LerodasBoard

Black Gold, Red Sands
Influence post: Al-Mustaha

Sami hated Altera. The climate. The Sands. The way the air seemed to choke the life out of you as you walked in it. The way the sun wanted to bake you alive, especially for the pale skinned Aatelisian. It took a week of tanning before Sami even was allowed to head south to Altera, to the desert nation of Al-Mustaha. With only guards, a few translators, and a briefcase, Sami was a long way from Aatelisia. With their plane hitting the tarmac of Bayt Al-luwlu, Sami was expected to come back home with a successful deal made, or not come back at all.

As Sami landed, two Mustahan guards met him. “Mr. Lahtinen, the General is waiting.”

Sami nodded, and followed the two with his own cadre of followers. So near to Shuorian territory, an assassin loyal to their interests in the region sent shivers down Sami’s spine. But Sami couldn’t make his fear known, he was the ambassador to Altera, and he’d show the continent Aatelisia was serious in their involvement.

The motorcade ride from the airport to the presidential palace took no time at all, as the streets were cleared well in advance, with Mustahan soldiers on every crossroad you could imagine. Sami did not know if this was necessarily them protecting the Ambassador, or if it was simply the by-product of Martial Law. Either way, the car carrying Sami halted, and they entered the palace as quickly as possible.

Once a seat for Princes of Halbyan to gawk in, the Presidential Palace housed the current “president” of Al-Mustaha, though no one could deny that elections were all but canceled as the military had seized full control, under the guise to protect sovereignty of the nation from possible imperialist powers.

Sami would not meet the President himself, however. Though the Ambassador would like to speak to him at some point, the current volatility of the Mustahan government made him just a wee bit shy from digging his hand into that pie. Instead, Sami was meant to meet a Military man: General Kamil Zaman had special ties to the not-so-obvious president, a very-obvious dictator, of Al-Mustaha. Not only that, he had a special… attitude toward the socialist cause, which Sami would try to exploit to the best of his ability. He would not show the Mustahans as Aatelisia being iron fisted, though he himself wouldn’t bend over backwards for them either. The meeting would be formal, both parties would come out with their interests achieved, and nothing more.

When the door to the room opened, Sami saw the general sitting behind a desk. He was in a suit, though he still had on his military beret. A very strange outfit to have, though likely fitting the current state of the nation. “Ambassador Sami.” the General spoke in almost broken Aatelisian, clearly having memorized how to introduce himself before the meeting. “I am glad to see you. As well as your Offer.”

“That we both are.” Sami said, replying in the general’s language. Translators took their positions between the two men, both having a delay as they spoke but both getting the point across. “You called Palatsinlinnna wishing for support for your administration?”

“For my men, my soldiers. The military of our nation is in a disastrous state. And with Halbyan dogs and Shuorian Imperialists, we can’t hope to hold up to them.”

“I see, I see.” Sami opened his briefcase, revealing its contents: beyond his own papers, there sat the RK-89. The Rifle for upstart Nations to have. “With Aatelisia slowly replacing our own rifle with the VRK, we have a massive surplus of rifles. What is the average rifle Al-Mustaha has?”

Kamil snickered. “If it isn’t old bolt actions from the colonial era, it's semi autos.”

“How many rounds can it hold?”

“Ten.”

Sami snapped his finger to one of the Aatelisian guards, who withdrew the mag from his rifle. Sami, as if he were a soldier, put the magazine into the gun, showcasing it. “The RK-89 can hold triple that. Semi and automatic fire, cheap to maintain and cheaper to train a man how to fire. Sights up to 800 meters. Possible for nearly a kilometer of accurate, sustained fire. Every man has a semi auto, but every man also has a machine gun.”

“How many can you give?”

“Ten thousand. More if so requested. Once our own army has been equipped with them, we could also sell the VRK, once available. Those rifles will be even easier to maintain. A weapon you want in the hands of each of your soldiers.”

“Rifles won’t be able to stop armor though.”

Sami smiled. “Glad that you pointed that out. We will also be willing to provide RKK-1s, the Anti-tank weapon of choice. One man in an urban environment could take out anything the Imperialists in Altera could hope to match. We’d also be willing to provide ATGMs, but those will be pricey.”

Kamil rubbed his face with his hand. “We’ll take the rifles, and the RKKs. ATGMs, we’ll also want from you if you can. But we also wish for armor.”

“That which we will give in time, Kamil. Ten thousand rifles entering Al-Mustaha will not go unnoticed, and we wish for us to be a bit covert when it comes to those, you know how it is. PV-87s, RPAs, cars, trucks, all will be available to you.”

“And what do you request from Al-Mustaha?”

“Well, besides an obvious cash payment at a reasonable discount, we also wish to establish an embassy in Al-Mustaha itself. We’ll decide on what the price of that armor will go for in time.”

“You agree to deliver those rifles within the month, and we’ll see to constructing that embassy immediately.”

“Deal.”

Sami and Kamil shook hands, the suited general being mighty pleased to have secured his army modern weaponry. “A pleasure doing business with you Sami. I hope to see you at the embassy once it's built.”

Sami could not help but smile. Even in the seemingly inhospitable desert lands of Altera, weapons against imperialists were in high demand even now. Who knew if Shuoria or Arvene would attempt to maintain their colonial assets. If the time came, Al-Mustaha could likely shake either with their arms they obtained, and the deal would likely signal that Aatelisia is open to buyers. For the right price of course. “If I am not busy, of course General. We shall see you once those arms arrive.”

Away Down South in the Land of Oil
Halbya Influence Post

Falling down into his chair for the first time, the newly-appointed Ambassador to Halbya, Thibaut Quessy, was grateful for the moment of peace he had received. Since the moment he stepped off the plane, he had been bombarded by news media, trying to find a good angle and story for their day-to-day news week, or by his own staff, wishing to get introduced to him. He had to be introduced to everyone under him, as it was vital to build a good working environment.

All of that, Quessy understood quite well. This was his first appointment as an actual ambassador, and that held a lot of expectations. And pride, though it was mostly expectations. The staff, especially his diplomatic team, seemed understanding of him so far and helped him through all the matters at the embassy. The most important stuff they’d go over in the next few days, which were protocols and traditions associated with his post. The Halbyans were a peculiar people, and as long as he spoke to Armand, Jules and Maslin, they expressed this to him in a quite clear way: the Halbyans still had a monarchy. That wasn’t meant in the sense of a strong figurehead or an ornate head-of-state. The monarch was chiefly in charge of the state and held absolute power, and so the Arvene embassy was expected to play the part of representatives to the Royal Court. Quessy found it all so quaint; it was like an old romantic play of an Arvenian officer waltzing in to speak with a Kastian emperor. Though his colleagues were clear to end any delusions.

Personally, Quessy found the plane ride over to be the most daunting part of the journey so far. The plane flew over Shuorian Altera, which elicited some cause for concern since the recent rebel actions in colonial Arvene reduced confidence in almost all of the Alteran continent. Even the mere idea of flying over a nominally safe colony was concerning to the flight crew, but fortunately the ambassador’s ride was gentle, if longer than usual as the flight path avoided passing over any major urban areas.

His plans for the future were simple, and passed down by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. In a way, they were directly given by the prime minister, which put a smile on the ambassador’s face as he finally felt he was part of the big league. His directive was simple: Quessy was to meet with his peers in the Halbyan government, and explain the importance of good relations with Arvene through firm handshakes and promises of support. The most important thing to the Halbyan government was securing military support to finally get the edge over Al-Mustaha, but the prime minister and the rest of the government were incredibly reluctant to involve themselves in such a war. Even sponsoring a conflict at the current time was seen as a bad move.

Still, Halbya had oil. A lot of oil. Enough that such qualms and morals could be sat aside if it meant a profit margin. And most important of all, kept Arvene’s jet fighters in the air and their fleet chugging along. This allowed the position of Ambassador to Halbya to become quite important, which was all the more reason Quessy was satisfied, and surprised, to have been given the post as his first real appointment.

Though Jules assured him that he would most likely never meet with the king, and the others explained that he shouldn’t want to because he was known as an impatient, brutish man, the ambassador couldn’t shake the feeling. In his mind, there was something almost remarkable about a republican diplomat speaking with a tyrant draped in gold robes.

His speaking roles with the Halbyan government would come tomorrow though. For today, Quessy slumped down into his chair and finally took a few moments to himself. Well deserved moments, he thought.

Upside-Down: Part II

600-Word Post

Hakuriwa Village

A bunch of us congregate near the still-rumbling Kuroikumo transport trucks. Suddenly, the flaps to the rear are swung out, Kuroikumo boots leaping on the muddy ground in a sinister rhythm.

I step forward to greet the Kuroikumo captain, stepping out venerably from a transport truck as among the last of its troops. As I greeted Kuroikumo captains and other personnel before as the village spokesperson when they would come here before, usually to collect “tribute” (most if not all of our food).

Something doesn’t feel right. This is no tribute collection.

I bow professionally at my waist. “Good morning, captain,” I greet formally.

“Good morning, Hakuriwa spokesperson,” the captain gently sneered behind round glasses. “Might you know why the Kuroikumo has decided to pay your village this visit today?”

Still bended over in my bow, I answer humbly, “No, captain. This village was not informed of the Kuroikumo’s arrival today. On behalf of Hakuriwa Village, I would like to apologize for this shortcoming, and we will prepare the President’s tribute with due haste.”

“No need,” the captain rolls his eyes.

I look up from my bow with a puzzled expression. “Captain?”

“Round them up!” the captain barks to his men. The Kuroikumo soldiers swarm into the village square, breaking down doors and dragging men, women, and children into the square. The wailing and shouting of the villagers, fearful and panicked, is unbearable. I stand mute before the chaos, apart from the villagers.

“Captain, what is the meaning of this?” I ask, trying to keep my cool. How can I? What are they doing?

He stays silent as he watches with a malicious grin over Hakuriwa’s villagers, rounded up like animals.

“We have received reports of communist activity in Hakuriwa Village!” the captain speaks at last, addressing the crowd before him. “It is because of these monsters that the world is embroiled in the threat of nuclear annihilation, that Inomora lives in the past while everyone else around us dines on meat and lives in luxury every day!”

The captain raises his fist. As one, the Kuroikumo soldiers before the villagers raise their rifles, locking in even children in their iron sights. With his other hand, the captain opens his holster, drawing a revolver and pointing it centimeters from my head. I freeze completely.

“This is a reprisal authorized by the President himself,” the captain continues. “These communists infiltrate villages and poison food, waterways, and minds. Only through such methods are these animals exterminated.”

“C-Captain,” I stutter, very aware of certain death above my head, “you misunderstand. There are no communists here, I swear. Have we not sworn fealty to the Free Republic and its president?”

“You I trust,” the captain sighs, holstering his pistol once more, a tinge of disappointment on his face. “You’ve been very cooperative for the Inomorese Republic. However, the rest of you…” he chuckles slightly. “If no one speaks up, with each passing minute, that amount of people shall die,” he announces. He pulls out his pocketwatch and studies it with keen anticipation. The villagers murmur with fright, screaming against the deep barrels of the rifles before them. Mothers hug children. Sons stand in front of their fathers.

“One minute,” the captain announces through his devilish smile. A soldier grabs a teenage girl from the crowd, her shrieking in response. Her face is completely flooded with tears.

“Please…” she whispers.

Another soldier rams his barrel into the girl’s forehead, chambers a round, and fires.

The deafening roar of the rifles mutes even the panicked cries of the villages in response. The grass is painted red by the fountain of blood at the back of her head as the lifeless teen is dropped onto the ground.

I get on my knees, bowing completely as my forehead dives into the muddy ground. “Please, captain,” I beg, “there are no communists here. Please take our whole harvest but spare our lives.”

“Maybe I was considering that, but your responses make this too fun,” the captain laughs, kicking me in the face as I ball up in response. What I think is blood gushes from my nose.

“Two minutes,” the captain announces, idly swinging around his watch. The soldiers dive into the crowd, wresting two people deep in it. Tanika screams with horror. I dart my head up. My head spins. I feel my breath shortening, as if I’m drowning in the air I used to breathe with no problem. Before the crowd is Yuri and Takeo.

Tanika edges her way out of the crowd, diving upon the kids and burying them with a constricting hug. “Don’t hurt them, please!” she begs, looking up at the soldier who pulled the kids.

“Get off,” he gruffly responds, slamming the butt of his gun on Tanika’s head. She exclaims in pain as the soldier and his companion take this opportunity to yank Yuri and Takeo free.

“No, please,” I stutter. “No, please!” I repeat, shouting. “Those are my children!”

“Then whoever’s the communist here isn’t being very considerate,” the captain shrugs.

I control my breath. “Then,” I begin again, calmer. “Take me—”

“I’m the communist!” Tanika shouts, standing with her arms raised.

I stand as well. “Tanika, no!”

I hear the captain chuckle. “This got interesting,” he muses.

“Shut up, Ryoshiro,” Tanika snaps. “It’s me you’re after,” she declares to the soldiers. “Spare the kids. It’s me you’re after,” she repeats.

Before I have a chance to intervene, the captain draws his pistol and unleashes all six of his bullets on Tanika. He nods to his soldiers, who then aim their rifles at Takeo and Yuri and pull their triggers.

I don’t even have a chance to scream. Something hits my shoulder. Hard. And painful. I fall over, hitting my head on a rock on the ground, and everything turns black.

The Hotel Kralin
Wielkia Influence Post

Smoke billowed from the lounge of the Hotel Kralin, located in downtown Tarnsaw. The sleepy interior was barren at this hour save a few guests still checking into their rooms, and the hotel staff carrying out their late-night duties. The Kralin was built in that early 160s style, and it showed, with dark wood panel walls and mahogany furniture. A red rug ran from the door to the front desk, and the stairs to the first floor cascaded from either side like draped curtains. An elevator was added later to the building, which certainly ruined the magnificence of the grand staircase, designed to imitate the various royal estates across Estora.

Waiting in the lounge was the only guest not reporting to his room. He had given his name as Warrane Faure, and said that he was a businessman on work and pleasure from Arvene, and was not to be bothered. He certainly had put on a strange reputation about him, but the Kralin’s staff didn’t have much time to discuss him; they received dozens of guests a day, and plenty of them were eccentrics and had peculiarities about them. A man that stayed up late into the night wasn’t high on their concern.

He was dressed in a two-piece black suit, a white undershirt and had a single blue cornflower resting in his pocket. He didn’t have much to say, and sat silently at the lounge while smoking up a storm. He had gone through perhaps three or four cigarettes in an hour; a never-ending torrent of smoke twirling upwards to remind the staff of his presence. The coolness of the man continued for some while until eventually another guest entered.

He seemed to cast a glare at the man as he walked by the lounge, and watched as he disappeared off to the side of the doorframe. The Wielkian introduced himself to the front desk and checked into the hotel. He had rented his room a week in advance. Depositing the key into his room, he offered his bags to the staff and instructed them to bring his belongings up to his room. As the porter departed with his bags, the local turned back and looked at the lounge. A few seconds ticked by on the clock before he broke away from the desk, taking a walk down the hall to the room.

Setting across from the man, the Wielkian took a quick glance and laid his eyes on the blue cornflower the man wore. Without missing a beat he leaned back, kicking his leg up.

A moment later, the Arvenian guest stood up and patted down his coat. He took his ashtray in one hand, filled to the brim with cigarette butts and ash, and passed slowly by the man to the trash can on the other side. Hindering his gait as he crossed in front of him, he quickly and cautiously reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded packet which he handed to the other man in a single, practiced motion.

“For the minister.” The Arvenian said in fluent Krajnan, pausing at the trash can to toss away his waste.

“Faster than I thought.” The Wielkian mused in a hushed voice, sliding the packet into his coat.

Passing by with the emptied ashtray, the Arvenian turned his face away from the entrance to the front desk.

“Times are changing.”

He said simply, and placing his ashtray back on the lamp table, turned to leave the lounge. He headed up to the front desk and got his key to his room and moments later disappeared up the elevator. For all the staff knew, the Arvenian businessman was antisocial and didn’t care much for sharing the lounge with others. What they wouldn’t know until decades later was that he had given up the location to a large arms depot the Arvenians conveniently ‘lost’ in Wielkia during a routine Estoran flight exercise. Military materiel that somehow activated its parachutes on their own, and that the government could play off as an accident that unfortunately landed arms right in the hands of the Wielkian army. Weapons that they conveniently used in their conflict against Communist Krajna.

Old Enemies Turned Friends
Laupulau Influence Post

Chancellor Heisler was sitting in his office planning his re-election campaign, his opponent was very popular , and the polls predicted that the KPL would lose. Suddenly a call, it was from the freshly elected president of Laupulau, Laupulau's previous anti-west president was assassinated and a new-pro west was elected, it is unknown if it was by popular vote or something else. Laupulau was able to avoid for for decades Ludernian colonialism, Ludernia lost two wars against them, so Ludernia decided to leave them alone, so it came as a surprise for Heisler that they would call.

"Yes, Hello" answered Heisler.

"Your Excellency! What a pleasure speaking with you" said the President of Laupulau.

"Likewise, but I find weird that your calling us, I thought there was no wish to deal with us anymore" said Heisler.

"That is nonsense Mr. Heisler, all that hate is in the past, our people are changing and we are welcoming change, we are starting to understand that to survive we need to hold no grudges, even against ex-imperialists like you." said the president enthusiastically.

"Alright then, why did you call? Was it for an indirect apology or something else?" said Heisler

"Ha ha ha, Mr. Heisler you're a funny guy, you certainly know how to crack a joke. We come with a proposition! As you can see, our country is modernising, but we can't do it completely alone, but we don't wish to fall under any influence of the major powers"

"Then why us?" asked Heisler

"You hold grudges against both powers yes? We can also see the potential of your recovering nation, rebuilding your country after two devastating wars is quite the feat, but we believe in you" answered the President.

"Uhu..I'm sorry but what's going on?" asked Heisler confused

"Alright let me get straight to the point. We want you to invest in our country, we need more resources to continue the modernisation, and not only that, but factories also, for our people to work in. I don't trust the big powers any more than you, so, what do you say?"

"Hmm.... I don't know if it would be wise, I don't wish to draw attention from the international community, we are already pretty tight with some of this
"restrictions" you see" answered Heisler.

"It's alright Mr. Heisler, just hide it as International Aid, they don't need to know what happens behind the curtains, it will be our little secret" said the President.

"It would be a risk, but whatever sure, we will do it" said Heisler.

"Excellent Mr. Heisler, I tell you everything will be fine no one will suspect anything, and you will gain a lot from it" said the president

Both nations reached an agreement. Heisler was nervous, agreeing to this was a risk, and no one in Ludernia had to know what was going on behind the curtains , it would ruin his reputation further. Heisler knew he was already unpopular with the people, he was doing whatever he could to salvage the situation and secure a 2nd term. Sure, he could say that by announcing this international aid to Laupulau it could help his popularity, but the reality was that, the Ludernians wanted a neutral stance on international politics and no intervention in anything, only if the country was under threat any actions could be justified.

This was the reality of Ludernia, losing two wars takes a toll on anyone's morality, but somehow the Ludernians always came back, joined together to rebuild their country, and now that they were on a good path, they didn't want to screw it up.

The Boring Front
Influence Post: North Volstora

“Leave it to bravery in the streets of Vyzna, ass kissing and sweating away in the jungles of Rahmia for me to end up as a glorified desk monkey!” the soldier yelled to himself, slamming the desk and nearly spilling his coffee. It was too early in the morning to be pissed off. The officer had seen it all. Fighting street to street to destroy the great enemy, leading his men in the brutal campaigns of the 90s and being wounded on half a dozen occasions, to be sat at a cushy job in Hell, North Volstora. He was a man of actions, not words. What did he have to teach the North Volstorans? How to insert magazines? He was better than that, he knew that much.

He looked out from his window. The border of North and South Volstora was but a few meters away, and all he could do was sit and watch with pretty eyes and a big grin as he wasted away? He climbed his way up, from private to sergeant, all the way up to Colonel. He expected to be deployed to a conflict, a hot zone! To lead his troops into battle and fight for the glory of the nation! What glory did Volstora still hold? None!

Just as he felt like punching something, another officer came in, holding a manila folder. “You look red as fall, Colonel.”

“I am pissed! I fight through hell and get sent here? I want to be fighting! In Altera, driving the Imperialist scum to the coast and into the water and making them float with half a dozen rounds in their chest!”

“You are perhaps the only man I know who wants to fight and die. You made it all the way to Colonel, and still you want glory?”

“Look to the generals of old. You see them go from Lieutenants, to Marshalls of Aatelisia, all in the span of a single war!” The Colonel couldn’t handle it. He scrounged out a bottle of Volstoran Vodka- the only thing they had that could bring him joy- and poured himself a shot.

“At this hour?”

“Exactly at this F%^*ing hour, comrade!” The Colonel swigged back, smacking his face as if he was roided up. He breathed in and shook his head. “They say the Volstorans issued drugs to their troops to create ‘supermen’. While I believe that to be true, they also gave them half a bottle of that sh*# to get their blood pumping!”

“Or to knock them out cold.”

“One or the other, that’s what the assault on Vyzna looked like!”

“Anyhow,” the soldier placed the folder on the desk. “High command has assigned you to carry out military exercises with the Volstorans.”

“The Volstorans need to spend more money in their army, which is what they need.”

“They almost provide the same percentage as we do to the army!”

“Yeah and what do they have to show for it? If they haven’t noticed, they’re split in half and, well, Aatelisia is big!”

“Listen, just get your ass moving out by noon! Elsewise you’ll be the King of dirt instead of an Aatelisian Colonel!” The Officer turned to leave, shaking his head unbelieving in what he had to deal with.

“King of the dirt…” the Colonel slammed his fist on the table. “At least I’d have my own kingdom to rule!” Of all the things this country has given him, to be as far away from the action as possible. He wouldn’t even be able to see the submarines off the coast like he would near Pelkland! Still, he’d train the North Volstorans, and train them like hell he would. His section will be the most disciplined on the entire front, and he’ll get out of Volstora in no time. He looked at the contents of the folder, a rare smile forming on his face.

Suddenly, a soldier came in, a bright smile on his face. “Mr. Martikainen, here’s the daily paper!”

Justus’ smile quickly broke back down to his normal bitter self. “Get the hell out of here!”

“O-oh, sorry sir!”

“Well don’t just leave with the paper as well, put it on the desk and go!”

Desperate Measures
South Volstora Influence Post

“Sergeant!” The soldier shouted, standing to the side of the large wooden sign that read ‘live fire range.’ He stood there in his Arvenian fatigues, with his rifle slumped over his shoulder, but his voice didn’t ring of urgency or fear, but carried a tune of enjoyment. He called out again just to make sure, but the active sergeant, Laurent Labrosse, had heard him. With a sigh, the sergeant made the walk up from the mess tents, occasionally passing by a handful of Arvenian and Volstoran soldiers passing by on patrol. In the distance gunfire crackled in unison, a torrent of shots firing in sequential order emerging from the fire range.

Sergeant Labrosse was dressed in his service fatigues, but the NCO’s face was wrinkled with years of experience, and a dark five o’clock shadow covered his cheeks. Placing his field cap on his head, he reached the expectant soldier and shot him a curious, orderly look.

“What is it, private?”

“Sergeant St-Jacques requested you at the range, sir.”

Labrosse tapped his foot and let out a groan, but did not need to ask anymore from the private. He knew very well what St-Jacques, the active fire drill sergeant for the afternoon, wanted. As he moved up the path to the range, he could hear more clearly as the gunfire grew in intensity and volume. Enunciated between shots was the raging of a man, yelling and roaring out every curse and insult he could find.

“Fire at that target like it’s the real thing, trooper!” St-Jacques yelled over the rifle fire. “Do you think the Reds won’t walk all over you? They’ll kick your ass so hard you’ll be giving them your momma’s number!”

Shaking his head, the drill sergeant looked to the path and saw Labrosse.

“Laurent!” He yelled out, taking a few steps away from the rifle fire. “I swear on all that is holy I have never seen a worse battalion filter through here as the 57th! Do you think you can whip these boys into shape at all?”

Sergeant Labrosse leaned to the side and looked past him, watching the Volstoran soldiers fire for a few seconds. “It’d be an easier challenge teaching a blind man how to walk through a maze.”

St-Jacques nodded with a smirk, resting his hands on his hips.

“I’m going to be honest with you. I intend to report this to the captain and the colonel. This is simply unacceptable.”

“Report it?” Labrosse said with an incredulous return. “Telford, that's putting your career on the line.”

“Well goddammit!” He spat. “Someone’s gotta do it. The brass keeps telling everyone the plan is to spit these Volstoran boys out and throw them on the frontline. Now, Laurent, did you know that they already sent the 18th home?”

The sergeant’s eyes perked up at this information.

“What? The entire 18th?”

“Yeah, they sent the whole division home with new orders. They’re sitting pretty up in Chasney saying—” he yelled, waiting for a second as a machine gun let loose an ear-shattering burst behind them, “—they’re saying that the Volstorans can hold the border on their own. That’s the plan. You tell me, Laurent. Do these clowns look like they can take an Aatelisian motor company?”

Labrosse shook his head.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” St-Jacques continued. “Now, like I said, I’m gonna go to the captain and I’m gonna go all the way up to the colonel if I have to. Someone’s gonna listen. What are they going to do, court martial me? I’ll go to the goddamn news.”

The drill sergeant quieted up for a moment, clearly waiting for his comrade to say something, if anything, at all. Labrosse looked at the ground for a moment, kicking up dirt before giving a toothy grin.

“Alright you crazy bastard, if you’re gonna go to Captain Michaud, I’ll go there with you.”

Questions From the People
Desula intro post

It was an important day in the Casa del Sol, home and workplace to the Desulan president, Javier Ortiz. Everyone, from the president’s cabinet to the general cleaning staff were scrambling, preparing for an interview held by Moya Broadcasting, one of the only two stations in the country, the second being the Desulan Broadcasting Station, typically used for news coverage and emergencies. Not much was known about what would be asked other than questions pertaining to the country, most likely questions that many Desulans have been wondering as a whole: plans for the economy, military, and policies regarding the world around them. After all, Lerodas seems to be in a somewhat fragile state at the moment and the people needed reassurance that they would be okay in the end.

Javier looked over his notes as he rushed toward the lounge, where the interview would take place. He figured it was as good a room as any with the added bonus of the furniture being a bit more comfortable than that of his office. To the left of Javier was a technical crew, just finishing the setup with the lighting and cameras. On his right was Saul Campos, his press secretary and mentor for most of Javier’s political career, going over what and what not to say during the interview.

“They might ask for specific details on how we are dealing with Yanales. Secretary Cruz has asked specifically not to elaborate on it. Apparently they still have to iron out some details.”

The president nodded, fixing his tie. He turned to Saul. “You think it’s too big?”

“I think you should be taking this a bit more seriously,” Saul said, unamused with the casual tone Javier had, though this wasn’t a new development of the president. Ever since the landslide victory he had from the elections a few months back and the rising economy within the nation, it seemed as if he were unstoppable, as if he could do no wrong and to the people of Desula it might as well be true. To Saul though, none of those victories mattered, mere stepping stones to what the president’s cabinet had planned for the future of the country. “This interview will be heard by everyone in Desula, possibly our neighbors as well. We have to show our people that we are stable, that nothing will break us and we have to show the rest of the world that we aren’t some backwards rahmian nation that will buckle under the slightest bit of pressure.”

Before Javier could retort, a man in a brown suit walked into the lounge, heading straight to the president, no doubt the interviewer that was sent by Moya.

Javier reached out for a handshake. “A bit early, aren’t we? We didn’t expect you for another ten minutes.”

“My apologies if I caught you off guard, mr. president, I like to try to beat the traffic,” the interviewer said, reciprocating the handshake.

“No worries, my friend, but if you’re here already, shall we get started?”

“Absolutely! Now the interview itself shouldn’t really be too long. Just quick general questions that you may or may not answer. If I may take a few minutes to prepare?”

“Please. After all, we are ahead of schedule,” Javier said, chuckling.

Minutes passed as the interviewer fumbled with some papers. Written on them were statistics about the country, quotes taken from the president and members of his cabinet and general questions from the public. Now ready, he stared into the camera, waiting for the cue, and began.

“Hello ladies and gentlemen. We are here today in the Casa del Sol to ask our guest, president of Desula, Javier Ortiz, a few questions that you, the general public, had for him. Mr. President, thank you for joining me today.”

“Thank you for having me.”

“Of course. Now let’s begin. With tensions high all around the world, the people fear of another war that will destroy the economy that has been growing as of late. Care to respond to that?”

“Well I think it is a legitimate fear. After all, war is the last thing anyone wants, especially when things are going so well for us. With that said, I believe we are ready to defend what we have here and everything this nation stands for. As they say, hope for the best but expect the worst.”

“Indeed. Now can we expect to see this administration involving itself in outside politics?”

“Absolutely. We are in such a good position ourselves right now, with growing markets and growing quality of life, why shouldn’t we help those around us? They deserve to experience every bit of beauty that life has to offer.”

“Mhm. Now you just said that we as a nation are seeing some growth in our market, is that something this administration also plans to focus on?”

“Well sure. A growing market is great for everyone in the country. The pharmaceutical industry, for instance, has grown exponentially since the last five years and we believe it to be one of our pride and joys in this nation.”

“Even the rumors of companies like Valencia and Caruza working with the cartels in Yanales and Borados?”

Javier paused, thinking about his answer carefully. “The Department of Internal Security is still investigating these claims. I can’t comment any further on the matter, unfortunately.”

“I understand. Well, ladies and gentlemen, we thank all of you who tuned in today to see what the future holds for us in our lovely country and hope to see you again next time. Mr. President, thank you for your time.”

“It was my pleasure.”

Saul walked up to Javier, patting him on the back. “Not bad, kid. A little shaky at the end there, but you handled yourself well.”

Javier scoffed, scowling at the interviewer leaving the lounge. “He knew what he was doing, the bastard.”

“Well maybe, but you did well. C’mon, let’s have lunch. I was thinking of that place downtown, the one with the really good Morayan food.”

“Yeah alright, that sounds good to me.”

Thoughts
Expansion

“Ricordi i nostri uccelli preferiti?
Chi una volta cantava vicino a casa nostra
Quel giorno della tua dichiarazione d'amore
La mente piena di pensieri
La mia mano sul tuo pianto
E più piangevo con te tra le mie braccia
non ho dimenticato
I nostri pensieri felici

E poi un attimo di silenzio ci ha tranquillizzati
Abbiamo dormito oscillando in questo vento primaverile
Non sapevo come sarebbe stato il nostro futuro
Ma sono sicuro che i nostri pensieri erano già collegati mano nella mano

Intanto in quel sonno,
Dipingiamo i nostri sogni sul muro
Eravamo così sicuri
Sul nostro destino quando abbiamo espresso quei desideri
Non pensi che lo sapesse già?

E poi il tempo che passa mi ricorda uno di quei desideri
La mamma mi ha detto:

Quando ci hanno nascosto la luce,
«Cerca di fare un passo avanti perché siamo capaci di tutto.»

Ora ho deciso di inseguire il destino della mia infanzia
Per raccogliere quelle luci tra le mie braccia

E mia cara, stai ancora piangendo tra le mie braccia
Anche sul nostro passato
Quando andavamo a scuola,
Era lo stesso profumo,
Con una sfumatura di primavera proprio come l'angelo che finalmente ha giocato con i miei sentimenti

Sai se un giorno ci giureremo l'un l'altro,
Quando il nostro destino brillerà,
Quando quel vero amore che non abbiamo mai perso
resterà nei nostri cuori”

The audience clapped as the singer bowed to end her performance and the music from the accompanying band trailed off. A middle aged man came up and bowed respectfully and shook her hand before she went off the stage with the musicians to leave the man alone before the crowd. He tapped the end of the microphone that was set up in the center and put on a smile.

The stage and crowd were situated in the central park and before the town council hall of the seaside town of Pitara, situated along the coast between Kerala and Fiori, just off of the Coastal Highway.

“A wonderful rendition of one of our most beloved Folk Songs, Signora Tiera,” he said. “History and culture are important to us all, I am confident in saying, which is why with that, I am proud to welcome you all to this years Sapphire Festival, sponsored by the Royal Institute of the Arts and Culture, and the Reintegration Initiative!!”

The crowd clapped and cheered as banners hanging from the top of the stage rolled down to display the insignias of both entities.

“I encourage everyone to enjoy themselves with food and drink, activities, and browse the freelance works of local artists!”

Though Pitara was hardly the largest of towns in the region, it had a spark that some others lacked, possessing a strong artistic tradition despite its rustic heritage with an industry of fishing and agriculture. In the past decade, it has since evolved away from its roots to become a much beloved spot for vacations and tourism by the youth of the newest generation away from home. With clean white sand beaches and crystal blue waters, it was a picturesque experience of old aesthetics with new age energy.

The Sapphire Festival itself was an old event that went back decades to a story revolving around a down on his luck farmer in a far smaller and poorer Pitara, until one day he prayed to nature itself and a Nymph of the Land appeared and blessed the lands and gave him seeds that grew into grapes and from it sprung a healthy community of winemakers that brought merchants, that brought craftsmen, that then finally brought artists to the town, giving it new life that it hadn’t seen for a century or so before hand. Though all in all a local folk tale, the tale behind the founding of the Pitara Sapphire Winery was important to their history and has been celebrated since.

Upside-Down: Part III

600-Word Post

Haitoshiya

I wake with a start. It’s bright. Yet, I’m inside.

I rub my eyes frantically to the point they hurt. Blinking like an idiot, I pan around. It’s a hospital ward. An analog clock on the wall declares that the time is 5:19. It’s broken.

I try to get up, propping myself up with my left arm. A searing pain races throughout my arm, my shoulder screaming in pain louder than I am. I’m left back down on the cot-like bed again. At least, I don’t think it’s an actual cot.

The door swings open. I pivot my head to behold a woman in a lab coat I think is the doctor as well as two brutish escorts, with tan outfits with refitted Kuroikumo gear, their chests bearing the crest of a yellow sun with a hammer and sickle blotting it out. The Jinmin Kumiaiha.

“Well, if the patient had woken, why wasn’t I notified?” the doctor snaps at her escorts as the three walk over to my bed-cot thing, with a pedantic, somewhat nasally tone.

“Apologies, Dr. Hirasaji,” one of the men responds. “He must have just woken.”

“I did, actually,” I interject. My tongue stumbles with the sentence, feeling like a balloon. Was I anesthetized?

The three ignore me entirely, not even giving me one acknowledging gaze. The doctor scrambles her hands over the tiny cabinet next to me, lining up a stack of papers and hugging them to a clipboard, not using the clip but rather an awkward paperclip. “Can you confirm your identity, Musai Ryoshiro?”

“Y-Yeah, that’s me,” I reply, my tongue still fumbling somewhat. Or is it my head that’s the balloon?

“What can you remember from the last event before you were incapacitated?”

“I finished a fence for my farm.” The two guards snicker at my report.

“Pay them no mind. Continue,” the doctor rolls her eyes behind thick spectacles.

“My sons get into a fight at a neighbor’s house.” My sons. My wife. I begin to panic, urging myself to sit up, to stand despite the pain and the cumbersome bandages. “My sons! My wife!” I stumble out of the cot, collapsing onto the cold stone floor of the ward. I stand, with wobbling knees and with my right arm propping the entire weight of my upper body upon the cot. “Where are they?” I grab at the collars of the doctor, ultimately pulling her a little down from the insecurity of my legs. “Where are they?!”

The soldiers rush in, shoving me aside and slamming me back to the cot. They hover the barrels of bolt-actions in my face to keep me from getting up again. The doctor brushes herself firmly to regain composure, balancing her skewed glasses and her breathing slowing with interesting composure. “Although the actions of Mr. Musai were certainly not expected, you idiots should not have handled the patient like a criminal,” she hisses, hitting each soldier on the shoulder with her clipboard. The soldiers simultaneously apologize, bowing at the waist.

“Where are they?” I ask again, my rage gone but sorrow taking its place. “Are they—?”

“They are dead, Ryoshiro,” a venerable voice calls out from the doorway. A figure emerges from the darkness of the hallway outside the ward. It is Shosu-san.

“Mr. Ryoshiro,” the doctor began, “this is Aiichi Shosu—”

“I know who he is,” I interrupt. “What are you doing here, Shosu-san?”

“Address the Senior Doshi with respect, worm!” one of the soldiers bellows, directly mushing his barrel against my cheek.

“Put it away, Fuguki,” Shosu-san growls. The soldier named Fuguki bows in apology, withdrawing from me as the other does as well.

“Senior Doshi?” I think. “You… you were the reason why the Kuroikumo came to Hakuriwa… You’re the reason why Tanika, why Takeo and Yuri…”

“I am sorry, Ryoshiro,” Shosu-san responds. “My carelessness in my tracks led to the discovery of my identity and the destruction of Hakuriwa and its people. But if you want to exact vengeance on your family,” he comes closer, hovering over my face, “you exact it on the Kuroikumo.”

“I’m not joining your stupid political crusade,” I push Shosu-san away, sitting up on the opposite side of my bed. My shoulder still hurts, fiery needles puncturing my skin. “It’s because of your petty squabbles that families are dead. That mine is…” I bury my face in my hands. “My family’s gone. I need to go back to Hakuriwa.”

“The village is swarming with Kuroikumo. We’re lucky soldiers like these two managed to get what survivors we could out,” Shosu-san snaps in response, then sighs. “Sorry about your shoulder, though. That rookie’s shot was supposed to lodge itself in the captain’s eye.”

Shosu-san continues, putting a firm hand on my uninjured shoulder. “Besides, you can’t go back to your old life even if you wanted to. Besides Taniko-chan and your children dead, it’s a kill-or-be-killed world here in Inomora. Villages such as Hakuriwa that haven’t known this yet soon will.”

“They will if you keep bringing war to their doorstep,” I reply, my face still in my hands. Shosu-san made no sense.

“You think we have a choice?” Shosu-san raises his voice almost to a shout. “The Kuroikumo has hurt each and every one of us just because we disagree with them! Despite all that we’ve lost, despite all we have to lose, we keep fighting against this blight for a better future.”

“Under a state-run economy?”

“The theory isn’t important,” Shosu-san chuckles. “It’s the cause that unifies us, gives us strength against the Kuroikumo demons. The strength that allows us to have a chance to destroy them, to keep them from destroying any more families, killing any more wives and children.”

I sit silent. Shosu-san sighs. “Whether you’re in or out, you’re staying with us. You’ve been seen with us, and we can’t afford to give you to the Kuroikumo as we can’t any of our own.”

“I guess I have no choice, then,” I despondently sigh.

“I’m sure this has been disorienting for you,” Shosu-san concludes, patting my shoulder once more before heading out. “I’ll give you time to grieve, to gather your thoughts. Then—”

“Senior Doshi!” a youthful voice frantically calls as a young soldier scrambles into the ward. He wears the same uniform the two soldiers already there wear, albeit with fewer markings signifying his lower rank. He bows at the waist first and then delivers his message with panicked eyes, “Our men in Toshijen say that an encrypted communique from the President’s office was sent to an international location!”

“Where was this communique sent?” Shosu-san demands, his calm yet cold behavior from earlier entirely displaced with furious concern.

The young man clears his throat and slowly answers, “Arvene.”

Berzian Breakfast
Influence Post: Berzia

Perhaps one of the few Ambassadors liking his stay in Berzia, Jyri liked taking in the sights of what once was a mighty nation, on par with the likes of Albraltar or Tiresta, but being the front of two world wars isn’t good for a nation’s health, not one bit. Old shells are still dug up from time to time, buried in old fields, waiting to either explode or be disarmed. Still, the food was good. And the weather was far better than that of Palatsinlinna, though a recent shooting near the Arvenian Embassy has forced Jyri to instead eat his breakfast inside the cafe. Whatever the case may be for that, Jyri liked to have a full belly, and not with lead if he could help it.

The Cafe had a usual quiet attitude, with only ever a dozen tables ever filled with customers. Meals were ready in minutes, as the owner had prided himself on delivering quickly so the businessmen and Ambassadors of Aludiga could get back to work. In just a few minutes, from getting a table, to ordering, to getting his meal, Jyri was seated and chowing down.

It was a full breakfast, to the highest order: slices of ham, two buttered slices of toast, fried eggs, and a boon of beans to finish it off. All served with tea, which Jyri liked with sugar and milk, which was quite divisive in both Berzia and Aatelisia. Just as he was using his toast to soak up the yolk of the Eggs, Jyri saw a fellow member of his Embassy. “Oi! Aapo! Come, take a seat with me!”

Aapo was a wrinkly skinned man who had easily fifty years under his belt, yet who’s hair was still a strong black. Placing his coat on the chair, he sat just opposite of Jyri. “Mr. Salonen. pleasure to see you at this hour.”

“You too, Aapo. See you so often in the embassy, I didn’t even imagine you got out!”” Jyri snickered, taking a bite of toast.

“I get around Jyri. But I don’t like to settle on going to one place like you seem to. I go all around ‘wretched’ Aludiga enjoying my time.”

“Have you ever visited here, then?”

Aapo held his chin, before taking off his glasses as they strained his eyes. “Last time I visited here was… In the summer of ‘01? Around about two years ago.”

“Wow. Two whole years without going back to the same Restaurant. Meanwhile, I go back here every other day, minimum.”

“Well, this place is famous for its ham, and, well, I don’t like ham.”

“What!?”

“What?”

“You don’t like ham?” Jyri was shocked at the thought.

“Why yes I don’t like ham, why has your jaw dropped from this conclusion?”

“No one doesn’t just hate ham, Aapo. what’s the reason for it?”

“Well, it's salty. And if it isn’t salty, it's overly sweet. Either I’m eating salt, or candy, and that doesn’t fill me with energy in the morning.”

Jyri grabbed the slice of ham with his fork and smelled it, as if his own opinion would be invalidated from Aapos. “Well, to each his own. What do you have for breakfast?”

“Usually just an omelet and toast. Really, it's only the tea or coffee I come to these places, which makes the Embassy brewer look like a joke.”

“That is true. It's always bitter, which is the worst type of coffee you’d experience.”

“Considering our proximity to Arvene of all places, or even our homeland, that they could afford to get some proper beans.”

A waitress came up, placing a paper next to Jyri’s place. “Here’s your bill, Jyri. Same price as always.” The Waitress turned to Aapo, her pen at the ready. “What will you be having today, sir?”

“Ah, I’d like just a plain tea for now, thank you.” The waitress noted it and continued on, leaving Aapo and Jyri alone once again. “Never noticed how quickly they take your order.”

“Or how cheap it all is.” Jyri cleaned his mouth with a napkin, placing money on the table with the bill. “Well Aapo, it was nice to meet you in the early hours of the morning for a change. Perhaps we’ll one day meet here again?”

Aapo put on a slight smile. “You know that’s unlikely, Jyri. I’ve got a routine to uphold.”

Jyri laughed. “Of course, of course! Then I will see you in two years, then?”

“You got yourself a deal.”

Jyri laughed once more and got up. He took a breath in, still taking in being stuffed from the meal. “Very well then, Aapo. I shall see you back at the embassy either way.”

Rushing Rockets

Federal Facility 126, Wanampa Socialist Republic, The United Socialist Republics of Ahsenkhawen

Dr. Yuri Ustenov sat in the room quietly, and indeed, he dared not say anything. It was a small overly lit room, with heavy fluorescent lights scrubbing the room of darkness.
He was being watched too, a CCTV camera hanging from a corner of the room and a two-way mirror on one wall.

He could barely move either, he was handcuffed to the steel table in the middle of the room, and the table was bolted to the concrete floor. His chair he could scoot back and forth, but only a few inches in either direction before his bindings stopped him.
He had been moved into the room a half hour earlier, where we had waited since in silence, he couldn’t truly tell how long he had been in there though as there was no clock on the wall to tell the time.

Eventually, the door to the room opened and in stepped an Ahsenkhaweai man dressed in a black suit, hair slicked back black, a typical government agent.
The new man sat down across from Yuri, in the only other chair in the room, while at the same time placing a brand new transistorized magnetic tape recording machine on the table.
The black suited man pressed the record button on the machine, and as the reels began to move, he spoke, “I’m Mr. Tanenaton Umpawa, Central Intelligence Department. And I am speaking with Dr. Yuri Ustenov; Alpha Six One Beta Three. Good morning, Dr. Ustenov, I hope you had a pleasant day.”

Yuri was reserved about talking with the government official, even though he had been forcefully emigrated to Ahsenkhawen just a year before, he did not trust them one bit.

The government agent clearly noticed and continued talking, this time more directly, “You’ve been a hard man to track down, you successfully eluded both Aatelisian and Arvenian authorities, and our men took nearly two years in determining your location. But understand, our tenacity in track you down is not to harm you, though your crimes during the war were certainly deplorable enough to warrant an international criminal investigation.”

“Then why have you brought me here?” Yuri asked, still apprehensive about talking too much.

“Dr. Ustenov, our own rocketry programs have progressed tremendously, but we are now entering a period in which we seek to vigorously accelerate our progress. The President has determined that he desires to see us land a man on the moon by 210, and Congress has agreed to his plan and put aside substantial funds to see this goal accomplished. That is where you come in Doctor. Your pre-war writings seemed to indicate you had a similar goal once, to put men in space, and we think that even now, you still share those ideals. The Ahsenkhawen Government seeks to put a civilian, in a civilian-purpose rocket, into space to reach the moon for purely scientific purposes. Can you assist with this?”

Yuri remained silent for a moment, very aware that he was being watched very intently, there was an expected answer in this situation.

“What do I get in return, Mr. Umpawa? Certainly, there’s something in it for me?” Yuri asked cautiously.

Tanenaton looked incredulous but responded, “Doctor, you are hardly in a place to negotiate, but the Government has decided to be generous. In exchange for your services, the Government is willing to grant you an executive role, ultimate design control on all project finalizations, and amnesty for your wartime actions as well as Ahsenkhaweai citizenship.”

“That is quite generous, generous that I would have to agree.” Yuri said, “Can you uncuff me now?”

Yuri lifted his hands, jiggling the chains that bound him to the steel table.

“You aren’t a citizen yet, Dr. Ustenov.” Tanenaton said, stopping the recording, collecting the tape reels and leaving the room, “But you will be soon.”

“All this for a damn rocket.” Yuri said to himself, quietly under his breath.