McMasterdonian Political Crisis [IC] [CLOSED]

Intelligentsia, Intelligentsia Capital Province

It was a grey day in Intelligentsia, when the regency of Albert would depart the city, possibly for good. The rain fell upon the streets, as Security Officers clashed with the elite royal guard. The sound of gunfire could be heard echoing through the Museum District, down Greer Avenue and past many of the most prestigious Embassies. The bodies of the security service littered Gillard Boulevard, they had crossed the path of Albert, Madeline and Sharifa as they made their way for The Gate of Ascendancy - the passage to the eastern seaboard.

In the year 1200, the High King Kian had entered the city of Intelligentsia - proclaiming McMasterdonia as the official name and state of the 16 provinces of the realm. The High King would later become Emperor of the Kianese Empire, founded centuries earlier by his ancestors. It was tradition that all new monarchs of the realm, whatever their title at that point in history must always pass through the gate on their way to the Royal Palace. This would occur after they were crowned in the ancient city of Cape El by the ruling Archbishop. The traditions of the country were falling into disuse with the war going on, and so, this would be the first time in recorded history that a sitting monarch would depart the city from the gate of ascendancy.

The King Albert and Princess Madeline were buried deep within a convey comprising solely of his elite personal guard. The Guard are a fully female outfit led by the exterminator, Sharifa, and loyal to Albert as a result of a long history of training and brainwashing. Together they planned to make it to the Port of Intelligentsia, where they would leave by Royal Ship for Issabella. Once their, they planned to bomb the city from afar, and then with the Royal Guard ensure the swift assassination of any members of the Royal Caucus meeting within the Ancient Province. Only then would his tenure as King be secure, they would deal with Gunrei later - from a much more secure position in the Ancient Province.

Despite their differences, neither Albert or Gunrei was particularly fond of Intelligentsia. It was a city of great wealth and knowledge, and was once proclaimed the most holy city on the planet by Flemingovia. Now it valued democracy, knowledge, and institutions more than it valued royalty, religion, or tradition. On a normal day he would have been happy to leave Intelligentsia, but this was not as he imagined it. Forced out by his aging mother, who could not possibly have the strength to take back the country from him.

For now, the road was clear. Reports indicated that most of the security officers were dead. They could only hope that Minister Whitwell lay dead somewhere, hopefully suffocating on her own blood. Wilhelmina had stayed behind. Nobody believed that the Palace could hold for long.

The War Room, The Lancerian Empire

The War Room lay in the main residence of the Queen-Empress Amelia. It lay deep beneath the main building of the palace, built to withstand even the most devastating nuclear attack. It was within this room that the Government of the Lancerian Empire would meet to discuss acts of war, and other threats against the Empire. Fortunately, it had not been utilized that often before now.

In the room sat the Queen-Empress Amelia, the Prime Minister Oudinot, and various other assembled officials and officers of the military of the Lancerian Empire.

"Your majesty, we are receiving reports of heavy fire in the Capital. Members of the Royal Guard are battling factions within their own unit, and the Security Services, and the Royal Army in a bid for control of the capital. It is rumored that many Ministers are already dead, and that others are undertaking heavy fire - including Minister Whitwell and the King-Regent"
"Are they dead?" Oudinot asked
"We don't know yet, sir" The officer replied
"This may be moving far more quickly than we had imagined. Do we know how close the flemingovian or Whent forces are to the capital?" Amelia asked the officer, she was extremely concerned that they might get their before the Lancerian Empire and the Kingdom of Plembobria had any opportunity to facilitate the new Regents arrival.
"We believe that the Flemingovian forces are otherwise occupied at this time. We do not believe it is within the character of Gunrei to attack at this time. He will wish to use it to demonstrate the destruction at the hands of the Royalty."
"What about Whent?"
"She is much closer, your majesty, but we are unsure if she will act without Gunrei's approval?" the officer replied
"So we are just sitting ducks then? What are we supposed to do now?"
"We must continue to follow the situation Ma'am, and make sure that the Queen-Regent arrives safely" Oudinot replied.

The Queen Mother, Amira of McMasterdonia was already upon a Royal Lancerian Navy ship bound for Intelligentsia. Richard had stayed behind with Queen Catherine for his own safety. The fleet was large enough to overcome any attack by a Flemingovian vessel, but it was still unclear how many of the royal navy had defected to the side of Amira.

Amelia picked up a silver telephone - the communication network in the war room was all secure and any communication she made on the phone would be completely anonymous. She dialed the number for the Royal Lancerian Navy ship that contained the Queen Amira.

"Hello Amelia" Amira said
"Amira, I am concerned that Intelligentsia may be a lost cause."
"Nonsense Amelia, Intelligentsia will rally to our cause"
"It is not the Intelligentsians that I am concerned about, it is the Whents and Flemingovianists they may be closer than first thought."
"It is a concern Amelia, but I have no choice, I must free my people from the insanity of this war."
"They will kill you Amira, if they capture you."
"They wouldn't dare.. I - "

The phone went silent.
 
"Do you know why we brought you here?"

It looked like something out of a movie. A dark room, a table, and a bright lamp. The sterile smell of floor cleaner and some cheap air freshener, imported from McMasterdonia months, or even years ago. If Benazir Bhutto didn't know any better, she'd think it was a silver-screen thesis defense. Or a real one, given the route they'd taken to get here. New Intelligensia was effectively the Alcatraz of the academic world.

Isolated by land, sea, and air, the only way into New Intelligensia and out of it was through Imperium's land or sea connection - or, if a university student could afford it, a short diversion onto the international airlane that ran nearby. To be fair, crossing into the borders of Imperium was an expensive and frankly ridiculous undertaking for the average university student on its own. The windows of the University of New Intelligensia overlooked the beach - or at least, this room did. And, like Alcatraz, it had a reputation for producing some of the hardest individuals out there. The difference, of course, was that a prisoner in Alcatraz was never set loose upon the world.

The University of New Intelligensia prided itself as one of the premier institutions for students looking for a foreign experience. Students from all over Eras filled its esteemed halls - and, just for the moment, Imperium officers of the law tailed every one of them. As some two-bit graduate department was ushered out of the floor, to a hastily convened temporary office in the Royal Military Academy, a Vigilator Immune took up residence in one of the smaller offices. Paper signs directed students gingerly around stern-looking Pedes to the Immune, the Acting Department Head for the next few hours, as he collected last-minute assignments to be directed immediately to the temporary offices, time-stamped and signed. Fiscators carried desks, chairs, and monitors here and there, under the watchful eye of Vigilators, desperately preparing a field command center around the temporary interrogation center.

"No, I do not."

"Do you know who I am?"

"You are Ms. Ignatius."

"And what position do I occupy?"

"Praefect of the New Intelligensia Occupation Government."

"What is your name and former occupation?"

"Benazir Bhutto, governor of New Intelligensia with the grace of the Regent Queen Amira."

Praefect Hilaria raised her head from her notes, standing to sip from her coffee. She double-checked the blinds, stifling an involuntary yawn at the bright noon-day sun outside, as the light caught her ruby-red hair. One of her eyes glinted an oddly brilliant grey - the other dulled by shadow and evenly-applied eyeshadow. There was...not much in her notes. She tended to prefer to keep things in her head. It was a talent taught to everyone who had been through an Imperium military school - the luxury of time and planning was not one Imperium liked to count upon. Her randomly placed badges caught the light for a second - just long enough for Benazir Bhutto to notice exactly how random they were. Indeed, Praefect Hilaria had taken the time to painstakingly randomly place a number of badges - some hers, and some not - just to confuse any observers. Such was the current tack passed down the eclectic mix of command structures that formed her current flow of command. Dazzle and confuse the enemy, and they shall never know what you plan.

Certainly, Caesar used the theory to great effect in domestic politics. She wasn't quite sure what advantage her own decision to borrow - for example - the badge of an advisor, who had received the award for losing a limb, to replace the badge that designated her academic experience as being in munitions and demolitions. Still, couldn't hurt. Might, at the very least, throw off a journalist who has the bloody cheek to try and research an article. Make it easier to discredit them, perhaps. The Censorial Service wouldn't mind the help. Maybe even convince the Lictorial Service to get off her back about it - or at least shut up that one upstart Lictorial Optio.

"Mainly administrative and bureaucratic. I don't generally concern myself with day-to-day academia."

A bit of awkward silence does wonders to draw a bit more out of a respondant. Should be using it a bit more sparingly, but the lots fall where the lots fall.

"Very interesting. On behalf of the governing institutions of New Intelligensia, you signed and affirmed an instrument of surrender earlier today. The instrument of surrender ceded sovereign authority over New Intelligensia to Imperium Augustum. Is this correct?"

"Yes, this is correct."

"According to a McMasterdonian Global News article released approximately half an hour ago, you expect to support the regency of Queen Amira. Is this article substantially correct?"

A cloaked figure stepped forward from the shadows, handing over a neatly printed document to Benazir. Black text on a white background, painstakingly copied to a plain-text format by hand from a printed copy of the digital article. Just to be on the safe side, a few edits had been made - replacing a few words with synonyms, and omitting an ancilliary sentence. Cryptography was not exactly an unusual field of study, even for the hobbyist pressed for time.

"Yes, this is correct."

The Praefect leaned over Benazir, relatively stoic - even bored by the interrogation.

"Then why did you surrender to a government characterised, in this same article, as supporting the government of King-Regent Albert?"

Benazir faltered for a moment. The communique had been confusing, yes. It had been sent to Albert - as far as she knew, Queen Amira knew nothing about the occupation. An intentional turn of events, one would hope. But it also suggested an expectation of Queen Amira coming to power.

"Imperium's position to exert force as a hostile actor was an untenable proposition. The Flemingovianists, furthermore, were a common enemy."

"Do you agree with the characterisation of Imperium in this article?"

"I do not have an opinion."

"So you do not know who Imperium supports?"

"No, I do not."

The Praefect leaned back. Maybe she didn't give the Censorial Service enough credit - even if they were largely staffed by people who would, in other nations, be tried for libel and slander, and acquitted for criminal insanity. Still, it left an awkward question to answer.

In general, Imperium preferred to hire...local talent to staff occupation and colonial governments. That is how it had been since, well, since the very start of Augustine rule on the continent, thousands of years BC. The first conquest by Alba Longa - turning it into a kingdom - resulted in the formation of a colonial seat, later becoming a powerful city with a thriving democratic process that would guide the development of local city councils across Imperium. In doing so, however, the loyalties of such talent had to be ascertained to an airtight level of certainty. They'd learned from many a successful, and failed, colonial outpost - talent had to be loyal to Imperium above all else, yes, but dedicated to their colony beyond even that. It was not enough to achieve what many other nations had learned to achieve, to look for sycophants prepared to support Caesar, but for talent that was dedicated enough to the colonial project to challenge the interests of Alba Longa - to integrate deeply into the world of Imperial service, from which there is no escape. Most of all, it had to be a challenge that was manageable. They did not need family ties, or clan ties, or business ties, to govern talent. Simply to bind them to their colonial government for long enough to be moulded by the search for power, carefully structured around the grapevines of the Imperial dynasty and the Extraordinary Services.

For a short term position such as this one, perhaps a less complex ordeal. Still, the same principles applied, if they were going to maintain this facade of pacifist intervention through to the end. An occupation government prepared to use its position to stymie the intervention would be a killing blow to Imperium's public face - moreso than the awkward coming flip on the McMasterdonian crisis.

Still, the Censorial Service probably had something planned.

"But you support Queen Amira."

"Yes, I do."

"The Immune will take over your interview for just a moment. We just need to establish some basic information regarding your health and safety."

The Praefect quickly ducked out for a cuppa and a call for further instructions. Would be awfully nice to double-check which Regent she supported.


The Daily Acts
The Imperator's News Agency​

New Intelligensia: At exactly nine in the morning today, the New Intelligensian Occupation Government was convened by Praefect Hilarius da Vinci Ignatius. The New Intelligensian Occupation Government, under the Chair Praefect Hilarius da Vinci Ignatius, derives its sovereign authority from Imperium Augustum, and hence adopts Imperium Augustum as its suzerain state.

With the authorization of the Augustine Office, Chair Praefect Hilarius da Vinci Ignatius has seen fit to step down as Chair of the New Intelligensian Occupation Government, and will continue to serve as commander of the First New Intelligensian Occupation Praefecture, which will serve as the military and law enforcement body of the New Intelligensian Occupation Government. Existing law enforcement and military personnel within the territory of the New Intelligensian Occupation Government have been invited to make themselves known to the New Intelligensian Occupation Government to be reinstated as temporary service personnel of Imperium, conditional on selection, or to lay down arms and join with the instrument of surrender.

Chair Praefect Hilarius da Vinci Ignatius has appointed the Honourable Benazir Bhutto to take the role of Chair of the New Intelligensian Occupation Government, who will be recognized as a sovereign vassal of Imperium Augustum. The appointment has already been accepted. As the Chair Praefect is currently the only sitting member of the New Intelligensian Occupation Government, the appointment comes into effect immediately, upon publication in this paper of public record.

Praefect Hilarius da Vinci Ignatius has indicated that she will block appointments to the New Intelligensian Occupation Government, on behalf of the Augustine Office, unless appointees consent to a Vigilatorial interview.

The expected term of the New Intelligensian Occupation Government is not yet known. Public record indicates that Praefect Hilarius da Vinci Ignatius intends to maintain the occupation until such a time where "the government of the Honourable King Richard I, or the regency government of Queen Mother Amira, can supercede the occupation government". The Augustine Office declined to comment.
 
Capricornia City
City Limits

Blood covered the messenger's hands, as he stared into the distance. His eyes were vacant, absent. On holidays, somewhere pleasant. Some desolate beach, with trees and birds and no-one to speak or whisper the voices to him.

His papers were still firmly pinned to the decorative wall in front of him, torn asunder by some minor mano-a-mano, some days ago. His claws were slowly pried away by a man in a smart blue jacket, one finger after another. With a quick flick, they pressed hard against his palm, and the man took the papers away. The messenger keeled over, leaning against the wall, white knuckles and red blood against the red brick and white cement. The wall teetered precariously between solidity and collapse, fragments standing against the wind.

"Pitched battle at city limits - royal guard pyhrric victory. Albert and Madeline escaping to Port."

Not the most subtle of messages, but with all the blood...Intelligensia was apparently in no state to intercept a message. The very words on the paper were rushed, scrawled away by some turncoat security officer, with a death-wish that they were far too young to bear, or hope that they were far too old to nurse. A squad of police officers sprinted over to the man in the smart blue jacket, spiriting him away, taking him up by both arms to the field command tent that sheltered Whent.

The messenger kneeled there to his makeshift shrine, in the gentle spitting showers. The dying remnants of the rains over Intelligensia.



It was a golden opportunity, and a fortuitous one. Whent had already raised an army, intending to raze the Intelligensian garrison to the ground and take what was left for herself. But...with one maneuvere, they could decapitate the Albert regime - metaphorically speaking, of course. It was a motley crew. They were mostly police officers, wielding small handguns. Still more militia provided support with almost ridiculous revolvers.

However, this was her support base, and this was her motley crew. Once you got past the pick-and-mix, it was a fearsome force. Large, mobile, and - in some various parts - possessed of a few capable tactical minds. She had at her beck and call elite counter-terrorists, assault teams, and police snipers, trained to watch and intercept criminals across McMasterdonia. Paid off, promised promotions, whatever it took.

To Hell with Flemingovia. This was her battle.

"My Party, loyal countrymen and women of McMasterdonia.

Today, we look Death in the eyes, and welcome him as a friend. Not because he shall take us, but because we shall not look upon him again. This is the day that we invite him into our home - into Intelligensia - and we cast him away with the souls of those who have dared to ruin this once great nation.

The political machinations of the royal family have led us once too many times into a meaningless war for their own gain and profit. This is not a war for our security - this is a war for their succession. They demand not that we fight for ourselves, but for what they claim is 'our' crown. Yet they are the ones who sell it - and us - to the first takers. And when we, the people, demand to take our crown back, they accuse US of treason, of disloyalty. Of murder. And they send US to die against our own guns, blades, and hands.

I say to you. We WILL take the self-styled Prince to task for his crimes against our great Senate, the elected - ELECTED - representatives of this nation, today. As we speak, his Royal Guard makes their way towards the Port of Intelligensia.

We intend to intercept him and his royal guard, weakened by the frivolous slaughter, their sadistic expenditure of ammunition against those who could have welcomed us into our city with open arms, and taken up arms against him. And we intend to do this now."

Cheers rang out through the deprecated streets and alleyways of Capricornia, as the gears of war started into motion, propelling a war machine towards that ill-fated port.
 
Regarding the '2015 Media Outage'
Authorised by Caesar Felix Albinus Augustus
Joined by Censor-Magister Dux Claudia Metrodora Murcius, & Vigilator-Magister Magnus Dux Lauretta Minervus Septembrus
A Formal Inquiry directed towards Sadakoyama
​


A recent outage of media services was recently experienced within Imperium Augustum. Both cable and satellite television, originating mainly from McMasterdonia and Guslantis, was interrupted by a video transmission incorporating the symbolism of the Sadakoyama state institutions, and a Sadakoyama public figure. An online feed of the same transmission was made publically available, with links being posted non-consensually over accounts on popular social media site "Fluttr".

Other forms of video sharing are believed to have been affected, particularly those using connections through Guslantis, McMasterdonia, and Sadakoyama.

These connections were used to 'poison' state-owned servers and transmission media, in order to illegally broadcast the aforementioned video feed. As a result, the Censorial Service was forced to black-out broadcast media for an approximate period of three minutes and thirty seconds, with costly enhanced investigative operations continuing throughout the day.

Given circumstantial evidence concerning the origins of the transmission media, the Augustine Office sees fit to invite Sadakoyama to make available any information that may be relevant to the criminal investigation currently underway. In particular, we request that Sadakoyama seek to make known to us contact details for the unnamed narrators of this piece - one male public figure, and one female of unknown reputation. A copy of the media in question can be made available upon request.
 
Outside Intelligentsia

The rain continued to fall. They were nearly there. Soon they would be on a ship bound for the Ancient Province. The streets were silent. Only minor skirmishes with police officers and the occasional civilian had stood in their way. The towns outside beyond the wall were mostly abandoned because of the war. The residents fleeing to larger cities, or to Anola and Ravenscrown hoping to find safety there.

The convoy came to an abrupt stop at an intersections, approximately five kilometres from the port. An overturned truck was blocking the way. Sharifa muttered something into the radio causing the lead truck to veer to the right, passing down Muhammad Crossing. Sharifa's vehicle shook violently as the truck hit a land mine, sending the vehicle up into the air and turning over, blocking their path.

"Be careful, this way could be blocked with more mines. Turn around and take Amira Way instead." Sharifa shouted into the radio. The irony not lost on her.

She noticed a group of people standing on the rooftop of the old brewery, located on the south side of the intersection. One man was holding a pair of binoculars, another a radio. The deserted roads had been a ploy; luring them into a false sense of security. A planned and careful orchestrated ambush.

"Men on the south side. Take them out" Sharifa said. The Royal Guard in the rear vehicles exited and began to exchange fire with the men on the roof top. Crowds of people emerged from the smaller buildings. Men, women, and children - armed with guns, machetes, and pieces of metal. Anything they could get their hands on. Vehicles quickly came down the streets to, and shockingly - two attack helicopters emerged from the east. Gunrei must have heard of the escape plot.

The Royal Guard began to fire upon the crowd, killing scores of them, to little avail. Before long they were close to the royal guard, and Sharifa's unit started to fall. She watched as women she had trained for years were shot or hacked to death by the crowd. Once they were down, the mob would jump on them - ripping them limb from limb. Sharifa was starting to panic. Tear gas cannisters were fired into the crowd, but it did little to prevent their advance.

"Stay here" she said to Albert and Madeline, climbing through the sunroof. Sharifa armed with an assault rifle, began to fire upon the crowd, many of them falling within mere metres of her vehicle. "Drive" she screamed, and the vehicle began to turn to the right, closely followed by a security escort. Many men, women, and children fell beneath the vehicle as it tore through the crowd. They could not fail. Not this close to a safe passage out of Intelligentsia.

A girl, barely older than 15 years of age stood to the centre of crowd. She was holding a huge rocket launcher, supported by a young boy - surely no older than 10 years of age. Sharifa could not believe her eyes as the girl fired the rocket, sending her and the boy flying backwards. The rocket came straight towards the vehicle, narrowly missing and hitting the ground - the force strong enough to send the vehicle over onto its right side. The blast killing many members of the mob themselves. Thrown from the vehicle, landing hard on her back, Sharifa quickly scrambled trying to get closer to her master.

As she stood she saw Rosemary Whent, standing beside her famous white Rolls Royce. It had become iconic of Whent's wealth and self-indulgence. Whent was laughing. Clearly enjoying the mob tearing each other apart.
Lifting her gun, she thought at least she would to kill the bitch who had started it all, even if they could not escape this day.

A sharp pain in the back of her neck suddenly overcame her. Falling to her knees. She could feel blood already collecting in her throat. She saw members of the crowd dragging Madeline out of the vehicle by her hair. It was over. She had failed.
 
Vice-Admiral Allaire cursed.

"Apologies, your majesty, we've been having some communications issues recently."

"I understand, admiral, I'm going to return to my room. Would you ensure that Amelia knows it was just a communications issue?

"Of course, your majesty."

"Thank you." Amira left the phone and headed off into the depths of the ship, two guards by her side.

The Vice-Admiral returned to the bridge. His fleet was RLN Battle Group I, executing the first part of what the admiralty had dubbed Operation Regency. In the fleet was the sole full-sized aircraft carrier of the Royal Lancerian Navy, HES Huntress with the 1st Field Hospital Regiment embarked, the Land Assault Carrier HES Bonaventure with the 1e Lancerian Expéditionnaire Légion embarked, the sole guided missile cruiser of the RLN, HES Hood, destroyers HES Masséna, HES Saxe, and HES Napier, frigates HES LeMat, HES Shaw, HES Bonneau, HES Moncey, and HES Havilland, and submarines, HES Harceleur and HES Chercheur. They were on route to the heart of McMasterdonia, Intelligentsia with the Queen-Mother Amira aboard.

He approached the communications officer, "These on-going communication issues needs to be resolved yesterday, in the meantime, establish communications with the War Room again and let them know Amira was just cut off by the comms problems." The officer acknowledged and returned to his work. Allaire returned to his seat and his thoughts.

Albert had refused to abdicate and the Empire had been called to war. In the Gulf Of McMasterdonia lay a great deal of the McMasterdonian Navy, called there in preparation for operations against Plembobria that will likely never happen. Intelligence said that the navy would kneel to Amira. He hoped so. He would talk with his McMasterdonian counter-part as soon as he was able.

In the meantime, he would just have to wait as the fleet headed towards McMasterdonian shores.
 
[img=198,212]http://i.imgur.com/zTdOJzX.png[/img]
THE PATRIARCHATE OF CAPE EL
THE SEAT OF HIS HOLINESS
"Far from You, Flem, but in Your grace."​

My brothers and sisters have no doubt been anticipating my response to the recent broadcast hijack of state media in the Patriarchate. I am not going to address the technical issues or gaps in security that led to the intrusion upon our airwaves by the "neutral" secularist nation known as Sadokoyama, instead I will address the content of the message itself.

It will undoubtedly bother some Sadokoyamans that I associated their government with the public death of Malik Fayeed. They will undoubtedly deny all part in this and attribute it to personal citizens of their nation, attributing the crime perpetrated upon the Patriarchate to "cultural differences". They will undoubtedly speak to their own neutrality, asserting their non-alignment on all international matters even as they openly call for the death of myself and my closest friends.

Sadokoyama, through its fostering of an environment where terrorists can thrive, violated the sovereignty of the Patriarchate and subjected one of its own to intensely painful martyrdom due to their chronic misunderstanding and hatred of our religion, and yet when pressed for answers they hide behind a barrier of "cultural differences". The hypocrisy would be amusing if it weren't so tragic. The government takes few, if any steps to rein in these "independent" terrorists and their brutal murder of an innocent man.

The other secularist nations of the world will continue to honor the treaty the Sadokoyaman government foists on them asserting their own non-alignment. They will continue to pretend this document has meaning even as it is so willfully flouted by "private citizens" with the consent of their own rulers.

Further thought will render this as no surprise. The secularist nations of the world are intensely loyal to their own... until they decide that their own have outlived their usefulness. Observe the progressives' desertion of Albert as he lost all control over his own nation; they soon decided to instead endorse a 14 year old boy and his mother who live in a foreign country and exert no control over the lands they claim to have a right to. Can Sadokoyama, a state that regularly acts purely in its own interest, be sure that they will not one day be in the crosshairs of the world? What good will its pragmaticism and disregard for honor be then?

The Patriarchate restores lost infrastructure in the land it reclaims, destroys the chemical weapons produced by the Royal government, and gives stability and security to people who have lost it due to the actions of a royal family that the world continues to support blindly. It is rewarded for these endeavors by subversion and assault.

However, we do not lose hope even as our own are martyred by foreign invaders. Flemingovians living in the Patriarchate know well what our lord teaches: the best things in life require hard work. Flem blesses our crusade, even as the secularists fight to deny us our land of honey. With Flem on our side, we cannot lose. Today, Malik experiences the bliss of Flem's glory in Paradise. Flem is a forgiving god, and He will forgive those who murdered Malik even if they cannot come to His love.

Flem gave all people free will as both a great gift and a great responsibility. Sadokoyama shirks their responsibility through their tacit endorsement of their own domestic terrorists. We will continue to use Flem's gift to glorify Him and His works, and will continue to live the Seven Virtues: Charity, Compassion, Love, Tolerance, Forgiveness, Courage, and Wit.

HIS HOLINESS THE PATRIARCH, SERVANT OF THE SERVANTS OF FLEM

GUNREI
Click to expand...
 
King Tozian was sitting quietly in the war room. He observed as the Lancerian military heads were directing the operation. He was uneasy. The government would order military assistance to help Amira secure her rule, but they'd be quite reluctant to assist in against the Flemingovianists. He tried to relax. "I'll cross that bridge when we I get to it," he thought.

On the computer display in front of him, a message appeared. "PRAF F. 3,5,6 B. 2,3. Deployed." This meant that the 3rd, 5th, and 6th fighter squadrons, as well as the 2nd and 3rd bomber groups had been deployed.

The King had been lost in thought all this time. He had been briefed on war room procedure, but the events of the past few hours kept replaying themselves in his mind. Who again was he supposed to tell about this? Thinking over it a while, he addressed Oudinot, "Prime Minister, the PRAF is mobilizing. Can we count on support from your aircraft carriers?"
 
The Prime Minister had been sitting at a table in the middle of the room, studying various documents and reports of readiness from several army regiments. The nation had been born from war and he had been deeply involved with that success both politically and militarily. Back then, though technically only an advisor to Amelia, he had had been almost a psuedo-general. He held no rank in the Unification Forces, but was always present in meetings of overall strategy amongst the officers. Even today the generals of the army respected and considered his occasional counsel. He looked up when Tozian began speaking.

"As much as we can, of course," he replied, "The Bonaventure is an amphibious assault ship, or land assault carrier as we call them here. They can sustain S/VTOL operations but the Expeditionary Legion is on board at the moment and plans are already in place to use the ship as a temporary hospital in cooperation with the 1st Field Hospital Regiment, taking advantage of its 600 patient capacity in a special configuration once the Legion has disembarked near Intelligentsia. The only other ship in her class is the Sauvignon which remains off home shores, patrolling the North Archlancer Strait.

The Huntress on the other hand is our only full-sized carrier, she's also heading to McMasterdonia with RLN Battlegroup I armed with her own full compliment of planes. She'll no doubt be busy providing air support for combat operations inland but she'll assist the PRAF wherever she can. Obviously that will not be enough. As far as I understand it the Legion's commanders have already taken that into account and have set a primary goal of ensuring that any and all airstrips including those of the McMasterdonian military in the area in and around Intelligentsia are secured in the days after they arrive there in the interest of air superiority.Once those bases are secured and your squadrons receive their semi-permanent deployment there, the aircraft from the Huntress will work in close cooperation with the PRAF squadrons in short and long-term combat operations.

In short, your majesty, the Empire will be by your side every step of the way."
 
"Thank you, Prime Minister." The king was now overwhelmed. He needed to return home to his own country. He stepped outside the war room. He took out his phone and called the Minister for Defense.

Tozian was fond of Darren Crowly. He had been his foreign minister under the old regime. He was one of Plembobria's most intelligent and competent statesmen. He was good friend and mentor.

"Office of the Minister for Defense"

"It's me, the King." Saying that always felt weird. There were some clicks on the other end. Then the minister answered.

"Your majesty?"

"Hello, Mr. Crowly"

"What does your Majesty require." Tony couldn't help but smile here. Crowly was close. He knew that bothered him.

"I need the commander of the force headed into McMasterdonia to teleconference into the war room here. I can't handle being here. I need to get back."

"I'll contact the admiral immediately. We'll await Your Majesty's arrival."

"Thank you."

"One more thing. The emergency directorate needs to know if the constitution will be fully restored."

The King put his head in his hands, "I have no idea right now," he said. He was not at all prepared to handle political issues.

"Alright. Well we're waiting for you."

"Thank you, Darren."

He hung up. He went back into the war room. Already on one of the wall-mounted displays he saw the face of a man in an officer's blue-and-red PRAF uniform. The man on the screen became instantly alert at the sight of the king. "Your Majesty," he said, "Admiral Peter Lewis at your service."

"Crowly is quick bastard." Tony thought. "Good evening, Admiral. You are to coordinate with the Lancerian officers in this room. I'm certain they will brief you on status of the vessels they have volunteered to support our air force."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Thank you, Admiral."

The King left the war room. For good this time. Then it dawned on him. It wasn't safe to fly. They'd have to stay here until this was over. He wouldn't go back in. He needed a break.
 
Ceduna
Manor of the Lady Paramount

"Lady Paramount Renae Clarke of Ceduna, that is my title, that is my authority, but is that all I am?" she thought to herself. In a matter of minutes she would be outside, in front of the people, her people. Times have been tough in the South West, while they have been spared from much conflict the situation continues to worsen every day. More and more refugees pour into the province, fleeing the instability and wroth of Intelligentsia, food and water are running low while international aid has not been forthcoming. While each day the front moves closer and closer to the borders. Renae needs to speak to all of this, Intelligentsia, housing, food, it all needed answers.

She steps out and onto the stage, it is time to address the masses.



Stepping onto the stage the wind hit her face like a wall. Temperature was dropping, another issue that needed to be dealt with. Nevertheless she pressed on and went to the podium. A quick glance at her notes and she begins. "Ladies and Gentlemen of Ceduna, I come to you with a question. What are we? Are we Cedunans? Are we McMasterdonians?" she pauses "or are we all brothers and sisters?" she pauses "I would like to believe that we are the latter. In these trying times, our nation has descended into unspeakable turmoil and it has affected each and everyone one of us. Now though, We must not turn on each other, I have seen the reports of attacks on refugee housing and I am thoroughly disgusted, resources are tight and we all know this, do not hate your fellow man who flees into our territory for it could have very well been us in that situation. A few months ago we were brothers in McMasterdonian heritage. Intelligentsia has fallen, it has fallen a long time ago. but it is time we accept this. Whoever rules in Intelligentsia does not care for us, we as Cedunans must care for ourselves and those who have no one to care for them. We must strive to be what Intelligentsia isn't" she took a breath.

"Intelligentsia can't provide for this nation, Intelligentsia can't even provide for itself. There are no rules, no hierarchy, no organization in Intelligentsia. We as a government can no longer take orders from Intelligentsia as no one exists to give orders. Let it be known that we are still McMasterdonian, but we do not know what it means to be McMasterdonian in these times, except that our brethren are hungry, cold and tired and it is our duty to be what Intelligentsia can not be. We must be the city on a hill, we can not refuse those who to come to us, we can not respond in anger when they come to us. It is and shall remain official policy of Ceduna to continuously accept any refugees and provide as best we can for them" she flips the page "furthermore it is time for the Cedunan Militia to rise up. Unspeakable violence is happening north of us, none of the belligerents have our best interests at hearts. As of such the Cedunan Militia shall from this point on wards be the official military of Ceduna. It has already seen approval from the regional legislature. They shall work with local police forces to maintain order within the province but shall have complete authority of the border, and the ability to stop any potential hostile parties from entering. If they be Whentist or Albert loyalists. I encourage the youth of our nation, seek our the Cedunan Militia for it is a virtuous career" she finishes and flips to her last page of notes.

"I must also speak to the international community. We can not do this ourselves, for we have limited resources and can in no way provide for everyone unless we are helped. I appeal to the nations out there, those that haven't been touched by this conflict, look into your hearts to help us. I ask all of you, citizens and governments, look into your hearts and help us in our darkest hour. We are in a desperate need of food, clothing, water and medicine. We can only ask for your help with our problems, lest they become your problem" she takes a pause, the cold biting her face, "I thank you all for listening"



Stepping off the stage and returning back inside she could only think to herself "asking for unity and begging for charity, how will it ever work?"
 
MSG: ADMIRAL FRIEDRICH BLUCHER TO VICE-ADMIRAL ALON PLANTIER:
DEPLOYMENT ORDERS: RLN BATTLEGROUP II​
IN SUPPORT OF OPERATION REGENCY: PHASE 1A​
BATTLEGROUP II COMPOSITION:
LAND ASSAULT CARRIER: HES SAUVIGNON (LAC-2)
DESTROYERS: HES NEY (DDG-1), HES LANNES (DDG-2), HES SOULT (DDG-4)
FRIGATES: HES DAVOUT (FFH-1), HES RYEKER (FFH-7), HES RAINIER (FFH-8), HES LEGRAND (FFH-12)
SUBMARINES: HES TRAQEUR (SSN-1), HES CHASSEUR (SSN-2), HES FOULLIEUR (SSN-4)
CONTAINER SHIP: HES FOURNISSEUR (CLS-1)

DESTINATION:
CEDUNA, PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT OF THE SOUTHWEST, MCMASTERDONIA

MISSION OBJECTIVES:
I. DEPART FOR MCMASTERDONIA, DESTROYERS, FRIGATES, AND SUBMARINES MAINTAIN SCREEN SURROUNDING HES SAUVIGNON AND HES FOURNISSEUR.
II. UPON ARRIVAL HES SAUVIGNON WILL ASSUME FIELD HOSPITAL CONFIGURATION AND ASSIST IN LOCAL MEDICAL AID.
III. THE 2E LANCERIAN EXPEDITIONNAIRE LEGION BOLSTERS DEFENSES OF LOCAL AREA. IN ADDITION, THEY WILL ASSIST IN DISTRIBUTION OF AID SUPPLIES FROM THE FOURNISSEUR.
IV. STAND-BY FOR LONG-TERM OBJECTIVES DETERMINED IN PHASE 2A IN COOPERATION WITH THE PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT.

MISSION NOTE:
TO: VICE-ADMIRAL ALON PLANTIER
FROM: ADMIRAL FRIEDRICH BLUCHER
SUBJECT: MISSION NOTES, OPERATION REGENCY: PHASE 1A DEPLOYMENT ORDERS. RLN BATTLEGROUP II
Vice Admiral Plantier,

You've been placed in command of Battlegroup II. Your specific objectives are attached to these orders. Your overall objective is to arrive in the Southwest and provide aid to their citizens and to the refugees from Intelligentsia. The Fournisseur has been loaded with various essential supplies to be distributed where needed. The Sauvignon is needed dearly here, its emergency hospital configuration serves 600 patients. The 2e Lancerian Expéditionnaire Légion will bolster general defense and security of the local region, in all aspects you may bow to any strategies outlined by Lady Paramount Renae Clarke, providing counsel where possible. This will be a trial of patience and rationing. Good Luck.

Admiral Friedrich Blücher
Click to expand...
Click to expand...
A Message To Lady Paramount Renae Clarke of Ceduna:
Dear Lady Paramount Renae Clark,

We in the Lancerian Empire have heard your call for support. As such, we have directed RLN Battlegroup II to the Southwest to help with medical and supply aid. The HES Sauvignon has extensive medical facilities ready to assist your populace. The HES Fournisseur is a container ship laden with various supplies for distribution. The 2e Lancerian Expéditionnaire Légion will assist in said distribution and bolster the defenses of your region. I've instructed my officers to bow to your strategies in most regards. They may, however, seek to counsel you on their recommendations and capabilities.

In a country on the brink of chaos from war and intrigue, your people have done what was necessary to seek stability. There are few things more admirable, Lady Paramount, than the actions you have taken.

Sincerely,

Isaac Oudinot

Prime Minister Of The Lancerian Empire
Click to expand...
 
"And seeing him, from
the enemy's walls, let the warring
tyrant's wife, and her grown-up daughter, sigh:​

Cannons to the left of them, cannons to the right of them. Jerry-rigged out of immense shipping barrels, welded together and mounted on one-use plaster mounts. Primed with moonshine-coated gun-cotton, the Frankenstein patchwork beasts were one-for-one, to fire with any range, or to rip apart and set alight all nearby.

And they were inaccurate. But that didn't matter too much. They were loaded with looted cutlery and metal, melted down in recycling plants to make tiny spherical pellets in intentionally rough-skinned moulds. Placed in flimsy, flammable bags, and doused in more moonshine, the projectiles sprayed fire across a good couple hundred metres, if you took the time to pack them properly.

The barricades that had lain waste to a first wave of Whent's forces lay burnt or burning. What had actually lasted long enough to be salvaged now shored up the mounts of what few cannons had proven themselves at least mildly reusable.

With some squinting, more substantial defences were visible, in the distance. Unlike these barricades, they were planned and deliberate, marking out emplacements between Intelligensia's central distracts and its port. A flimsy, tenuous defensive line - a connect-the-dots affair less concerned with permeability than the mere fact that it was a recognisable piece of work, stage directions to follow in some illusory theatre of safety.

Albert had not bothered to name them. Whent called it the Wall. It separated her from her State, metaphorically.

As far as Albert was concerned, it couldn't separate eggs.

And as Whent's forces approached, she was slowly coming to the same conclusion.

The disembodied sirens of police cruisers - winding down as batteries died - wailed through the air. Many had taken brutal gunfire to their engine blocks, punctured gas tanks, irreparable damage to tires. They'd been scavenged on the spot, left with sirens and lights alive to mark the new front between the Whentians and Albert's forces.

What few people were still predestined by God to live through this fresh new hell would have to make the decision whether or not to run for the lights, alongside many more who were predestined, at the very least, to leave this hell all the same.

Whent's convoy moved forward at a snail's pace, as sudden gunfire rang out. This deep behind the Whentian lines, there was a palpable distinction between the background noise of the war, and the occasional Whent-aligned patrols capturing and summarily executing spies, Albert's recon, deserters, refugees. One bullet in the small of the back, then the back of the head. Then leave them for the vultures, or for some reservist to finish off at their leisure.

Not worth wasting three bullets on them, or the time it took to pull the trigger thrice. Their guns - where they had some - were better saved for the ill-armed latecomers to pluck from the ground. The patrols pressed onwards


Lucille Eton primly placed her hands on the radio set of her police cruiser as she fiddled, uncertainly, with the various knobs and dials. Numbers flew through as she referred to the documents in the peripheral vision of her mind's eye.

Rosemary Whent's voice echoed out, magnified through an ingenious peer-to-peer network hosted by the charred automobile hulks littering the battlefield.

Ghosts of a voice filled ghosts of the war.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are at the precipice! Push onwards, my soldiers! For our new McMasterdonia, and a Party that we can take hold of with both hands!"

The voice crackled out of life as soon as it had started, almost blatantly superficial. But the men and women in the field did not care, for it was merely the comforting sound of punctuation to the cacophony of the artillery sections, and the dulcet sounds of automatic firearms. The percussive force of land mines maimed actors and players across Whent's staging area.

Dozens, then hundreds fell, never to stand by their own volition.

Limbs separated from limbs, like sweet lovers ripped from each other. The story of Romeo and Juliet, two halves not to be one, innocently confused as to the face and the heartbeat of Death.

Rays from God through the murky, acerbic smoke illuminated the glint of hastily scattered landmines, buried by hand. Tiny fingermarks left in the soil marked the points where rock and mud had become too much, the mines abandoned in some desperate attempt to take a life without giving their own.

Suddenly, the rays gave way to noon-day sun, glaring down through the clouds directly upon the bloody fields of the capital.

The light was blinding.

Glinting off stolen scopes and bloodied medallions.

The world stood still for a moment.

The silence was deafening.

And the war started again.



The striking of clocks, watches, and phones signalled what the sun had already made clear. The eleventh hour had passed. Whent's forces pushed onwards, as dozens took cover behind rock and mud. Seemingly spontaneously, her forces had taken to ground, leaping into the soil and digging in, crawling across the substantial no-man's land across which they had laid suppressing fire for hours.

And Frankenstein's monsters let loose. Burning pellet-shot littered no-man's land, as hot metal streaked across the sky. The immense beasts had been angled and dug into the ground - no longer to provide anti-personnel fire, but to lay suppressing fire over a terrifying amount of territory with a mortar's range.

In the distance, it had become obvious.

They'd made contact with the Wall.

Whistles rang out as forces took to their feet and ran, at speed, towards the pinpoints of light, still hanging in the air. Orders barked through radio sets made their way to small emplacements across the Whentian front, to what few pieces of artillery had actually been captured and deployed. A minute cadre of police snipers took it upon themselves to command artillery crews, aligning their emplacements towards the breakpoints identified by the Frankenstein fire.

Spots, here and there, had caught alight, where focused down by luck or by coincidence. The fire was to be a harbinger of doom for what unfortunate Royalists were willing to lay down their lives for the cause.

And the symphony rang out, as heavy munitions rained down from all sides on the Wall, at the designated breakpoints. Whent's forces ran towards, firing haphazardly towards it.

Dozens were felled as pellet-shot fell upon them, lighting their clothing and piercing their skin, scarring their muscles and leaving them useless to the world. Dozens more were ended by friendly fire, and by the woefully inaccurate fire of the artillery. None cared to document their ends with more dignity, for they were a distraction.

Screams issued forth as an artillery shell finally managed to find their mark, adjusted carefully by some lucky officer somewhere on the east side of the target. Whistles passed a mockery of the screams of the dying Royalists up the line, confirming the wildest dream of Whent's spotters. Within moments, the bodies on the field were allowed to rest in peace as hell rained down upon the breakpoint.

Hastily formed squads ducked into the smoke and mirrors, the shimmering reminders of some peaceful sunlight left in the ash and dust of the artillery barrage. Pained, tiring militiamen panted as they saw fits and starts of allies, taking solace that they were, at least, not to be the first to die.

And as the gunfire subsided, they started to entertain the idea that they would not die.

And suddenly, it happened.

Whent's soldiers, running for the wall, stopped setting foot on their own dead. These uniforms, littered with soot and spit, were the morbidly neat and organized kits of Albert's Royalists. Bodies hung from laid barbed wire, hanging it down. And, just an arms length away, Whentians brought their arms down. Their guns dropped to their side.

The Wall belong to Whent.

It took only a half-hour for the command convoy to bear down on what was now the corpse of a battle.

A pure white limousine followed closely behind a paddy-wagon, patting down what barbed wire had not already been taken down by dead bodies or dead minds with snow-chained tires. An honour-guard, accompanying on foot, watched closely, making sure that neither fire nor dust let itself upon the angelic pearly gates.

The world stopped being a dark, self-satire. A morbid Picasso was left, but it was one that that white limousine made sterile. The blood and gore of the war looked like a museum display against that clean, proper body.

Soldiers were moved to tears of happiness, issuing forth from distant eyes, as Whent deigned to step upon that grotesque abstract painting of red and black.

She made everything seem so sane.

Rosemary Whent stepped calmly onto the precipice, as Ms. Eton guided her onto the rubble - taking her by one hand, and then the other. Some anonymous body passed binoculars up, encased in pained cow-skin that had been beaten harder since its requisition than before.

One of the lenses was clearly entirely useless, clouded over by hairline cracks and a sheen layer of glue, to hold it together enough for someone to use, at least, the remaining lens. That one remained immensely clear, perfect and untouched, thanks to its hasty replacement some time in the past. Without a second lens, though, gauging distance was entirely a thing of myth for the user. Which was why Eton used it - her radio was enough to help her figure out distances, and she used this set merely for position-finding.

No use wasting a good binoculars on a competent field commander, when you can listen and speak for your army. Like fingers, snaking their way across the battlefield.

She could almost feel what Whent could see.

She was almost there. Her fingers were tracing it. Leading up, to head it off, just when it would trickle away.

There was a palpable sense of presence, as the end came ever closer. The end, in its cute pseudo-military attire, and its doomed convoy, and its stolen crown.

Whent and Eton sighed sighs of relief.
 
'Ah, don't let the inexperienced lover
provoke the lion that's dangerous to touch,​

The end came to an abrupt stop at an intersection, approximately five kilometres from the port.

Albert's motorcade had been harassed for most of the day by reconnaissance, and skirmishers. Circling the Wall by sea, under cover of night, they'd helped to maintain Eton's understanding of the blood vessels that kept the Wall alive against the hours of pushing, and barrage.

Eton wasn't the world's brightest strategic mind. A graduate of a small-time town police academy, she'd only made it so far in life by being prodigal in both studies and talent. Years of a devoted interest in improving her lot in life, and that of the impoverished she grew up amongst, had driven her to work with local police. Learning their ways, doing desk work for dispatchers.

Once, her mother took her on a police visit, to a home. Her mother had a friend on the police force, and they'd spent many days at home. Her friend was like another father to Lucille. Lucille had spent hours playing with a child at that home, hiding amongst wet laundry left to dry in the field, as police consoled a father whose wife had been taken too early.

It had been a controversial decision by the local authorities in her little village, many years ago, for the city police force to enforce harsh new restrictions on the force continuum for their personnel. Suddenly, they could no longer use their own judgement to pull out a firearm - they had to call ahead, or have video evidence of a weapon. It was heralded as a move in favour of transparency. The local mayor even claimed to have been personally congratulated on the matter by the royal family, on a routine visit to the capital.

And the community was divided. Some were happy that, for the first time, they felt safe in their own communities. Others were terrified - that those on their side in the war on crime were no longer truly in the war.

And Eton's father was one of the casualties. And he was taken before his time. And the royals did not care.

The mayor was taken the next term, as the policy became less and less popular. The community banded together to gut a de-clawed police force. Those administrators who were most supportive of the policy - most prepared to serve their community - were hounded out of office. Those who were least - most prepared to fight for their community - were promoted to head a new, skeletal crew. One which ruled Eton's village with an iron fist.

So she went to the academy, and she learned to hate the authorities that would dare impose upon her and her force, whether by blood of heritage or blood of the divine.

It was so easy to believe in Whent, even as she sent her force to die.

It'll be better some day.

The death will be behind us.

It'll be sacrifices to a long-forgotten God.

Like some foreign script on parchment that no-one can read, in a time and land, far away.

And none of the pain will be real. It won't be worth thinking of.

It quite literally felt like yesterday, when Eton had first laid eyes upon Whent - heard her speak to her people, just after the Senate coup. Eton had been selected as a senate loyalist - doggedly in favour of those elected by the communities she sought to serve. And she had been proud to polish her uniform that day, taking her side as Whent's eye-candy for a devoted media presence.

And Whent spoke with such dignity. Such presence.

To do her words justice - only blood would suffice.

Those were the moments that Eton became truly aware of the crimes of the royal family against her people. To this moment, she remembered - distinctly - that moment after the speech.

As the world pounded around them, crowds larger than Lucille could have ever imagined cheering Whent's name, it all melted away, as Whent took her aside. As hundreds clamoured for her attention, and the eyes of the world glinted through a motley crew of cameras and recorders, it was her who had taken the attention of Whent.

Rosemary had taken Lucille by the arm, behind the makeshift stage - into a temporary media station set up, with a dressing room and a technical management studio. Somewhere in those tents, Rosemary had offered Lucille tea.

Black tea. Even then, dairy products had started to run dry, and many of those in a position to store them were caught on the wrong foot. It would be a number of days from there until Rosemary would be able to restock a personal supply of milk. But honey keeps. And so Rosemary honied that bitter black tea.

Rosemary had leant politely over the tea, looking Lucille bashfully in the eye. And she'd asked Lucille about her past.

Rosemary already knew about her past. Rosemary always knew. But it wasn't knowing that she cared about...it was listening. She always listened. She rarely spoke - well, she always spoke, but she rarely said anything. And so Lucille talked. She talked about her birthplace - that little village, with the sweetshop run by the timid old lady, her husband taken by some hooligan passing between cities, the one that always had either boiled sweets or rosewater jellies. And you'd never know which.

Lucille always hoped for rosewater jellies. So did all her friends. But they always joked - they always joked that someone had to be buying the boiled sweets.

Rosemary poured another cup of tea for Lucille, as she told her how life would be different after the war. How there would always be rosewater jellies, and boiled sweets. And a job, and safety. So that timid old ladies could sit there with their timid old husbands and sell all the sweets they want. With milk and honey, if they wanted. And Lucille sighed. And she was happy.

Their eyes met. Whent's with triumph, Eton's with besotted adoration.

Whent nodded, and Eton's heart swelled with joy.

Eton's heart beat onwards, with the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past, following her fingers.



It was a rather unusual idea, but it had worked.

An officer on a motorbike, wearing full leathers and a motorbike helmet, scurried out the window of an upturned truck.

About an hour ago, he had sallied forth into an abandoned construction depot - too far out of the city to be of any use to Albert's forces, most of the equipment still left was unusable, and what vehicles had not already been taken had been siphoned of gas.

He'd brought a fuel tank with him, with just enough dregs of fuel to keep the truck going for a half hour, to save on weight.

Driving it at full pelt, as Albert's forces moved to defend the now-breached Wall, he'd easily made it past the disarrayed roadblocks that once occupied the area.

Seatbelt on, bracing himself against the wheel, it was trivial to flip the truck onto its passenger side, in the middle of the road, being pulled out of the unlocked driver's side door by a comrade, disappearing into the streets.

Skirmishes on the street concealed the placement of land-mines, carefully directing Albert's forces' attention away from crucial bottlenecks. At this level of tactical combat, Eton knew that Albert's forces would not recognise the strategic movements of her own officers, carefully funnelling them away from Amira Way.

As far as Albert knew, what remained of Whent's forces had dispersed upon breaching the wall, attacking a hardpoint closer to Intelligensia itself. The artillery redeployed there would have been too difficult to move through the breach. Its size, and the logistics required to supply them, would have tied up the rudimentary operating base that Whent was now based from.

It was easy enough to task them with firing at will, as a distraction, behind what Eton presumed to be the position of Albert's convoy. Partially by luck, and partially by an intentional margin of error, she'd managed to pick a position far enough back to lull the convoy into a false sense of security. Sharifa was right to believe Eton did not know where they were - she was wrong to believe it mattered.

Sharifa might be able to hit someone on the other side of a barn door, but Eton spent the better part of her life learning how to build barns, and homes, and communities. How to break down walls, and how to break down doors.

Her officers trusted her.

And she trusted them.

And so they fought, street by street, in her name. Without nary a standing order to their name, but an innate understanding of what they were doing. For they did not know where they were, but where they needed to be. And Sharifa, it seemed, was playing along.

Men and women alike laid down their lives to force Albert's forces to divert from the major streets that would be large enough to handle his convoy in a tactically-sound formation. True, there would be minor flow roads which he could opt for, but both Eton and Sharifa knew that would make him a sitting duck for even a roving skirmisher band.

They used tactics trained not by rigorous discipline, but by an understanding of how to break it. These were not the united shield walls of a tried and true police force, but the cynical poking and prodding of a terrorist force - trying to force a reaction, bringing the troops out of position and leaving a soft, vulnerable underbelly easily destroyed by deep operations. Once broken, attrition would easily tear apart what was left.

They could leave her on her planned path, certainly, but it was easily to subtly draw them to one side of the road - closing in on them with increasingly more damaged buildings and rubble. By the time they'd come across the truck, lain haphazardly across the road, they'd already been channelled towards the right side by increasingly more concerted attacks to their left.

The land-mines would aggravate Sharifa to no end. Make her uncertain. Make her angry. Make her falsely certain.

She would not expect an assault, much less an intention to force her into a last stand. These land mines and skirmishes seemed typical of attrition - trying to wear the convoy down until they could not proceed forward, and then finishing them when they were too weak to give a fight.

But that was not how Eton worked. She was brought up in a police academy. It was crucial not to wait too long, or else too much would be given up. The costs of engagement are small, in exchange for the costs of prolonging engagements. Every man and woman here was a man and woman not somewhere else - every war-crime being avenged here, another being committed elsewhere.

Eton could not afford to give up the life of yet another person she did not recognise. And if that could only come with the blood of her comrades, then that was what they had pledged to do.

Their hearts beat as one.

Their arms moved in rhythm.
 
for whom a desire for blood sends raging
so swiftly through the core of destruction.'​

And guns roared.

Sharifa's unit had opened fire on the brewery, as they realised their fatal error. Approaching the designated bottleneck, an outpost on top of the old brewery had informed Eton of the engagement.

Over the course of the day, officers streaming through the wall made their way to find anyone they could. Refugees, disillusioned veterans, anyone who wanted to serve Whent - or at the very least, avenge themselves.

These were the poorest, the least fortunate, the most cynical. Those who could not escape in time, who were forced to make a living in the rubble behind the Wall in the hopes of leaving before the Judgement Day that had been brought upon them.

And the officers seemed so warm. These weren't camouflaged soldiers. These were community officers - from Eton's alma mater, from her personal circle. Men and women who wanted to make a difference, who wore a uniform and a smile. They brought with them peace, and hope, and love, and a desire to make the world better.

A promise of a better future, on the other side of the Wall. A future Albert had taken.

Whent could give it back.

They just had to fight. They just had to be there for the fight. They just had to watch. They just had to, and it would all be over. And they could leave with Whent.

And go home. To the McMasterdonia they remembered, on the other side of the Wall, with the men and women in the nice, neat blues.

So their hearts beat as one, ceaselessly into the past. They took what they could find. Anything. Anything at all that could help them live just one more day into the past.

They followed the officers to the bottleneck, and they lay in wait. Just to...

just to watch the person that stole their McMasterdonia, and put it in the past.

They were organised into squads, who would share supplies and live together on the way home. Assigned to various positions around the intersection, they brought with them only what they would take with them home. Generally equipment that would be valuable, to barter for tools and food when they got there - guns, machetes, and pieces of metal.

Things they could use to protect themselves against the conflict.

Each squad had an officer, who would keep them calm, show them how to use their guns, take count, take notes. The notes were passed up to the radio station, as reports were meticulously made of survivors who were being removed on paper, transmitted across the Wall, in some feverish, naive dream.

And on the other side, notes were copied down - in the scribe's fashion, in shorthand, ignoring any unimportant information. Ages, genders, professions were all ignored. Names were simplified, written by pronunciation, listed at length.

The Whentian command station prepared to deploy itself into the field, as they packed up what little had been necessary to prepare. In practice, it meant moving maps and radio sets from atop car bonnets to inside car trunks.

A clock hung off the wall provided an anachronistic, welcoming sight. It was the kind of clock you'd hang in a child's bedroom, decorated in cartoon characters and the like. Looted out of rubble from a house that had been next to the wall, it had been one of the few recognizable pieces out of that house, next to a busted smart-phone and a set of car keys.

On occasion, Whent would sit on a car boot, legs crossed, like a child at kindergarten. Just watching that clock, letting the time tick by.

It was so regular. So predictable.

You didn't have to wait for bombs to fall, or walls to crash, when you could just watch the second hand tick. Tick. Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Take a minute to watch the second hand tick. Tick. Tick.

Put on some coffee. Or tea, if you prefer.

Tick, tick, tick.

Just one minute, of silence.

It's worth it, you know.

You'll have something to drink for the rest of the war.

Eton brought Whent a cup of coffee. Black, as Rosemary liked it. Far too bitter for Eton, who had been brought up on simple sweets and cheap, coffee machine fare. But it felt so excessive to take milk with her coffee, when Rosemary would not.

So she enjoyed the bitter-sweet moment. Even as Rosemary did not seem to be there.

The murky depths of the little field tin shone the secrets of the universe back in Eton's face, as her eyes swirled in the caffeinated muck. If she looked carefully, she could see herself as a child in them. All alone. Her father gone, and her mother virtually so.

And Lucille's eyes were alone, as they had no pair.

And the radio set hummed, and the ticking stopped. And the officers missed the ticking.

But it was still there, behind the trappings of the makeshift toy soldiers and the humming radio set. The officers knew it was. But it did not matter, for it was not their ticking.

Eton bundled Whent back into her carriage, a white Rolls Royce. A capable, armoured machine that - given good roads - could easily handle a decent level of acceleration and speed with safety far beyond the average vehicles available to her forces, with the obvious exception of the police cruisers that were in short supply. She gingerly took Whent's hand as Whent stepped into the rear seat, closing the doors...wavering as she took in the scent of Whent's perfume, mixing with that glorious plush scent issuing from the still-new leather.

"Lucille?"

"Yes, Whent?"

"Do be careful."

"Of course, Ma'am."

Eton shut the door, and drew a sharp breath in. It'd been a long time since she and Hell were on speaking terms.

And yet, here they both were.



Blood flowed down the brewery walls, as one of the men on the roof was struck, collapsing lifelessly against the side of the building, head dangling over the void. What was left of his mind coughed up blood, foaming, dripping from his mouth into that dark void. His last breath lingered in the spit and mucus as it slipped towards the ground.

His last memory was the shout of men, women and children. He'd fought for them. Now they would fight for themselves.

Oh, what bitter-sweet pain to take the bullet meant for someone else.

And more rained down on his people, but he never saw it.

Blood flowed down the streets as Sharifa's royal guard felled this rag-tag mob in their dozens. Many of them stood up again, pushing forward - or at the very least, crawling away, getting away from people too scared to break from behind the human wall. Their only safety from the gunfire was the bodies of their comrades. They could not escape.

It seemed like an eternity, as screams issuing from beneath their feet started to subside. Trampled, or bled to death, as bodies got to the convoy trucks. The mob clawed at the truck, finding new life as Sharifa's royal guard started to panic. Sure, they were trained, capable, and battle-hardened.

But there was little they could do against waves of humanity.

And their bullets were draining away. Magazines had started to become hard to find, after most had unloaded their ammunition in their entirety. Staggering reloading was becoming a utopian vision, rather than a tactical necessity, as what little ammunition was available had to be purloined from boxes hurriedly passed through the guard. Reloading became a predictable pattern, and the mob quickly recognised it.

The black helicopters and the white Rolls-Royce made everything seem so sane.

They weren't shooting children any more. There were helicopters, cars. Soldiers.

Such a fatal error. For just a moment, the Royal Guard gave themselves the luxury of hope. Of ideals. To believe they were fighting a battle they could win, for people they could serve.

Muzzle fire flashed towards the helicopters and the quickly approaching Whentian forces, providing a momentary respite for the mob.

Enough.

Whentian police officers opened fire from behind the mob, having taken their positions as Whent's guard themselves took Sharifa's attention. Weapons were passed into the mob, of varying shapes and sizes, as officers forced their way into the mob, pushing it apart and dissipating it. Suddenly, what had been a human wall became a cloud, surrounding and consuming Sharifa's truck.

Sharifa had a clear shot on whoever she wished to target, but it no longer mattered. She'd only get one shot off. A young girl in the centre of the mob carried a rocket launcher, if you could call it that. A re-purposed riot cannon, mutilated and turned into a shoulder-mounted pipe bomb with some semblance of directionality. Sharifa had only a moment to try and sight the girl, before the truck was torn from the ground, thrown to the side, falling onto the street below.

For just a moment, she saw Whent leave the Rolls-Royce, between the bodies in the crowd. For just a moment, she believed she could win, in some perverse, vengeful way.

A doctor stabbed her in the throat with a scalpel, and there was nothing more to say.

Eton put down her gun. She'd never even taken it off its safety.

She'd forgotten to.

Whent stood besides her, laughing as blood rained down. Her world was somewhere else, and she laughed, for the thought of peace and life was no longer anything but a joke to her.

How she revelled in that childish dream. That flashing vision of life before the war. The laughter stopped her from seeing and hearing.

Eton laughed with her, as she wondered how many had died because she could not bring herself to kill.

More screams.

Triumphant screams, as someone called out in dark glee.

"Long live the Queen!"

Ah, the Princess-Consort Madeline. The woman from whose loins the civil war had sprung. Cries rang out from the crowd - this was the woman who had made the hated Albert a man. The woman who revelled in murdering the family she had married, and the families that the mob had married. The treacherous bringer of evil.

Nobody cared to interrogate her. To listen to her. To shout at her. Why would you? She had done nothing but serve Albert. Her sexuality was his plaything, and it had competed for that position alongside the lives and feelings of a nation.

And it had lost, and she had become the innocent, virginal queen of a dead people. Hands without blood, cleanly manicured. Her hair perfectly prepared, even as she fled the world her husband had created. She looked so out of place in a world where love was a myth. Her wedding ring was a thing of beauty in a world it had bound to hate.

The mob wanted to flee her bondage too. But this wasn't their world any more.

And Madeline's life was of no interest to them. Her death was not one of vengeance, but one of periphery. She died as she lived - an object of desire, the nude dancer in a burning theatre.

A hint of lace framed a picture, holding back delicate drops of blood, leaving a trail that dared to hope. As if it were possible to sate war.
 
It's sweet and fitting to die for one's country.
Yet death chases after the soldier who runs,​

The light streamed in through the cracked windows, as hands reached in, pulling out a seemingly lifeless body.

Albert's eyes cracked open as the world made its unwelcome self known, a dreamer waking from a nightmare into another. The frightful drone in the background started to break, giving way to ebbs and flows of voices, taking on the nuance of a tortured abstract painting.

His forearm hit the ground, and blood streamed. Adrenaline tore through his body. His mind flipped into life, but his body did not follow.

Blood streamed from much of his torso, and his limbs - one leg no longer responded to his commands, as spasms racked it, unfelt as adrenaline pulsed numbly through his veins. A triumphant screech issued from behind him, as someone hit the ground, leaping from the top of the truck where they had pulled him out.

Albert tried to stand, on his one good leg, but was pushed down to his knees by some angry woman next to him. The voices started to become more clear.

"Fuck Albert! Fuck Albert!"

Oh, God.

A ragged shoe, damaged by days of walking and scavenging, struck him hard on the back of the head, forcing him down to the ground. His forehead touched the road gentle, prostrating to the mob.

Gleeful cheers rang out, into a cacophony of swearing and joy. Many of those near him followed suit, taking off their shoes, holding Albert's face to their feet as they struck him with their shoes. Behind them, the crowd start to pull off their shoes frantically, holding them high in the air in imitation.

The cacophony gave way to loud, jeering demands, calling to get forward.

"Ok! Ok! He's coming, he's coming!"

The woman who had struck him pulled him off his knees, onto his bad leg, as a man swept his good leg out from under him. Collapsing forward, he was held only by a member of the mob, walking forward to catch him. In seconds, he was subsumed into the human walls that surrounded him, throwing him to the ground and dragging him along his knees, kicking and jeering at him those which could not reach him waved their shoes.

Eton parted the sea, and that famous Rolls-Royce opened its mirthful maw.

Whent herself stepped out, cast out of the beast into the tempest. She held a hand confidently on top of the car window. Too timid to close the door; to leave nothing between her, and the eye of the storm. His visage did not falter, as he stared her down. Her equal, deserving of all the respect of a royal - of a combatant.

The crowd closed in around him, and her, murmuring intensely. These were not the devoted freedom fighters she called to her side - these were people fighting their way out of the city. People who were here to take Albert not for their cause, but for their vengeance. So they could feel it was worth fighting - that the living hell of the past few days was some ill fate with a brighter destiny. Not just luck of the draw.

These were bloodthirsty. A mob of death - reapers, bringing destruction to a convoy that now only existed in the faint memories of a precious few. Memories that were, for the moment, a luxury - of a time where this fight was a war, and not a glorified brawl. Where all fought for themselves - and uniforms were merely padding for that human crush against Sharifa's vehicle.

"Whent! Whent! Whent! Whent!"

At first, it seemed like the uproarious support Whent was used to. It was enough to drop Eton's guard, and that of her companions. But Whent recognised a pleading note within it.

No. More assertive.

Demanding.

This was a group that knew, together, they were more than one. A group that knew that Whent was defenceless. For all Eton's dedication, and the immaculately field-pressed uniforms around them, they would be able to do nothing against a crowd that had already disarmed them in spirit.

Whent felt alone.

And so she smiled. It seemed so genuine, and even if it hadn't, the crowd knew it didn't matter. They had no recourse but to demand of her, and she had none but to accept.

A man stepped forward from the crowd. His clothing was tattered, but his posture and accent were those of an educated man. Not a doctor, or professor, by any means. He seemed too fit, too hardened to have been one of those men of ideals and ivory towers - it was a man who had been built in the real world, quenched in ice water and sheathed in leather. Untouched by the impurities of questioning and deceit.

But even the purest, most brittle sword shall stand in battle against the poet or the speaker. And so the intelligent politician allows the naive swordsman to unsheathe his weapon, that he may bring it to bear not against flesh, but against the impurities of the world - that it may destroy itself.

But sometimes, it does not work. For even the purest of steel can be beaten into a blade sharp enough to sever muscle from bone, and shrug off the advances of rust and dust.

Without good materials, good polish can still be made off a surface. And it can bite like mockery by any armchair orator.

"Whent! I am Asham, and I speak for us all!

We want Albert!"

It was not a long speech, for not a long reign. And it was bereft of formality, for a ruler without a domain. It was, however, only improved by uproarious concordance from this new theatre of war.

Whent could lead an army. But it was an army of police officers and cars, and refugees. The ragtag army of a prophet, assailing the walls of a city, with nothing but sirens to scare its gates open. Looking for nothing but a home. These people no longer saw a home here, for this was a land of blood. A land they would retake, once the war was behind them - on their own terms. They wanted this to be the start of that war - not the end of someone else's. To hell with Whent's hopes for a military trial and a certain sentencing.

Asham did not want this to be the destruction of McMasterdonia. He wanted it to be its rebirth. And for rebirth, there must be a sacrifice. There is no justice in the necessity of sacrifice. There is certainty.

Whether Whent was willing to defend him or not, Albert would die at the hands of McMasterdonia. Asham was willing to sacrifice himself to prove it.

It was obvious he would not have to.



It was a brief respite for both of them. A moment in the madness to remember the old days. Like two war heroes, considering their past, from opposite sides of the war. Once the war had been won, and both armies had lost.

But there was no common ground here. On one hand, Pontius Pilate, judge, and jury, and on the other, the accused, a self-appointed Messiah for whom an entire nation had turned Judas.

"What were you thinking when you stormed the Senate? You knew you wouldn't be able to capture me."

"True, but I crippled your government."

"Hardly."

It was true. That was a bloody afternoon, and as far as Whent was concerned, very little had been achieved. If anything, it just empowered her reign. Dozens of sacrificial lambs had been thrown into the meat grinder, and she'd simply reformed the Senate around her, as part of her new Party.

"Consider it a pre-emptive strike. One of your kin is undesirable as is. I wasn't prepared to allow a second to form. And...I had underestimated your shrewdness. I expected to at least be able to end some significant proportion of your loyalists, if not by blood, then at least by the ensuing media coverage."

Whent nodded weakly. It was interesting to speak to a rival. A...former rival.

The crowd had dispersed momentarily, to gather their things and scavenge for the march home. Whent would be pleased to finally be rid of Albert - for good.

And it was the only way to be sure. One couldn't simply leave a King to die on his own - particularly when Queen Amira remained at large. If he remained, Queen Amira would easily be able to seek him out as a token of legitimacy.

But...it seemed excessive. The mob's calls for a wild execution. And Whent did not have the inclination to intercede, not when it threatened to cost her.

"You deserve this. After all you've done to us."

"Give us hope? A stable leader? The rule of law?"

"To us, Albert. Terrible things happen to ordinary people. We're not ordinary - weren't until you put us here."

The angered background drone of the mob started to pick up, as they suggested in no uncertain terms their insistence on leaving.

"We are all McMasterdonians. We all need to learn to fight."

"We could have fought some other way."

"On the television screen? On radio? In an election campaign? You know very well that was not possible. Not after you suspended the rule of royalty, and aligned yourself with the Archbishopric."

"We all have to answer to Flemingovia at some point."

Albert gave Whent a curious look, and spared her a genuine smile. It was the first time Whent had seen one so innocent in a while. They'd both become so removed from the war in the past few minutes.

"I was under the impression you intended to cheat on that particular test."

It was a sarcastic comment. But, with Death looming ahead of them, she couldn't help but read it as innocence. She wasn't sure if it was the miasma of blood and fear that permeated the air, but for once in her life, she sympathised with Albert.

She could not tell if she felt pity, or nauseous.

"Did you have any last words?"

"Of all people, you are the one who would believe that I've said enough in my life."

Whent licked her lips. It was such a bitter-sweet thing to hear. She still wanted answers. For a moment, she considered taking him under her wing. The conversation was such sweet escape - for both of them. A chance to run away from the reality of death, and destruction.

But, as the crowd started to reach fever-pitch, she wanted closure instead.

"McMasterdonia, this is your victory! The war that you have won! And this man is your prize, the one who has cast you into the fire of war! Yet, not all can survive the crucible, and the blacksmith of this brutal conflict is not one of us.

He has lost, and we have won. And so, as the one who has come to rebuild - who must take on the task of recovering the tools that he has beaten into swords - I wash my hands, and temper my tools, of his handiwork. I leave his work to those who have fuelled the crucible - who have been melted and reformed by his hand.

Do your worst, as he has."

Cheers issued forth from the crowd, as Asham took Albert roughly by the hand, casting him into the crowd.

For just a moment, it looked as if Albert was about to say something. But, like Whent's, his words were not pertinent to the reality of war. Idle chatter and wit were all very good for politicians - last words a precious luxury for the historian and the writer too unoriginal to create their own symbolism, the medium of lionization by the naive academic.

But this was not war. This was a sacrifice. And the bleating of the lamb was not relevant to the sufferings of the desperate, hoping beyond hope for some esoteric manna from heaven.

Their march was not a silent one, from the Wall, across the rubble and the destruction covered between the battlefield and Whent's forward operating base. It would take some time to move it into the wall, as what remained of Albert's forces were moved up.

Albert was, by far, worse for wear. On occasion, the rebels put him to his knees, to crawl to their destination, ripping his clothing and shoes from him. They passed him across the crowd, from side to side, back and forth, making him redouble his steps - seemingly innocuously, but ensuring that by the time he passed any given person, their anger had already redoubled in the face of the hated royal. Those who harboured grudges against the traitor Chancellor were content to see demon-possession in Albert, guilt for sins he had never committed.

On occasion, they would give him a mock trial, shouting and attributing profane acts to him, drawing from mythology, theology, popular culture, the unmitigated fury of over a hundred. Groups would pull him back, appoint him a mock prosecutor, tasked with granting him punishment for his various crimes. As they passed him through, they would pass with him the story of the crime and the punishment they had levied.

At first, simple things. He had stolen the bread from a child's mouth, and been beaten with a shoe across the buttocks twice. Then, serious things. He had stolen the livelihood of a teacher, and had been lashed with cable - a dangerous event, with collateral damage. And then the mob became hysterical.

For burning down a community library, and silencing the history of a nation, a man pulled out a tooth, and cauterized it with a shorted car battery, stolen from one of Whent's own police cruisers. No-one had been brave enough to stop them.

For vandalising a water treatment plant, and flooding a war-time slum district with its own sewage, he was water-boarded with cloth wet from stagnant puddles across the road, some still hot from burning petrol, as he walked, and was pushed.

At some point, for killing the dreams of a nation virtually overnight, life ebbed from his body. His spirit and mind died, even as his body functioned.

His death was the only respite from eternal pain and that broken body.

Whent gave a scathing eulogy, reminding the crowd of the destruction he had created that led to her appointment as Chancellor. Not once did she mention the war.

No-one missed it.
 
and it won't spare the cowardly back
or the limbs, of peace-loving young men."​
- Horace, Ode III.2.13 ​

The charred rubble of the Wall hung in the air. Albert's limp body was suspended in motion, a pendulum clock measuring the unending flow of time, and the waves of humanity that defined its current. His feet were tied by electric cable, attached at the other end to a reinforcing post, exposed to the elements by an errant artillery strike hours ago. Blood had ceased to drip from his throat, with a ghost of a trail framing what had already been vacant eyes.

Across the ground, the drops of blood had left a gentle spray, a line in the ground separating life from death, as the mob became people, and bags became homes. On occasion, they would dare to cross the line, to scavenge what bodies they believed would not be missed by a Gunreist squad, tasked to recover weapons and tools for Whent's stockpile and give the last rites to the dead and dying.

It had only been earlier that day the refugees had finally managed to escape that hell - that battlefield, wherein they took life and cheated death. Whent looked proudly at them, standing atop a police cruiser that idled on wisps of petrol and a dead battery. On occasion, one would approach her, to thank her for opening a path to the outside world for them.

Usually, it was a woman - occasionally, a child. Some weak platitudes, entirely irrelevant to Whent's mission. But she would humble herself to accept, and she would thank them for giving her the opportunity to lead. And then they would walk away, to struggle. To find something that would let them take grasp of hope with both hands, and escape to a world that seemed real.

A world that wasn't so dead.

It wouldn't be home, but it would be someone's home. A bitter-sweet respite from the bitter-sweet stench of last breaths and last stands.

The men were too busy making themselves scarce, offering their services to Whent's forces in exchange for what few rations could be put aside to barter with. They'd pick at the dead, handling disease and miasma for the hastily pressed tokens that, Whent assured them, would be legal tender in Intelligensia, as they tried to make their escape. None of them wanted to take her at her word, but as rations started to become more and more precious, some were tempted to take glittering handfuls of cheap, recycled plastic, over palms of grain and single packets of MREs for the journey.

And Whent did not want to give them her word. Everyone knew the tokens were worthless - they were, at the most, symbolic thanks for the services rendered, as the refugee hopefuls rushed to try and hand in their loot. There simply were not enough rations to go around, and plenty of refugees willing to, at the very least, keep what they could find if their number was not called.

Most of them were not. The vast majority. Some got lucky, and managed to trade heaping pouches of dogtags or badges for envied luxuries. A rumour went around that if you could pick up a police officer's handgun and return it, in working order, you'd get a bicycle, if you were the first one in. Some were daring enough to believe that, if you weren't the first one in, you could still find ammunition ejected by weapon misfires on the battlefield.

Everyone knew those myths. The priest who refused that imaginary bicycle, and loaded his handgun with a single bullet, from an heirloom necklace, so that he could end the war on his terms. There was the clever university student who found a chemistry set unharmed, and sold an explosive device of some sort for a free ride to the port, with the student, set, device, and ride being destroyed alike by a Royalist landmine.

Most of them weren't true, as far as everyone knew.

It seemed obvious they couldn't be.

Good fortune does not end in disaster, and this disaster will not end in good fortune.

But it was hard not to hope. Not to lust, selfishly for freedom, and safety. These were not people who had grown up in poverty, or under a brusque hand. These were McMasterdonians. One of the lights of the world, a nation that had been stable and sane for centuries. Theirs was to take the future in both hands, to study, to live, to learn.

McMasterdonian children go to university. They take paid internships. They aspire towards a house, a car, and a family. A pet, if they want one.

All those things died so long ago.

These were kids who had planned to be princesses, and doctors, and in one extreme case, to be King.

Such childhood dreams were dead, and buried.

Some did not even bother to bring toys with them. The rare few on the cusp of adolescence, old enough to recognise the seriousness of their situation, but young enough to understand it as only a transition. Whether or not they were wrong.

The security would have been so welcome. A teddy bear, or a blanket. But such things do not last in war, do they? Innocence cannot be defiled, or else it becomes a stark reminder of what could have been.

But innocence is worthless in the real world. Such things must be sacrificed for the greater good. We must all make difficult decisions, and we must all wonder - how much is innocence worth?

To be a child again, where that decision is not a laborious one, but an innocent guess. An estimation based on an imagined data point - the etherealness of one's past. These children would never - could never imagine that their future would be any less fleeting.



Whent tasked herself with the thankless job of handing out those unwelcome tokens, as her conscript army made their way out of the city at nightfall. The piercing cold had the distinct advantage of hiding their passage, as combat turned from heated conflict to tense stand-offs. Whent's forces were not well-equipped to fight on through the night at anything approaching optimal capacity - they had neither cold-weather equipment to stave off what was quickly becoming a light drizzle, nor combat lighting.

And on their opposite side, the disarrayed Royalist forces were desperate simply to disengage. The cover of darkness was ample for them to take to ground, withdrawing with a respectable semblance of organisation. Following orders from the new, permanent transitional military administration, they would retreat and disband behind enemy lines, seeking to cut off Whent's supply lines and allow the Royalist forces deeper in their own territory to dislodge themselves more easily. Most of the Royalists were overjoyed at the veritable order to get out of harm's way, avoiding the war machine that was driving forward through them.

Between them, refugees made their way out of the Wall.

The occasional gunfire would pick them off, as Whent's auxiliaries maintained an iron grip over the reclaimed territories behind the forward operating base, securing a spinal cord by which refugees and military supplies could pass. This was, of course, untenable for safe passage, as the Royalists maintained contact across its length, up to its other end in secure Whentian territory, where they disbanded and escaped into the night.

Many of the refugees could not afford to go onwards to the promised passage out of the country. Rather, they could not afford the supplies necessary to maintain a lifestyle. No food, no spare clothing, no money. And without an assured destination, they could not be certain of finding any of those things.

An organization in Port Intelligensia helped to evacuate the lucky few with contacts into the quickly collapsing Royalist forces. A local Royalist leader negotiated a ceasefire with a local Whentian officer, and together they formed an overnight camp to provide safety to Whentian-aligned civilians and Royalist deserters alike.

They were the ones who would be able to pretend that the war was planned. That they had chosen to leave their homes – receiving a bed and, if they were particularly lucky, a dinner, before leaving on their own terms for some unknown land.

Most of them were men.

Women and children would be hard-pressed to earn a living anywhere else in the world. Sure, it was hard to scavenge for food and scrap in McMasterdonia. But there was ample space to squat, and ample property to loot. On blood-soaked urban battlefields, the rare few maintained grotesque subsistence lifestyles, farming vermin that had been propagating at speed ever since the war started.

Domesticated animals were just another meal source. They'd be fattened up on human meat, for no-one wanted to bring themselves to the inhuman act of cannibalism, and bartered for some lesser value of grain or tools, as no-one wanted to remember having to make the choice to avoid cannibalism.

But across the seas, the world was terrifying. The very option of raising and eating vermin was not possible. What wealth would there be in living on the streets of a communist utopia where one cannot vote, or a capitalist paradise where one cannot work?

It was the men who would leave McMasterdonia, turning their backs on the homeland that they loved, so that those they love may live. Taking phone numbers and email addresses with them, and the hope of wives, children, and lovers. So they could work, and buy passage for them, before it was too late.

The peace-loving men who would not fight for themselves. The ones who had refused to take up arms for one tyrant against another, and had, miraculously, survived the war.

With some of them, there were women and children.

At the Port Intelligensia refuge, women and children together formed about four of every ten people. Take note, however, that of the children, a significant proportion were adolescent males, travelling alone. A number of the children had lost both parents - most had lost at least one, generally their mother. The women had passed away of starvation, illness, or injury, mourned by husbands who had survived service under Albert's regime, either in the military or in a civilian capacity, and hence had the prerequisite contacts to receive passage for themselves and their children at the Port Intelligensia refuge.

In the morning, the ships would arrive, said the new harbour-master. A kindly man, with a face of fifty-something and a birth certificate of almost-forty. He told the children stories of all the new, wonderful places they would go. Nations across the sea that they'd seen on the television - itself, at this point, a myth to children who would take but a night to forget the slights of a peer, or the hunger pangs of a missed meal.

Some of these children hadn't ever imagined travelling overseas before. Some had been in a position to do so - to see these amazing nations with their own eyes, but they'd never understood aspiring to experience another culture. Never been able to think of a whole world outside McMasterdonia, with its own art, and music, and those mythical television channels.

One trembles at imagining how those waves of humanity would cope with the empathy, sympathies of a horrified world. Children torn apart by religious, political, economic fanaticism, and families torn apart by war and hate. With them, men serving families, friends, even themselves.

They say that war does not spare the back, or the limbs, of peace-loving young men. That it is everyone's responsibility to fight for their fatherland, to be soldiers for some unknown cause, rather than choosing to turn their backs and run.

But who do you fight for? When you are between two tyrants, who wish to bring ruin to you and your people? Are you obliged to defend your enemy from your enemy, simply to resolve war in favour of a murderer over a murderer?

To choose peace is to choose death - your own, and that of others. To fight is glory, sacrifice, to be truly peace-loving. To die in battle is to die for others. Dulce decorum est, pro patria mori.

I borrow, momentarily, from the writings of those who saw war, who understood it more than we ever will, and wrote of it more genuinely than I ever will. Who saw that the glories of war are not heroic - that fighting for peace is not the same as striving for peace. For when good men prepare for war, it is too late to expect peace.

When we exhort on those thrown into wars not of their own doing - between rulers who are not their own, for ideals that are not their own, to build states that are not their own - we think of the heroes of war. Of medals and generals - of those heroes of various independence movements, forging a manifest destiny from the blood of freedom fighters.

But if you could see as they see,

"My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori."

- Wilfred Owen
 
Regarding the '2015 Media Outage'
Authorised by Caesar Felix Albinus Augustus
Joined by Censor-Magister Dux Claudia Metrodora Murcius, & Vigilator-Magister Magnus Dux Lauretta Minervus Septembrus
A Public Statement Regarding Sadakoyama
​


Imperium Augustum has recently been informed that the formal stance of the Sadakoyaman state regarding the event known as the '2015 Media Outage' is that the outage was committed not as an action of state-on-state espionage or warfare, but by a non-state actor.

The 2015 Media Outage was an event in which video of the execution of Malik Fayeed, a Gunreist McMasterdonian also known as the 'Butcher of Westmark', was televised without permission across the world. The August Censorial Service, on advice of the Speculatorial Service and Vigilatorial Service, has identified the event as being an injection attack, conducted by an organization working with state-level technological advancement and resources.

While cyber-warfare is infamously difficult to predict and analyse, the Speculatorial Service insists that the evidence is almost insurmountable that Sadakoyama, if not perpetrating the attack, was criminally negligent in its responsibility to the international community to stop what was a costly, organized criminal activity across state borders.

Science Master Svetlana Abbiati has informed Imperium that communications on the matter should be directed to her office. However, given her recent confirmation of Sadakoyaman involvement in the death of Malik Fayeed, we feel sufficient evidence exists to accuse the Science Master of personal complacency in the 2015 Media Outage, an attack on Imperium's extensive telecommunications infrastructure.

As a result, Imperium wishes to indicate to the world at large its intention to conduct and complete an investigation into the matter.

Without the the cooperation of the Sadakoyaman state, we have no recourse but to request that Sadakoyama release Dr. Stephen Sidney Merrill and Science Master Svetlana Abbiati for interrogation by the Lictorial Service. We expect the international community's assistance and support on the matter.
 
The inside of the vehicle was silent except for the soft chopping of a helicopter rotor overhead. The gunship was dark gray, scavenged from the military base at Port Augusta and shipped across the channel to Cape El on a boat, likewise stolen. On the belly of it and on the tail was a lilac roundel, standing out against its light gray coat.

Bringing it along was madness; an attractive target for an airstrike. But nothing hit it yet. It would suddenly take off at points, shooting at forces hundreds of yards, even a mile or two, ahead before falling back. Benedict was anxious - or at least as close to anxious as his steely mind would allow. The lack of resistance was concerning. The Royalists had been scattered by Whent's police easily, and foreign forces had yet to attack Gunrei's convoy. The longer you go peacefully, the worse the war is.

Benedict could hear the gunship roar ahead. He straightened in his seat and held his rifle closer. Gunrei, sitting across from his deputy in the armored car, seemed less concerned. He had left his robe at the Basilica. In the warzone, he would wear black. A black shirt, black bulletproof vest, and black pants. At his side was a handgun - nothing else. A balaclava rested on the seat next to him.

"Have you ever met someone who knew they would be going to Hell?" he asked.

Benedict looked out the window of the vehicle for a moment longer before responding.

"Plenty of people think they're going to Hell, Your Holiness."

"Someone who knew."

"I can't say that I have."

"In the seminary I once had the opportunity to spend a day with a prison chaplain. He was due to administer last rites to a man who would be executed. The three of us were in a room together, speaking with him for the last time before he would be hanged. The chaplain left the room for, ah," Gunrei waved his hand. He spoke as if this was a simple conversation with a member of his congregation. There were gunshots ahead from the helicopter.

"tea or something. It could have been tissues. But I don't remember the man ever crying.

"The two of us were left alone in the room while the chaplain left. I had a good reading of the Books, but I was by no means a trained priest. The man had killed someone who was, ah - " Gunrei looked for a polite word. "fornicating with his wife. He told me he had no qualms about it. He would do it again if he had to. He was upset his wife didn't die from her wounds."

Benedict scowled.

"He told me he was going to Hell and that he knew this as well as he knew his own name. But... even though he knew this so well, there was nothing in his mind that would make him want to change it. I knew the last rites wouldn't be worth the words. But we did it anyway."

Gunrei swallowed.

"I guess I don't know for sure that they weren't worth the words. Or that he didn't want to avoid going to Hell."

Benedict said nothing for a moment, then spoke.

"The scriptures say Flem will help anyone who asks for his help, but that he can't help those unwilling to change."

Gunrei nodded. Benedict looked out the window again, to see the gunship flying back towards the convoy. Behind it was the smoky skyline of Intelligensia.

"I can see - " he began, before being cut off by Gunrei. He spoke forcefully, as if he meant to interrupt him.

"Albert is dead."

"Your Holiness, intelligence is still unsure if he is even in Intelligensia."

"He is dead. We will meet with Whent and he will be dead. She would be a fool to leave him alive. We must administer last rites, though. I will administer them myself." Gunrei said. He paused. "He will be the last monarch I will give a funeral to. There have been too many for this nation."

Benedict breathed in, once. Then he nodded and gripped his rifle closer. "I can see the city."

The burnt out hull of Intelligensia smoldered in the sun. Gray concrete buildings stretching towards the sky, their heads lopped off by Lancerian bombs, Whentian mortars, Gunreiist gunships. The roar of the gunship overhead dimmed as it took off ahead of the convoy again. Even here, miles from town, the air was thick with the stench of burnt flesh and blood; an iron smell thick enough to cure anemia.

The distant sound of gunfire from the Hind ceased. The radio attached to Benedict's shirt crackled. "Flem's Wings here. We've got something interesting, Brother, over."

Benedict glanced at Gunrei. The Patriarch said nothing, but perhaps behind his eyes he knew what it was. For now, he only fiddled absentmindedly with his seatbelt and stared into the floor.

"We'll be there, over and out." Benedict said.

The convoy rolled to a stop near Albert's body, hanging by his feet off the Wall. A few people milled around, their anger still not subsided even with the death of their tormentor, devil, King. An advance squad of a few Brothers exited their vehicle and ordered them to disperse. Shouts from the frothy-mouthed subjects. Five shots rang out, but the dull thud of a slug entering flesh was absent. The Patriarchate could afford to shoot warning shots; the Whentians couldn't afford a bullet for their enemy.

The few stragglers left the area. An agonizing few minutes. Everyone in the Patriarch's convoy knew what had happened, and none dared to speak it. Benedict moved for the door.

"Stay here for a moment, Your Holiness."

Gunrei continued to run his fingers up and down his seatbelt. He felt naked without his vestments, dressed only in the black clothes of a fighter. He counted the pockmarks in the floor. Benedict approached the car and opened the door.

"Albert is dead, Your Holiness."

Gunrei took a deep breath. He clenched his fists for a moment before reaching for his seat belt.

"We must dress his body for a Flemist burial."

Benedict hemmed. "Your Holiness, I - "

Gunrei reached for the door and, out of instinct, Benedict stepped outside. The old man carefully stepped out of the vehicle. The gunship had flown off on a short patrol; the only sounds were the distant roar of its rotors, the whistling of the wind, and a few soft gunshots - music to consolidate a revolution to.

Gunrei scanned the ground and saw no body. Finally, his eyes drifted to the base of the Wall. They followed its buttresses and angles up to its tip, where Albert was hanging.

The Patriarch said nothing. He took another deep breath. Benedict and the soldiers standing around him held their breath for each second Gunrei took his. Few moved. Those who did adjusted the rifles slung across their shoulders nervously.

The Patriarch continued his silence, each second feeling like a monk's entire oath. His eyes darted up and down the length of the Wall, the height of the Wall, and the disgraced corpse of McMasterdonia's king. He breathed again.

"Son of a bitch!"

Without practice, speechwriters, or oratory, Gunrei's voice erupted into the booming tenor of a sermon.

"This is how Rosemary Whent treats an honorable combatant? A woman and Mother Superior made holy by my own word and Flem's own ritual has her enemy strung up by the feet like a pig after a slaughter?"

Aside from Benedict, the Brothers gathered around the old priest looked at the ground like children being scolded.

"Instead of faithful service to her god, she practices the disgusting and vile brand of warfare waged by secularists and progressives like her own enemy? She lowers herself to the level of Albert then raises him high above her own head?" he continued, gesturing at the hanging corpse.

"Too often I have rehearsed speeches offering Whent a place in the Holy State! Too often I have placed my trust in her, a woman who operates entirely on deceit, dishonor, and hatred!"

Gunrei breathed several more times, surveying the destruction around him.

"She has destroyed this city," he said gently. "I may have criticized its practices but it has had the richest history of any in the world. There is nothing here for the Patriarchate now. We will mold Cape El into an even greater image, an even greater glorification of Flem. I will wash my hands of Whent."

He gestured for the squad to get back into their vehicles before turning to Benedict. His eyes were wild, on fire.

"Brother, we have won our place by right of cunning, courage, and honor. To leave Whent alive will risk it to the sort of dishonor and deceit she stands for. Benedict," he said, "have her meet with us. There is much we must discuss."
 
It was cloudy and dark that night. Along a section of boardwalk on the waterfront of Intelligentsia a man walked, headed for a small restaurant hopefully untouched by the war and possibly containing some food. The power was out again but his flashlight was off as he made his way along, saving the batteries for later. There was the occasional sound of gunfire and a rare explosion in the city in the distance. He heard a larger gun fire, like an armoured vehicle's cannon. It took him a second to realize that the sound had not come from the city, but from the gulf.

__________________

Earlier...

He gave the radio receiver back to the communications officer. "Again?"
"Sorry, sir, we still haven't been able to repair the antenna."

Vice-Admiral Allaire had been talking to the McMasterdonian admiral who was in command of the McMasterdonian fleet off the coast of Intelligentsia. Though their communication had been interrupted by the faulty antenna again, everything important had been established. The McMasterdonian admiral's fleet was confirmed loyal to Amira. Alaire was splitting his fleet into three. The destroyer HES Napier and frigates HES Moncey, Shaw, and LeMat were to secure the McMasterdonian fleet. Aboard the Napier was a letter hand-written by Amira for the McMasterdonian admiral with some administrative orders, more a formality than anything, officially establishing them as loyal to Amira's cause. The land assault carrier HES Bonaventure with Amira aboard was to land the Expéditionnaire Légion at the Naval Port in the southern reaches of the city, escorted by the destroyer HES Saxe and frigate HES Bonneau. The aircraft carrier HES Huntress and the rest of the fleet would remain at sea, preparing for air support operations.

Pre-war, Whent had done favours. During the war she cashed in on them. The majority of the officers on one of the three McMasterdonian destroyers there were loyal to her. Until now, nothing had come of it, the McMasterdonian Navy had sat in the gulf, occasionally doing exercises, often doing nothing. Now, an oppourtunity had been dumped in their lap. The Lancerian fleet was approaching Intelligentsia. With the right set of actions they might create an incident that would delay or cancel the landing altogether.

Aboard the HES Napier stood Captain Marc Desjardins, in charge of meeting with the McMasterdonian admiral. He was 38, the second youngest Captain in the entire navy. He had been ambitious and been rewarded for it. Next to him stood his second-in-command, Executive Officer Alexandre Chéron.

"Alex, would you do me a favour and grab us a pot of coffee from the Mess Hall? We might need it."
"Yes sir." Chéron left the bridge and headed into the depths of the destroyer.

"We're approaching the fleet, Captain."
"Good, could you raise the admiral again?"

Aboard the McMasterdonian destroyer the executive officer pulled out a pistol. Several other officers pulled guns and ordered other ones to remain still at their station. He told one of the men to take the captain to his quarters with an armed guard. He ordered the gunnery officer to prepare to fire.
"Ready, sir."
"Fire one shot for calibration."

Aboard the Napier the entire bridge saw the shot miss just over the bow.
"What was that?" asked Desjardins
"Sir, it was one of the McMasterdonian ships. Not the flagship."
"Train the guns on that ship. Hold fire." A warning shot? Why?

"Shot missed, sir."
"Re-calibrate the gun. Prepare to fire."

For 10 seconds silence still reigned over the water. Aboard the flagship of the McMasterdonian fleet the Admiral urgently tried to get in contact with the destroyer that fired. The communications officer on the destroyer muted the receiving sound, opened the line, and began transmitting.

"Today Whent strikes first on the Lancerians! Fire volleys continuously!"

The first two shots passed through windows on the bridge of the Napier. The next three hit consoles and detonated inside, killing those on the bridge. Another volley hit the superstructure behind it. More rounds hit just above the waterline, and another volley pierced the engine room killing more of the crew and damaging one engine. The remaining engine, still set to full-throttle and without anyone to shut it down, propelled her forward, slowly changing her course to the left. With the fleet's commander dead, the Shaw and Moncey decided to open fire on the McMasterdonian destroyer while the LeMat held fire.

Assuming the Whentian destroyer had been justified, another of the McMasterdonian destroyers opened fire on the two Lancerian frigates. Some ships just reacted and began firing in the momentary confusion and chaos while others tensely waited for the Admiral's response. Seeing the other ships do so, the LeMat opened fire on the McMasterdonian destroyer. The McMasterdonian Admiral was yelling over the radio for specific ships to engage the Whentian destroyer while still trying to contact the Napier's destroyed bridge. One captain misunderstood and started engaging another McMasterdonian frigate that then returned fire. The McMasterdonian flagship opened fire on the Whentian destroyer. Their second volley hit the ammunition store and it detonated. The bow exploded off from the rest of the ship, briefly illuminating the night sky. The second McMasterdonian destroyer blew a hole in the side of the Moncey which began quickly taking on water before the McMasterdonian Admiral could order them to hold fire. He finally got in contact with the LeMat.

In under a minute silence reigned again.

On the McMasterdonian side, the Whentian destroyer was quickly sinking in two pieces. The two frigates had battered each other and were taking on water and were listing to various degrees, one also on fire. The second destroyer was heavily damaged but afloat, a row of holes just above the waterline and car-sized hole where the deck met one side from a small explosion. One other ship had moderate damage.

As for the Lancerian ships, the Moncey was half underwater, crew still abandoning ship. The Shaw lay adrift, engines and guns disabled, emergency bilge systems managing to keep up with the water flowing into a small hole in her hull. The LeMat was steadily taking on water and already making plans to beach herself.

__________________

On the boardwalk the man had stood and watched the exchange and the explosions in the distance. He sighed and began to move on. After a minute's more walk towards the restaurant he noticed that one of the pieces of fire was coming towards the shore. From the night a ship began to loom closer and closer. It plowed into the boardwalk less than 50 meters in front of the man flames shooting out of the superstructure. He could hear shouts from the ship and alarms going off. From the bow hung a Lancerian flag. On the side, written in big white letters he read HES NAPIER.

He turned around and began to jog home. The restaurant would have to wait for another day.
 
L’Informateur De Saint-Cyr​
THE GULF INCIDENT
The Empire Suffers Massive First Casualties In McMasterdonian War​
War Journalist Florence Adelaide​

In a shocking turn of events, a rogue McMasterdonian ship has appeared to cause chaos among Lancerian and McMasterdonian ships in the Gulf Of McMasterdonia. Details remain unclear as of writing time but it appears as if a McMasterdonian navy ship of unknown loyalty opened fire upon Lancerian ships approaching the McMasterdonian fleet, all within visual range of Intelligentsia. In the confusion that followed Lancerian ships returned fire and other McMasterdonian ships opened fire on both the rogue ship and the ships of the Royal Lancerian Navy (RLN). Devastation followed.

Though hostilities ended within a minute, the damage done was extreme and tragic. Several McMasterdonian ships, including the rogue destroyer, were reported sunk or heavily damaged. For the RLN, the HES Napier ran aground in Intelligentsia. The fate of her crew and the precise condition of the ship remain unknown, but reports state the ship was heavily damaged, though a fire that was raging aboard last night was put out by time of writing by the surviving crew. One Lancerian frigate has sunk, another remains stranded this morning, and the third ship is afloat but low in the water. No official casualty numbers have been provided but estimates are between 100 and 200 or more RLN sailors at this time and an unknown but significant number of McMasterdonian navy casualties.

The RLN was not available for questions this morning but confirmed in a statement that the Lancerian landings had proceeded as planned despite the tragedy and that the remainder of the McMasterdonian Navy has been co-operative. As part of the statement, Vice-Admiral Allaire stated that everything was being done by both navies to recover sailors and send casualties to be treated aboard the HES Bonaventure which is configuring itself for a temporary role as a field hospital to the citizens of, and military deployed in, Intelligentsia. A detachment of Expéditionnaire Légionaires were making their way to secure the Napier. Queen-Regent Amira was also confirmed to be unharmed and preparing to leave her quarters on the HES Huntress, which was uninvolved in the incident, for the mainland. Further details were unavailable, the military citing strategic secretive importance.

Tomorrow's issue of L’Informateur De Saint-Cyr will feature any new developments as part of its war coverage.
 
Response to the Prime Minister of The Lancerian Empire:
ATTN: Isaac Oudinot

I Renae Clarke, Lady Paramount of Ceduna speaking for the Provincial Government of the South West and all the downtrodden and suffering people of McMasterdonia would like to offer our utmost thanks and appreciation for the assistance granted to us by your excellency. The RLN Battlegroup is greatly appreciated and welcomed by the Provincial Government of the South West for the humanitarianism and stability it will bring, in trying times like these those are very important things.

McMasterdonia has been thrown into chaos, brought upon us by the barbarians who cling to the broken ideals of powers. One can only wonder at what atrocities they inflict upon each other and upon the downtrodden peoples of McMasterdonia. We are humbled and glad of any assistance that is given to us.

We will take into consideration any advice or counsel granted upon us by the representatives of the Laceerian Empire for they trusted friends of the South West in particular and McMasterdonia, in general. With your help and the help of others like you, we can and will overcome the atrocities lumped upon us.

I can not thank you enough.

Lady Paramount Renae Clarke of Ceduna
Representative of the Provincial Government of the South West
Click to expand...
 
Tozian was resting in his room at the Lancerian palace. Lying on the bed. Staring at the ceiling. The clock seemed to tick louder and louder. There was a knock at the door. He sat up.

"What is it?"

"I have news, Your Majesty."

"What news?"

"May I come in?"

The Monarch opened the door. Partly, sticking his head out.

"Your Majesty..." the messenger stammered, "King Albert is dead."

Tozian breathed heavily.

"Um... Thank you." He closed the door. Sat back on the bed.

Albert, his cousin. Dead.

He had known him as long as he could remember. He had been bossy, domineering, but caring every now and then. As if his constant controlling nature at least appeared to be in the best interest of others.

He had just been a typical older cousin. The he had usurped a throne. He had declared war on Plembobria and ordered the murder of his cousins and uncle. Now he had been repaid in his own currency of cruelty.

Tony did not know what to feel. Should he grieve for the death of a family member? Be joyful that his enemy had met a bitter end?

He put this indecision in the back of his mind. Go home. Go home to where? The palace was destroyed.

It didn't matter. The King felt as if he would die if he stayed in this place any longer. He went to gather the Princess and his father the Duke. A whole nation waited for its leader to return.
 
For a minute, Expéditionnaire Légionaire Sgt. Barreau watched the HES Sauvignon dock at a cargo pier nearby. Like the Bonaventure in Intelligentsia, she had arrived with a battlegroup to provide aid to the people of McMasterdonia and was to configure herself into a field hospital role. Fortunately, their welcome in Ceduna had been much warmer.

Behind her was the military container-ship HES Fournisseur. A half-hour earlier she had arrived filled with crates of food, water, and medical goods for the people of the South West, as well as weapons, ammunition, and fuel for the Légion's long-term operations. Unloading had already begun. In the meantime, part of the Légion's engineers had begun assembling a field headquarters. The commander of the 2e Expéditionnaire Légion, Col. Callais, had already left to meet the Lady Paramount in person. Rumor had it the Colonel wanted to help train the militia. Every Légionaire who heard it let out his own audible groan. They'd been sitting and training and exercising for years. Showing people how to dig a foxhole or basic marksmanship nor helping the refugees as a camouflaged cafeteria server or setting up cots was not what the Légionaires had in mind when they signed up. The Empire had been called to war, and every man and woman would be damned if they didn't get their shot at glory. Their shot seemed to lie in the supposed bolstering of the Militia's defense

In the distance she saw a helicopter from the Sauvignon landing near the in-progress field headquarters. In white letters along the side she could read "ELII". It was just a military designation, the EL stood for Expéditionnaire Légion, the II stood for it being the second of the two Légions. The first was simply "ELI". As a result, every Légionaire earned the nickname Eli from the moment they walked out of the recruiter's office. She glanced down at her watch. Break time was over. She called out to a couple other soldiers and headed for the HQ. There was work to be done.
 
The Gulf of McMasterdonia

The Gulf of McMasterdonia was now a warzone. The nights sky was covered in smoke from the damaged ships, and only the sounds of fighting within Intelligentsia carried across the sea to the hull of the Bonaventure, where the Queen Amira was waiting. Confusion, suffering, and death, had been the price of her neglect. The Modern Mother of McMasterdonia, she had become the Mother of Neglect and must now fix the mistakes of her children.

The confusion would delight the Flemingovianist and the Warlord Gunrei, who would use the destruction of McMasterdonian ships as an example of the incompetence of the Navy, and the price the people were paying for foreign involvement. She could only hope that the people would see through this facade Gunrei had created with the assistance of competent propagandists, but the effectiveness of his campaign or his capabilities to amass support could not be seriously doubted at this time.

Amira had been joined on the ship by her personal guard, Hector, who had left the Kingdom of McMasterdonia on her orders to ensure Richard made safe passage to the Lancerians. He had fought with her on this decision, wanting to stay behind to protect her person, but he was the only one she could trust to ensure her orders were carried out. Fortunately there were only minutes for him to argue with her, before Alberts forces were upon them. Otherwise she might have had to endure hours of debating the merits of her orders. Amira greatly admired Hector. Though he came from the Royal Academy in New Intelligentsia, he had not become a brainwashed parrot like some of the other officers like Sharifa. Though forever loyal to her, he was more than prepared to give her his frank view on things. He understood, however, that Amira made the final call.

“Amira” he said “We are about to make for the landing”
“South of Intelligentsia?” she asked
“Yes. We will arrive at the private docks. Most of the fighting has occurred near the military port”

As the ship pulled into the dock, they couldn’t help but notice that the area was completely deserted. Once a central component of trade and commerce within the Kingdom, the port now lay abandoned. Business too afraid to come to Intelligentsia out of fear of financial losses, or perhaps liability should anything happen to their crew.

“Your Majesty” a member of the crew said “I have been asked to inform you that we will begin unloading your convoy and supplies. This should take approximately one hour and then you will be able to make your way to the Royal Palace”



Intelligentsia, 0800.

Amira began the descent down the stairs to the waiting convoy. There was a small group of people making their way throughout the Port - scavengers, she assumed. The Royal Anthem played as she made her way to the car. Still, nobody looked up.

“Where is the large crowd we were expecting?” Hector asked
“I did not expect any such thing. The people have suffered, I must earn their respect and adoration again”.

Into the vehicle, the convoy began to move through the docks. A small girl stood near the entrance of an old shipping container and turned to stare at the vehicles. The Queen gave the girl a wave and a smile, but was only met with the continued blank stare. The child was obviously malnourished and struggling to survive in the anarchy that was McMasterdonia of 2015. Continuing to move throughout the city, the convoy was met with little resistance.

Scouts ahead of the convoy had met with the remaining Security Forces working for Minister Whitwell and the Government, who helped to secure the passage. It appeared that any remaining flemingovianist forces had ran from the city once the navy had started to arrive. Where were the forces loyal to Albert? Perhaps what little remained were at the Royal Palace, protecting their Master.

Burned out vehicles, bodies, and destroyed buildings, littered the landscape of the once great city of Intelligentsia. Intelligentsia's called the city the home of flemingovia, and believed it to be the creator of knowledge and the arts. To see a once proud city brought to it’s knees with such brutality was humiliating. The cost of war had never been more apparent.

The damage only got worse as the Convoy approached the centre of the capital. The Museum of National History had collapsed on one side, and it was obvious that looting had occurred. Rounding Greer Avenue, they passed the Ministry of Security - a previously impressive building that housed the extensive security forces led by Minister Whitwell. The front of the building was now little more than a crater, evidently, it had been attacked by a truck bomb of some kind.

Finally the convoy approached the Royal Mile, and the Royal Palace was in sight. A large crowd of people continued to
protest outside the Palace, and Amira could only hope they would be friendly to her cause.



Royal Palace, Intelligentsia. 0930

The Protesters had not given up their cause outside the Royal Palace. Still yet unaware that Albert had already left, or that he was dead, they continued to call for his abdication. They bashed against the walls of the palace and pulled on the fencing, while the few remaining Royal Guards attempted to keep them at bay.

Amira exited her vehicle, and with the assistance of Gregor, stepped up to stand in the back of the Jeep to get a better view across the crowd. “Ladies and Gentlemen, cease this at once!” she called to the crowd.

In the heat of the moment, the crowd had not even noticed the arrival of the convoy to the Royal Palace. Murmurs went through the crowd “it is the Queen”, “She has returned for us”, “Will Albert care what his Mother has to say? Do we care”.

“I agree with you all here today, it is crucial that Albert must immediately abdicate the throne of McMasterdonia. Our Great Nation can no longer face the battles of terrorists and would be tyrants while Albert sits upon our throne. His crimes have stained the lands of Mcmasterdonia, and facilitated the creation of terrible criminals and mass murderers such as Rosemary Whent and the Archbishop Gunrei.

“I have come here today to liberate you from your suffering. I cannot do this alone. We must work together to free ourselves from the shackles of war, and the perils of religious indoctrination. We cannot do this if we act in the same manner as our enemies. We cannot resort to voilence amongst ourselves. We cannot murder each other, we cannot steal, we cannot resort to brutality to get the political change we desire. That is exactly how the terrorists want us to handle matters, it only strengthens their resolve to destroy what McMasterdonian culture stands for.”

The crowd had began to get fired up at this stage, alternating between applause and calling the Queen Mother’s name. Her Guard and members of the infantry from the Lancerian Empire and forces loyal to Amira had dispatched themselves to the palace gates and breached the perimeter.

A voice echoed out from the speakers along the palace walls

“Officers of the Guard, lay down your weapons. I surrender the Royal Palace to the Queen Mother and her forces”

The voice was not Albert’s however, but the Princess Wilhelmina. Still the crowd rejoiced, as the Royal Convoy made its way into the Palace.



The War Room, Royal Palace, Intelligentsia.

True to their orders, the remaining Royal Guard laid down their weapons and were promptly detained by Amira’s forces. Followed closely by Hector, Amira approached the War Room - a room she assumed would contain her daughter and the King Albert. Entering the room, she saw that only Wilhelmina was there leaning against the table.

“Where is Albert” Amira asked
“Hello Wilhelmina? How are you? Nice to see you”
“We don’t have time for that. Tell me where he is.”
“You never had time for us. Are you really so surprised that he wasn’t here when you arrived? We believed you would kill us both.”
“I have made many mistakes, I do not deny it. But what you have done is not excused by my own actions. Tell me where he is.”
“He is dead. So is his pregnant wife.” Wilhelmina said, trying to contain her tears “There was a distress signal near the docks, they were intending to leave for Issabella, but they never made it to the ship.”
“Are you certain?” Amira said “And Madeline as well? They would really kill a pregnant woman?”
“Yes. Hundreds of the Royal Guard are also dead. Ambushed. By Whent or Gunrei, I cannot be certain.”

Amira swept from the room, ordering the guards to keep Wilhelmina there. “Hector” she said “Have a squad sent to the Naval docks. We need to be sure that what Wilhelmina has told us is true”
“Very well”.

Some hours passed while the Queen waited for news. Finally her phone rang, and it was the Officer leading the squad. He confirmed that they had found the body of Albert strung up in the centre of a town square near the booth. Evidence of heavy fighting, and utter brutality, including bodies of multiple children, homemade weapons, and the brutalized corpse of Madeline.

“Bring them home” was all Amira said before leaving for the royal balcony, where she intended to address the crowd, the nation and the world.



The Royal Balcony, Northern Face of the Royal Palace, Intelligentsia.

A crowd of more than 5000 people had emerged in front of the Royal Palace, as news had spread throughout the city centre that the Queen Mother had captured the Royal Palace. Intelligentsia, a city of academia, art, and history, had always valued the Royal Family and it’s Matriarch or Patriarch. Many in the city believed that it was only the monarch who could protect the country from backward steps into religiosity and barbarity.

Flanked by Hector and members of her Elite Guard, the Queen Mother rose to the balcony and began to wave to the cheering crowd, before starting to speak. A microphone wired to her overcoat to allow her to move freely while she spoke. In traditional McMasterdonian style, she enunciated her words carefully, shook her fists, and moved violently about the stage as she spoke for dramatic effect.

Statement from Her Royal Majesty, Queen-Regent Amira​

Ladies and Gentlemen of the Civilised McMasterdonia, I come before you today to announce that we have achieved a great victory this day. In the name of King Richard of McMasterdonia, I have taken the city of Intelligentsia and the seat of our great throne in order to restore order and peace to our great nation.

I must announce that the King Albert and his wife Princess Madeline were killed by terrorist forces loyal to Rosemary Whent as they attempted to seek a peaceful end to the constitutional crisis. Both the late King and his wife were attempting to seek political asylum in the Kingdom of Añola when they were brutally cut down.

Rosemary Whent has become but a shadow of her former self. She has desecrated the memories of her forefathers in the pursuit of power, influence, and tyranny. Though she claims to have cut down “the great tyrant”, it is she now who attempts to replace the tyrant. Whent has no intention of working with the people of McMasterdonia to forge a new path forward for this country, she simply intends to claim power through a power vaccum by commiting regicide against the Royal Family of McMasterdonia. We cannot allow this to happen.

Whent not only slaughtered my son, and her King, the King Albert. I am not defending the crimes of Albert, but it is my belief, that he should have been made to stand trial for his crimes – not be cut down and slaughtered by Whent and her pack of terrorist dogs. Not only did sshe slay the King, but she murdered his wife – Princess Madeline, a woman nearly four months pregnant. What did the unborn child do to deserve such a fate? Whent has proven that she is willing to achieve power whatever the cost, even if that means slaughtering the innocent, children, or even those not yet born.

Whent has taken the Archbishop Gunrei under her wing, as her puppet, and propagandist. Or so she would like the world to believe. In fact it is Gunrei who holds the most influence within their terrorist organisation, and it is he, who would enact the most terrible reforms should they succeed. We cannot allow the Gunrei and his cult of sycophants to lay siege to our great nation for much longer.

We must stand up for secularism, for democracy, for what makes makes McMasterdonia what it is. Our great culture built the greatest Empire that has ever lived, or will ever live, we cannot allow this culture to be destroyed by the flemingovianisation of our institutions and state.

Today I announce that all soldiers loyal to the King-Regent Albert will be granted amnesty should they pledge their allegiance to the new King Richard. Forces loyal to Rosemary Whent and the Archbishop Gunrei remain enemies of the state and will be dealt with accordingly. Together, united, in our march for harmony, and the reestablishment of control we have united with our allies in the Kingdom of Plembobria, and the Lancerian Empire to see Whent and the Archbishop Gunrei defeated. We will succeed. Together, with the support of our people, the Kingdom of McMasterdonia shall rise again!

You have nothing to fear, if you have nothing to hide! LONG LIVE THE KING!”
Click to expand...

The Queen Mother departed from the balcony and headed back to the War Room, where members of the Lancerian military forces and the Royal McMasterdonian Forces were waiting.

“Your majesty, a wonderful statement. It shall certainly rally the people to our cause” Hector said

“I hope, for without the people Hector, we can never win this war. Our next step must be to secure the international airport. I have received word that the Security Services have been holding off Flemingovianist and Whent forces. We must secure the airport in order to service the Plembobrian airforce and to get the McMasterdonian Airforce airborne.”
 
The first task assigned to the Lancerian ground forces in Intelligentsia was to secure the international airport. The Plembobrians had airplanes ready to assist the war effort and it would be there that the McMasterdonian Airforce was to be re-organized. 2 of the 5 tanks and 10 of the 20 IFVs and an infantry section of the 1e Expéditionnaire Légion would participate in the operation to secure the airfield. Behind them was various logistical and command vehicles, ready to make the airport a secure military installation for however long it was required to be so. In one of these vehicles sat Col. Dupont, Commander of the 1e Légion. He had been informed that security forces, most likely loyal to Amira, were holding the airport. Whentian and Flemingovianist forces had been attacking the airport on and off since Intelligentsia fell, and possibly before that.

As they headed for the airport they received occasional pot-shots from the distance, individuals, occasionally a small group. Out here, it seemed, there was little organization. The IFVs engaged where convenient but the force as a whole pushed on. The objective was the airport, they would stop when they arrived there and no sooner. Finally, the lead vehicles saw the control tower in the distance. They drew a little closer and halted. The assaulting force began preparing. Col. Dupont issued the order for the broadcast. Across every military communications channel used by McMasterdonian army and security forces the message was broadcast.

This message declares that the 1e Expéditionnaire Légion has arrived to assume control of the airport in the name of Queen-Mother Amira and King Richard. Security Forces holding the airport are to stand-down upon the Légion's arrival. Refusal will be met with all necessary force to take the airbase. Acceptance could mean the oppourtunity to serve the new King for a stable future. The Légion will arrive in exactly one hour.

The message was repeated three times and the hour's wait began. In the distance there were glimpses of soldiers moving away from the airbase through trees and behind some hills. No doubt they were Whentian or Flemingovianist troops that had seen the Légion approach or somehow heard the message and thought better of maintaining the attack against fresh Lancerian troops with armoured support.

After an hour, the advance began. In front, the infantry crossed the clearing between themselves and the runway and airport buildings beyond it. Behind them the IFVs slowly drove, on either end one of the two tanks held the flanks. The infantry arrived at the fence. Three of the IFVs moved forward and drove through the fence to create holes for the infantry. The soldiers moved through towards and crossed the runway, several IFVs following, while others moved out to either ends of the runway and began moving around the perimeter of the airport.

In front of the terminal stood the commander of the security forces holding the airport. He watched the vehicles approach. From one stepped out the Légion's commander, who approached him. The security officer spoke.

"We bow to Queen-Mother Amira and King Richard."
"You've made the right choice. Shall we head inside? We've much to discuss."

Later that day, word had been sent to Amira, the Plembobrians, and the Bonaventure, from which two transport helicopters were en-route for the Légion to use in the area. The soldiers had already begun setting up the Légion's field headquarters in an airport office building that the security forces hadn't used.

Whispers and rumors stirred about beginning an offensive to begin the reclamation of the country. Whether true or not, with the airport secured and support from the Plembobrian Air Force inevitably on it's way, it would not be long until they'd be ready to do just that.
 
0200 Royal Palace Intelligentsia

Hector had spent the better part of the afternoon preparing the recently arrived Royal Guards from New Intelligentsia. They were just as he had hoped they would be. Hungry. Dedicated. Ready. The administration of New Intelligentsia had been a useful means for the mainland government to divert issues that may result in legal or political problems for themselves at home. For the Royal Guard, this meant that their training could occur without the interference of the legislature or other government oversight bodies. Orphaned children as young as 12 were given the opportunity to undertake the rigorous training program - assuming they would pass health checks. While it was not forced upon them, it was strongly encouraged. Orphaned children provided the most loyalty to the leader, who they would begin to see as a Mother or Father figure.

In the middle ages, the Emperor of the Kianese Empire would use the threat of taking a child to keep political opponents in-line. The Emperor could by rights demand one child from any of his vassals. The threat of losing an heir was often more than enough to keep the ambitious and unscrupulous noble where the Emperor needed them to be.

Guardsmen were prohibited from marrying or having children without the consent of the monarch. Since the 1970's the monarch had been more flexible in approving such requests. Previously it had been believed that such an attachment would be detrimental and split the loyalties of the Guard, instead it had created a culture of Guard families. Fiercely loyal to the Monarch, and by virtue of their position, were granted a special status in the community.

Hector himself had been responsible for administering the training program in the 1980s. Sharifa had been brought to him as a child, by a merchant from the dock at New Intelligentsia. He had caught her stealing bread for herself and her sister. Sharifa had proven to be a competent and fierce warrior. Her sister didn't make it.

"Ma'am" he called as he knocked upon the door of the royal bed chamber. Hearing movement inside, he stood to the right of the door and waited. The Queen-Regent emerged from the chamber "Good news, I hope?" she asked with concern.
"Indeed ma'am, the Lancerian Empire has been successful in securing the airport. Our Security Services at the Airport had already dealt some decisive attacks against the rebels"
The Queen simply nodded, without saying anything. This victory meant that the Plembobrian Airforce could be easily serviced, and that the Royal McMasterdonian Airforce would now been secured. Throughout the day the Queen had received many senior members of the military, airforce, and navy, all pledging allegiance to her. While she believed most were sincere in that loyalty, she understood that simply days ago they had been aligned to a very different ruler. Reports had indicated mostly what had been expected – large sections of the city were destroyed. Greer Avenue which housed many of the central museums, galleries, and beacons of the Kianese Empire had been mostly untouched. It seemed that even the flemingovian warriors feared awakening the Empire from its longer slumber.

It was now time to prepare to take back the rest of the nation. The Queen had already heard from some of the rogue provinces. Aurore which was ruled by Lord Ardashir was prepared to come back into the fold, previously aligned to the Flemingovianist – he had began to see their erosion of the culture of his city and regretted his mistake. It would need to be handled carefully. They could not risk another attack like what happened in the Reach.

The Crossing too, had shown progress. They had previously sworn to remain unaligned, and following the death of Alexander of Caspius they had voiced their condemnation of Albert. Following his sudden departure from the throne, they were quick to voice conditional support for the regency. Amira was confident that other Whent-aligned regions would fall more quickly once Rosemary was dead. The Flemingovianist regions would be more difficult to recover.

Amira swept into the War Room and the seated Generals, Ministers, and officials rose to meet her. “Your Majesty” murmured around the room.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for joining me so early in the morning. We have a lot to discuss”

The assembled members discussed comprehensive war plans for taking back the city. It was agreed that the Queen would make a statement – discussing strongly the plans to take back the Port Augusta as an important economic hub and a humanitarian crisis that immediately needed liberation. It was time too, to acknowledge the dead, and to admit some past mistakes. Capricornia, however, would be the first major target. The Royal McMasterdonian Air-force would join with the Plembobrian Airforce and do bombing runs across the Duchy and its capital. The focus would be attacking key infrastructure and the ultimately killing of Rosemary Whent and her entourage. If they were lucky, some flemingovianists would die too. Civilian casualties were inevitable.

The Lancerian Empire would bombard the coast with it’s navy, and assist the Imperium with the capturing of Port Augusta. With the Port secure, ground units will be able to secure what remains of Castello – a city that had been mostly destroyed by Albert, however, some Flemingovianists and Whentian rebels remained. This effort would ensure that the Isles of McMasterdonia were secured, with the Royal stronghold Issabella then being able to deploy their troops to help maintain the peace. It was a bold plan, but with the strong backing of Novrith it was more than likely this would work.

After the Isles they would turn their eyes to the East, and eventually march into Cape El. That is assuming Gunrei did not march upon Intelligentsia before the momentum would shift in Amira’s favour.
 
"Always in the middle of a kiss
Came the profane stimulus to cough;
Always from the pulpit during service
Leaned the devil prompting you to laugh.

Behind mock-ceremony of your grief
Lurked the burlesque instinct of the ham;
You never altered your amused belief
That life was a mere monumental sham."

- Sylvia Plath
​

Poetry is the writer's excuse for pretense and depth without effort. It creates colour, adds rhythm. It stirs the heart. Stabs the mind. Right in the back of the brainstem, where paralysis is sure to follow and the silence of the lambs echoes.

It makes no sense. It meanders. It states things in plain sight, obscuring them with metaphors delivered as curt and clear as song lyrics, written on the back of paper napkins and thrown off the side of the Wall. Set alight by bullets ejected from jammed guns, and cigarette lighters, and magnifying glasses catching the glint of an uncooperative sun. It is a sermon delivered from the page, calling for the Gods of the inner peace to answer unprayed prayers.

Yet, oh my friends, and oh my foes, those napkins burn bright.

On them were written silent exhortions. Some new religious rite practiced by the broken minds and spirits that followed the Killer Queen, the one whose name smelled of herbs and gardens and warmth and safety, the name which brought to mind the softness and compassion of a lover's embrace. It tasted of sweet, sweet blood. A kiss shared by cut lips. Blood ran down the path, as dead men walking set their sights on pretending at some sort of point in life. They cleaned the wall with the attention and the conciseness of a poet. Each bucket of seawater was a verse, as they wrote their poems on burning napkins.

Whent had long ago appointed religious officials to her army - wholly incompetent. They used sermons of their predecessors to make their points. There was great depth, great energy. But they were cut up, broken, they lacked life. They were pretentious on the face of it, and they asserted capacity and independence. To an extent, some believed them. They did not believe themselves. They knew their sermons had no context, had no spirit. They did not need to. For what was given was enough.

They did not stand on their own, but they would stand up for Whent. Words in the wind, as that gentle herbal smell hung in the air.

Rosemary was never absent.

It hung.

Swinging. Side, to side. Like a pendulum caught up in waves of humanity.

All it could do was direct the flow.

Rosemary was clad in blood red, a coat that did not remove itself. It tightly bound around her body, cutting her figure like scissors through the fur of some dead animal. Skinned with the utmost care, carefully avoiding the blood-spots and pepperings of bullets and scars, as its life was taken for a higher cause. Black buttons completed the matter, binding flesh to flesh, pushing up her breasts as her hips flared under the end of the coat. Black dress pants hugged her legs together, binding them like bandages. There was no blood to be seen - life did not flow through her, anymore, as she put pen to paper. As she thought gentle words of that burlesque, instinctual ham.

How she wanted to bind that ham as she was, to the life that she'd long given away. One and the same.

But he never gave up his beliefs. His conviction that everything he knew was a sham, that only he could change.

He refused to see that where he saw grief, Whent saw the same sham. The same facade that he saw everywhere else.

The dead Prince may hang above her head, but she was willing to allow that, for now. Just as she had before the war. And she would let Gunrei put him where he belong - she would let Gunrei cut him down personally. They belonged together, in the cold embrace of blood-brothers. Where there were two, they had become one, as they spilled blood together in the same fell cause for different masters.

Whent cracked her neck. Soon, she could finally divest herself of this charade.

She stepped out into the world, approaching Gunrei.
 
The winds of change that had gripped McMasterdonia during the reign of Matilda had been swept away. First by the rise of religious radicalism, and secondly by the return of conservative nationalism in the form of the aging regent Amira. The war was going well. Intelligentsia was now under the complete control of the Government, and provinces from across the realm were flocking back into the fold.

Only a few still stood with Gunrei, even less with Whent. Her murderous rampage that eliminated a pregnant woman with the use of child soldiers had seen to that. The morale of her men was gone. Many had accepted Amira's amnesty. The few that remained were by no means as committed as they had been 12 months ago. It was now time to destroy that morale once and for all, and then, they would turn their forces to destroying Gunrei and his so-called flemingovianist warriors. One stronghold at a time.

Amira now ruled by royal decree, as Sharifa's Senate bloodbath had seen to the elimination of the legislative branch. Though the new administration publicly mourned for the Senates destruction, it was perhaps another headache they were glad to be without. The elderly Gregor, Former King-Consort of Plembobria had recently been dismissed as Chancellor. Chancellor Whitwell now occupied that coveted position. Her successes as Minister of Security and her unending loyalty to the Crown had earned her the position, for a time.

With the airport now secured, Whent diminished, and Gunrei reeling from recent setbacks, the Queen-Regent was preparing for a month long bloody war, which would hopefully see the final destruction of Whent and at least continue the months of setbacks for Gunrei.

Military Directive - The Royal Palace, Intelligentsia
89867a2c-46e0-4804-b5da-0ba3198101fb_zpszzxush9h.png

By order of her majesty, Amira, Queen-Regent of the Kingdom of McMasterdonia;

An immediate No Fly Zone is imposed immediately over the Kingdom of McMasterdonia with the exception of Intelligentsia International Airport (IIA) all other airports will remained closed to civilian aircraft.

- The regions of Capricornia, Cape El, Hansoon Region, and the Isle of McMasterdonia shall in particular be the focus of air monitoring over the coming month.
- The respective air-forces of the Kingdom of McMasterdonia, the Lancerian Empire, and Novrith Signatories are exempt from this no fly zone.

The McMasterdonian Military (all branches) is directed:
- To advance North and secure the City of Capricornia against Whent forces.
- To secure the far eastern port of Hansoon Hall against Flemingovianist forces
- To continue the naval blockade of the Gulf of McMasterdonia and in particular, the City of Clarkson must be blocked from receiving aid from Gunrei warships.

The Plembobrian Airforce:
- To perform critical airstrikes on the regions of Capricornia and Cape El. Ensuring that the maximum number of hostiles are eliminated.
- To monitor the sea west of the Isle for enemy ships and eliminate accordingly.

The Lancerian Imperial Navy:
- To enforce the naval blockade of the Gulf of Mcmasterdonia and in particular, the City of Clarkson must be blocked from receiving aid from Gunrei warships.
- To maintain medical and hospital aid work in the South West region.
- To assist the Imperium in restoring Government control to the Port of Augusta.

The Imperium
- To return the city of Port Augusta to McMasterdonian control with minimal loss of life and minimal destruction of cultural sites insofar as is practical.
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OOC: If you'd like to respond to these below events, you can do so here.

2 Years On
Capricornia, The Duchy of Capricornia



Frowning slightly as sand slipped through her fingers onto the ground below, Queen Amira stood upon the precipice near the ruins of a castle. In this war, every grain of sand was crucial and she was prepared to do anything to secure each one.

What was once a magnificent vista of the ancient city of Capricornia was now little more than a smouldering ruin. The Duchy of Capricornia had been destroyed in the bombing raids by McMasterdonian, Lancerian and Plembobrian forces, the Duchess herself along with it. The Army had found her charred corpse in one of the deepest dungeons of a small church three hours from Intelligentsia. Her imprisonment, a result almost certainly of disobeying the Archbisop Gunrei. Her departure from this world, and the charring of her corpse had proven to be a significant morale boost to the Royal Forces.

Her charred remains were strung up behind a Humvee and dragged throughout the towns surrounding the Duchy of Capricornia, a foreboding sign of what was to come.

Demoralised by the betrayal of the Archbishop, the two forces splintered and turned upon one another, even before Whent's body had disintegrated upon the bitumen of Capricornia. Thousands upon thousands fell before even a single Royal soldier had fired her gun upon them. Only the most fierce of Whentian terrorists had managed to fallback to Capricornia, in a precarious bid to defend their home and to preserve the line of Whent. When they finally made it home, the combined might of the air forces of former Kianese states were already laying waste to the city, tearing their homes and families apart. The naval blockade had ensured that the Capricornians were cut off, out of food, medical supplies or weaponry. Assets within the Duchy had poisoned the domestic water supply. Cholera, maleria and fevers were rampant throughout the city, before long the power plant was destroyed, then hospitals, and eventually the remaining schools.

And still, they limped on. From suburb to suburb, street to street, and home to home they fought and died. Within a matter of months, the ancient seat of the Whent Family - the great Castle of Capricornia was under siege and into ruin. The Queen had promised to spare the two daughters of the Whent line, and the City had surrendered under these terms, believing that they had fought and lost bravely. Amira, however, preferring to be a liar than a fool, ensured that both children and other members of their entourage were immediately executed by Hector himself. Not even the smallest embers could be left unextinguished, or they would once more engulf the nation in the great fires of war.

Her husband had made the mistake of sparing the Whent family, when the Duchess' Father was executed for treason. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me, as the old adage said.

Even the events of Capricornia would be nothing compared to what had occurred in other areas of the Kingdom.

The Imperium had secured their old stronghold of Port Augusta through brute force alone. No offer to surrender. Every member of the occupying forces was killed, either as they stood, or in mass for those who attempted to surrender.

Subjects, Priests, Warriors, Traitors, and Children. It had grown more difficult by the day to tell the difference. All that existed now for Amira and her closest relatives was black or white, success or failure, survival or destruction.


Intelligentsia, McMasterdonia

Jessica Whitwell had succeeded Count Gregor as the Chancellor of the Kingdom barely one year ago. Already she had aged the better part of a decade. Formerly the Minister of Security, she had overseen a successful recapture of Intelligentsia International Airport, the naval blockade of dissident regions, and supported the efforts of the Royal McMasterdonian Forces to keep the peace in Intelligentsia and the outer regions. Her influence and hold on power was, tenuous, despite these successes.

The civil war had thrown back progress towards a civilian government at least half a century or more. Jessica was not of noble birth, something the Queen and other members of the Royal Army were keenly aware of. The brutal crackdown upon dissident regions had occurred too late into the conflict, and by this point, old wounds were encouraged to fester through the mass killings, executions and imprisonment. There was little hope of reforms or negotiations.

The Queen had personally ordered that the old noble families from Karnam, Grantham, Aurore, Castello and now Capricornia be put to death. Unlike ordinary families, some of these families were incredibly large - which made tracking down each member incredibly difficult. The late Earl of Karnam was a virile man with more than one hundred children. It had taken almost a year to capture them all, provide a brief military tribunal and ultimately to execute them.

Even members of the Royal House had not been spared the wrath of the new order. The Princess Charlotte, sister-in-law to the Queen Amira had disappeared after questioning the Queen's tactics at the royal caucuses. Charlotte had been missing for months, and no search party, or reward had been offered, only silence. And in McMasterdonia today, silence was intended to be deafening.

Only the most radical of regions remained under Gunrei's control - the Patriarchate itself. Insurgents who were little more than farmers or school boys would appear from time to time in the Isles or in the far east. With the security forces spread so thin, it was too easy for these untrained insurgents to carry a troublesome bag onto a train, or conceal a weapon in a church. Many an assassination plot against the Queen, Prince Richard and even Jessica herself had been thwarted. How long would it be, before the Queen Mother's brutality would unleash such a chain of events that nothing could stop it?

Now, the Queen Mother had ordered that sarin be stockpiled in preparation for the final frontier. "Have you seen what sarin can do to your enemies, Jessica?" she had asked.
 
lozinak__755924.png

​
Consilium de Rebus Externis.
​


Vox Imperatori, Vox Senatus

Citizens of the Empire and foreign observers; let it be known that the Emperor and Senate have been in council regrading the current turmoil to our west. Given the extreme violence taken on all the sides, the Emperor has decreed that no Legionary shall cross the Portae Occidentalis. While the Empire shall withhold military aid, the Emperor extends his hand in friendship to aid in the rebuilding of the Kingdom, but only after the government of McMasterdonia can ensure the cessation of hostilities within its sovereign borders.

Praefectus Peregrinus
Stephen Walwood
 
The following is the contents of a letter. Delivered by night, and obscure personage to the Queen Mother Amira.

Queen Mother,

The Great Houses of Lozinak have not forgotten the House of McMaster. While the violence, and rumors of human rights abuses around the conflict have prevented the Empire from intervening directly, the Houses of Alan, and Arnath are prepared to move discretely. Despite our differences within our own borders, we have ever been united in preserving the good blood. With your leave, we will send a contingent of Frumentarii across the west border to hunt the enemies of Royalty.

We eagerly await your response.
N & V
 
Gunrei laid in bed, surrounded by his closest advisers and the bishops of the Patriarchate. Though its borders had shrunk, those provinces, clergy, and laymen remaining had only increased in their fervor. But he was an old man and it was time for him to stop speaking the words of Flem and go to meet Him in person. He felt not a tinge of anxiety or nervousness.

The illness had come on quickly - some form of pneumonia or bronchitis had sapped the energy and breath from him. At his age, yearly colds were already lasting longer and never really going away. There were some quiet tears, but most of his final hours were spent in prayer and silent meditation. Some whispers, which he couldn't understand, came from the corner of the room. It was probably bickering about who would succeed him as leader of the Patriarchate. He wanted to raise his voice to put an end to the argument - he had made clear that Bishop-Ordinary Jacobsen would be the one - but something, be it his lungs or Flem stopped him.

Day turned to night quickly. It became more difficult to breathe, but he pushed away the nasal cannula a nurse tried to install. A few minutes later he lost consciousness. Some part of him - his soul, perhaps - remained in the world. There was a deep darkness, like the night without stars or a moon. He felt a great joy as he prepared to meet Flem. But he waited minutes and hours and he felt nothing. He felt even further from heaven than before. There was a great absence, as if a piece of his soul had been torn away or as if the pneumonia extinguished even his immortal breath. Why was this? Was this another test?

There was a silence as deep as the dark. The word "hell" went across Gunrei's lips, and he woke up.



Gunrei slowly got out of bed. He did not sleep well, but his cold was improving and he was finally able to take a deep breath without coughing. His morning prayers were blessedly free of hacking fits, and he included a prayer of thanksgiving to Flem for getting him through another illness. At his age, such prayers were increasingly necessary.

He was to have a meeting with Brother Benedict and Bishop-Ordinary Jacobsen at 9:00, but he had forty-five minutes to eat breakfast. Gunrei chewed absent-mindedly on his toast while dwelling on his dream. Was it a warning, or a test? Had he sinned too much in this war, gone too far, killed too many? Or was something testing his faith, his willingness to finish what he started at any price? As he swallowed the last of his toast, he prayed again for guidance.

At 8:55 he entered a room to meet with Benedict and Jacobsen, and they were already there. He had scarcely finished taking a seat before Jacobsen began speaking.

"As you know, Patriarch, another attempt on Richard's life, may-his-memory-be-trampled, failed last night. Witnesses said that our soldier, ah," Jacobsen paused to look at his file, "David Goodman, hesitated at the last moment and allowed himself to be picked off by an enemy sniper. Inherited none of the courage of his namesake!" he said with a sneer.

"Watch your mouth, Bishop," Gunrei said calmly. "I challenge any man to remain calm with a bomb vest strapped to him."

Jacobsen cleared his throat. "Yes, Patriarch. Despite the failure of the attempt on Richard's life, his vest did explode successfully and took the lives of six royal retainers and two nearby soldiers."

Gunrei nodded, and the three remained silent for a moment. A prayer for the dead.

"We can expect retaliation from the Royal Family," Gunrei said. "They will not allow these attempts to go on much longer without responding in kind."

"I recommend slowing down these attacks," Benedict said, "And focusing on our defences in the Patriarchate. They will try an assault against us soon. And we cannot count on them to wage war in a way as holy as us. They will take no prisoners and allow no surrender. Every man must be trained and prepared to fight on behalf of our theocracy and Flem."

"We do not have the money to give a rifle to every layman inside our borders!" Jacobsen said. Recently it appeared both Benedict and Gunrei were overestimating the size of the Patriarchate's coffers. "An aggressive series of individual attacks in Royal territory, as we have been doing, will demoralize and terrorize them enough to sue for peace."

"But, Bishop," Benedict began, "This war has been going on for well over three years. You make the mistake of thinking these apostates have morale to lose. They live in sin, breed in sin, and work in a sinful way. We cannot expect them to lay down their weapons now. They are given life and determination by The Adversary. It is necessary to defend our walls and borders from their attacks while we rebuild our strength."

"They may be given strength by our Adversary, but they also have to contend with the opinions of their civilians. Their possession is of a lesser type, and they tire quickly like all lesser sinners. If our forces can cause the rank and file of the Royal territories to react with exhaustion at further war, nothing could induce them to assault our position. Attacks in cities, schools, and apostate churches will quickly destroy whatever momentum Royal forces have."

"I will not allow deliberate attacks on civilians! It is written that this is a grave sin." Gunrei said. He needed time to work out if his dream was a test or a warning. If it was a warning that he had already gone too far in his war, he could not escalate things further. If a test, then perhaps Flem would allow some violations of the Book of Laws. But not yet. "We will fortify our position and prepare for a Royal advance. While we may have suffered some setbacks, this war is not over yet. We will regroup, retrain, and double our prayers and reaches towards Flem. In the end, it is He that allows all of this to take place. His favor is the most important part of our holy war. We must pray."

Gunrei grabbed Jacobsen's and Benedict's hands and the three men bowed their heads. Jacobsen dared to ask himself, is the Patriarch getting soft?
 
OPERATION REGENCY BRIEF REVIEW​
GEN. BROUSSIER, COMMANDER OF LANCERIAN FORCES IN MCMASTERDONIA to:
PRIME MINISTER ISAAC OUDINOT, QUEEN-EMPRESS AMELIA​

General Brief
The Lancerian mission in McMasterdonia continues to be a success. Aid and medical services continue to be distributed in an efficient fashion though supplies continue to be in high demand. Despite this, manpower and space restraints continue to limit the maximum amount of patient beds to 600 on board both the HES Bonaventure and HES Sauvignon though number of patients actively being treated vary widely on a variety of injuries, availability of additional McMasterdonian doctors, supplies, and other concerns. Military efforts also continue to be a success with Lancerian legions and RLAAF units working in cooperation with the McMasterdonian military and Plembobrian air support and focusing on the conventional war against the Patriarchate and counterinsurgency operations in controlled territory. At this rate, the end of the war may be in sight.

1re Expéditionnaire Légion - Intelligentsia
The first expeditionary legion continues to provide aid and security in Intelligentsia based around the docked HES Bonaventure in its hospital configuration. Additionally, units from the legion continue to provide support to conventional warfare and counterinsurgency operations in the region. Attached to this unit is the army’s 1st Field Hospital Regiment.

2e Expéditionnaire Légion - Port Augusta
The second expeditionary legion were relocated from Ceduna to Port Augusta at the request of McMaserdonian officials. This region required greater support than Ceduna and so the priority was shifted. The unit is following a similar mission of providing aid and security in the region and supporting conventional warfare as well as counterinsurgency operations in the region based around the docked HES Sauvignon in its hospital configuration.

3e Escadre Garnier & 4e Escadre Wiltier - Intelligentsia
The 3rd and 4th wings of the RLAAF from Garnier & Wiltier AAFBs continue to provide air support throughout McMasterdonia, replacing air units operated from HES Huntress which has been reassigned back to home waters. Air superiority means that only ground-based threats exist at present and their missions are primarily close air support, strategic target elimination, and assisting to enforce the No-Fly Zone above McMasterdonia declared by Queen Amira. A detachment from the army’s 3e Fusils De La Reine have been flown in from the empire to provide security for the air units at the airport.

Royal Lancerian Navy
As noted above, the HES Huntress and it’s group including the HES Hood have returned to home waters to continue patrol operations there. Also noted above, the HES Sauvignon and HES Bonaventure continue to provide aid at their respective locations. A variety of the submarines, frigates, and destroyers assigned to their battle groups work with McMasterdonian naval units to enforce the blockade of the Patriarchate. Repairs on the ships damaged in the gulf incident have been completed except for the HES Ney which will be towed back to the empire in the coming weeks for special engine work that cannot be completed in wartime McMasterdonia.

Continuing Mission Objectives
- Continue efforts supporting the conventional war against the Patriarchate in McMasterdonia through RLAAF air support and the legions on the ground.
- Continue counterinsurgency efforts in McMasterdonia through RLAAF air support and the legions on the ground to provide the greatest possible stability to government of the country.
- Continue to support the McMasterdonian naval blockade of the Patriarchate with RLN ships.
- Continue to enforce the No-Fly Zone over McMasterdonia with RLAAF planes.


Attached Message:
Prime Minister, and Queen-Empress,

I am very concerned with recent actions of the McMasterdonian military and government here. They have hunted down each member of the Karnam, Grantham, Aurore, Castello, and Capricornia noble families, subjected them to a sham military trial and sentenced them to death regardless of age or personal actions in this conflict. Soldiers of the other factions were also hunted and killed in small skirmishes with no offer of mercy and no regard for surrender, or if the surrender was accepted, these soldiers were grouped up and mass slaughtered by the hundreds.

I have been appalled by these actions and I have seen my soldiers’ and officers’ disapproval and disgust. As you know, from the first massacres I have ordered Lancerian troops not to participate but I wrote the above to relay the real extent to which these are taking place. In any conventional war these would be considered heinous war crimes and it is affecting the morale of every unit stationed in the McMasterdonian theatre as well as my own patience.

Please note that the continued proliferation of these acts will leave me no choice but to resign my command.

Sincerly,

General Thomas Broussier
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Three years.

Three years since the adventures in the north of McMasterdonia. Five since the socialists and the nobility agreed on stripping the monarchy of its power. Seven years since Timothy-Aurelius-the-Third-of-his-Name was crowned.

And here was the late King of Plembobria reading a report on The Proposed Revision to the Comparative Provincial Revenue Equalization Rules. The palace was rebuilt. They had made a show of moving back in about a year ago. The monarchy held a rather high approval rating during the entire ordeal. Nearly reaching into the nineties before tapering back off to the usual sixty-something percent.

Perhaps it was that he felt useless up here (still unmarried) in the Royal Study wondering why government needs one hundred and forty pages to dictate that the provinces can't try to become tax havens, or why they change those rules every two months. And of course, why he needed to read them each time.

As long as it had been there was only one thing that stuck on the King's mind. The war. The war that had stretched it's hideous claws across the sea to his home. A war between crazed radicals, an insane person, and whiny upstart brat who just wanted to play princess for a day. Now it was "over." The Queen Mother had rode in like a valiant heroine, freeing all from their chains and doing justice upon the criminals who had dared to challenge the authority of the Crown. Which was why, of course, the Lancerian commander had resigned citing human rights violations. The Plembobrian government would need to take a position, which King Timothy would be more than happy to advise upon if he'd had any advice to give.

A former Deputy Prime Minister in one of Plembobria's short-lived governments, Isaac Heavensby, who had been known for his frequent gaffes, once described the situation as "baddies versus baddies." He was dispatched with shortly thereafter. Perhaps the greatest fools know the greatest wisdom.

Perhaps he'd write a letter to the Queen Mother. What would he say? Should he consult his father, a McMasterdonian official, first?

Perhaps it's best that Monarchy should decline. The affairs of State and the affairs of the household have no business together.
 
The Hall of Kian, Isabella, The Isles

Lining the hall of the old seat of power for the House of McMaster was the many Emperors and Empresses of the Kianese Empire. As the centuries had fallen into the past, so had these statues fallen into disrepair. Only the more glorious Emperors and Empresses had been restored, others abandoned to the sands of time. No statue was as impressive as the late Emperor, husband of Amira and Grandfather to the Prince Richard. His stubborn and demanding leadership had shepherded McMasterdonia into the modern age. Nonetheless, his leadership had exacerbated tensions between old rivals of the House and encouraged the wounds of stifled democratic reform to fester. Now once more, the Kingdom found itself on the precipice of another such power vacuum that her daughter Matilda had faced upon her ascension. Of that generation, only her daughter Wilhelmina had survived, but her reputation had not. If Amira or the Prince were to fall, the remaining squabbling members of the House of McMaster would ensure that the Kingdom was destroyed before even one of them could sit upon its throne.

Despite this, Amira found herself summoned before the Royal Council. Despite her marriage to the late Emperor, she herself was not a member of the Royal Council or the House caucuses, and had no voting rights. They would not have dared to keep her husband or daughter waiting, but this was their way, and so she would wait.

After a few minutes, the elderly Prince Cyrus came out to greet her. Bowing politely, he kissed her right hand and invited her into the room. At the head of the room stood a high semi-circular table, behind which sat the seven members of the Royal Council of Elders.

Amongst the seven included three of Amira's husband’s brothers, the youngest Prince Cyrus, his twin, Prince Alexander, and finally the elder Prince Demetrius, now well into his 90s. The sole surviving sister, Princess Farah chaired the Council, and was joined by her cousins Prince Abbas and Princess Mansoureh.

While Amira had the right to act as Regent, it was the Council that retained the ultimate supremacy over the House, and the ultimate responsibility of ensuring the smooth succession to the next in-line. This, at times, contentious responsibility had led to a somewhat tenuous relationship between the Regent and the Council. Despite this, an even more tenuous relationship even still existed between the Council and non-Council members of the House. It was not uncommon in historic times for Councillors to murder each other, or to murder non-Council members if it kept them in a position of strength, should the throne need to change hands.

“We all know why we are here today” began the condescending voice of Princess Farah “Under your leadership, Your Majesty, the Kingdom has descended even further into ruin that we had thought possible. You liberated us from the tyranny of your son, we are all grateful to you for that. Your methods, however have proven to be just as troubling. Our allies will not stand by us unquestionably forever, Amria.…”

“It is these methods that have liberated your home Farah. It is those methods that have driven the Patriarchate warriors back into the depths of Capel El from which they came.”

It was true that the war had continued on the aggressive path that amira had promised would end. Soon after taking control, it had become apparent that such a scaling back of retaliatory measures would not be possible. If the war was lost, if even an inch was given to the Patriarchate the rule of the House would come to an abrupt end. If Richard could not be evacuated, his life too, would be ended. The Council was concerned with their own supremacy above all, and ensuring that they, could manage the succession of the Prince and mitigate any fallout with the international community.

After discussing the ongoing war effort and answering the questions of various Council members, it was time for it to end. Rest assured, they had warned her, that it was they and not her who would determine the succession of Richard to the Sapphire Throne. “We will determine if, and when, he is ready, not you” Princess Farah stated “He must satisfy every requirement of Council, the last succession to the throne was too hasty, and look where that has left us”.

The Security Ministry, Intelligentsia
Chancellor Whitwell had spent the better part of her morning micromanaging the Security Ministry. Since being appointed as the new Chancellor, security and defence of the Kingdom and the royal family had remained her primary focus. Even with the Senate resuming and legislative business being carried forward as it had pre-war, it was always something that would bring her back to her old offices.

Last month, it had been the deliberate derailing of a decoy train, the Queen-Mother’s body double and a large segment of the Royal Guard had been killed. Last week, it was a failed assassination attempt on the Prince Richard. A bomb strapped to a Patriarchate warrior, had detonated himself, killing several onlookers and members of the Royal Guard. The Prince, fortunately remained unharmed.

Determined to get revenge, the Queen Mother had ordered the Ministry of Information to distribute fake publications in local media about the Prince’s travel and whereabouts. They had planted the seed that the Prince had been travelling with friends to the City of Ghavaria. They were sure, that it would not be long before the tantalising thought of murdering the child would bring the Patriarchate out again to strike.

They had found the perfect location, and now it was simply a matter of putting the bait in place, and waiting.
 
Most of Bishop Jacobsen's days now were occupied with punishing attempted deserters and denying various requests from soldiers under his command for furloughs. These had been increasing in number over the past year, of course, but reached a fever pitch now that the Patriarch had called for a renewed commitment to "defense". The men often said what was on Jacobsen's mind but which he himself would never allow to leave his lips: the war effort was failing and this redoubt was more like a pressure cooker. Something had to be done.

Today, though, the monotony would be broken at least momentarily. Paul was a young man who, like most soldiers for the Patriarchate, joined because the depths of his devotion to Flem and Gunrei were matched only by his lust for the riches that came with looting McMasterdonian cities en masse. He was short but muscly, and would gladly fight men twice his size - this endeared him particularly to his platoon. At times he would walk into combat as if walking into the kitchen to cook dinner. He seemed fearless, and this made him well-suited for the task Jacobsen had in mind for him.

What made him perfect for the task Jacobsen had in mind was his city of origin. How sweet the irony would be: Prince Richard killed in Ghavaria by Paul of Ghavaria, the brave martyr for the Flemingovian cause! Jacobsen could hardly contain his glee as Paul reported to his office for his assignment.

He wore clean clothes, or at least cleaner than most of the men who came by looking for the Bishop. He was clean shaven with a close buzz cut, and with a sidearm on his belt - an even rarer sight by this point in the war. Jacobsen momentarily regretted that such a fine soldier would be lost. A man like this demanded a proper death - in the heat of battle, killed by a worthy opponent. Instead, he would die killing the degenerate, effeminate, posh Prince Richard. The bishop pushed the thought from his mind. He would go the same place as all warriors for their cause.

The conversation went the same as the conversation the Bishop had with the four or five martyrs before Paul. The target - Prince Richard. The justification - ending this war. The reassurance - eternity in paradise, fulfilling your promise to Flem. This time, the weapon was a carbomb, and the location - the Ghavarian Syrixia Nightclub, where Richard was known to waste away many a night engaging in drunkenness and fornication.

There was not a single question or doubt from Paul - which reassured Jacobsen this was the right choice. Most crucially, Paul did not ask Jacobsen if Gunrei authorized this attack. Such a question was unnecessary, as Jacobsen always acted with the direction of the Patriarch. He got in a car, 50 pounds of explosives in the trunk behind him, and drove to Ghavaria. If Paul had second thoughts, he told them to no one.

It took Paul only a few hours to get to Ghavaria. He was stopped at two checkpoints but waved through at each. Night crews so often missed what was obvious in the daylight. It was approaching 12:30 in the morning as Paul parked in front of the nightclub. He had a few minutes to run, if he wanted, but there would have been nowhere to go and no reason to leave. At 12:30AM, as the DJ in the nightclub played a crossover hit from Ozia, the bomb exploded.
 
Ghavaria, 2 hours south of Intelligentsia

At 12.30AM, the bomb had exploded. It's placement near the front entrance of the Ghavaria Syrixia Nightclub had ensured that the bombs in nearby parked cars had also exploded from the force of the first blast. Within minutes, the second floor of the club had collapsed. Then the first, and the ground floor. The 5000 person capacity nightclub had been brought to its knees, with the assistance of well placed explosives and lower building standards.

With the ground floor collapsing onto the underground car park below, the rubble had ensured significant damage to the sarin canisters stored below.

The initial blast had killed more than 100 people waiting in line to enter the venue, as well as many inside at the front bar. The secondary blasts killed scores more as they tried to escape the venue. However it was the gases that did even more damage. As the rubble settled, the gases leaked out into the remaining pockets of air beneath the surface, killing those trapped beneath the rubble. It spread onto the street, affecting onlookers, and into nearby homes, restaurants and clubs.

As sirens called out across the city, the Emergency services attempted to respond. Deliberately, the gas would make this impossible. The worst terrorist attack in McMasterdonian history had been orchestrated in an attempt to checkmate the regime, by eliminating the successor to the state, and a fundamental symbol of nationhood and unity. The perpetrators had failed to see the entire board of play, and with this one mistake, the war could be lost forever.


Meanwhile, in Intelligentsia - The Queen Mother was already preoccupied in the War Room. The last few hours had been spent preparing for a series of strikes against Patriarchate camps along the Northern border, when the call finally came through.

“What have you seen today?”
“An opaque Elephant, Ma’am.”

Within a matter of minutes, the Prince Richard was brought to her side in the War Room, joining the Generals, the Minister of Foreign Affairs and others as the footage came in from the attack. Chancellor Whitwell joined the meeting via secure connection from the Ministry of Security.

What they saw was harrowing.

The destruction of the youth of Ghavaria before their eyes had proven too much for some. But Amira watched on, with steely resolve.

“Do you see now Richard?” she asked coldly “This is what these people are willing to do to have you killed, what they are willing to do to our people.”

He didn’t respond immediately, simply nodding before asking “What will we do now?”
“We must respond in kind”.



O.H.M.S
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Statement by Queen Mother on the Terrorist attack in Ghavaria​

A terrorist attack was staged earlier this evening in the city of Ghavaria against our citizens, the Royal Security Forces and tourists to McMasterdonnia. It is obvious that these attacks, which took place outside a popular nightclub - the Ghavarian Syrixia Nightclub were intended to cause the maximum number of deaths and injuries as possible. It is clear, that this attack was intended to weaken our resolve by unleashing an unrelenting wave of brutality and inhumanity on the McMasterdonian people. We unfortunately have many martyrs and wounded as a result of this attack. I pray for Flemingovia’s divine intervention unto the wounded from this attack, and for his blessing upon all those who have lost their lives in this disgraceful act.

Once again, the despicable face of the Patriarchate has reared its head to pray upon the innocent of McMasterdonia. Innocent youths, going about their lives and enjoying themselves during their University break. Tourists, visiting McMasterdonia and immersing themselves in our culture and way of life. Syrixian immigrants and business owners, contributing to the multicultural fabric that is so interwoven into McMasterdonian lives.

Whenever McMasterdonia takes a great leap forward in our restoration to glory, the Patriarchate is determined to extract the maximum blood and destruction out of our people. This will not delay our restoration or our progress.The use of chemical weapons by the Patriarchate shows their desperation. They are losing this war and are determined to take as many innocent lives with them, into the night.

The Kingdom of McMasterdonia will again redouble our efforts to rebuild and to combat the extremes of terrorism. We mourn the loss of our civilians, our security forces and all foreign nationals. We will work together with our true friends to ensure that such an attack will not ever occur again in McMasterdonia, or abroad. We will no longer tolerate the false hand of friendship from foreign adversaries, who support the exportation of terrorism and arms to peaceful and democratic nations such as ours.

All McMasterdonian’s know that with the love of Flemingovia, we, together, will overcome any and all threats to the national interest and prosperity. The Patriarchate’s acts of aggression will not sour our morale, but instead, sharpen our swords, and strengthen our resolve and determination to see this war to its conclusion. No Patriarchate warrior, Priest, or attack - be it through terrorist means or otherwise, will deter the McMasterdonian people from our intention to defeat all dissidents and to restore order.

With this invigored determination, I have ordered the loyal Royal McMasterdonian Forces to deploy immediately with unyielding force and robust resolve to ensure that the Patriarchate is eliminated for once and for all. The Royal McMasterdonian Forces, supported by our allies across the world, will do all that it takes to ensure that the Terrorist Gunrei and his consortium of corrupt cannibalistic craven subordinates are brought to justice, by any means necessary.

Just like those who have lost their lives defending this great Kingdom today, we will sustain our fight for what it is to be McMasterdonian. Keep the fire of their memories burning eternally within you. The struggle for peace shall continue undeterred in the knowledge that until every Patriarchate warrior is slain or imprisoned, the risk of further bloodshed and killings will continue to be a factor we must contend with. We will never cease in our efforts to eliminate these attackers and usurpers.

The Prince Richard and I shall keep all McMasterdonians and the citizens of Eras in our prayers, as we mourn this most tragic loss. The people of McMasterdonia will stand strong in the face of what may come, for only through this steadfast resolve, will our nation see true peace, once more.
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Adding for continuity. Written by Myroria here.

[img=198,212]http://i.imgur.com/zTdOJzX.png[/img]
THE PATRIARCHATE OF CAPE EL
THE OFFICE OF HIS HOLINESS
"There is no god but Flem, who is all-knowing and all-seeing."​

Again the secular nations of the world show that their obsession with the idol of Rationalism does not mean they are willing to look skeptically at a bald-faced lie from one of their own. The Royal Family of McMasterdonia connives and schemes in an attempt to defeat our holy Crusade. If you are Flemingovian, remember these words from the Book of Sayings: "Wine gained by deceit tastes of sweet grape, but in the mouth will become vinegar". If you are not Flemingovian, think on them.

The godless tyrants leading the so-styled "kingdom" that borders our Patriarchate deliberately planted these chemical weapons and orchestrated this explosion to provoke foreign intervention. Not two years ago I went before the people of Eras and showed them the chemical weapons our Crusade captured from McMasterdonian forces in our rightful territory. Then I destroyed them. But it seems the memories of the secular nations now rushing headlong into this conflict are short indeed.

Many times over these past four years I have heard my enemies refer to me as "mad" or "insane". What, then, would you call a government that attacks its own people with sarin gas to provoke its allies to its "defense"? The Patriarchate does not have the ability to produce these chemicals even if we wanted to. Our cause is devoted to Flem alone, Who a thousand years ago forbid the catapulting of dead animals over city walls.

If the nations of the world will not listen to my words, they should listen to cautions of their own skeptics. Already there have been calls for an impartial investigation. Allow this investigation to take place before attempting to stop our holy Crusade. Our war is with the tyrannical McMasterdonian government, not any of the other secular peoples. At the very least, those who would rush into this land with guns and crates of unnecessary food should save themselves from wasting lives and energy for nothing.

Flem forbids us all from being a false witness or rushing to the defense of a known liar. We must commit ourselves to justice and truth. Our enemy commits themselves to treachery and deceit. We seek only to right the country that our enemy has so gravely wronged.

His Holiness, Servant of the Servants of Flem,
Patriarch Gunrei
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The Crown of the Kingdom of Esplandia and Alstenbek
King Sherwin V​

Your Majesty, Queen-Regent Amira,

Peace and Prosperity to you and your grandson, Prince Richard. I hope this letter finds the both of you in good health, especially after recent events. Times such as these are trying for all people and I can sympathize with the responsibility that falls on your highness. I offer you my support and friendship in this time, an ear to listen or a shoulder to lean on, if that is what you need. In times of conflict our people need strength, and yours are looking to you for that.

It is this ongoing conflict that rages across McMasterdonia that I write to you about. It has dragged on now for far too long and your people are fatigued. This is readily apparent with the separatist movement in Sutherland, yet another conflict which will only serve to lengthen the war. If a peaceful solution is to be found with these separatists, then the fighting between your forces and the Flemingovianists must also come to an end. Peace must be found.

I understand that there is a great deal of animosity between the two sides. How can one mend the breech when so much death and destruction has been wrought? Yet I feel it must be tried. McMasterdonia must be made whole, or else I fear more separatist movements will gain momentum, and more lives will be lost.

I plead with you Your Majesty, to find a solution. I extend you an offer, allow my nation to host talks of peace between representatives of Yourself and the Patriarch of Cape El. I offer you the use of the Royal Palace in Karthied for these talks. Let us together bring an end to the conflict and find a peaceful path forward.

Your Friend in Prosperity,
Sherwin Reginald Edwinsen auf Drakosta
King of Esplandia and Alstenbek​
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