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Kanada

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Konigser, Kalgary, Kanada. June 26th, 2018

A delightful looking chalet has several police cruisers around in, along with a sleek black car. Within the building is a collection of several men in suits, investigators and detectives, searching the building, assisted by police officers. Most of the commotion is around a blackened body lying halfway inside a sizable fireplace, unmoving.

One man speaks slowly to his partner while observing the body. "A conclusion? I believe he was pushed in then shot from behind. There's the entry wound of a bullet there," He gestured rather vaguely to the man's neck, "We know how he died, and we may have a little idea why it would be done. A small piece of evidence was the bill of sale and several personal letters next to it on his work desk upstairs. Apparently, he owed quite a lot to some Jewelry store in Kalgary, but the information on the papers are strange and the prices seem exaggerated. Almost all of the Jewelry company employees mentioned seem to not even exist past these papers. We will be going to the store in a few days."

The three most recent bills were all marked as unpaid, each with accompanying letters that became more and more vulgar as the bills went unpaid. One bill was just two days before the homicide, and the leading line was, "We've given you multiple chances...".

One devastating evening, June 25th, 2018, Kanadian Parliament Member Rasmus Hansson was murdered in his own home. More and more fingers are pointing to the 'deceased' Kanadian mafia, though that belief is just considered a silly conspiracy...

Undisclosed location, western Andrenne, January 2nd, 1919

"Incoming!" shouted a shrill voice far down the line, along with a few tolls of a bell. Everybody in the shallow advance trench gripped their helmets tight on their heads and planted themselves flat against the sloped walls of the ditch. A barrage of shells crashed quite a few metres in front of their trenches, not hitting them with shrapnel but instead launching clumps of dirt high into the air and allowing them to drop onto the men below.

A man trying to protect his deck of cards by holding them against his chest got a bit of debris to the head and passed out on the duckboards without a word. Other than him, the shell barrage was mostly ineffective, and everyone there could laugh it off- it was nothing of worry.

Then the damn Ninhunders adjusted their sights. A spotter plane above them had gone and contacted the artillery of their mistake.

As soon as that shell got a direct hit some bit up the line, men dove for the cover of their dugouts. Some began running to the communication trenches desperately to reach the safety of the rear lines and heavier defences, only to be torn up due to their exposure.

The sound of hundreds of mean yelling and screaming was overpowered by the drumroll of artillery, sending dirt and men alike flying high into the air. When the shellfire subsided, the Kanadian men remaining peeked above the parapet, rifles up. The whistles blew, but their machine guns had both been sent flying away, destroyed completely. They opened up on the Ninhundish as they emerged from their trenches, but they could only do so much.

The Nins' didn't stop to fire, instead marching straight forward until they had swarmed over the area of the destroyed barbed wire and over the parapet. Men began firing their single shot and moving in to fight with rifle butts, shovels, pickaxes, and knives. A Kanadian man with a scruffy beard and custom trench club made of strong wood and horseshoe nails went into the scrap with an image of a modern Viking, rifle hanging from his back, steel helmet on his head, and blunt weapon in his dominant hand, swinging and clubbing those unfortunate enough to not notice him.

No matter their bravery or valour, the Kanadians began to retreat, however, that was okay. They simply ran back to the second line of defences, where concrete bunkers with dozens of machine guns waited to demolish any Ninhundish forces coming soon after.

The bearded man was the last soldier out, weapon covered with blood and clothes tattered and muddy from the fierce fighting that had only lasted mere minutes.
 
Royal Palace, Kalgary. June 14th, 1920.

The sound of celebration echoes across the streets of Kalgary. The troops were coming home after a decisive victory. Sean Mariusson, Prime Minister of Kanada for the last eight years, stands on a high balcony in the Royal Palace, looking over the relatively low roofs of the surrounding neighbourhoods and government buildings. The sight of hundreds of victorious men in field gray uniforms was something incredible. They were dirty and broken, buttons torn off tunics, helmets dented, soles of boots falling off. These brave men had seen one of the most horrific things that only some could claim to have viewed. The terrifying reality of modern war, with mind-destroying and body-destroying capabilities.

Yes, they smiled and waved like they were simply returning from the local schoolhouse, but beneath their grins were lines of worry, and stress. The public didn't see just some bit south the dozens of thousands of men being carried off in stretchers, those who simply couldn't move, eyes dull, and unresponsive to questions. Those who had limbs blown off and deforming wounds to their faces and necks. Men who were now blind and had to be led off the gangplank in lines grasping to those in front of them.

These men would be the generation who inherited this nation. Sean hoped they would do well. He turned on his heel, putting out the remaining stub of his cigarette and placing it in his coat pocket for later disposal. The Royal family was out at the Harbour to welcome the troops home, all except for the King himself. He lay in great pain, weak from years of stressful leading. Two knocks on his bedroom door and he allowed Sean in.

The middle-aged man, running his fingers along his slick black moustache, bowed quickly before the king, then taking a seat next to him. The ageing monarch looked at him, and Sean spoke, "The physicians say you'll be dead within the week, Sir." His majesty nods slightly, an understanding expression across his face, "I'm not worried about myself, lad. I'm worried about my son."

"I don't want that responsibility of a nation after a war left in the hands of my son... He's only fifteen and foolish." Sean spoke next, "I'm sure with the help of a council until he's of ag-" "I don't want a council over my son!" The King replied in a furious tone.

"They're corrupt, and can lead to the end of a dynasty. Just look back through the ages," King Marius sat up slightly and stared Sean straight in the eyes, "But I have not an idea... I sure as hell don't want the Malorians back on top of us."

Sean cleared his throat, "Your Majesty, this may not be the best time..."

"What? Don't hold your tongue, lad." Mariusson tugs at his collar and responded, "We're officially bankrupt. The treasury is simply empty, and we... Simply have no way to pay it. We've demanded money from the Ninhundish, of course, but they're broke too. This war has sucked us dry."

The King looked at a framed piece of artwork across his room, a wonderfully detailed painting of the first King of Kanada, almost exactly a century before. "Mariusson, please do not let my son rip apart this nation. Go and enjoy the parade while you can. If my situation gets any worse, I'll send for you." Sean nodded and stood, bowing swiftly once again, "Of course, your majesty." He backed out of the room and prepared to go and greet the troops.



Kalgary Harbour, Kalgary. June 14th, 1920

Gen Zeitfeld came down the gangplank, smiling and waving his overseas cap around. As his foot hit the ground, he felt a surge of excitement. He was truly home now. The young man walked through the crowd of soldiers embracing family and sweethearts. Where was...

They called out to him, and he walked over to his father, crying mother, and brother in a uniform just like him. Only one more brother was missing, somewhere in the fields of Andrenne, under a thick layer of mud...

"Hello, mother, father!" He called, embracing them both in a three-way-hug, "How is business?" His father owned a convenience store in uptown Kalgary. "Nevermind us, how are you, Gen? Are you alright, in one piece?"

The soldier showed his family his right hand, where his middle finger was shortened to the length of his index finger, "I may have left a fingertip or two in Andrenne, but I'm okay. How is the store?" His mother spoke through sniffles and tears, wiping her face with a handkerchief, "We had a small dip in business, but we don't expect it to get better... The government is going to presumably raise tariffs, which is not good for us at all..."

Gen had a glint in his eye, "I'm sure we'll find a way to get products here. Legally, of course," A sly smile crossed his face, "May we go home and rest before supper? I'm very tired is, and I'm sure Zag is too." His brother nodded silently, and his father nodded, "Of course."
 
Kalgary, Kanada. June 21st, 1920
"The King is dead, Long Live the King!" Rings out, time after time over the noise of inner-city bustle. On the front page of every newspaper imaginable was the most recent photograph of His Majesty and those same words as the headlines.

King Marius ruled since 1897 and died at the age of 59. Rather young, perhaps it was all the drinking, smoking, and stress that caught up to him. There suddenly was no more celebration of the victory just a few weeks before, as people entered mourning for the man who had led them for over three decades. He had won a massive, deadly war, given suffrage to Women, and would have established Kanada rather securely in the world, if he had just lived a small bit longer.

The new, young King Erik IV, had made the transition surprisingly easily, and already had plans for what he wanted to do. The implementation, however, he had no idea how to do. The call for slightly raised income taxes, and a heavy tariff on all goods entering Kanada. It would be harsh, but if done correctly, may be able to bring the Treasury's head back above the water.

Parliament of Kanada, Kalgary, Kanada. June 29th, 1920
He was only fifteen, and barely so, yet he lounged at the head of the Parliament like he was a veteran of these affairs.

Men in suits bickered back and forth over the issue surrounding Kanada. There was even a lady wearing a rather boyish dress that even included a beige coat that took place in the conversations, having her own seat in the parliament. Lady Ellie Orefsen, Kanada's first female Parliament Member.

Sir Sean Mariusson stood from his seat at the head of the parliament, near the King, and spoke, "Hopefully after that moment of conversing with your peers, and considering the possible benefits and such to the new implementation, each of you has made your own, respective decision. We will go around the room, as per usual, and state your decision. If you are for the raising of tariffs on specified products to their respective amounts, say Aye. If you are against, say Nay."

It took several anxious minutes to go around, during which a well-dressed man in one seat, who did not vote, kept a tally. The King sat up straight when the vote neared the end, and the tally-keeper stood to announce the final vote, "For the raising of tariffs on imported goods, there are fifty-seven for, and fifty-three against. The bill passes the parliament by two votes." A polite clapping was mixed with grumbles and slight uproars of anger, one man in the far back of the room even standing and walking outside in a fury. People looked to the King, who nodded in approval, scratching at his bare-chin, which did not hold even a hair of stubble.

Zeitfeld General Store, Kalgary, Kanada. June 31st, 1920.
Orin Zeitfeld leans over the front counter of his store, reading the paper carefully. There were a few people around, and when one came up to purchase some tin canned foods. A regular, Orin felt comfortable laying down his paper and talking to him whilst checking the item prices, "You see what Parliament passed? Bunch of bigwigs don't care about the troubles this will put me through- My profit margins are razor thin anyways." The customer nodded, "Truly. I'd love to help, but there's not much I can do." The middle-aged man sighed and responded, "That's alright."

"Say..." The costumer questioned, "Have your boys got back yet?" "Two of them managed to crawl out of that hell," Orin responds, "They're both sleeping upstairs. Have had trouble getting any shut-eye, they're always having nightmares."

The customer nodded sympathetically and paid for his food, walking out with a simple, 'Good day.'
 
(Just south of Senneran, Senneran, Kanada. July 21st, 1920.)

After the sun had silently set over the Cogorian border, and darkness bathed the countryside apart from the few candlelit farmhouses. Most of Eastern Kanada was mountain, so the flat land they did have was nearly always covered in Farmland, all the way down to the sandy shore of the Lake. Out of sight of the bright lights of Sundeon, and too far east to have to run into the harbour, a small boat crunched against the store, and a lantern was lit, allowing three men to see each other, two looking much alike, and one looking nothing like them.


They got out silently, attempting to dampen their footsteps, and one moved up the dune, to find a young woman waiting patiently in a horse-drawn cart, holding a bolt-action rifle. She smiled when he came up, and they exchanged short greetings. Gen went back down the dune to his brother and Malorian friend, “Marie is here, we’ve got to hurry.” All three of them hauled wooden crates with open tops up to the cart, loading it up. Fruits, nuts, paper, coal, and a whole bunch of other miscellaneous things. It was only a few minutes before Gen handed his friend a few paper notes, and he began back across the river alone. Gen, ‘Zag’, and Marie began back inland, and the night continued as silent as before.


Zeitfeld General Store, Kalgary, Kalgary, Kanada. July 28th, 1920.


“Hello, father!” Gen called out, hopping off the wooden cart and embracing him in a quick hug. Gen’s brother followed suit and brought him back to the cart where Marie was waiting. Orin approached the cart and lifted the blanket slightly. He saw the bins and bags of food and supplies and brought up a hand to scratch a scruffy beard.


Orin looked at his sons and questioned them, “How’d you get all this?” Zag answered, “I have a few friends down south, they can give us cheaper products.” “Why?” “Because we’ll be making a lot of money from this…”


Gen and Zag’s mother walked outside soon, wiping her hands on a gray apron and approaching the cart. “Hello, Darling,” she said to Marie, both of them kissing each other politely on the cheek in greeting, before going to greet her children. Gen hugged his mother and went on to stand next to his sweetheart Marie proudly.


From July 20th to July 28th was the Zietfelds’ first smuggling of goods over the lake, and most definitely wouldn’t be the last.
 
(Fort Sean, Sundeon, Kanada. October 18th, 2018.)


The sound of firecrackers is drowned out by the screams, a mob of over one-thousand people surging forward against the wall of plastic shields, attempting to force them back. As soon as the two connect, pepper balls are shot by the Gas officers behind the shields, causing the rioters to retreat again. A man in a police uniform climbed onto a police truck, speaking into a megaphone,


“You are ordered by Her Majesty’s government to disperse, I repeat, you are ordere-” a rock soared at him and clipped his side, which started another wave of pepper balls over the shields. The riot police are ordered to move forward, and they do so very successfully, marching in the same step up to an intersection, where they halt again.


The situation only escalates as a full backpack is heaved over the shield wall, landing heavily on the concrete. Immediately, the police break, shouting and running for the side of the road, but it appears to be too late.


At 1130, in the brisk, early snowing morning, a bomb sounds in the streets of Fort Sean. Four policemen are instantly killed, while those injured are dragged away or beaten down by the mob. A reporter from the Kalgary Bulletin is also killed nearly instantly. At 1145, the Malorian Foreign Legion was requested to assist the police in Kalgary. Just a few minutes after noon, the Royal Snowcapped Mountaineers were mobilized from the nearby lakeside military base, armed with rubber bullets and riot gear, meant to break up any tougher fighting.


The day goes on…


In a dark cellar, the sound of yelling and fighting is nearly drowned out. An old man in a dark blue suit takes a long pull from his cigar, and looked around the damp place. There was over one hundred men in civilian clothing with fighting gear over it in the house above him, protecting the house from the damage of the riot, and forcing back anybody who dares get too close.


“Mister Zeitfeld…” a short, uniformed guard says quietly, approaching the old man. “What is it?” “‘Crown¹ wants your help.” “How many men?” “As many as possible.”


Gen Zeitfeld the Second placed his cigar halfway into an ashtray and cleared his throat, hand going over what remained of the hair on his balding head, “Give her them, then.”

---

(South of Senneran, Senneran, Kanada. August 19th, 1920.)


What terrible luck. Just on their third trip back with their smuggled goods, the trio of Gen, Zag, and Marie were on the verge of capture.


“Who’s there?” a policeman insists louder, gripping his wooden baton and creeping closer, followed by another with a revolver in one hand and the same baton in the other. Gen and Zag lay on their stomachs in the cart, Zag with his bolt-action rifle gripped in his hands. “Come out immediately or we will force you out!” the other policeman insisted.


Thirty tensioned seconds of silence and the policemen had reached the side of the cart. Just as the man with the revolver was looking over the wooden wall, and gasped at the man with the rifle, Marie emerged from the shadows of the trees and beat the back of his head with a homemade baton, making him collapse instantly. Zag sat up as the second policeman turned to face Marie, and whacked him in the back of the neck with the butt of his gun.


Five minutes later, the cops would slowly awaken, a searing pain on the backs of their heads and necks, batons, revolvers, and the cart gone. There was a small sprinkle from the clouded night sky, and only did one man realize. Someone had taken his gray police cap.


---


¹ - Since the 1920s many would refer to the current monarch as “The Crown” or “Crown.”
 
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