracal returned Abigail’s scrutiny with a return glance, stopping at five paces from Abigail’s position and crossing her arms. She gave the Heisenian soldier her quiet appraisal, audibly humming to herself.

In the surrounding, sterile-white hallway, hospital staff attended to their urgent tasks, sparing only momentary side-eye glances to the unusual congregation in their midst. Abigail bored an intense, humorless stare through Caracal, waiting for her to reply to her provocations. “Well, are you going to talk to the putz…?! Or are we going to form a sewing circle now?!”

Caracal raised a curled finger to her chin in faux contemplation. “…Damn, and here I thought Caruso had no taste. But you, girlfriend… I mean, there’s a right way to do the whole tomboy thing, like Lynx is rocking, and there’s a wrong way. And you are most certainly doing it the wrong way.”

Something inside of Abigail Roth silently exploded, but Caracal did not wait for her rejoinder. She bypassed Abigail and addressed a female doctor in a white coat, seated at a computer directly behind the Heisenian. “Excuse me, I’m looking for the room of Yevgeny Fokin.”

The doctor – an older brunette woman with even less tolerance for trivialities than Abigail Roth – continued to type into the electronic health record of one of her patients. “And who would you be in relation to the patient…?”

Caracal was taken aback by the stern directness of the response, putting her arms behind her head. “I… uh… That’s a bit difficult to explain…”

Abigail groaned in the background and squeezed the bridge of her nose. “She’s with me, Doctor Milara. As immature and irritating as she may be…”

Doctor Milara looked up from her screen to appraise Caracal, mirroring the same way that Abigail had done so minutes prior. “You don’t look like a police officer… Don’t tell me you’re one of those so-called ‘Cat’ people…?”

Caracal self-consciously smirked. “All right… I won’t tell you.”

The doctor exchanged quick glances with Abigail, then rose into a standing position. “I was born in this country, but I’ve been gone from it too long. I thought it would be simple to fit things together upon returning, only to find that literally nothing makes sense. One of the ED triage notes indicated that the patient Fokin was brought in by a slender Southwestern Usean woman in all-black clothing. I take it that was you…?”

Caracal did not answer the question, but the smirk disappeared from her face.

Doctor Milara took a confrontational step towards Caracal, raising a trembling fist in barely contained aggression. Caracal did not step back. “You mercenaries…! Butchering people in the streets and leaving us to try to save lives from the violence you cause…! Why should I allow you to see my patient? I have an ethical responsibility to-!”

Caracal laid a gentle hand on the doctor’s clenched fist, causing it to lose some of its tension as if by reflex. She looked the intensivist in the eyes and gave the sincerest expression she could muster. “Listen to me, Doctor. I did not do this to him… not the worst of it, at least. He overdosed on a dangerous designer drug. You know this. I need to get some questions answered if we want to stop this from happening to anyone else.”

Abigail cleared her throat to intrude into the discussion. “And besides, with all due respect, Doctor… I have special authorization from the President himself to involve this contractor in the case. Any objections you might have are duly noted and ignored…”

Ilaria Milara hung her head and opened her hand, feeling defeated. “Come on, then. I’ll bring you to Signor Fokin’s room.”

The physician reluctantly led Abigail and Caracal to Yevgeny’s room and returned to the nursing station without a word.

Caracal and Abigail tracked the doctor’s leaden-footed steps for a few seconds, both feeling somewhat sympathetic to her position.

“Did you really have to be so heavy-handed with the doc…? I think I was getting her to ease up on me…,” Caracal inquired.

“Unfortunately, we don’t have the time for your ‘silver tongue’ to work its magic. Why do you think I’m so antsy how long you took? This is another Ouroboros B case… We’ve been instructed to follow a special protocol in these instances…,” Abigail explained, dropping her volume to a murmur. “I’m supposed to notify the cleaners as soon as an Ouroboros-related incident is identified.”

Caracal’s eyes shot open with concern at the mention of the term. “…’Cleaners’…? What do you mean by ‘cleaners’…?”

Abigail groaned and looked momentarily towards the ground. “PREVENTION. They’re a team of… uh, specialists, I guess… who report directly to Expeditionary Defense Force HQ. They function outside the Ridnezite government chain of command, but we interact with them. If something Ouroboros-related happens, they take over once the dust has settled… Or that’s how it’s supposed to work. I know barely more than you do about how PREVENTION operates.”

“What are they going to do with Yevgeny…?,” Caracal inquired.

“Aside from remove him from the hospital, beats me… But neither you nor I can do a damned thing about it right now. We play by League rules, Cat… That holds true for the both of us…,” Abigail concluded. “Now, look, I know this sounds callous, but the fact that I deliberately delayed so you can get an interview with the schlemiel is a deviation from protocol that could cost me this assignment.”

Caracal absorbed Abigail’s info and gave it a quick, understanding nod. “I won’t be long…”

Caracal nudged the door into the unlit room and let her eyesight adjust to the darkness. The only apparent source of illumination was the heart monitor which beeped away with regularity. The Roskayan drug dealer named Yevgeny Fokin was handcuffed to the side of his bed, but even with Caracal’s superior vision, she could make out very little of the man’s features or condition. “Hey, yo… Yevgeny, it’s me again. I was told you’re awake now. Talk to me.”

The only reply which came was a wet, agonized moan.

Caracal drew closer to the hospital bed and pulled on a cord behind the head of the bed, turning on the overhead light. “By Axon…!”

Yevgeny was conscious but in a state of extreme deterioration. Dry blood crusted beneath his hollowed eye sockets, while fresh streams of blood trickled from his gums and his ear canals. His teeth were coming loose and falling out, one by one, and his left arm – the arm regenerated by the Ouroboros B – was forming oozing blebs of blood and pus, with fingernails coming loose. Aside from a heart monitor, the only intervention in evidence was a pair of large-bore intravenous catheters, though the IV in Yevgeny’s left arm had partially slid loose from the slickness of the Roskayan’s blood.

Yevgeny slurred his pleas through a mess of blood and exposed tooth pulp. “He-Help me… It hurts… so bad.”

“Yevgeny… Ọ dịghị onye chọrọ ịta afufu na ndụ…,” said Caracal, involuntarily defaulting to her native tongue. “…You did this to yourself, Yevgeny.”

“I’m… fallin’… apart…,” Yevgeny begged. “…Need help…!”

“Don’t know what more can be done, Yevgeny. The doctors are doing the best they can for you now…,” Caracal replied. “Look, Yevgeny. You wanted to get back at Georgiy Melnik, right? He was coming after you… You got hooked on this bad sh*t while working for him. Help me, Yevgeny. Give me a name, an address… Anything! Please!”

Blood-stained tears leaked from the withering Roskayan’s ducts. “I wanna… live. I made… mistake…”

“Please, please, please…! Focus on my words, Yevgeny. Name, address… Something to help nail Melnik!,” Caracal pleaded, leaning over the railing of the bed. “…We’ll get you the meds for your pain, but first an address…!”

Yevgeny’s lips quivered for a tense few seconds. At last, a few slurred words were spoken. “Three-one-five-eight… Via Costa…”

One final tear streaked down the side of Yevgeny’s face, and he passed out.

Caracal slumped forward and let out a deep sigh of relief. “Thank you, Yevgeny… The docs will… do their best. All we can promise is our best, after all, right?”

The Marundian contractor lightly tapped the side of Yevgeny’s face, testing whether he had lost consciousness. The Roskayan had no response to the maneuver. She turned off the lights and left the room without further comment.

Abigail Roth stood in front of the door as it swung open to permit Caracal’s exit, hands resting at her sides. Her passive stance carried a posture and discipline which hinted at her military background in a way which Caracal’s did not. “Well, did he tell you what you wanted?”

Caracal planted her hand at her hip and bit her lip. “So… kind of…? I have something at least.”

“Whether it’s ‘something’ or ‘nothing’, I can’t delay this any longer. I have to call it in to PREVENTION, ASAP…!,” Abigail declared. She clicked the button of a comms device strapped to her vest and spoke into a microphone attached to her helmet. “This is Sergeant Abigail Roth, West Heisen Defense Force, reporting a Triple-Six, over.”

Caracal had already begun to ambulate towards the nearest elevator to make her exit, impatient for Abigail to conclude the interaction. Once she had passed halfway across the metal-plated hallway, she made a quick gesture and a perfunctory farewell. “See you around, girlfriend.”

Caracal slammed her thumb into the button to hail the elevator, which announced its arrival with a high-pitched tone after a half-second delay.

Ten meters away, Abigail apparently concluded her radio communication and shouted across the room to get Caracal’s attention. “Hey, Indigo…! That’s Sergeant Roth to you. Not ‘girlfriend’…! Get it right the next time, hear?!”

Caracal simply smirked at Abigail’s annoyance and lazily strutted into the elevator car upon the opening of the doors.

3158 Via Costa, Il Sole, Restored First Ridnez Republic

April 11, 2026, 5:15 AM

A wad of spit hit the ground in the derelict yard, seconds before a pair of sneakers trod upon it.

A single male security guard patrolled under the cover of night, carrying a flashlight at his side. The man was homely and bald, seemingly around middle-age, and he was morbidly obese by all measures, barely containing his rotund belly within the restrictive fabric of his gray polo shirt. The guard stopped in his tracks in front of a rusty metal door, leading inside the warehouse.

Before long, another man approached, wearing a half-unzipped tracksuit and a pair of aviator glasses. “Let me in, Yaropolk.”

The massive, overweight security guard nodded his head and stepped to the side, allowing the man in the tracksuit to pass through the entrance. Afterwards, he resumed his position with folded arms, holding perfectly still like some manner of colossus. Hanging above the man’s head was a set of painted characters on the wall above the entrance – first in Roskayan, then below in Ridnezite. The text spelled out the name of Bermanov Group.

After thirty seconds had passed, the guard detected a loud crash somewhere off in the periphery of the yard, removing his flashlight and shining it in the direction of the noise to identify the source.

The flashlight cast its light on a toppled garbage can and the likely suspect, a black cat which arched its back and hissed in the guard’s direction.

The guard satisfied himself with his findings and turned off the flashlight, hooking it back on his belt. He growled beneath his breath. “Dumb cat…”

Mere seconds later, the guard felt a slender yet powerful pair of arms wrap around his neck, as a pair of legs wrapped around his torso from behind. The guard began to see stars, but with one effortful rush of motion, he slammed his back against the door, forcing his assailant to let go.

Caracal made an impression in the cast-iron door and fell onto her knees, struggling to recover from the blow. “Ugh… Ow… Tougher than you look, aren’t you…?”

Caracal looked upright at her towering adversary, who cracked his knuckles together in understated acknowledgement of his opponent.

The guard delivered an uppercut which swept Caracal off her feet and landed her directly on her back a couple of meters away. “And if you’re here, kitty, then I bet you know why I’m so tough… Means I can’t let you leave here alive, understand?”

Caracal dragged herself to her feet and wiped a streak of blood from her lips with the back of her hand. Bringing her forearm to eye level, she noticed that the sleeve of her purple blouse had torn from friction. “Damn, my action wear’s in the laundry right now, and I just bought these civvie clothes from Vacchetta Studio in Città D'Oro last week…! Could you schedule me in for killing some other time, maybe…?”

The guard ignored Caracal’s trivial comment and rushed towards her location with a clumsy overhead smash.

Caracal rolled out of her opponent’s way and countered by thrusting herself into a flying tackle for the massive guard’s center of mass, knocking him off his feet and making him stumble. She converted her flying tackle into a somersault and rose from the ground with a hook kick, striking the guard’s head.

Caracal kept up the pressure as the guard stumbled against the wall of the warehouse to hold himself upright, landing a second hook kick on the man’s head, followed by a left elbow strike to his nose, followed by a right hook to his temple. She delivered her flurry of strikes so quickly that the guard had no opportunity to block or counter, simply stunned by the superhuman rate of attack and the cumulative trauma to his brain. At last, the guard collapsed onto the ground, his unconscious body propped up by the warehouse wall.

Caracal took a few moments to catch her breath, making sure that the guard was down for the count. At last, she straightened her stance, briefly inspected the loose-hanging strip of fabric from the torn sleeve, and threw open the dented door to enter the warehouse. “We could have done this the easy way, but no~! Could have spared us both some hurt by just going limp when I decide to knock you out…!”

Caracal passed through a tight, dark corridor, taking care not to make too much noise while traversing the wooden floorboards. As she approached the end of the corridor, she heard the echoing sound of a man speaking in Roskayan tongue.

“Just what is so hard for you morons to wrap your heads around?! They took Fokin… This distribution center is compromised. We close up shop and move the product, and we do it fast…!,” the voice commanded.

Caracal hugged the wall and shimmied around the nearest corner, peeking into the warehouse interior. The man in the tracksuit from earlier was standing in between rows of stacked freight containers. One of them was opened from the side, revealing large polypropylene bags filled with luminescent orange dust. The aisles formed by the freight containers were being constantly patrolled up and down by more Bermanov security guards, and the rest of the interior was relatively well-lit.

Caracal removed a tiny electronic device, resembling a dark gray rectangle about a millimeter wide, and planted it in a cranny of the brick wall facing the direction of the freight containers. ”Alright, keep blabbing, buster… Just need to get a few of these babies in position, and then I am out of here.”

An inquisitive security guard wandered down one of the aisles, approaching the tracksuit-wearing man. “Just who is ’they’ exactly?”

“Excuse you?,” came the reply. “What the f*ck are you talking about?!”

“You said that ‘they’ got Yevgeny Fokin. Well, he was getting unreliable anyway, wasn’t he? The Sovietnik was considering rubbing him out anyway, so who got to him before we did?,” asked the guard.

“I don’t know who it was…! It could have been the Zicks, or Sobol, or the Cats… or maybe one of those Estredenan cartels muscling their way in! It doesn’t matter who did it… What matters is what he might have talked to them about before they killed him…!,” raged the man in the tracksuit. “We don’t need cops coming down here and figuring out what we’ve been doing… or worse, rival ‘business interests’…”

Caracal moved swiftly through the shadows, hugging the walls until finding cover behind a ventilation unit. She planted a second device unnoticed. ”Orange glowing powder means Ouroboros B, alright… And confirms my theory about how that goon out front could hit so hard and throw me off so easily… Especially when Orisha’s supposed to be giving me the strength advantage.”

The guard continued to ask follow-up questions. “Do we know that Yevgeny is dead, or…?”

The man in the tracksuit snarled impatiently. “What do you care what happened to the svoloch?! Word on the street is he was carried out of the rathole he was hiding in by some dude in all-black, covered head to toe in his own blood…! Sounds like he’s dead, don’t it?! You’re not getting paid enough to think, so just shut up and make sure all the sh*t is loaded onto a truck and out of this warehouse by 7 AM.”

Caracal rushed up a flight of stairs to a door on the second floor. She turned the knob with slow, measured deliberateness while remaining crouched close to the steps.

Caracal entered a control room with a panel for operating the ceiling crane and an observation window overlooking the ground level. One of the security guards was focused on the console, carefully moving freight containers filled with Ouroboros B onto trucks at the opposite end of the warehouse.

Caracal briefly hesitated, contemplating her next action. ”If I were Lynx, I would probably beat this person into a critical case just for being in my way… Then move on to every other fashion victim in this entire building with the same strategy. But I…”

She planted another tiny surveillance device on the wall opposite the control panel and sneaked to the other end of the room unseen. ”…I’m not Lynx.”

Caracal tenderly gripped the doorknob and gave it a gentle turn, directing her attention behind her to ensure that the guard at the controls did not hear. With a quick yet stealthy motion, she opened the door just enough to slide behind it and into the next corridor, pulling the door shut behind her. ”One more of these little cameras left… As much as I had in the trunk when I started heading down here. Aside from one minor hiccup with the baboon out front, looks like the rest of this operation is going to go off without a hitch!”

The door at the end of the next narrow hallway opened up, and a security guard froze still as he laid eyes on the unexpected South Usean woman standing only a couple meters away from him.

The guard instinctively reached for his handgun and drew a deep breath to yell for backup, but Caracal took advantage of her split-second advantage. She launched herself towards the guard with inhuman speed and agility, closing the gap almost instantly, and struck him in the face with a right cross.

Reversing the arc of motion from the punch she threw, Caracal grabbed the guard’s face with her right hand, muffling his voice and preventing him from making a noise, while grabbing his gun arm with her left hand and preventing him from reaching his weapon. She grappled the guard to the grated floor of the hallway, outside of where the other guards could see, and jabbed her left index and middle finger into his carotid artery.

The guard passed out within seconds.

Caracal left the guard in the hallway and passed through the doorway in front of her, leading out onto a suspended catwalk. She crouched low to the ground to avoid being spotted, making swift paces towards the loading area of the warehouse. At a certain distance from the crane control room, Caracal hid behind a metal support beam and planted the final surveillance device on the opposite side of the beam, facing the warehouse interior.

The man in the tracksuit was pacing nervously at ground level, holding his phone up to his ear. “Yes, now what is it…?! You mean Fokin’s alive…? Il Sole General… Police are watching…? F*ck… F*ck…! Fine, we’ll kill him some other time then. Keep me updated. Let me know when there’s an opening to whack the svolach…!”

Caracal directed her focused gaze towards the tracksuit-wearing man, peeking around the corner of the support beam. ”Aside from maybe taking the cake for worst-dressed person in the entire country, I’m guessing that you’re the new head of distribution for Il Sole Province, based on how you’re acting… Yevgeny’s replacement, then. This is just too good an opportunity… audiovisual evidence of Ouroboros B trafficking, plus a new, higher-up lead in the bratva. But getting an ID on this loser is tomorrow’s work. Right now, I got to find my way out of here without tipping off the entire warehouse.”

Caracal’s eyes darted around the warehouse to locate the least conspicuous escape route, moving from the windows to the front door entrance to the skylight above. ”I don’t know how long the guards will stay knocked out, but it won’t be for long. Windows look bolted… Front door’s too dangerous. Skylight is…”

Caracal felt her heart leap into her throat as she witnessed a sudden, bright flash from the rooftop of a high-rise, visible through the skylight. Without missing another beat, she ran as fast as her legs would take her, no longer caring about stealth in any way whatsoever.

The security guards and the tracksuit-wearing bratva lieutenant turned their heads at the sound of feet sprinting against metal grating, but before any of them could form a coherent thought about the noise, they were startled further by the deafening roar of an anti-tank missile crashing through the skylight.

Caracal ran over the catwalk in the direction she came, leaping for cover behind the narrow corridor leading to the crane control room. ”I hope this wall holds up… For my sake, it had better…”

The missile swerved slightly in Caracal’s direction upon breaching the skylight, but it collided instead with the ground right in front of the tracksuit-wearing man, blowing him to pieces, along with a half-dozen guards in the proximity and untold quantities of product.

From her cover spot, Caracal felt the missile’s detonation through the floor and the walls, though for the moment the walls still held. However, successive waves of increasingly violent vibrations informed Caracal that the action was not yet over. ”If I remember something from the informal ‘briefing’ I got about Ouroboros B, the stuff in its unprocessed form… is flammable… and explosive. Yup…”

Caracal took register of a faint moan from the unconscious guard in the same hallway. She rolled her eyes up into her sockets for a half-second, exasperated by the circumstances thrust upon her, but she did not hesitate to act in the manner she was trained. ”Helpless goon… I put him in this position. Therefore, I have to get him out of this sh*t, don’t I? Oxosi, you are one annoying deity sometimes.”

Caracal grabbed the guard and pulled him into an over-shoulder carry, sprinting back out onto the catwalk. She beheld as the center of the warehouse was increasingly engulfed by a massive conflagration, with other security personnel crowding each other towards the known exit routes. ”This is gonna be crazy. But crazy is the Ocelot Solutions trademark, isn’t it? Only hope this guy’s weight doesn’t throw me off… Otherwise…”

Caracal took a half-step back, then launched into a running leap from the catwalk railing, aiming for a pivot in one of the nearby support pillars. Her foot reached the pivot, and she built on the momentum to make another incredible leap towards the edge of the shattered skylight. ”Jump’s around three meters… Should be a piece of cake.”

Caracal made her leap for the skylight, but the added weight of the guard caused her to reach the peak of her jump too soon. She panicked for a moment, tossing the guard over the edge of the skylight onto the roof, and thrust out with both her arms, barely contacting the edge with her fingers. Even then, she did not have the leverage to pull herself onto the roof, barely hanging on as tongues of flame lapped below at her feet. ”Axon, please don’t let me die this way… The cause they’d write on my death certificate… would be so stupid.”

Just as she was about to lose her grip, Caracal’s hand was grabbed by an unexpected helping hand. When Caracal looked up through the wisps of smoke to see the face of her savior, she reacted with surprise to find that it was the guard she had saved. “Y-you…? But you’re…?”

The guard strained his muscles to pull Caracal up to safety. He offered his explanation in Roskayan-accented Ridnezite. “You saved my life. I save yours. That makes a fair trade, no? Also… I need you to get me down from here before the fire takes the whole building.”

Caracal and the guard both watched three dozen guards barrel out into the yard and streets surrounding the warehouse from four stories up. “Yeah, getting us down… That’s a fair point too. You ready…?,” said Caracal.

The guard felt waves of encroaching heat against his face as the conflagration built to an apex, with heavy clouds of smoke now visible through the broken skylight. “Do we have a choice?!,” he asked rhetorically.

Without any warning, Caracal lifted the guard over her shoulder again and began to sprint towards the edge of the roof, taking a prodigious horizontal leap. As she hit the ground with their combined weight, a wave of concussive force blasted outwards from the warehouse, knocking out all of the remaining intact windows at the same time. Caracal stumbled onto the tarmac, roughly tossing the guard onto his back.

Caracal supported her exhausted frame on all fours, panting and sweating from the physical exertion.

The guard she rescued tapped her on the shoulder and pointed back towards the burning warehouse. “What about Yaropolk?! You can’t just leave him to die either!”

Caracal arched her neck with great reluctance, confirming that the Ouroboros B-enhanced thug whom she disabled was still leaning upright against the burning building. ”It’s official now. At the next quarterly meeting, I’m asking Lynx to quadruple my salary for dealing with this nonsense.”

Caracal forced herself to her feet and rushed into the waves of radiating heat against every instinct in her body, grabbing the body of the stunned Yaropolk and dragging him to safety with more than a modicum of difficulty. “Why is it… that I am always… having to pick up the fattest motherf*ckers arou-.”

Just then, a second, more powerful wave of force exploded forth from the warehouse, catching Caracal at the periphery of its area of effect. Caracal’s exhaustion and the sudden force of the explosion combined to tip the beleaguered mercenary over the edge.

Caracal fell limp against the ground and fainted.

From the rooftop of the adjacent high-rise, the man in the business suit finished smoking another cigarette in the darkness. Just as before, he threw the cigarette to the ground and stamped out the faint light of its embers, as he watched the scenario reach an apparent conclusion.

Another man, appearing in his late twenties, stood beside him, decked out in urban camouflage colors and bearing the beret and shoulder patch of Sobol Security Corps. He carried a rocket launcher over his back with a sling and was monitoring the situation on the ground with a pair of night vision binoculars. “Commander, it seems that the target has survived initial assault, but may be incapacitated for the moment. Do we move in and eliminate the target now while the opportunity presents itself?”

The man in the suit folded his arms behind his back and watched the semi-conscious Caracal roll over onto her back from bird’s-eye-view. “Unnecessary, Private. It was fortuitous that she coincidentally led us to a Bermanov Group warehouse. I am certain that the Colonel will be pleased to learn of this damage to his rival’s business interests in Ridnez.”

The man in the suit turned from the edge of the rooftop and retreated into the blanket of shadow behind him, removing another cigarette and lighting it up. “I’m interested in learning more about what these so-called ‘Cats’ can do… What makes them so special… There will be opportunities to take her out later, once I’ve satisfied my bourgeoning curiosity.”

April 11, 2026, 6:33 AM

Caracal was woken up by the indelicate prodding of a narrow metallic tube into her shoulder complex.

“Ow…! Hey, watch it, punk! This shirt put me back two-thousand pounds… I don’t need you putting more holes in it! What do you think you’re-? Oh…”

Caracal rubbed her tired eyes with the backs of her hands, gazing upright from a sitting position at the pair of boorish ObertoSec officers staring down at her. Both were clad in the navy blue standard uniform of ObertoSec contractors, also bearing Kevlar vests with the same POLIZIA block-lettering as Abigail Roth had been wearing earlier in the morning. The officer on Caracal’s right was brown-haired; the one on the left was black-haired. The black-haired officer had a small scar across the edge of his lip. Both were green-eyed; both were carrying AGG-10 assault rifles, manufactured in Tertania.

“Well, well… Now what do we have here? We’re first to respond to the scene of the crime, and there’s absolutely nobody lying around, conveniently waiting to be arrested on suspicion of arson…,” the brown-haired officer intimated. “Absolutely no one… except you.”

“You know what that means as well as we do… Don’t even try to play dumb, mulignana…,” growled the black-haired officer.

Caracal forced herself to return the implicit threat with a mocking grin and a sharp look in her eyes, issuing a challenge with her body language. “Well, if it isn’t Floriano Galeazzi and Franco Monteggia… A.K.A. Exhibit A and Exhibit B for ‘Why Ridnezites Can Never Be the Master Race’… What’s the matter? First on the scene, only to realize there’s no drug money for you to pocket before the real cops get here?”

Galeazzi, the brown-haired one, aimed the barrel of his rifle at the Marundian operative. “Don’t even try to provoke us. We’re used to your kind’s tricks… Burn down the building, get caught red-handed… Then the bleeding-heart judges let you go with a slap on the wrist because we say something politically incorrect while body cams are running.”

“Well, guess what, we’re too smart for that, mulignana…! We’ve turned our body cams off just for this. We’re going to lay down the hurt and then put you in a cage, just like you monkeys deserve…!,” Monteggia shouted.

Caracal shifted her attention to something behind the two ObertoSec officers. “Did you hear all that? They said body cams aren’t running… Means no proof we were here.”

Galeazzi half-turned his head to check his six-o-clock. “Wha-?! Who are you talking to-?”

Galeazzi and Monteggia both felt a sudden sting against the napes of their necks, like being stung by wasps. They then simultaneously felt their heart rate drop and their vision go blurry, as an overwhelming wave of nausea and disorientation overtook them. The ObertoSec officers dropped to the ground and passed out within seconds. Monteggia hit the pavement in the process of throwing up on himself.

Caracal brushed the dirt and dust from her slacks as she rose to a standing position. “Thanks for the save, Serval. How long was I out, approximately?”

A young woman stepped forth, around three or four years younger than Caracal. She had honey-brown eyes and chestnut-brown hair done into a braided ponytail, and she wore an outfit comprised of an army green short-sleeve jacket layered over a light green crop top, army green cargo pants, ankle-high combat boots, and black tactical gloves. Most striking of all, however, was the elaborate tattooed design which covered her deeply tan skin, bearing hieroglyphic motifs belonging to the culture of Ancient Xetesh. The tattoos were visible over her forearms, neck, chest, and midriff, and in the world of the easily scandalized Ridnezite middle-class, would undoubtedly have a deeply unsettled reaction.

Serval held a pneumatic dart launcher in her right hand, letting it fall to her side as the ObertoSec officers collapsed in front of her. “The alert came through my pager at 0615 hours, so… I would say you were indisposed for at least twenty minutes. Praise be to Huris, the bringer of light, that the two unreformed Zendirist imbeciles are the only first-responder presence onsite, so far. Otherwise… This could have gotten needlessly complicated.”

Caracal spared a moment to glance at the unconscious ObertoSec officers, with homemade autoinjector darts sticking from the backs of their necks, and then returned her attention to the warehouse blaze, which seemed to be dying down from lack of oxygen or flammable material to burn. None of the Bermanov security personnel from earlier had stuck around, including Yaropolk and his comrade from before. “Well, let’s hope that the firefighters get here soon, at least… But agreed, we got to get the hell out of dodge before someone with more brains or credibility than those two arrives.”

Caracal and Serval ran from the yard, ducking into a nearby alleyway.

“Where did you park the car?,” asked Serval, as she sprinted through the darkness alongside her mentor.

“Oh… Around six blocks from here…,” Caracal replied, minding the homeless people and toppled trash cans obstructing the way.

Caracal and Serval emerged from the alley at a sidewalk, which while busy was not quite as bustling as the start of the workday would make it one hour into the future. The two nimble figures ran across the street in the middle of early morning traffic, vaulting or leaping over any automobiles that got in the way. More than a few annoyed motorists yelled curses and honked their horns.

After crossing the street, Serval stopped in place and extended her hand. “Just one more thing. Give me your keys.”

Serval posed the request without any attempt at build-up or justification. Her facial expression was completely serious and flat, utterly unreadable. After ten seconds of awkward silence, she felt obligated to give an excuse. “…You’ve been injured. I’m in better shape to drive.”

Caracal simply smiled at the request and planted her hands on her waist. “Nah, you just want an excuse to drive the sports car. You think it looks exciting!”

Serval froze still and remained perfectly silent for a couple seconds. Eventually, she said something in reply, remaining completely flat and neutral with her tone. “…You are correct. I do want to drive the sports car, because I think it will be exciting. Can I please have the keys now?”

Caracal beamed with amused pride for an instant, then fished the keys out of her pocket. “Oh, what the hell. Take her for a ride, sister. My treat.”

Caracal threw the keys into Serval’s hand, which formed a possessive fist like a Venus flytrap ensnaring its prey. She bowed ever so slightly. “Thank you for this token of your regard, big sister. I will not fail you.”

Ocelot Solutions LLC, Il Sole, Restored First Ridnez Republic

April 15, 2026, 9:27 AM

“So to summarize your debrief, the whole line of investigation through Yevgeny Fokin and his cohort has dried up… We don’t know who, if anyone, is handling Ouroboros B distribution for the bratva in the capital province. And we all owe it to some unidentified third party who blew up the warehouse which served as the local distribution hub…”

Ocelot sat at a round table with Caracal and Serval in a conference room with no windows and only one biometrically-locked door. The room was barely furnished, with hardwood walls, floors, and ceiling concealing a deeper layer of osmium-steel-titanium alloy. Each of the three A-Ranked Contractors was spaced equidistantly around the table at one-hundred-twenty-degree angles.

Ocelot, the oldest and most experienced of the trio, leaned back into her office chair with arms crossed and legs propped up against the table: one of her default comfort poses. “I could almost thank whoever blew up the stash in the warehouse, if it weren’t for the workers that he killed, and the fact that he terminated our own lead on the bratva’s drug trafficking activities… Not to mention that the original lead, Yevgeny Fokin, is under PREVENTION custody in Axon-knows-where. So where does that leave the investigation now?”

Caracal rested her elbows against the table, now dressed in a burgundy satin camisole and sleek black faux-leather pants. “Well, I do have to bark up another tree now, but the operation wasn’t a total loss! I would like to reiterate that the footage backed up on our cloud from the spy cams I planted, while only a few minutes long, does have indisputable evidence of Bermanov Group employees being used to traffic Ouroboros B… and the lieutenant guy was talking on the cellphone about whacking Yevgeny! If that’s not proof of some wrongdoing, then I don’t-“

Ocelot interrupted Caracal, stating the facts with grim objectivity. “It’s circumstantial evidence, sure… But it’s not good enough to put Georgiy Melnik away, and it doesn’t in itself make an airtight case against Bermanov Group. So, Clytemnestra, I’m going to redirect a little: Where are we heading with the case now?”

Serval sat at the table with hands patiently clasped and resting against the table top, listening intently to the conversation, but without any commentary of her own to offer.

Caracal sat upright against the backrest of her chair and glanced at the polished floor at her feet. “Well, we could always try to rustle up old leads and see if they know anything… Like Ricardo Farina, the mole we once had in Bermanov’s organization. If he knows something that we could use…”

“Personally… I think Farina is a weak connection,” Ocelot pointedly stated. “But, I’m not going to lie. I don’t have any better ideas right now, so if you think leaning on the jerk is worth your time, I’m not going to stop you. Who knows? Maybe you will turn something up.”

“Gotcha…!,” Caracal affirmed, making a corny thumbs-up gesture across the room.

Ocelot acknowledged Caracal with a subtle nod, then planted her feet eventfully against the floor, readying to stand up. “So, if there’s nothing else to report at this time… I’m calling this meeting adjourned.”

Serval raised a timid hand. “Um, I actually do have a thought that just occurred to me.”

Ocelot turned her gaze towards Serval, implicitly inviting her to speak her mind.

After a second of waiting, Serval lowered her hand under the table. “So, we’ve been operating under the assumption that the main objective of whoever fired that ATGM was to take out the Bermanov warehouse, but… What if we’ve been getting it wrong? What if they were trying to eliminate Clytemnestra, and the warehouse was just where they decided to strike…?”

Ocelot nestled her chin into her open hand, contemplating the implications. “A disquieting thought… There’s no shortage of suspects with the motivation, means, and opportunity to try assassinating any of us out in the open… out in the field. But each of us made this choice, to wage this forever-war against Zendirism… against everything that’s wrong with society.”

Ocelot stood up from her chair with confidence. “My advice is to proceed as always. Maintain advanced situational awareness at all times. Defend the weak. And barring where it contradicts defending the weak, survive. Meeting adjourned.”

Ocelot exited the conference room without ceremony, letting the door shut behind her.

“Lynx has some heavy stuff weighing on her mind. I can tell…,” Caracal commented. She rose from her seat and stretched her arms and back. “I bet it has to do with this stuff that the Loreauans are having her do…”

Serval rose from her seat and raised a curious eyebrow. “Loreauans…? I know that there’s the Sponda Cieca job that we’re subcontracting to Giovanni Sforza, but…”

“No, sister. More than that…,” Caracal continued, ambling towards the exit at her own unhurried pace. “They have some ambition to realign this country with themselves and pull it out of the League. I’m not privy to all of it, but Lynx is helping them lean on the President, in her own very ’Lynx-like’ way. Making it harder for the League’s organized crime to colonize the streets of Ridnez would improve the ease of my current assignment, at least.”

“I see… So, speaking of ‘leaning’ on men with dubious moral integrity, do you really think Farina will tell you something of assistance?,” Serval inquired, as she trailed Caracal’s steps.

“I don’t know, girl. But as Lynx said, it doesn’t hurt, scoping out that angle. I’ve got to tell you the truth. My mind’s somewhere else right now too…,” Caracal admitted. She opened the door to leave the room, holding it open for Serval.

“Oh…? So… What is lingering on your mind, if it does not violate the spirit of ma’at to ask this from you?,” asked Serval.

“I’ve got a ‘date’ tonight with a journalist friend. She wants to know about Ukuu, and I told her that I would tell her the whole story… Or at least, my version of the events…,” Caracal explained. She turned towards Serval with suddenly serious eyes. “You were there too. Lynx wasn’t. You would understand.”

Serval stopped in her tracks. “You… You do not have to do this. You can always tell this person that you changed your mind! Since when do you talk to the press anyway?”

“I have to do it, Serval… I have to do it…,” Caracal somberly stated, stopping momentarily to turn back in Serval’s direction and meet her eyes. “I owe it… To my Ukuuan brothers and sisters… for not having been able to change a damned thing about what happened.”

Caracal let the last few words of this explanation pass from her lips with a tired bitterness.

She turned her back to Serval and continued on her way.

La Mazón Bleu, Port-Esprânc, Singapúr.
(The Blue House, Port Hope, Singapore)

Above the entrance to La Mazón Bleu, the headquarters of the southern seas detachment at Port-Esprânc, cast in gold letters, are the words: Le mónd aprí notre nom sur l'eau. ‘The world learned our name upon the water.’

Lieutenant Gilles Saint-Pierre read them every morning on his way in, and every morning he meant to uphold them.

He had come from the Naval Academy at Zanzibar at the end of September, aboard the fleet transport La Martin. For most of the eleven days aboard, there had been nothing to look at but the Indian Ocean. He would stand at the rail in the evenings, admiring the horizon; he had dreamed of this day for a long time. He had never before seen the vast expanse of the ocean. When he had made his way to Zanzibar, he was never truly surrounded by water; he could always see the land even if it was distant. Out here he was himself; out here he was far away from any troubles; this was where he longed to be.

Back at the Academy, Ekriba had been a map on the wall. Five islands, the home waters, the old coastal forts. He remembered studying maps of Ekriba, but it was always centered on the main islands and the Mediterranean territories; he was always told a majority of them would be sent back home to work in the home islands. He was never told the best of them would be sent to the east. He graduated top of his class; he assumed he would find his new station in the Mediterranean. Instead, he was handed a letter and ordered to the east; he was to become an intelligence officer in Singapore.

Two generations ago the Navy had been a coastal service, respected in its own waters and never seen beyond them. Times had changed, Ekriba was a global nation now, and it had obligations to carry out, far-off territories to defend. Each new territory represented a new supply line for the navy and merchant fleet to establish and control. It required a larger merchant fleet and a larger navy to protect Ekriba’s expanding influence across the world. Ekriba had christened itself as a naval power with a strong navy that could defend and project itself across the world. Saint-Pierre had grown up in a naval household; four generations of naval excellence now fell to him to continue.

The La Martin came up the Strait of Malacca on the morning of the twenty-sixth. He was on deck for all of it.

He had seen photographs, but they did not prepare him for the controlled chaos. Tankers, bulk carriers and container ships moved in two great lanes, one flowing up and one flowing down, so many ships passed him by he lost count. Patrol craft in Ekriban blue worked the edges of the lanes. A frigate from Singapore passed them Northbound at speed, and the La Martin's crew came out on deck to give her a cheer as she went.

Singapore rose out of the haze, the towers and lights of the city a shining beacon in his eyes, and lying just off the southern shore across a narrow strait of green water, the island of Sentosa. Port-Esprânc.

Ekriba had built it on the foundation of an old fortress, and it filled the island. Its piers held the grey hulls of the Southern Seas Detachment in their long rows, many a destroyer and frigate, support ship and tanker. None compared to the great aircraft carrier laying at anchor in the harbor: the ERS Victoire, a symbol of Ekriban prestige. Behind them rose the dry docks, the fuel farm and the communications masts on the island's hill, the whole island turned into a headquarters to defend the far reaches of the Ekriban Republic. Every ship leaving the Strait for Macau passed within the grasp of this facility. Saint-Pierre had been told Singapore was the jewel of the southern crown, and had taken it for the kind of thing people say. Standing on the La Martin's deck, he saw that it wasn’t just a saying.

The First Week

La Mazón Bleu was a long, low building of white concrete on the hill above the piers, and its entrance was faced in blue stone, which is where it gets its name. Inside, it was quieter than he expected. Long corridors, cool air, and the steady hum of machines filled the space.

The Maritime Analysis Section occupied most of the second floor. Its heart was the operations room, where a wall of screens carried the live tracking of every vessel from the Andaman Sea to Macau. Ekriban vessels glowed blue, while non-Ekriban vessels glowed white. Looking at the screen, you could see an interesting pattern: a line of Blue glowing arrows reaching from off the screen through the straits to Macau and back again.

The analysts called it la ligne, the line.

Rear Admiral Valentin Gérin-Lajoie received him in an office at the end of the corridor, with a window that looked across the harbour and out towards the city. He was a lean man in his forties with short grey hair and a gray mustache, trimmed to perfection. He had come out from Seyteles in July, replacing the former commander after poor performance. Everyone knew of his record; he had reorganized the Mediterranean fleet to a point where it was one of, if not the strongest in the region. He was here to set things straight; he was part of the new wave of high command, a group that rose the ranks in naval excellence.

It had been an untidy spring. Smuggling had run rampant in the region. In May a tanker had been boarded at anchor off Malacca Island, inside Ekriban waters; she was relieved of her cash and electronics before anyone ashore knew what had happened. In June, a representative from Château Bellevue had stood up in the National Assembly in Seyteles. He asked the Minister of Marine why, after all the money spent on the region, he couldn’t stop simple bandits in our waters. It was the start of what would become a recent pattern of humiliations in the region.

Gérin-Lajoie had been sent to Singapore to make sure nothing like that would ever happen again.

"Zanzibar," he said, reading from the file on his desk. "First in your class in intelligence analysis. Your instructors say you are a “prodigy”. I never understood how someone's talents could be measured in the classroom, especially claiming such a high standard.” He paused for a moment. “It also says here that you are focused, concise, and work through problems diligently.” He closed the file. "I don't care about your file, Lieutenant; I care about results. Can you give me results?"

"If you give me the chance, sir."

He stood and went to the window, and for a moment he looked out at the harbour. Then he turned around. "If you are what they say you are, you will prove it to me, I’m assigning you to the Macau Route, the stretch from Singapore to Macau and back. Don't let me down."

Saint-Pierre stood at attention

“You will be expected to know everything there is to know about this route and every ship stationed to it. I do not give this file to people I intend to watch fail. Do you understand?"

"I understand, sir."

"Good. Officer Valcourt will show you the room."

Petty Officer Henri Valcourt was waiting in the operations room. He was a thin man, older than Saint-Pierre by ten years, and he had worked the signals desk at Port-Esprânc longer than anyone else on the floor. He shook hands once and led Saint-Pierre along the wall of screens. He explained each one in as few words as possible: the transponder feed, the radar picture, the patrol schedule, the incident log.

At the last screen he stopped. It showed la ligne and the blue arrows spanning across the map.

"Forty to sixty of ours on it at any time," Valcourt said. "Big ones in the lanes. Small ones along the coast."

"And the threats?" Gilles asked.

Valcourt considered the question. "Weather," he said. "Sometimes traffic; it's rare we have any major issues. Although recently, we heard talks from Indochina of pirates." He looked at the screen a moment longer. "None of ours have been targets; of course, it would be a grave mistake if they tried. We have patrols sweeping the waters nearly all hours of the day.”

That was the longest speech Saint-Pierre would hear from him for a month.

He spent his first week studying the regular traffic; it reminded him of the way he had once studied the lanes of Ekriba at the Academy. He learned the regular runners by name. There were the big container ships out of Malacca and Saint George on their weekly rotation, the tankers carrying fuel north to Macau's power station, and the reefers with their holds of frozen goods. The coastal feeders made the long run north with the small freight the big ships would not bother with. He learned where the weather came from, which stretches of coast went dark on radar, and when the patrols passed. He read every incident report in the Section's files going back ten years.

There were not many. The line was quiet. It was well run.

On the eighth night he went home late and slept well.

October 3rd, South China Sea

Marée Basse was an old ship and an honest one. She was a 230-foot coastal feeder with a crew of nine, running mixed containers and mail from Singapore to Macau and back twice a month. Captain Yves Lacoûrc had commanded her for six years, and he knew the ins and outs of his ship.

That night she was running northeast at eleven knots, thirty miles southeast of Côn Sơn. There was no moon, and the sea was flat. The second mate had the watch. Lacoûrc was asleep in his cabin.

At 0213 the lookout on the bridge wing heard engines astern, low and fast. He turned and saw nothing, and by the time he had crossed to the other side of the wing to look again, the first man was already over the stern rail.

There were two boats, long and narrow and unlit, with outboard engines. Eight men came aboard in under a minute. They carried rifles, and every one of them seemed to know where he was going. Two went to the bridge, to gut it of valuables. Two went below to the crew quarters, to control the men aboard. Two stood at the stern, to maintain their line of escape. The remaining two went straight to the radio room, ripped it out, threw it on the floor and switched off the transponder.

Lacoûrc woke to a hand on his shoulder and a rifle muzzle a foot from his face.

He was a smart captain and knew the best course of action for his safety, and his crew’s was to comply; there was no help coming. He went up to the bridge in his shirt and trousers and stood where he was told to stand. The man who seemed to be in charge spoke to him in fluent French, asking for the ship's cash, the crew's phones, and the container manifest.

They were aboard for fifty minutes. They took the cash box from the safe, every phone and laptop they could find, and the contents of one container of consumer electronics. They locked six of the crew in the lower hold. Then they switched the transponder back on.

After that, they took Lacoûrc and two of his deckhands down the stern ladder into the boats.

The mate broke the door open at dawn. He called Port-Esprânc from a handset the raiders had missed, and at 0647 the first incident report of Saint-Pierre's career arrived on the Macau desk.

October 3rd, La Mazón Bleu, Port-Esprânc
From the working notes of Lt. G. Saint-Pierre, Maritime Analysis Section, Port-Esprânc.

4 October 2056, 0710. First incident on my watch. The Marée Basse was boarded 30 nm SE of Côn Sơn at approximately 0215. Captain Lacoûrc and two deckhands have been taken. Six crew are aboard and unharmed, and the ship has turned back for Singapore under the mate. Patrol vessel Saint-Aubin has been detached to escort her.

0930. Valcourt pulled the track. The transponder went dark at 0221 and came back at 0311, fifty minutes later. The track resumes on the ship's original course and speed. Valcourt says whoever boarded her knew to kill the transponder and knew to turn it back on, so that the gap would look like an equipment fault to anyone who wasn't watching closely.

9 October. A ransom demand arrived through a broker in Batam who has handled such things before. The sum is modest, well within what the owners carry insurance for. The owners are paying.

12 October. Lacoûrc and both deckhands were put ashore at first light on a small island off the Kiên Giang coast, near the border. A fisherman found them and called the authorities. They are hungry and sunburned, but unhurt. They will be flown to Singapore tomorrow.

SOUTHERN SEAS SECTOR — INCIDENT REPORT SS-31-0412
Classification: Restricted
Vessel: Marée Basse (coastal feeder, 230 feet, 4,100 GT). Ekriban flag, registered Malacca.
Voyage: Singapore → Macau, mixed containers and mail.
Position: approx. 30 nm SE of Côn Sơn.
Time: Boarded 0215 local, 3 Oct 2056. Raiders departed approx. 0310.
Attackers: 8, armed with rifles, in 2 unlit outboard boats of approx. 20 feet. They approached from astern and boarded via the stern rail.
Conduct: Organised, quiet and unhurried. Transponder disabled at 0221 and restored at 0311. Radio handsets removed. Six crew confined.
Losses: Ship's cash, personal electronics, and one container of consumer electronics.
Personnel taken: Master and 2 deckhands.
Response: Patrol vessel Saint-Aubin detached to escort the vessel back to Singapore.
Analyst note: The transponder restoration is deliberate and suggests familiarity with our monitoring. There is no precedent for this in the Section's files.
— Lt. G. Saint-Pierre

Lacoûrc came to Port-Esprânc on the fourteenth. He was a heavy, grey-bearded man with sailor's hands. He sat across the table from Saint-Pierre in a small interview room and drank three cups of coffee while he talked.

He had been kept on boats for eight days, moved every night and sometimes twice a night. He had never been ashore and never saw a village or a building. He saw nothing but water, and once, far off, a line of hills.

"They were not stupid men," he said. "I have been to sea thirty years. I have met pirates before, the kind that come aboard with knives, shout a great deal, and are gone in ten minutes with whatever they can carry. These were not those men. Nobody shouted. Nobody hurried. They knew my ship. They knew where the safe was before I told them."

"How would they know that?"

Lacoûrc shrugged. "Every feeder of that class is built the same. If you have been aboard one, you have been aboard them all." He turned the coffee cup in his hands. "Or somebody told them."

"The man in charge. You said he spoke French."

"Good French. Like a man who learned it at school." Lacoûrc frowned. "Among themselves they spoke something else."

"Vietnamese?"

"No. I know a little Vietnamese, from thirty years on this coast. It was not that." He shook his head. "I could not tell you what it was."

Saint-Pierre wrote it down. When Lacoûrc had gone, he read the notes back twice, and then he went and stood in front of la ligne for a while and looked at it.

It was quiet. Forty-seven blue points were moving north and south in their lanes, exactly as they should.