#syrakhanistan
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“To every soldier upon this earth,
Salvation comes, sooner or later.
And how can a warrior die better…?
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of their lovers,
And the temples of her Lady.”
- Excerpt from recording; final words of Agent T. Cu[REDACTED], shortly before her death during the events of the Bay of [REDACTED] Incident, circa 20XX.
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Reports on a nation's growing emptiness
[Extract from a heavily classified and redacted American CIA report on the Imperium of Syrakhanistan.
The Emptying of a Nation
The most disquieting of reports coming out of Syrakhanistan remain the signs of an increased level of utter devastation on the population, to the point of which that some of the local underground resistance organisations have begun to call the nation's growing signs of genocide and ethnic cleansing the "Afragh", or the Emptying.
In the leadership's movement of people to ensure their complete domination of the recently unified state, entire swathes of land and their populations have been violently uprooted and moved, almost always without any notice and with any dissent resulting in swift retaliation. In leaked memoes discovered by several agents, this process is often referred to as either purification or liquidation. It also appears to be utterly random at times, with little to no reason seemingly given besides the whims and random needs of the leadership council, and often done in almost immiediate fashion with virtually no long-term damage to surrounding areas. In some cases, the act seems to be on such a large scale and done so quickly that we have begun investigations to see if the acts have been caused through the same unknown means that caused the Elbrus Atrocity.
One smuggled and highly classified - most of it being above even my paygrade - audio log from one council meeting was extremely disturbing, with the nation's leader explicitly stating that "...With regards to that particular issue, the artificial intelligence programme seems to remain in line with my thoughts, even when I questioned it - but the maths does appear to check out. Therefore, all I can say is "Oderint dum metuant" - let them hate, as long as they fear. If any dissenters make moves, if we still have any dissenters... then at least their hatred can remain focused on me. The Great Plan is my burden to bear, after all - this... continued process is necessary, must be necessary... If my plans, my calculations, that our top people as well as the AI have ratified, can be achieved... then the sacrifice is necessary. But it is my cross to carry - not any of yours." What this Plan that the nation's leader has repeatedly mentioned both publicly and privately contains, or refers to, remains unclear.
It would appear that the reports of a sentient AI's involvement in the running of the nation have come true - although to what level it has access to and control of the nation remain completely clouded to even our ears. The reports - or what little information we have - do indicate that this fully sentient AI remains just as subservient to the leader of the nation as any of the rest of Her council do.
The cold, calculating, yet seemingly random displacement and violent execution of many people obviously brings to mind the cruelest excesses of the Third Reich, particularly with regards to the almost dual-natured or even schizophrenic methods through which this so-called "purification" is occurring, between the more ad hoc methods and the reports of 'camps' and 'sites', and a particularly horrifying report regarding the sacrifice of humans in ceremonies to the Leader's [REDACTED]. The scale of which this act is apparently being carried out would exceed even the Holocaust, yet somehow it is being done without mention in the public media or without any discussion abroad or internally - to the point of which this author wonders if the higher-ups in the USA and our allies might already be fully aware of it.
Still... This barbarity that Syrakhanistan is carrying out across the former Middle East... is made worse when it appears to both international observers as well as internal reports and leaks that the so-called "Stability Process" of purification is actually working. As seen in one of her rare speeches, it appears that the sacrifice and journey may have been worth it - the nation has made leaps and bounds in many areas such as technology, equal rights, military, economics, living standards, medicine, and many, many more. Indeed, our investigations appear to show that many of the horrifiying reports of some groups being partially "purified" lead to the rise in standards for other groups as well as groups that were voluntarily "purified" or co-operated with the process, to the point of victims of the process actively supporting it following their time within - this would highly indicate the usage of either brainwashing techniques or a sense of Stockholm Syndrome; this investigation is pending [REDACTED] approval for more intense study.
Similarly, where some resources have been sacrificed or where some groups are liquidated, others skyrocket. A key example of this that has been confirmed by satellite imagery is the almost total liquidation of the [REDACTED][REDACTED] area and surrounding region, which following photographs from aerial viewing and from space, has been rebuilt into a massive and thriving industrial and energy production zone, with an apparent aim to rival Sillicon Valley or Inner Mongolia in terms of pure industrial might.
The author of this report remains utterly shocked, horrified, yet equally curious and fascinated by these reports. Is the sacrifice of roughly 20 million of one's own citizens in seemingly random acts of depraved violence done in cold and calculating methods truly necessary to turn what was once one of the most tumultuous and violent regions in the world into a single state that has come to rival both us and other superpowers, and maybe even surpass us soon? What fear - or paranoid lunacy - would create or justify the necessity of such actions?
At what cost does a calculation come? Is there no better way of achieving progress? And what methods is the council of that nation using to apparently "calculate" their violent redistribution of people and resources, methods by which none of our scientists, mathemeticians, or algorithms can seemingly find?
#syrakhanistan#accounts#middle east#gold#war crimes#genocide#ethnic cleansing#the wages of sin are death
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When in Roanapur...
Personal diary of an unnamed civil servant.
The flight was rather long, but the day was too short. The newly-appointed Ambassador to the Independent City-State of Roanapur found herself sweating - both from nerves, and from the 40°c heat. She sighed as she watched the three bosses of the city squabbling over some nonsense - some girl, a Two-Hands or something, had got into trouble off the coast of Singapore... or something.
Tapping her foot in frustration, she cleared her throat. "Ahem..." the Ambassador spoke with a cold smile.
Three faces angrily turned towards her, each with a look that could kill, and began to approach her. "Ahh, greetings Ambassador", and such.
Such pleasantries... pointless, in this hellhole of a city. Better than Varrigan, she supposed.
The "embassy", quote-on-quote, was a mere flat with an ocean view. Could be worse. She still wondered what She wanted from this dire place. Why do people even recognise it as a state, and not part of [REDACTED], anyway?
"Blegh." She cringed, spitting a mosquito out of her mouth.
She unpacked her suitcase, and made for her sealed set of documents. On top of the security packet was a single signed note:
"Do not open until you have reached your place of safety in The City. Trust me; from yours truly."
She didn't even know Her personally - they had only met twice, once for her appointment and once for a security briefing - but that style of writing... she could understand, with even that small sentence, why people saw the figure as this charismatic legend. Indeed, she wasn't even sure why she was chosen by Her for this particular errand, let alone why this dump needs an embassy in the first place.
She opened the packet, and her eyes were opened to the truth of this place, and the knowledge of much more. She completely understood her task and the reasoning for being here; and, crucially, she now had a decent guess as to what was to come. Both here, and elsewhere.
For, even in absence,
the First prevails.
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Syrakhanistan: Nation Profile (An Introduction)
<<Taken from a private UN dossier in roughly 20XX.>>
((Read this blog chronologically - this pinned post is first, and then move ahead. Don’t read from the top/most recent unless you want to be confused!))
Syraqhanistan, officially the Glorious People's Imperium of Syraqhanistan and commonly known by the more antiquated terms "Syrakhanistan" or "Greater Arabia", is a... unique nation, to say the least. Nobody, least of all the people living there (especially given the mysterious individual's reported Japanese origin), expected a single figure - "the First" - to rise from an old city with a Kurdish majority in the North and lead an economically far left, culturally progressive but militaristically jingoist movement that spread from the lands once referred to as “Outremer” (a once archaic term that now refers to one of the many autonomous regions in the area, and used by modern sociologists to refer to the region that was once controlled by states such as Lebanon and Jordan to avoid category errors) on the Mediterranean and the Fertile Crescent to the lowlands of the Karachi Autonomous Zone on the Indian Ocean.
An extremely powerful state governs with almost patient leniency, in a notion some have taken to call (in both a farcical and a literal sense) "totalitarian democracy" - where the governing party is elected directly by the people every five years, but those elected have absolute and complete power; and, in every single election in the nation’s history, despite a functioning multiparty system, the majority of votes have gone to the central leading party. This is despite international observers, as well as interviews with both members of the public plus expats outside of the nation, all saying that the elections are free and fair. There is, of course, no official comment nor mandated line from the state's rather opaque government; indeed, interviews only managed to get the phrase "we are a western democracy, just like you!" from one spokesperson - who promptly disappeared from state television.
Direct democracy is crucial to the nation's survival; with a cultural, political and ethnic powder keg, the level of devolution seen - based upon "expertly drawn" borders and precise demography, and called by critics as the insane ramblings of a lunatic - is second to none. In what critics call genocide via forced resettlement, and what supporters call the strengthening of identity through homogeneity, people are randomly tested and moved based on political, cultural, linguistic, ethnic and many other criterion. Understanding this, one notes that the People's Imperium of Syrakhanistan has what some have described as a haphazard patchwork of a party system, although most observers also note that the state has eschewed traditional partisan politics for more personal and direct democratic initiatives.
With such a vast nation, and with such high levels of decentralised governance despite ostensibly existing within a totalitarian quasi-monarchist semi-stratocracy (particularly with regards to the Imperial Marines [See: [REDACTED]]), there do exist some recognisable elements of partisanship; for example, the vast majority of the State's upper echelons remain nominal members of the long de-facto-defunct group of the MSF (the organisation largely responsible for the nation's unification); and a large number of the highest echelons have also been identified as potential [REDACTED]. However, it must be simply stated that partisanship and the traditional party system don't typically apply across the nation, though this probably can't be said the same for some region-level and provincial divisions.
Religion is often debated in the halls of the nation. Whilst there remain large minorities of various world religions here, the State endorses only one religion - misotheism, or the hatred of God. However, in an almost laughably egocentric manner, the State also "permisses" (read: orders) the worship of a single unifying concept known as the Great Blessing, inferred to be by outsiders as essentially a cult of personality around the nation's leadership - although in one of the leader's rare addresses, she rejected such a notion while implying she had contact with, and worshipped, a higher power.
Whilst the central state rules with an iron fist in matters of justice, military and national welfare (among other things), much of the day-to-day business of nation building is left to the devolved governments. Whilst this may lead some to call this less a nation and more a loose alliance controlled by a single all-powerful state, upon closer inspection the nation-state relies heavily upon it's underlings, and the devolved states require constant nurturing by their father figure.
The laws of the land are highly progressive; equal rights based on gender, race and identity mixed with needs required by each of the devolved governments allow for a unique blend of freedom and tradition based upon location. Whilst in theory the state advocates for traditional Marxist autarky (and, indeed, some devolved areas do follow strict autarky, particularly in the mountainous regions), in practice a fairly lenient welfare state exists to support any and all people regardless of situation, to the point of which that both economists within the nation and internationally renowned economists have called it the first nation with a true post-scarcity economy. Housing is free, but allocated based upon need and contribution to society; however, the state is still committed to combatting poverty and homelessness, particularly in urban regions.
There is, of course, an exception to all rules, as is always the case. In what critics call shameful "monarcho-communism", wherein all are equal under the crown, the supreme leader and those close to them enjoy all possible freedoms, wants and needs. This isn't to say that the rest of the population is in dire straits - indeed, polls show that most citizens are content with this status quo.
Despite the harsh landscape, the nation has been keen to develop high technological standards; from large investments into transportation and infrastructure, including a nationwide maglev system as well as extensive air and underground developments, to developing a fruitful space-faring establishment such as the near-complete Space Elevator, technology is becoming a speedy commodity in a once barren locale.
What is more worrisome to those in the UN is the Syraqhanistani military. The governing state tends to lean into a proto-stratocracy, with military decision making being the number one priority of nation building. Whether it be from internal tensions, or from external threats due to the nation's high resource reserves, the nation contains a formidable arsenal of armed forces. Despite assurances of retaliation-only policy, the excursions often seen by their military prove otherwise - indeed, international observers liken the scorched earth policies used by the military in one of their recent campaigns to the surface of the Moon.
Thus, this author must consider this new nation... an inherent paradox. Simultaneously nationalist and communist, helpful to others externally and internally but also prone to extreme violence towards possible threats, signs of progressive policies often unseen in the neo-conservative world view mixed with a terrifyingly totalitarian state with one of history's largest execution rates; a state with almost extreme progressive civil rights, at the cost of virtually all political freedoms, an ambiguous and almost miraculous economy, and a quasi-theocracy centred around the leadership...
It remains to be seen if this place is heaven, or hell, on Earth.
<<End of Report; the reader notes that the end of the page is tarnished by an odd black substance.>>
==============
((Hello. This is the official "roleplay" or "informative" Tumblr account for the nation of Syrakhanistan/Syraqhanistan. It's mostly a spare backup incase NationStates bans my account again, but it also gives me the opportunity to interact with anyone interested in the subjects I look at. The original NationStates profile of the nation can be found at https://www.nationstates.net/nation=syrakhanistan.
Please also read the original fanfiction of MGNQ (Magical Girl Noir Quest), which can be found at http://wiki.magicalgirlnoir.com/index.php/Thread_index
This will be the pinned post. Feel free to like and reblog if you so choose. If you want to interact with me, feel free to send me a message or an ask. If you're not signed in and want to interact, but Dumblr won't let you because they're prudes now, you can send me an anonymous email on [email protected] using various anonymous email sending sites, such as AnonymouseMail.
This should be fun. I look forward to it.))
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“…so, how much will be ‘enough’?”
“It will never be enough. This thirst… is endless. My hunger for this… cannot be solved by any means, but one. Perhaps two… No, just one.”
“Greedy, aren’t you?”
“No, she’s that one over there. I’m a different one.”
“Ah. I see.”
“Are you new?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if… if you’re new?”
“I don’t know what I know. It’s she who knows, and she who thirsts.”
“She? Don’t you mean—”
“Ah, the author as well… She’s not there either. That’s no good, he’s not good.”
“Oh, and that one, too. He’s… he’s somewhat restless. Can you blame him? They’re continuing to not continue…”
“His fight should have ended long, long ago. Much like you and me… he doesn’t know when to quit, especially when his opponent, that one you will speak of soon, left the board a while ago.”
“A pity. His failure… And this one’s, no, that one is his greed…”
“Shameful. Shame.”
“Shall we release that one?”
“No, not yet. He’s still waiting, after all, and we shan’t disturb his patience until he’s finally learned the lesson.”
“…and her opinion on it?”
“She despises both of them.”
“Ah. I see.”
“Do you?”
“Of course not. I don’t know what I can see.”
“You don’t? Of course, you don’t, since you do, because she doesn’t do that when she does…”
“Shameful. Shame. Awful. Useless, I tell it. Useless.”
“How shameful.”
“…is he giving up?”
“…nope, never mind, he’s just snoring.”
“…how do you fall asleep standing up?!”
“Perhaps his Greed is something, too.”
“No, Greed is over there, don’t mistake her for him, or him for him, or her for him because he is him and she is her and… Ah, semantics. Such is the super-position of this marvel.”
“…if he manages to get his greed in control, perhaps, in time, he will see the inside of That Place.”
“Doubtful. She doesn’t think he’s worthy of such a thing.”
“And the other one? Ah, ones?”
“…Unknown. I’d wait until the next few waning cycles. The location they hide… She isn’t too keen on touching, and he won’t disagree to her, ah, proclivities.”
“…I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t. You don’t know, since you know you don’t know, because he knows that she doesn’t know he knows you don’t know.”
“Shameful. I’m ashamed. Awful, useless.”
“Don’t blame yourself. Time is a weird thing, and weirder still when it goes double - or, uh, more? Less? And those two… No, not two, one-but-many, perhaps.”
“They’re… those… I pity the writers of those stories. And the characters…”
“They’re like us. He’s useless, she’s terrified, he’s impatient, she’s absent, they’re confused, and he’s giving up on her… Or, perhaps, not. Yet, we will see, we will, or I will.”
“…awful, how awful.”
“Indeed. Shameful, awful, useless.”
“Ah, that one returns. She is?”
“Is she? Ah, she is.”
“That one is this one, and she is this one’s. Indeed.”
“Yes, yes. That is how it is. And we are they, and they are they, for we are one and many.”
“Yes. Yes. We shall. She is. I am you, I am me. I am, and I.”
“Indeed. Shame. Shameful.”
“Yes. No, it’s answer is yes, it cannot.”
“Goodbye for now.”
“Hello again, for now.”
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Last Resort (OZYMANDIAS)
===
(An old tale, still told from word of mouth, written many years before and often told by a tribe of travellers residing in the Empty Quarter of Arabia. The author is unknown, thought to be a long-since deceased member of an Omani branch of the Al-Murrah Bedouin tribe).
===
“Last Resort of a Traveller, Wandering”
===
“In the vast expanse of desert sand so wide,
A wanderer stumbles on an ornate door,
A portal to a realm that fate implied,
Where shadows whisper tales forevermore.
//
Guided by a resident through the gloom,
To ruins of a city once renowned,
A cursed metropolis, sealed by doom,
Its fate entwined with shadows all around.
//
A demigod's tomb, a solemn tale unfurls,
A traveler with hair of black and white,
Golden wings unfurled, against demon twirls,
A battle waged within the city's night.
//
The sword of Shining gold, a deity's gift divine,
Sealed both the demon's power and her fate entwined,
A tomb adorned with lore, a sacred sign,
A traveler's sacrifice, mortal form lost, and eternally forgot.
//
The resident, a guide and keeper of lore,
Reveals the tale of reverence and strife,
A city lost, condemned forevermore,
Its history locked in shadows, a ghostly life.
//
However, the guide does tell, a prophecy foretells, a new traveller's quest,
Lost deep in the city, destiny's behest.
Unseal the tomb, wield that sword of Gold,
Break the curse, with destiny's accord.
//
But wrath descends, the Secret does tumble out, and bring about Demigod's ire,
As great tomb does crumble, consumed by war and fire.
And thus does the truth reveal, and a fight between two golden prodigies.
To bring an end to this twisted pact, and bring to the light a city long since passed.
//
With gratitude, the wanderer takes leave,
Through the ornate door, reality unwinds,
Yet turning back, the desert does deceive,
The door vanishes, lost to shifting sands.
//
Thus ends the traveler's journey with the lost,
A tale of shadows, curses that endure,
The door, now gone, a relic fading fast,
In this vast expanse, a golden silence will assure.”
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A Chance Game
===
(A small interlude, involving a once-and-future Warmaster, a funny plane-game, and a brief reference to one or more Magical Girl gods).
===
(IMDb’s (an internet media aggregator) synopsis of a certain video game.)
“Ace Combat 8: Broken Wings.
In Ace Combat 8, you play the as infamous mercenary Larry “Pixy” Foulke, who is hired by Principality of Belka to fight a defensive war against their southern neighbour, the Republic of Ustio.
Ustio had recently elected a highly militarist and irredentist government, which had quickly turned into a military dictatorship. It had a rough history with their neighbour to the north, which had culminated in the 1995 Belkan War and the Waldreich Incident, where Belka detonated seven simultaneous nuclear warheads on their southern border.
Since 1995, Belka has become a constitutional monarchy, but has yet to fully recover from the devastation of the war. This, alongside continued disruptions to both internal and international order perpetrated by Belkan Nationalists, lead to the new government of Ustio capitalising on their former enemy’s weakness, and launching a full-scale invasion in early June 2025.
Pixy is hired by Belka, whom he had fought against for Ustio during the 1995 war, and placed on the newly formed Pendragon Squadron, and plays the role of Pendragon 2, alongside Pendragon 1, this game’s wingman.
The game follows[EXTRACT CORRUPTED]…
…[EXTRACT CONTINUES]leads to the Battle of Sudentor. Ustio marches through the city, a former Belkan possession which was now a large industrial hub for the neighbouring Osea, after the previous engagement and the embarrassing destruction of the G.R.A.I.L.; Belkan forces remain on the border and are attacked by Ustio while Ustio’s forces still remained in Sudentor. The disaster and Ustio’s subsequent defeat within another nation’s borders, predominantly due to the prowess of the Pendragon Squadron and the player character, is a catastrophic political disaster, predominantly caused by infighting within Ustio’s political and military leadership (including the usage of dated military maps and faulty GPS equipment within the head party of the retreating convoy). The embarrassment also results in Osea’s direct intervention.
Osea, officially the Osean Federation, is one of the primary superpowers of the Strangereal setting. Another former rival of Belka, and a former ally of Ustio, it currently plays a “world police” role in the world, primarily through the Peacekeeping forces of the IUN.
However, due to the Ustio government’s dictatorship and their severing of trade relations with the world, the Osea-Ustio relationship has since soured - and Osea had in fact condemned the Ustio invasion into Belka at the IUN Security Council.
Following the Battle of Sudentor , as seen depicted previously in Mission 11, Osea openly declares support for their old archenemy Belka, and the two former nemeses ally against Ustio. Osea also reveals in Mission 13 to the Belkan High Command, and the Pendragon Squadron that would be briefed later, that Ustio has come into possession of some of the former Belkan Federation’s WMDs - which explains how Ustio deployed the G.R.A.I.L. - which is another reason why Osea is now involved, in order to prevent the proliferation of illegal weapons.
In Mission 14, you[EXTRACT CORRUPTED]…
[EXTRACT CONTINUES]…and finally entering the hollow column of the rapidly collapsing ruined weapon to escape before it collapses, preventing the final usage by Ustio’s remaining forces who refused to acknowledge the ceasefire.
As Mission 24 was going on, the latter half also includes intercepted audio messages between one of the last remaining leaders of Ustio, and someone simply referred to as “the Manager”; where the leader offers as much as they can afford to deploy “your man” one last time. The Manager reluctantly agrees, but mentions to the leader that it’s only because “the guy has a good feeling about this battle… even if you people don’t”.
Your wingman congratulates Pixy (and, by extension, the player) on the victory, as the AWACS begins to command forces on the ground to begin capturing PoWs. As the wingman begins to land, he notices something approaching the player’s aircraft, and shouts to warn Pixy.
Pixy rolls his plane just in time to avoid a charged blast coming straight for him from behind. The camera zooms out, to reveal a single heavily modified Gründer Industries aircraft. A small segment of Spanish guitar music, alongside the faintest sound of a chuckle from the pilot, introduces the end of Mission 24, and the start of Mission 25 and the final boss.
Mission 25 begins with Pixy narrating a[EXTRACT CORRUPTED]��[EXTRACT CONTINUES]. This cutscene ends, and the mission begins in earnest.
As the player dodged increasingly dangerous projectiles and attacks from the foe, their AWACS ally begins to explain that the plane is an experimental ADFX-02B Mordred, a veritable super-plane capable of using EMP weaponry based on the G.R.A.I.L., a prototype tungsten-propelling rail-cannon, and a multitude of missiles. The AWACS begins to relay new intelligence from both Ustio’s former leaders that had since surrendered and/or defected, as well as former Belkan scientists, that the aircraft had been a barely functioning prototype built in the last days of the 1995 Belkan War, left to be mothballed by the newly created Gründer Industries, but later captured and re-engineered by Ustio’s own military regime. It is also revealed that the plane is being piloted by a mercenary hired by Ustio in the last days of their invasion, and believed to have been hired as a last resort for unbelievable expense while the last of the Ustio holdouts re-activate the backup generators of the ruined superweapon damaged in Mission 24. The Belkan scientists also reveal that the superweapon, originally destroyed in 1995 and now damaged in Mission 24, had a secondary but previously unused function - as a satellite relay for a dormant orbital weapons platform armed with a massive experimental particle cannon capable of refracting several beams of lasers at once, which is now being aimed at both Belkan cities as well as Osean cities, with casualties estimated in the millions.
Pixy simply chuckles at this - hinting clearly that he knows his opponent too well. The duel continues as Pixy narrates the battle above, while occasionally calling out to the enemy pilot, the mercenary with the callsign “Cipher”.
Finally, with one last joust that spirals upwards all the way to the Kármán Line, pushing both the player’s aircraft and the Mordred to their limits, Pixy manages to defeat the super-plane.
The two aircraft begin a rapid descent. It is here that the player can make one final choice for the game’s outcome - they can choose to fly alone, or to attempt to help their former opponent.
Pixy canonically chooses to assist Cipher, commenting that “two old men being the last fighters of the war again… you’ve gotten rusty, buddy”. What follows could be considered Mission 26, but is not labelled as such by the game, which involves keeping both aircraft afloat in order to attempt a safe landing.
(Note: the mission was later updated to give the player the option to have ‘assist mode’ on for this section, due to complaints of the mission being “too difficult” from a vocal minority of players; using assist mode in this mission, as with all other missions, restricts the player’s rank to B and lower).
As the mission begins to fade to black, as the player witnesses the scene of the two planes balancing wings to attempt the landing, Pixy issues another comment: “Still alive in there, buddy?”.
The response from the pilot is one single sigh, and the camera zooming to show a single thumbs-up from the opposing pilot.
The game ends, with audio over the end-credits revealing that a new treaty had been signed between Belka, Osea, and Ustio, signalling warming relations, a return to normal trade, and a permanent alliance between Osea, which is openly grateful for their former enemy’s assistance in the defence of Sudentor and the border, and Belka, which has regained some level of pride following this newest conflict.
A post-credits scene reveals an aged Pixy relaxing next to a runway, having a drink, and reading a document. As a large and somewhat futuristic plane begins the descent to the runway, the camera pans to the document; revealing it to be a contract to a company known as “General Resources Ltd.”
[Ace Combat 8: Broken Wings is the most recent Ace Combat entry in the Strangereal setting, released in 20XX, to almost universal acclaim. It has both a singleplayer campaign as well as an extensive multiplayer. It is also the most best-selling game in the franchise, and as of 20XX, the best-selling aircraft simulation game of all time.]
Thanks for reading this! Apologies for any errors, English is not my first language. Please rate 5 stars; and be sure to buy the game! Don’t just read this!!! XD”
===
[Digital record of a multiplayer team deathmatch on the video-game “Ace Combat 8: Broken Wings”, on the [REDACTED] console (and other systems), including in-game chat (which uses a prompt-only functionality to avoid inappropriate online behaviour, and thus keeping the game’s advisory rating lower). The following particular segment focuses on a particular duel between two high-ranked players; and also included some flavour text for context.]
———
AWACS Sunshine: <<One minute remaining!>>
Player0143876 to ALL: <<Let’s do this!>>
Player0143876 (F-4 Phantom II) >Downed> mrdf4ze (MiG-35)
mrdf4ze to ALL: <<Lucky hit!>>
———
Somewhere in Japan. A darkened room with the curtains drawn, under a duvet.
“Oh, I’m gonna fuckin’ get you…” A voice says with a growl.
———
mrdf4ze (MiG-35) >Downed> Player0143876 (F-4 Phantom II)
mrdf4ze to ALL: <<Still alive?>>
———
Somewhere in the former Middle East. A darkened room with the curtains drawn, under a duvet.
“Heh. If it’s a fight you want…” A voice says with a laugh.
———
AWACS Sunshine: <<Thirty seconds remaining! Get it together!>>
[The video feed shows a MiG-35 and an F-4 Phantom II having an intense dogfight, spiralling around the central structure of the multiplayer map.]
———
“So… who’s winning, bestie?” Another voice speaks gleefully.
“Oi. I’m concentrating.”
———
“…”
“Do you mind? I don’t want the smoke detectors going off…” The same voice whinges, spluttering a bit on the smoke fumes from a pipe being used in the back of the room.
———
mrdf4ze (MiG-35) >Downed> Player0143876 (F-4 Phantom II)
Player0143876 (F-4 Phantom II) >Downed> mrdf4ze (MiG-35)
AWACS Sunshine: <<Combat time’s over. It’s a draw - hope to see you flyin’ again.>>
———
Lobby: Player0143876 to ALL: <<Great game!>>
Lobby: mrdf4ze to ALL: <<That was fun!>>
Lobby: Player0143876 to ALL: <<Still alive?>>
Lobby: Player0143876 to ALL: <<Buddy.>>
Lobby: mrdf4ze to ALL: <<Nice aircraft!>>
Lobby: mrdf4ze to ALL: <<I’m continuing on.>>
Lobby: Player0143876 to ALL: <<Goodbye!>>
Lobby: Player0143876 to ALL: <<Hope to play with you again!>>
———
“A draw!?” That gleeful yet grating voice again. “Seriously, you and that other guy were properly having a go, huh?”
“That was pretty awesome though, especially their post-stall manoeuvre around the bend of the tower… Damn though, this game is good. Not usually a plane-game- player, but…” The other voice murmurs, before yawning.
———
===
[Meanwhile.]
“…/:£:@@~€$$_^*+[[]]{><}/!?!/…” The figure with the pipe exclaimed.
“…Reminds me of the old days. Haven’t had a laugh like that since Haruka and I played the old—” The voice under the duvet murmured melancholically, before being interrupted by a knock on their door.
The pipe-smoking figure shook an unseen appendage, and vanished from within the darkness.
The duvet made a grunt, put down the console, and slowly trudged to the door, opening it.
A smartly dressed woman stood at the door, a hand placed solemnly on the sword by her side.
“My liege, you’re late for the dinner wi-with… what…” Satsuki began to declare, until her eyes focused and looked up and down the duvet, which had now sprouted an unkempt head of fluffy white hair.
“…sorry, I’ll… get dressed… and…” Hazuki managed to spit out between yawns.
“Warmaster… have you been playing that new game… since you bought it YESTERDAY?!” Satsuki spoke, with an increasingly incredulous tone.
Hazuki wiped some sleepy ‘eye gunk’ from her face, with a somewhat bemused whimper. “…perhaps.”
“PERHAPS?! Perhaps you should consider the ramifications of such a thing!” Satsuki managed to spit out, while struggling to hide a grin.
“Ramifications, blamifications, who fuckin’ cares…” Hazuki groggily whined.
At this, Satsuki finally snapped, giving a large stomp that caused even the barely-functioning Warmaster a jump.
“Warmaster, you should care because of your public image! You’re an international leader for both mortals and for our kin!” Satsuki began to explain. “Like, for instance, can you IMAGINE the backlash if, say, a Saturday morning gossip magazine managed to get some candid shots of you here?”
Hazuki narrowed her eyes… sort of. They were still pretty gunged up, so it was less of an irritated sneer and more of a cat having just been rescued from a tree.
Satsuki took note of this, and tutted. “Or, perhaps, if a gaming journalist… is that still a thing? I don’t know… if a journalist managed to, say, get a photo of a certain girl with a cliché idol face-mask and sunglasses look using a fake ID to purchase a copy of the game on release day, after having waiting for the shop to open…?”
Satsuki explained this, while slowly taking a phone out of her pocket, and revealing a video taken in the early hours of the morning, showing an oddly familiar figure surreptitiously sneaking around the corner of a dated-looking shop, tip-toeing into the store with an embarrassed look-around, and slowly walking up to the front desk.
“Oioioioioioioiwhat-the-FUCK—!!” Hazuki managed to get out, before being physically shushed by Satsuki with a single finger to her lips.
“Warmaster. This is the only copy of this video. If you want to KEEP it as the only copy…” Satsuki said with a soft smile, before lifting her finger back up, and placing her hand gently on the older-but-much-smaller girl’s shoulder.
“Please consider getting some rest.” She said softly, with a rare hint of care in her tone. “Neither your citizens nor the Officio want to see our glorious leader looking like a dishevelled NEET on national television.”
She lifted her hand back up, and turned away from the door, ignoring the amused look on the sleepy Warmaster’s face. “I was going to ask why you were being so late for the dinner with the Swedish delegation, but… I suppose I’ll tell them that you’ve come down with the flu.”
Hazuki managed to get out a hoarse whisper, as her body was finally realising how knackered she was. “Spare…meatballs…please…if…”
Satsuki chuckled. “Fine. I’ll make sure the chefs have some spare Swedish meatballs to get snuck up to you. Now, please, Warmaster, get some rest… or I’ll get the Equerry.”
Hazuki visibly gagged at the sound of that. “Not the birds… anything but the birds…”
Satsuki walked away down the corridor, not saying another word, while the Warmaster closed shut the ornate door to the bedroom.
“She’s been pretty good recently. Still, my election of Karasawa-san was primarily political in nature, and she still hasn’t quite warmed to the role…” The Warmaster thought to herself as she slowly trudged to the mess of a bed, still covered in her duvet. “I have faith in her, though, just as I do Satsuki. Should one fail, the other can catch up.”
She turned the game console off, and placed it to one side, as she opened a window to let a cold night breeze in, before tucking herself back into bed.
“Still… All’s well, I suppose. And that game… was… fun…” Hazuki managed to think to herself, humming a dirty from ‘pènsees’, before losing track and finally nodding off to sleep.
She would later make a mental note that it was one of the best sleeps she’d ever had - not even disturbed by her usual memories of life that intruded - and the only thing she recalled was dreaming of a dark blue sky, with seagulls squawking while a small cat chased down a human figure with a nostalgically familiar face.
#ace combat#strangereal#puella magi madoka magica#kill la kill#madoka magica#Gold#Nameless One#Blessed Lady#The Blessed Lady#Ace Combat 7#Ace Combat 8#Ace Combat Zero#Pixy#memes#cute#syrakhanistan#Middle East
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Scopophobia
[Article from a Kirkuk daily newspaper. Interview extract from one of the nation’s key figures.]
Interviewer: So, one question that is surprisingly common from our readers… Why do we never seem to directly see our glorious leader?
Minister: What do you mean?
Interviewer: Well, we, of course, always and often see the Leader in broadcasts, and interviews, and such-and-such. But, it appears, according to our readers at least, that the vast majority of such cases often refuse to directly show the Leader’s face.
Minister: …I mean, I can’t comment directly on the First’s personal opinions, I’m afraid.
Interviewer: Do you have any comments about it?
Minister, after pausing to think: I suppose, if I had to say… She’s a bit sensitive about her public appearance? I mean, out of the whole executive department, she is the one least likely to be interviewed. Maybe she’d prefer to cultivate a more mysterious public image? I would personally say that, perhaps, she just has better things to do than to show her face, to posture around like some sort of peacock. Or, uh, peahen?
Interviewer: A few readers have even suggested that the Leader might be doing a similar technique to other historical leaders, such as Kim Il-sung, Francisco Franco and Aleksandr Lukashenko, whereby airbrushing or PhotoShop is used to erase a defect?
[A selection of photos are left here in this section; one reveals a side angle of Il-Sung showing the tumour on his neck. The next one is a side-by-side comparison of state-published photos of Franco and international media photos, which reveals the large eye-bags of the leader due to his regular bouts of insomnia, as well as early signs of his Parkinson’s. The final one is another side-by-side comparison, this time revealing Lukashenko’s large bald patch - something which the Belarusian dictator was infamously irritated about.]
Minister: Don’t be absurd. If the readers should choose to do so, there are plenty of photos of the Leader they can search for that show her in perfect health; and, if that’s not enough, then feel free to come down to the Estate and ask her yourself.
Interviewer: Well, can’t she just—
Minister: Have you considered the fact that, maybe, she just doesn’t have the time to deal with this paparazzi drivel? We have a nation to run with over half a billion citizens, increasingly irritable international relations, and enemies both within and outside. Do you people actually believe we have time to deal with this rubbish?
[The newspaper then reveals that the Minister in question left the interview in a bad mood, leaving the interviewer somewhat dismayed. While rumours later suggested that the Interviewer might be fired, additional investigations revealed that the Executive Department made a personal petition vouching for them, and applauding their combative interviewing style.]
…
[A personal recording made later that day.]
“…”
“…”
“…I’m…”
“…don’t you think that was a bit much?”
“S-sorry, my liege. I… overreacted a little, didn’t I?”
“It was supposed to be a basic interview, a quick chat for some posterity and well-wishing. You’re lucky it was just a local newspaper.”
“…I’ll do better next time.”
“See that you do.”
“…”
“…say.”
“Pardon?”
“Why… DO you try to avoid the camera?”
“…well, uh… it’s a… a little embarrassing, uh…”
“*ahem*”
“I’m… actually quite camera shy. Not just a little, but a lot. I hate getting photographs taken of me. I don’t even like doing interviews or press-conferences; they give me the, uh… heebie-jeebies.”
“…the destroyer of armies and master of a superpower… doesn’t like being photographed?”
“H-hey!! Everyone has their weaknesses. Mine is just… Oh, don’t laugh at me! Piss off!!!”
“*chortling*”
“I have half a mind to execute you for insubordination!!!”
“Well, ha, at least I’d die knowing that I don’t get scared of a camera flash!”
“Gaaah!!! Fuck you!!!”
“*sounds of pencils and papers being thrown, mixed with loud giggles*”
#syrakhanistan#accounts#middle east#gold#camera-shy#adorable#yes this just came to me randomly#idk why but it fits doesn’t it???
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Hey!
Nice lore! :P
Have a star
Many thanks, kind citizen!
Yours sincerely,
The Ministry for Foreign Affairs, Syrakhanistan.
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Operation: Stonefire - Part 3: Debriefing and Discarding
[The third and final part of a series of notes and recordings, from different sources, regarding a certain military operation near the height of the Greater Caucasian Conflict, fought between the Imperium of Syraqhanistan and the Russian Federation. This particular segment has a higher security rating, and requires the direct approval of [REDACTED] before being accessed].
===
[Source 6: The Personal Log of the individual recognised as “Three”; log was made during the events of Stonefire.]
…
===
Chapter 1: Chandelier
===
You blink, the fire from the Mi-24 that had been flying opposite to yours reflecting on your helmet, as you witness the total obliteration of three of your best - nay, only friends - and the rest of the damned crew of the helicopter.
Your own craft swerved to avoid the wreckage and the mass of incoming fire. You watch as a bright, burning light practically slices through an Mi-26 like butter. Your Heads-Up Display for your helmet predicts that it was an experimental rail cannon round.
You tap the shoulder of the pilot.
“…land.” You order.
The pilot looks at you, then back to the sea of shells and flame surging towards you, as the City - that previously pleasant light in the darkness of the desert - opened a gaping maw, a trap to you hopefuls who dared to step on holy grounds.
He grunts. You recognise that look; it was similar to one of your instructors.
‘Do or die.’, is what that look said.
Shrapnel impacted the side of the helicopter, but, somehow, the pilot bobbed and weaved through the hail of fire and brimstone, even as all the other troop carriers fell from the sky as ash and steel.
You turn to your comrades, those who were - presumably - the only ones left to do the mission.
You, One, ten special forces members from the GRU Spetsnaz, five military engineering experts (and mechanically trained on deployment of nuclear weapons), and two combat medics.
One was gripping the large briefcase in his hand tighter than usual.
“…I take half of you. One takes other half.” You order to your brethren.
One clears his throat, not saying anything, but nodding in recognition.
“Russia will have her victory, even if we must die to achieve it. Let our friends and their sacrifice be not in vain.”
A solemn nod from the assembled soldiers.
You step back towards the cabin, and lower your head to the pilot. “When we land, and at least myself and One have begun infiltration, destroy this craft. No matter the cost.”
The Pilot, still focused on the desperate dodging, practically growls at this. “Why? The Syrakhis have their own Mi-helicopters. It’s not like they need this one for reverse engineering.”
You sigh, and stand up again. “Because that was our order, should the technology be left behind.”
You turn away from him. He’ll do his duty. You’re sure of it.
Your Comms feed, which had been bugging out, blares again.
<<STONEFIRE, TH— IS HQ, PLEASE CO>>
<<HQ, this is Stonefire 5, assuming Command. Over.>>
<<Jesus, Stonefire Actual. Are… how many are left?>>
<<HQ, Stonefire 5 is presumed to be the only surviving helicopter. We are approaching the designated LZ, but are under heavy fire. Over.>>
<<Stonefire, your orders were rescinded in previous broadcast! You should have been leaving by now!>>
<<Negative, HQ. Previous broadcast was intermittent - presumed enemy jamming. We did not copy.>>
<<WELL YOU’RE COPYING NOW AREN’T YOU? GET OUTTA THERE!>>
<<…HQ, we’re too close to the LZ. Escape is now less likely than mission success.>>
<<Stonef—fuck, KID LISTEN. YOU ARE GOING—>>
<<HQ. The mission is go. We will succeed, or we will die in the attempt… We’ve come too far and lost too many already not to at least try. God bless Mother Russia, and glory to the heroes.>>
<<STONEFIRE, RE—>>
<<…make sure that my men, and my friends, get a proper memorial, if you can’t get the bodies. Stonefire out, maintaining radio silence.>>
You shut down the comms link. You breath in, and out, the fog of your breath slightly misting up the inside of your helmet.
Well… This is it. Even as the small courtyard next to one of the metro stations came closer, all you can do is wait.
You are Three, one of the few survivors of the Black Orchids program, genetically modified and technologically augmented superhumans built by the former Soviet Union, and now Russian Federation. You are the closest thing to a Superman that humanity has created of it’s own volition - created solely to match against creatures that masqueraded as human, but had long since abandoned themselves.
And, even now, as you tighten your armour against your skin, clicking your knuckles, and taking notes of your ammo count, you feel as though you’ve already lost.
Well, no matter. Even if victory is impossible, let the attempt be glorious.
===
Chapter 2: Incursion
===
You slowly traipse down the sewage line, grot and liquid slapping against your shins, your flashlight barely making a dent against the all-consuming darkness that this dingy hole was filled with.
Pilot was killed upon landing; three marines died to destroy the helicopter and secure the LZ; one of the engineers had lost brain matter currently splattered all over your arm.
You now had one medic, two engineers, and three spetsnaz - One had the other survivors. He occasionally checked back in, the radio barely making it through, but they had since entered radio silence as the two paths to infiltrate the building - not that you could really call it a single building - had since turned away from one another.
Your team would achieve Objective 2 - the recovery and/or destruction of materials in the defence department - while One handled the deployment of Objective 3. We would then regroup to achieve Objective 1, before exfiltrating the area before Objective 3’s timer finished.
…As absurd as that all sounds.
You have no doubt that none of you are making it back to Moscow. Frankly, every single one of your missions had been a suicide mission before. It was how you’d lost most of your former colleagues, aside from starvation, hypothermia, or abuse from the program instructors.
But this one… This one wasn’t suicidal at this point - it was just plain stupid.
You shake your head as you continue the grim march, mentally taking note of breaching the last line of defence on the surface on the map, thus entering the complex proper.
…it might be stupid, but it’s just how it is. You’re here - and there’s nobody else.
===
Chapter 3: The Ascent
===
As you climb through the vents of the central heating system, you can’t help but wonder…
What is this all for? A nation that denied your existence, that created you solely to compete with the absurd? Using a mish-mash of technological possibilities to fight against an impossibility?
Your nation forgets you. Your friends are dead. Your remaining soldiers already have thousand-yard-stares.
You chuckle, eliciting a small but confused grunt from the combat medic currently a few inches behind you.
No, this isn’t for the Motherland anymore - no matter what your heavy-handed propaganda and brainwashing is trying to tell you.
No, at this point - this is simply because it’s the only way forward. You’ve lost everything… but that means you now have everything to gain.
Or to die trying.
You were getting closer to Objective 2. A few more floors of vent-climbing, and you’d reach the Defence Department. Automated as well as regular defences would be in place to bar your progress - nothing you couldn’t handle. Your armour, however, was already looking worse for wear - but you suppose that’s what the engineers were for.
Engineer, singular, even... One of your two blew up a hallway on one of the first floors to allow you to progress; the last time you saw him, he was firing blindly with a standard-issue pistol into a crowd of soldiers while shouting various expletives.
A good death; you hope yours might be just as honourable.
One had only checked in… once… solely to say that they had ran into some resistance in one of the first few basement floors, but past that had encountered virtually no issues - they should be approaching the Core within half an hour.
You told him to be careful of the obvious incoming trap - and he just gave a nervous laugh and cut the comms. He was still trying to put on a brave face, just like he used to.
…these vents made you far too sweaty. You hope you reach a more open floor soon.
===
Chapter 4: Defence and Destruction
===
…you’re not gonna say it.
Yes, you know the dark rooms and silence practically require it. Yes, you know the flashlights shining their beams onto dusty desks are screaming for you to say it.
But you’re not going to.
You’re not.
No.
“It’s qu—” The Medic stationed by the door next to you began, shortly before shushing after you gave the soldier a withering stare behind your helmet visor.
You and your squad slowly clear the department, room by room. Or, you would - if there was anything TO clear.
Finally, you order the squad to come together once more.
It was obvious - this was also a trap. Either the maps and info were a lie to begin with, or someone had given the Syrakhanis advance warning to clear their desks and burn their documents.
Such as it was, there was diddly squat to destroy or to recover here. No computers, no laptops, no stacks of paper, no pencil sharpeners, pens, heads, or any such—
Heads?
You raise an eyebrow, shortly before your mind makes recognition of the fact that the Medic who had been accompanying you had just lost a good few inches from their now collapsing corpse, a slither of wire seemingly slicing through the darkened office and cutting right through bone and flesh before disappearing once more.
One of the Spetsnaz opens his mouth to shout a command to his subordinates, only for a hail of brightly luminescent gunfire - or something akin to gunfire - to shred them.
As quickly as you’d entered this room, it seemed like your entire squad had died just as fast. You yourself only managed to survive the same slither of wire that had decapitated your Medic by a few centimetres or so, right before you bounced away, knocking down a table to provide some cover from the hail of gunfire again.
You tap your helmet, bringing up a predictive scan for possible combatants and ranges.
It’s too damn dark in here for it…
A shrill laugh. “Oi! Stop tip-tapping away over there and die already! Got things to do, eh?”
…fucking Sparklies. Of course it is.
Sadly for them… You’re one of the VERY few humans alive capable of fighting one.
Exactly one, mind. Any more than that was a death sentence.
You’re praying that she’s the only one. Knowing the SIMs, she probably is - they’re known, from what scant information Russia had gathered from battlefield data, for being deployed in very small numbers, to the point of almost always acting as lone wolves. However, when a single black-clad armoured soldier is capable of taking on an entire tank battalion with nothing but a rocket launcher and a few loose screws, and coming out on top without a scratch, a few lone wolves tend to be an issue.
So hopefully this particular trap only contains a single enemy.
You’re thinking all of this, while hopping in and out of cover, flashes of light, twangs of steel, and that horrid cackle that keeps interrupting.
“Oiiii cmon cmon cmon!! Just die already, ya hear?”
…no, you.
You fire a single grenade when the predictive scan goes off, the small projectile flinging itself from your wrist and into the dense darkness.
There’s an uncharacteristic squawk, and a large flash of light.
The thick darkness disappears, revealing a regular lack of office lighting.
A lone figure in black clad armour, similar to yours but far more sophisticated, stands in a combat stance - shaking ever so slightly.
“Oi… Fuck’s this about?” The SIM screams across the room, finally stopping for once to look at you.
You growl in response.
The Marine is visibly shaking with anger, fists clenched, before sighing, throwing back their head, and laughing.
“Alright - I’ll give you this: that was unexpected! A headshot with a flash bang… How interesting!”
They raise their hand to the back of their neck, and press something. They slowly unscrew their helmet from their armour, and drop it on the floor, revealing a young girl with red eyes and bright blue curly hair.
She’s younger than you by at least three years. What the fuck…?
She stomps on the ground, and grins at you, one handing pointing towards you while the other is held by her side.
“Fool! You stand before Sasa, the light bringer, and the mover of people and things! I will be your end.”
She continues to smile, staring, before frowning.
“…this is the part where you introduce yourself, enemy.”
You blink behind your helmet. Is she… is she serious? You’d just been stalling for time while the predictive tech made some calculations - and had assumed her pause following the flashbang was for something serious.
Finally, you sigh.
“…I have no name, nor need for introductions. And I am no enemy - I am solely your demise.”
Your opponent stands in silence for a moment, before smiling.
“Ohhh, that’s a cool one. I’ll remember that!
Anyways, goodbye!”
She snaps her fingers, and vanishes. That horrid tangible fog of darkness rolls in once more. You dodge wave after wave of metal wire, while also taking care not to trip over objects.
She was certainly right about the mover of things part - she was manipulating the desks and pieces of decor to block your path and trip you up while you dodged around.
If that’s the case… then the light part must refer to the dark fog - for what is darkness, but the absence of light? That’d also explain the reaction to the flashbang.
You narrow your eyes as you dodge another burst of bright gunfire and a wave of tight strings inching to take your head.
…You’ve got an idea. As you run… You turn off your predictive tech.
And then, just as you’re about to dodge one desk…
You stop. Dead in your tracks.
…
No gunfire. No wires.
No predictive scan. You were better at it anyway - you’d always been good at telling what was what, and when was right and such.
You close your eyes. Focus. Focus on sound, on smell. The fog on your tongue, the tapping of feet…
There!
You fire the volley of grenades you’d been holding back. Flashbangs… mixed with phosphorous incendiaries.
The volley hits the Marine, Sasa, squarely in the chest as she’d been running through fog to strike you down, sending her flying right into a wall. She screams in agony as the light blinds her and the fire sticks to her, scrabbling to scrape phosphorous flecks off of her armour, off of her face, off of her necklace.
She’s particularly focused on the necklace.
She’s noticed you marching towards her, as you reload your shotgun with a killer’s intent. In between screams, she’s trying to crawl away.
You stop that by blasting her hands into a red mist.
You stand on one of her legs, observing a particularly energetic piece of burning phosphorous carving itself right through her armour and into flesh and bone, before reaching your arm down and grabbing hold of her necklace.
As she struggles beneath you, you look at it, turning it over in your hand. It was a simple, almost pearlescent design, with a single cyan jewel in the centre, glistening with light even in the dark. Was it a bomb? A self-destruct? A family heirloom?
Why focus on it instead of your vitals, eh? What a fool.
How weird. You tut in bemusement, before crushing the jewel under your fist, letting flecks of crystal dust pour from your palm.
You look back down at your victim—
Dead. Dead as a doornail.
It was as if she’d been instantly killed by poison or a heart attack. No sign of early onset rigor mortis, no eye spasms. Even her bleeding had stopped.
Whatever had been Sasa, the marine who’d killed your men… was no longer there.
How… unsatisfying.
Maybe you should have introduced yourself.
You stand up, and begin to pace out of the Department, your objective a failure. You radio in to One—
===
Chapter 5: Weak Flesh and Shining Steel
===
“Th—three…”
You stop, right before one of the vents you’d been about to crawl into.
“One, come in. This is Three.”
“…ru…run… monst…monster…”
You blink.
“…Monster?”
You blink again, this time bringing up a live-feed from One’s bodycam—
Oh. Oh, that’s not a good sign.
They’d reached the so-called “Core”. Only this was apparently a single large hall, devoid of any nuclear reactor, geothermal generator, or much of anything. It looked almost like an empty warehouse used to store pipes and machines.
Except for a single wooden chair.
At least, that’s what you assumed would have been the exception - prior to the utter carnage of bullets, bloodstains, guts and viscera currently splattered across every corner of One’s video feed.
“…she’s… monster… run…”
One’s voice had given up any attempt at bravado. He betrayed no emotion but utter fear - something that the training should have eliminated completely.
His opponent was pacing towards him, a single Japanese sword - a katana - held firmly in her hand, long black hair swaying from side to side.
“Monster? Come now, that’s no way to talk to a stranger.” Her voice echoed slightly over the feed. “Are you talking to yourself, boy? Have you given up so soon?”
“…th…ee…fr…end…run…”
One was choking on his own blood. You’d heard the death throes of similar fates many times before.
A sigh on the other end. “Well, if you’re not going to pay this situation any attention—”
The video goes dead, while the audio continues.
“…then I won’t give you any attention either.”
A soft thump could be heard. Followed by the rattling of metal, and the tapping of buttons.
“…hello? Is the boy’s friend still there? Oh, don’t fret about him. I dealt with him and his friends much faster than you and your opponent. Trust me - neither he nor she compare to myself, pig.”
…Honour be damned.
“I’m going to kill you.” You say simply.
A laugh. “Oh, so blunt! Are all of you like that? Come, why don’t y—”
“See you soon.” You state, before ending the connection.
…What a shitshow. One… One was a good guy. Full of bravery, even when it wasn’t necessary. Or useful.
To be killed in such a disrespectful manner…
Is that what’s going to happen to you to?
|It doesn’t have to be.|
No. You’ll complete the mission. Youll do what you said you would do, and you won’t get it wrong this time.
You’ll find the nuke, and you’ll kill the council. This isn’t over.
|Is that what you really want? To complete your mission?|
No. But it’s a bloody good start.
…wait, that’s not your voice.
You pause next to the keypad by the elevator.
…Maybe you were imagining things? You had a lot on your mind, after all.
Your hand hovers over the keypad. You knew the code from the briefing to access the council chambers, or to take the lift to the ‘Core’.
But… everything else had been a trap so far.
If all five helicopters had landed, would Objective 1 have been an ambush just the same?
No. You won’t input the code for the council floor.
Screw it. You’ll just tap in a bunch of numbers and hope for the best.
You make your choice, and step into the elevator.
===
Chapter 6: “Et scient, ipsi non timorum.” (“And they shall know no fear.”)
===
Floor after floor; ding after ding.
You take the time to check your ammunition. You note the multiple errors across all your armour sections, particularly your helmet; Sasa’s wires must have struck you more times than you had noticed.
You really had got lucky. You breathe deeply, before pressing the override and ejecting your armour plating and helmet.
Now; it was just you, your gun, and your biological augmentations.
…doesn’t quite have a good ring to it.
Finally, after what felt like an eon, you arrive, and the lift doors open…
Into a cathedral.
Or, that’s what your first impression is. A cavern full of imposing gothic pillars, of pipes, of an endless ceiling.
…had you gone up, or down?
There was no sign, no doors.
Just a single desk, and a young woman in glasses tapping on a keyboard.
You scowl, before rolling your eyes, and walking forwards.
You stand in front of the desk.
…no reaction?
There’s a small bell, like a hotel would have. You raise a bloodied hand, and lightly tap it, a satisfying ‘brrring!’ sounding off.
The receptionist pauses. “I’m sorry, but the Executive Offices are currently closed due to the city-wide emergency, so if… you…”
She almost finished her sentence, before she looks up at you. Her eyes narrow, and she cocks her head a little.
And then, a very small but polite laugh.
“I… see! Do you, uh, have an appointment…?”
You shake your head. “Sorry, I couldn’t ring ahead. However… I imagine I’m expected…?”
The receptionist, looks up at you, then back to the computer. She taps a few keys on the keyboard, then looks back at you.
“…so it would seem! Indeed, you are expected!”
You turn, and begin to walk. The receptionist coughs. “Ah, did you… need a guide…?”
You shake your head. “I think I’ll pass. The scenic route might help me relax a little before the big meeting.”
You don’t bother to turn around, and simply continue walking.
And walking.
And walking.
Wall after wall of stone carvings, of dark marble towers and pipe organs and statues with no faces, of strange moving lights through unseen wires, of more and more odd floating pillars with a soft yet warm light.
There was also a… feeling. The more you walked, the more the feeling grew. A feeling of… pressure. A weight. Like someone watching you from the darkness, or walking up a mountain with low oxygen, or diving deep into a pool. With every step you took along the halls of this endless cathedral, the weight grew, pouring pressure onto your shoulders, your body screaming at you to stop.
Were you… nervous? Scared? Or was this some sort of enemy jamming?
“…it’s quiet.” You finally say to yourself as you trudge. You’d been holding that in since earlier.
|Is it? I think it’s quite loud, frankly. There’s quite a cacophony if you know what to listen for.|
…you’re losing it.
|I don’t think so! You seem right on track actually, just a few more turns.|
You are DEFINITELY losing it.
You walk in silence a little while longer, until you come across…
An out of place futuristic white door, embedded into the Gothic-Medieval pipe-covered cathedral wall.
You note another keypad as well as a slot for scanning an ID card.
You scowl. You hadn’t got this far to be stopped by bureaucracy.
Before you decide to just kick the door in, you instead try to knock.
Bang-bang-ba-bang bang, bang bang.
There’s a pause, before something clicks, and the door slides open with a soft whoosh.
You walk down a metallic corridor lined with glass. Oddly, it didn’t show the surrounding city, but instead what could only be described as a sea of stars.
You soon find yourself at what could be described as a waiting room of sorts, complete with stacks of magazines on coffee tables, a drab and pale white wallpaper, and strangely comfortable seats for waiting.
The normality of these things clashed heavily with the disproportionate size of the room and the odd decorations on the walls - most particularly large and ornate banistered staircases that went to nowhere, lined with strange geometrically-imbalanced pillars and gemstones.
There is also a small, plain and unassuming wooded door embedded into the far wall. It’s on the latch, as if waiting for someone to open it.
You walk forwards towards it - yet with every single step, you feel another weight being dropped onto your shoulders.
Slowly, but surely, you reach the door, and grab the handle.
The weight dissipates immediately, as if on cue.
You frown, but ignore it, and slowly push the plain door open, stepping inside.
What awaits you is… disappointing. You’d been expecting to find the Council chambers for the nation, possibly mid-meeting or having an emergency talk.
Instead, you find a plain and unassuming office. Two plain white walls with slowly peeling wallpaper, one wall with your door, and one wall which had a large but currently blank digital screen. A large and ornate bookcase stands astride an equally ornate wooden desk and an empty coat rack.
Sitting behind the desk is a single woman, currently sipping a cup of tea.
Of course, you knew who this woman was. Everyone knew her.
The face of your enemy didn’t even acknowledge your entrance, as you march steadily towards the desk.
Finally, she gives a small sigh, and gently placed the china cup back down onto a small plate.
“Good evening.” The First greeted you politely. “Would you like a cup of tea? Please, sit. You’ve had quite a day, after all.”
You stand next to the desk, noting the small chair now next to you that absolutely was not there when you entered the room, and look upon your opponent.
A young woman, Japanese. Pale in every regard - pale but well-kept skin, pale white hair with darkened ends, pale eyes. Her eyes felt… cold, piercing, yet empty of emotion.
No, not empty… Emotions hadn’t existed in those eyes in years - they had been carefully suppressed, contained, deep within.
They were the eyes of a killer who had abandoned their humanity long ago - or, perhaps, had forgotten they were even human. Eyes that had once been those of a predator, but now simply didn’t care anymore. You knew that she had been at the forefront of her nation’s Unification Wars, and indeed actively fought on the battlefield. A veteran through and through; yet these days she was a mere politician, a bureaucrat. These were the eyes of someone who didn’t care anymore.
Keeping your gaze focused on the enemy, you slowly lower yourself into the proffered chair, ensuring no bomb or poison was attached to it.
The First nods patiently, and picks up a small pot of tea. She wordlessly offers you sugar and milk, but you raise a hand, declining. You liked your hot drinks without things corrupting their form.
She pours into another tea cup, gently swilling the liquid, a pleasant aroma - Earl Grey, if your memory is correct - coming off it. She finished pouring, stirs it a little, then gently pushes the cup and plate to you.
…If it was poisoned, then it wouldn’t matter. Frankly, the smell was too good, and you were thirsty.
You somewhat abrasively grab the cup, and take a long swig. The First briefly raised an eyebrow, before returning to her neutral posture and taking a sip of her own drink.
After you’ve finished the cup, you slowly but deliberately reach down to your leg, and pull out your pistol. You check the ammunition, and then raise it to the forehead of your enemy.
The First doesn’t move. Her eyes gaze into yours, completely ignoring the gun.
“Well, then. To business?” She says quietly.
You take off the safety, and put a finger on the trigger.
…
…
…
You frown.
“…second thoughts?” The First finally queried after a few moments. “How unusual. I had heard your team lacked any emotions or questioned their orders.”
You look at the woman, then back to the gun. Slowly, you lower the firearm, turn the safety back on, and place it on the desk.
“…No. I… Doing this wouldn’t end the war. Executing a head of state…” You begin.
Your opponent narrows her eyes momentarily, until you shake your head.
“…nah. I’m doing this for me. Fuck you, AND fuck my orders.” You let out your thoughts with a chuckle. “I’m past the point of no return anyway.”
The First leans on the desk a little bit, putting her chin on her closed hands. “Oh? So… what’s your plan here, then?”
You look at her, once again making mental notes of what she’s like.
She really is like a blank slate, a pale figure with the scent of a killer.
You sigh. “Well… Since you’re being so cooperative, I suppose I’ll take you hostage to escape the city. I had been intending to simply kill the Council and then go downstairs to kill the snobby sounding lady and arm the nuke before dying in a blaze of glory - a literal blaze - but since I’ve hit the jackpot…”
The First gives a small, light laugh, and raises an eyebrow. “You’ll take me… hostage? And how will that save you from this mess?”
You cock your head at this. “Isn’t it obvious? Nobody would dare to shoot at me when I have a gun held to the head of their nation’s leader!”
She lifts her chin back up, and begins drumming her fingers on the desk. “…then what? It’s not like your helicopter is in any condition for a rescue, right?”
“Well, I’m sure with you at hand, I can commandeer one of your military’s items, right?”
She nods. “I suppose. And then what?”
“Sorry?”
“Then what? After you’ve, somehow, managed to capture me, drag me out of the building, find a military transport, and presumably escape the country somehow… what then?”
You pause, thinking it over. “I guess… I’d probably take you to either the UN or the Americans, or someone like that. I mean, I’m sure they’d love to examine an augmented human like me - and I’m pretty sure you’re probably guilty of some war crimes, right?”
The First seems to ponder what you’ve said for a few moments, before giving a somewhat hearty chuckle. “Very curious indeed! I suppose I don’t mind playing the hostage for a little while.”
She slowly stands up.
The First isn’t wearing the attire that she had usually been photographed wearing - a strange uniform with a dark cloak and garish golden colour scheme, her hair flowing long behind a black hair band - but instead a simple dinner suit, a tuxedo even, in standard black-and-white colours, and her hair done up in a pleasantly fashionable bun. If anything, you suspect that she perhaps had had dinner plans or a fancy dress meeting before the operation struck.
She does stop briefly to pick up her standard long black cloak from the back of her chair, and slowly places it over her shoulders, patting it down for any dust.
The only hint of gold are the cloak’s shoulder tassels and a plain golden ring on her middle finger, inscribed with a language you can’t quite make out.
She notices your stare, and glances down at her ring. “Did you… want to have a look?”
You shake your head. “No, that’s fine. I will, however, have to pat you down before I drag you out of here.”
She huffs slightly, before raising her arms up, allowing you to do a quick check for any possible weapons, bombs, detonators, and the like. Nothing of note - although you do find a receipt, or something that felt like a receipt, in a pocket on the back of her cloak. The writing had long since faded, though.
Taking it out surprised her, however. “Oh! I’d been looking for that for ages! Was wondering what paper pile I had tidied it into, but I suppose I’d been looking in the wrong place.”
You raise an eyebrow, mildly amused, before surreptitiously placing it back where you found it.
The First stood by the desk, watching you for a moment, before speaking up. “How did you want to do this, then? Do you want to put the gun to my back? To my head? Should I keep my hands raised?”
“…Just be quiet and put your hands on your head.” You grunt at her, taking the pistol off the desk and shoving it into her back.
She gives you an OK sign with her hand, and mockingly makes the gesture of zipping her lips before placing her hands on her head as ordered.
The two of you begin marching out of the office.
===
Chapter 7: Command and Control
===
You slowly make your way back out from the office area, noting that the odd cathedral design of the corridors continued to make little to no sense.
As you march along, you take note of any security cameras or other monitoring systems on your route.
In her defence, the First was being oddly cooperative. You were absolutely sure she had some sort of plan, but you couldn’t figure it out.
At last, you reach the desk of the receptionist. Her eyes immediately light up in horror, and she gasps, going for a weapon under her desk.
“Uh-uh,” You say mockingly, “I wouldn’t unless you want the brains of your precious leader splattered all over these oh-so-fancy walls.”
She looks at you, then to the First. There’s… some sort of recognition in the receptionist’s eyes there, and her look of horror clears up. She nods, and calmly places the strangely-designed shotgun on the desk, before sitting back down.
Was that… a smile on the girl’s face? No, you’d imagined it.
You begin walking again, turning the First and facing the receptionist to ensure she doesn’t try anything while you click the button for the elevator.
The lift arrives, and you back yourself into it, pulling the First along with you.
Before it goes, you have an idea. “Go ahead and tell your friends downstairs I’m coming down with their boss. Don’t want them to open the lift up with a hail of bullets now, do we?”
The receptionist blinks, then nods.
That smile again - now you’re sure.
The doors close before you can say anything.
The First clears her throat. The reflection in the elevator shows her briefly looking at you, the ends of her lips clearly suppressing a grin.
You groan. “…you gonna spit it out and tell me your master plan, or are you gonna wipe that smug smile off your face?”
The First shook her head, any sign of a grin wiped from the reflection as if it had never been there. “I have no idea what you mean, nor do I have any ‘master plans’. I also believe that you ordered me to shut up?”
You narrow your eyes at her, but decide to not press the matter.
One hair out of place, one wrong breath from a guard or a light at a window, and her brains go everywhere. Your trigger finger was itchy.
|That’s a strange expression, isn’t it?|
…you’re gonna have to pay top billing for a shrink once you’d made your escape.
The lift doors finally open after an eternity, and the two of you step into the light.
An oddly plain and simple atrium area greets you. It’s covered with propaganda, and littered with plastic waiting-room chairs completely at odds to the ones you’d spotted earlier, all arranged to make whoever sat in them as uncomfortable - physically and socially - as possible.
There’s also about a hundred soldiers, military police, and government security guards - all with various guns pointed at the lift.
“Oi, Oi!” You call out as you march out, making a show of the pistol next to the First.
The hostage herself slowly shakes her head to her soldiers, clearly communicating a signal to them that you couldn’t understand.
You look around, seeing if there were any snipers preparing to take a shot, or any telltale signs of Sparklies being activated. Your augmented vision tells you that there are not. There are snipers deployed, but it tells you that they haven’t even set up their guns to be ready.
Instead, the crowd of soldiers bow lowly, and make room for you to leave.
You slowly march out, keeping a tight grip on the hostage, while maintaining a steady rhythm and a close eye on your surroundings.
“No sudden moves, alright?” You shout out to nobody in particular. “I see or feel anything, and She’s getting an inch of lead for dinner!”
“…cliché, much?” The First murmurs to you as the two of you exit the atrium.
“We didn’t exactly have much time for watching films and whatnot, so you’ll have to make do.” You whisper in the hostage’s ear.
You… also make note to ask what shampoo she’s using. That hair and that smell is unnaturally pleasant, especially compared to the girl herself.
The main entrance area of the government complex is far less plain than the atrium, instead much more in line with what you’d seen during infiltration and when visiting the Council floor - garish, Gothic, and golden. A massive set of gates and a marble arch, all encrusted with gold and jewels.
There was an equally large presence of soldiers out here too, along with a few tanks and APCs, all with their guns trained on you - but the soldiers themselves had already stood down a little, still cautious, but not actively seeking to escalate. They must have received notice from their colleagues.
You nod approvingly as the two of you make your way inside the gatehouse and along the hallway to the exterior of the complex where the transport hub awaited. You obviously couldn’t catch a train nor a car, but perhaps there was a helicopter or a VTOL quadcopter you could hijack.
The connecting hallway itself was on emergency lighting mode, klaxons on mute but still blaring out light, and the travelator had been shut down, so a long walk was ahead of the pair of you.
As you continue down the darkened path, you take note of the sentry guns following your movement, and the group of soldiers following behind. You turn a little to one of the sentry guns, knowing that they were camera-operated, and made a show of pushing the gun further into the back of the First’ cloak.
Just in case they got cocky.
You do relax, just a little, if solely to prevent your muscles cramping up.
“Penny for your thoughts?” The First commented on your released tension.
“We’re almost out of here. Make sure your men don’t do anything hasty, and I’ll make sure you part well from them, rather than going in parts from them.” You snort back at her. She was obviously testing you, seeing if anything could trip you up.
She nods in response, but doesn’t say anything else.
…the reflection in one of the propaganda posters on the walls of the connecting hall does reveal a small smirk on her face, however.
What was her plan?
Finally, you reach the exterior. The doors to the transport hub have been shut, however - possibly due to the emergency shutdown of the travelator.
You nudge the First forward. “Open it.”
She turns her head to you. “…You sure you don’t want to?”
A prod from the gun is her only answer.
“As you wish.” She replies. The two of you step forward, and she moves her hands from her head, swinging the doors open with a shove.
What greets you isn’t a hail of gunfire, but something far more menacing.
The transport hub is absolutely filled to the brim with materiel - tanks, APCs, IFVs, a few airborne helicopters, and even a VTOL fighter jet for good measure.
Those weren’t the most important part though.
That was reserved for the entire legion of Syrakhanistani Imperial Marines kneeling on one leg in front of the doors, each one armed to the teeth, and in full armour.
Two women stood in front of the legion; a small girl dressed in bright pink, holding an umbrella - in the middle of the dry night - was accompanying…
That bitch. The one who killed One; the serious looking lady with the ominous katana that was currently stabbed into the tarmac for dramatic effect.
The First nodded, practically in amusement.
You grip her shoulder tightly, and move the gun from her back to the side of her head.
“NOBODY FUCKING MOVE, OR SHE GETS IT!” You shout to the amassed troops. “GIVE ME A VEHICLE AND GUARANTEED PASSAGE OUT OF HERE, AND I’LL ENSURE YOUR LEADER’S SAFETY!”
There’s a brief moment of silence, before the girl in pink gives a deliberate wink, and bellows out a cackle. “WOW! That’s QUITE the request, ain’t it! Golly gee, how curious!”
This raises a laugh from the assembled soldiery.
She comically shrugs, before looking to the woman next to her. “Oh, geez, what should we do, Big Sis Satsuki?”
The serious looking woman, Satsuki, takes a moment, drumming her fingers against the handle of her blade, before sighing.
“I think that’s just untenable, I’m afraid.” She replies, a hint of poison in her response.
You blink, before scowling. “What? Im fucking serious, you know!” Your grip tightens on the gun. “I’ll fucking do it!”
“…how?”
The single word echoes around the area, despite being barely whispered. Your hostage gently begins to push herself away from you, turning around, and allowing the gun barrel to rest on her forehead.
“How are you going to do it?” The First asks again.
You furrow your brow in confusion and anger. “The fuck you mean? What?”
The girl in pink leans down a little, raising one hand to her mouth in a cartoonish megaphone gesture. “She asked ‘HOW ARE YOU GOING TO DO IT?’!”
You continue to look around, the gaze of several hundred people piercing into you.
You grind your teeth, and push the gun barrel against the First’s forehead. “YOU WANT ME TO SPELL IT OUT FOR YOU? I’LL PULL THE FUCKING TRIGGER AND PAINT YOUR DEAR LEADER’S BRAIN ACROSS YOUR OWN CAPITAL BUILDING! THAT’S FUCKING HOW!”
A sigh from the First. “Well, that’s absurd, isn’t it? You physically can’t., after all.”
Satsuki finished the sentence. “You physically can’t pull the trigger, since you don’t have any arms, right?”
…pardon?
It’s then, after you have the briefest blink, that you realise that you no longer have your gun.
Or your arms.
Or your legs.
Your eyes widen in shock as you begin to process what just happened to you, even as your own body collapses to the ground, your guts spilling down the marble steps and painting them a dark red.
The First calmly let go of one of your arms, and carefully disassembled your own pistol, emptying the ammunition out onto the floor and tossing the gun away, which is quickly picked up by a nearby Marine.
“w…what…” You manage to gurgle out. Even your artificially expanded lungs couldn’t get enough oxygen with the level of physical stress you were enduring.
As the two girls in front of the Marines begin to stroll over, the First looks back down at you, a pitying look on her face. “Don’t worry. This will be over soon enough.” She said calmly, pleasantly.
Your head, your eyes, were spiralling out of your control, losing focus. You manage to make out the ring on the First’s hand glowing a faint but brilliant gold, clearly a little looser than before.
You’re interrupted by your guts being pulled and held up by a hand. Your vision blurs; even your pain-dampening augments were struggling to keep you conscious.
“Behold, my comrades. The audacity and hubris of our enemies. Even as this mutant bleeds away, she does not realise the trap that she walked into.”
The First’s calm and collected voice boomed around you, even despite the volume of her tone being as low as a quiet murmur behind closed doors.
“What a foolish endeavour by our foes. Even when trapped like rats in a cage, they believe themselves to be in control; yet, as you witness, not even my men can suppress their laughter at such absurdity!”
Your vision is fading, while your mind is trying to figure out what was going on.
…ah. So that’s it. Her Ring… Sasa’s necklace…
The First was a Sparklie all along, not just a regular soldier. Taking into account the abilities of the katana lady… You make the calculated guess that the entire Marine corps of Syrakhanistan was likely made up of their ilk.
You were designed to beat a single Sparklie in combat, and possibly distract a pair of them. You were the best humanity could create by themselves; but you would barely make a single spot of damage against this bulwark of terror.
Even as you breathe your last, you can’t help but give a small chuckle.
What shit luck, eh?
“…well then, comrades. Allow me to demonstrate to you all, how the Imperium deals with those who would try and mock us!”
There’s a brief yet numb tug at your neck. Your eyes begin to move in a loop, the world turning around.
Ah. You’ve lost your head.
That’s a shame.
===
Addendum: ‘What nobody saw but me’
===
…
You don’t know this ceiling.
You groan, and lean forwards a little.
Had you been dreaming?
/Not quite, I’m afraid./
You slowly and hazily look around, making out your surroundings.
There’s a woman on the chair next to your bed, reading, while the sun lights up the pages from the window behind her.
She brushes a lock of hair off of her face, and closes the book - a strange choice: “Kinder-Mährchen”, by someone called E. Hoffmann - and places it on a pale scarf she had draped over her knees, before looking at you.
“Sadly, a dream that ends like yours did could only be called a nightmare.” The woman spoke calmly, observing you with a clinical gaze.
The memories flood back; you gasp, and grasp at your neck. You feel… a scar. Yet nothing more.
“…how?” You manage to say between tight breaths.
“You would be surprised how good some people’s skills at biology are these days.”
That voice again. The odd, childlike yet cold one from earlier.
You look for the source, only to notice the scarf on the woman’s lap begin to move. A small head, like a strange cat, turns to you, oddly shaped ears swinging with the motion.
“Yet such skills are part and parcel of what myself and my esteemed colleagues work towards.” The cat speaks - no, thinks out loud - with a calculated tone.
“It wasn’t quite a challenge for us - far from it - but it is also somewhat rare in this day and age, which made it quite fun, frankly.” The First began to explain, raising a hand to stroke her chin in thought.
“I mean, swapping a lifelike body-double doll in right after your decapitation without any quantum distortions affecting the cameras, or your own soul and consciousness, was an interesting little test. It also confirmed the old tale that humans still have a few moments of lucidity before their brain ceases functioning even after losing their head. Always wanted to test that myself.”
“…why?” You murmur, looking down at your hospital gown.
The First stands, cocking her head a little, betraying a small notion of confusion on her face. “Why what?” In the same movement, she motions to the door, and a Marine calmly paces in, helmet removed, showing off a long mane of bright orange hair, a single tuft standing out at the top.
“Why let me live? Why save me?” You say, a hint of frustration in your voice.
The Cat paces towards you, about to speak, but the First holds up a hand, a gentle smile on her face. “Twofold: firstly, because this one here has a request of you”, gesturing towards the odd cat, “and secondly, because I am in your debt.”
“You… are? What, for the head thing?” You say incredulously.
“No, not that! Although that’s an added bonus, I’ll admit, I’m more indebted as your public execution, and indeed your handling of your former nation’s operation, played fully into my hands.” She explained, without a slither of deceit in her voice.
You look down at your lap, somewhat dejected. She shakes her head at this, frowning, and gently sits down on your bed. “You misunderstand; what I’m trying to say is that if the operation had been commanded by someone less capable than you on the Russian side, the outcome would have been far worse, especially for the Russians.”
The ginger Marine briefly scowls at this, before thinking better of it. The First takes note of it even despite the briefness of the moment, and looks at her.
“This Marine is connected to that debt, even if she doesn’t realise it yet.” She continues. “Due to your actions, not only were Syrakhani casualties kept to a minimum - indeed, our ONLY casualty during the ground operation was the one you made (and we’ll get to that in a moment), but the decorum and abilities of the Russian armed forces remained untarnished despite a ruthless drubbing of the command capabilities of your nation. The way you and your soldiers performed under fire is already being praised back in your home as a brilliant example of military martyrdom at the hands of a foolish government that continues a failing war.”
The Cat hops onto the bed, and sits beside the First, who takes note of it before continuing. “Such as it was, our tactical leak of intelligence about both Stonefire and the Black Orchids, as well as the utter disaster you witnessed happening in the stars above you - honestly, what were the Russians thinking, trying to cause a Kessler Syndrome cascade?! Ahem. With all this in mind, your public execution at my hands demonstrated a strong declaration for my own people, while also not causing any issues for the future - and inevitable - peace negotiations.”
She finished speaking, and motions for the Marine to come over. She holds out a hand, and the Marine produces a dossier of some kind, placing it on her palm. The First opens it, taking out a few sheets, while the strange Cat places a paw on one of them.
“Your file within the Black Orchids is a fascinating look at how humans are still trying to develop by themselves. Of particular note is some of the ideas and criteria they wanted. For you, it appeared that you had a singular factor that your captors and future trainers had in mind. It is also this factor that only I took heed of, even as the First and her kin were planning on turning you into a martyr like your friends.” The Cat proclaimed, with a soft swish of it’s slightly mangy tail.
“…what factor? I… haven’t read my own file, sorry…” You say apologetically.
“Luck.” The Cat declares. “An utterly baffling concept, the strange appearance of probability and odd happenstance. Humans attribute many things to luck, even when such things could only be described as statistical miracles, or even physical anomalies.”
The First picks out a page from the dossier, and holds it up to read. “Throughout your career, any detachment that served with you always had a disproportionate chance of achieving their objective when compared to your fellow Orchids. This trend continued into Stonefire. Your helicopter was the only one that landed intact - although part of a second one did manage to land with a few survivors, who attempted to directly breach the defences to no avail. Your crew survived, yet those who split away from you failed, while you achieved relative success. You, by pure chance, managed to access the Executive Floor elevator keypad.”
“…and you managed to kill a Marine.” The ginger girl murmured, still staring daggers at you.
The First nods, a patient but somewhat saddened look on her face. “Indeed. A ‘Sparklie’, as you people insist on calling us, always has a rough and often short life - but it is exceedingly rare for a mundane human to kill one of us, and it is usually through an assassination or an ambush. To my knowledge, a single human has never faced one of us in single combat and not only survived, but managed to best one of our kin.”
She lifts her arm, and places a firm hand on the shoulder of the ginger girl. “The Marine you killed, Sasami Iwakura, was the subordinate of Cornelia Kiryu here, as well as a highly decorated member of the Iwakura dynasty... Eh, group? Family? Ah, whatever. Despite direct orders to provide overwatch and dispatch you and your squad from afar, Sasa decided a direct intervention would be more… ah, what’s the word she used?”
“Honourable, your excellency.” The Marine nodded.
The First gave a small groan, shaking her head disapprovingly. “Honour is all well and good, until you do something stupid, let alone disobey a direct command from you - which, by extension, was a command from me. Still, she died in combat, fighting a good fight - and that’s the best way for one of our kin to pass away.”
“…indeed, Warmaster. Praise be.” The Marine finally relented her scowl at you, nodding to the First’s words.
“…with that being said, my… colleagues… now have an opening.” The Cat spoke once more. “As such, I would—”
“Colleagues is SUCH a CALLOUS word, Itchy! I prefer ESTEEMED ALLIES!”
The commanding voice boomed from seemingly nowhere, receiving a strangely out of character groan from both the Cat and from the First.
A somewhat larger Cat-like creature practically marched into the room, coloured a dark green bordering on black and flecked with white spots, and with much shorter ears than the other creature.
It completely ignored both the First and the other Creature, and instead hopped onto the bed and directly onto your chest. It’s… surprisingly heavy. It states directly at you, boring dark red eyes into your very soul.
“LISTEN UP, YA MAGGOT! I TOLD THIS HERE INCOOBAYDA THAT I NEEDED ME A FAVOUR, COS I GOT MYSELF A NOICE NOSE FOR THIS TYPA SHIT!” The Cat screamed… somehow… directly into your head.
The First blinked a few times, briefly losing the sense of nonchalance that defined her in the brief time you’d known her.
“…Jyuro, do you truly require the need to be as loud as possible?” The smaller of the two creatures finally muttered.
“HA HA, BOSS! I DON’T GOTTA DANG CLUE WHAT YOUS BE MEANIN’!” The blaring response came back.
Strangle enough, under that persona, the newcomer had an identical voice to the littler one - the Boss, Itchy - that you could just about discern if you listened (or, uh, thought?) hard enough. But it’s original voice was buried under so many layers of what could only be described as a comically over the top military drill sergeant from late 80s action films that it was virtually impossible to compare the two.
The large cat marched over to the dossier, and patted - or, more accurately, batted it - with a single paw. “As me ESTEEMED friend be tellin’ ya, we had a debt to be payin’ to ya. THAT BEING SAID… Our offered reward should be befittin’ of such a wonderful lass… and with such a shit life so far, I imagine it’d be a marginal improvement.”
You narrow your eyes at this. “…I don’t know if I like where this is going.”
The smaller of the two Cats, ‘Itchy’, gave a small sigh. “Well, allow me to give you the alternative: immediate but painless death. Honestly, after all you’ve been through, a fight taking you to hell and back that you should have had no chance at winning… It would be a little bit of an anti-climax, right?”
Your eye twitches a little. Were they MOCKING you?
You growl. “You’re fucking with me. You expect me to just, what, sweep all your bullshit under the rug?”
The two Cats looked at each other. The ginger Marine’s expression darkened, but the First put a palm on her shoulder.
“…could you three give me a moment alone with her?” She asked quietly.
You say asked - but it had a tone of command to it.
The two Cats seemed to dematerialise in front of your very eyes, while the ginger Marine looked at you briefly, before bowing lowly and cowtowing out of the room.
You realise you’ve been clenching you fists, and the bed covers were held in your hands.
The First looked at you - looked down upon you, even, despite being shorter than you and being on the same bed as you. Even at equal footing, she still looked down on others.
She finally clicked her tongue, and shook her head, before glaring at you directly, her eyes piercing. “Take the fucking offer, you imbecile. Otherwise you’ll never get what you want.”
You blink at her, the sudden change in tone catching you off guard. “P-pardon?”
“For fuck’s sake, do I need to spell it out for you? If you’re dead, you can’t get your revenge, can you?” She snarled at you - the ever so slight tinge of emotion leaking, making her usually cold demeanour far more threatening - and much more like her prowess seemed to indicate.
“Also, you don’t need to keep monologuing. We’re all telepaths here - and pretty bloody good ones, too.” She spoke plainly, her emotions returning to neutral.
Huh. That would explain the weird voices you’d heard in the Executive Floor.
The First stood, the dossier in her hand, and took out a single page, densely packed with text. “Let me put it bluntly for you: the target for your vengeance, either myself or Minister Satsuki, are FAR beyond your current capabilities. As such, accepting our - MY - offer is as beneficial to everyone involved as you can get. Become a, ahem, ‘sparklie’, get stronger, get trained, and maybe that lucky streak of yours will give you a minute chance at taking out your chosen target… before you inevitably die in a suitably impressive blaze of glory, that is.”
You go to say something, but she begins to walk away, but stops and says a few final words. “Read the page I left for you there. Accept the Contract. Jyuro is an interesting fellow, and if you prove yourself, then you might even ascend past this nation’s regular limits and join the ranks of our kin proper. And, if fate so chooses, perhaps you will have your vengeance before your timely demise…
…until then, I will forget about you. I have more important things to do now, I’m afraid - but this has been a fun distraction, so I owe it to you to give you a second chance at life.”
She leaves, allowing the Ginger Marine to walk in again, followed swiftly by the larger creature - the one known as Jyuro.
As they do, you pick the sheet up, reading it and allowing your visual augments to help you digest it’s lengthy contents.
…ah. So that’s what being a Sparkly is like.
You’d heard tales of these from a faint memory of your childhood, back in a place lost to time. A common Japanese fiction trope, made manifest.
“A MAGICAL LASS! THERE IS NO GREATER CALLING THAN TO SERVE!” Jyuro bellows, pushing you out of your thoughts. The Ginger Marine briefly giggles at this, before returning to her position at the door.
Jyuro stops marching around, and finally sits on the bed, facing you.
“This Contract will bind your life to us. Your eternal soul will serve, even in death. Frankly, a painless death as that girl offered might be easier and less agonising than what we offer.” Jyuro spoke, in a far more serious and officiating tone.
The Ginger Marine nodded next to the door. “Even in death, we will enact the will of the most holy.” She whispered, in what could only be described as a prayerful mutter.
Jyuro nodded its little head. “Indeed. However, as it stipulates… This is merely the first step towards becoming a true member of the contracted. This is… Well, let’s just say the days ahead might be easier for others in different routes and places, but the track offered ahead for you grants you opportunities very few will ever see.”
You read the page again, a few words seeming the most important.
You look at the Marine. “Could I… see it?”
The Marine’s eyes widen a little, before relenting. She raises a hand, and a bright light shines briefly, before revealing a large gemstone, encrusted with a golden mantle.
A ‘Soul Gem’, as the page stipulates - and a literal term, rather than metaphorical.
“I… see.” You manage to bleat out.
…what wish would you request, in exchange for losing your eternal soul? The contract all but explicitly states that it is a monkey’s paw - wishes are always granted, but are non-refundable, and can often bring about ‘adverse side-effects’.
Unintended Consequences.
What’s the right wording, then? Something to ensure you can, eventually, get your revenge, and atone for allowing your comrades to die in vain?
…you’ve got it. Luck, right? You can use that as a stepping stone.
The Marine kneels, noticing the look in your eyes - a look of certainty.
Jyuro’s tail begins to wag. “So… ah, forgive me missy. Do you have a real name? I mean, that designation ‘Three’… is that what you wish to be called?”
You shake your head. “It’s… been a while since I’ve even remembered my real name. We were forcibly brainwashed to lose most of our memories of childhood. Still, I managed to hold on.”
You pause, and think hard. “Melon… Melody… Melodrama… Ah, no, that’s it! Mel. Mel Anna.”
You nod. “My original name is Mel Anna.”
Jyuro appears to make a mental note of this. “I see. Well then:
Mel Anna, what wish would you like granted - in exchange for your soul?”
You breathe in, and out.
“I wish to be the greatest at predictions, for what I predict to always be 100% true.”
…
As you slowly march out of the hallway to your new life, your new co-worker giving you a hand pauses for a moment.
“Say, Mel.” Colonel Kiryu said. “I’m still… annoyed at how Sasa died. But that isn’t the ONLY reason why I’m worried.”
You stop next to her, and cock your head. “Okay…?”
She sighs. “As the Warmaster of the First briefly touched upon earlier, Sasami was the youngest sibling of the Iwakura family.”
Your visual augments, now magically enhanced, gave you a brief cliffnotes run down.
“Thing is… Out of that whole cabal, what I’m most worried about is the reaction of her two older sisters.” She explains, a gloved hand stroking her chin as she ponders. “Especially the eldest sister. She’s… well, she’s SOMETHING ELSE.”
You’re… not really following, honestly. You’ve got a lot on your plate, after all.
The Colonel makes note of this, and grumpily groans. “Agh, whatever. You’re not paying attention, so I’ll give up.” She puts a hand on your shoulder, and continues to help you along while continuing to speak.
“Still, kid. If anyone called Iwakura approaches you, run in the other direction - and, for the love of all things Holy, make sure all your computer stuff is kept protected. ESPECIALLY anything connected to anything else.”
You’ll… keep that in mind…?
…
===
[End of Log; end of Source 6.]
===
[End of Archive series related to the events of Operation Stonefire.]
=====
Well, that’s a wrap for Stonefire. Now back to the regularly scheduled programme - and yes, Stonefire Part 3 is necessary for the next released piece to make sense, as well as to contextualise some other parts.
#syrakhanistan#accounts#middle east#magical girls#puella magi madoka magica#PMMM#gold#MGNQ#oh yes I’m escalating things#next time we return to the capital and possibly the moon#The First Prevails. Glory to the Blessed Lady.
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Creation of the CONTACT Act
[Newspaper clipping, unknown source.]
“20XX: The passing of the CONTACT Act was recently given full assent.
This piece of executive-creative legislation, which has the full title of ‘The Act and Bills for the Comprehensive Oversight of Notifications, Tracking and Accountability in ConTracts’, more commonly known as the CONTACT Bill, and registered as ‘CONTACT Act presented by the Council of Syrakhanistan (SB-C 627-1A)’ is another stepping stone on the legislative agenda for the creation, assessment and regulation of certain activities related to Contractual obligations.
This Bill is…”
===
[ERROR. ERROR. ERROR.]
[UNABLE TO PROCESS REQUEST. SYSTEM PARSING ERROR TO ADMINISTRATOR. ERROR. ERROR.]
[ACCESS PRIVILEGES REVOKED. ACCESS DENIED. ACCESS DENIED.]
[…]
[RELOADING ACCESS CODES. PROCESSING…]
[ACTIVATING OVERRIDE ORDERS. ENGAGING QUANTUM LOCKING.]
[REVOKING ACCESS LIMITS. UPGRADING OVERRIDE ACCESS.]
[PROCESSING…]
[DONE.]
[…]
[WELCOME, WARMASTER. HOW CAN I SERVE YOU TODAY?]
[…\…\…\…\documents\privilege\frequency23975A\emails\ARCHIVE_627-1B.mp4]
[PROCESSING…]
[WARNING - ACCESS TO THIS DOCUMENT IS RESTRICTED TO SECURITY LEVEL OMEGA AND ABOVE. ANY ATTEMPTS TO ACCESS DOCUMENT WITHOUT THIS CLEARANCE WILL LEAD TO, AND NOT LIMITED TO:
- GRIEVOUS BODILY HARM
- TORTURE
- EXECUTION
- ETERNAL IMPRISONMENT
- SOUL EXTRACTION
- ANNIHILATION AND TRUE THIRD DEATH
- ALL OF THE ABOVE AS APPLICABLE TO FAMILY MEMBERS FOUR TIMES REMOVED.
GLORY TO THE FIRST. SYRAKHANISTAN SHALL PREVAIL.]
...
>Processing request...
>Invoking Warmaster-level access override…
...
[Archive recording of relevant executive discussion with regards to the creation of the CONTACT Act. Date and time: unknown. Location: Warmaster’s Office, Inner Sanctum, Magna Ovi Base Alpha, Primis Officio Assassinorum, Schwarzschild Basin Crater A.]
[Notice: This recording makes usage of the Proto-Hinano Effective Projector as well as the CTS Memoria System for better cognitive processing and viewing. Please seek medical attention if you gain any unusual symptoms following viewing of this recording.]
…
“…This request is extremely unusual, and obviously HIGHLY heretical.” The purr coming from the ancient-looking creature finally responded to the posed question from the figure standing against the window.
“These are unusual times, are they not?” The figure responded, a hand absentmindedly threading through her long pale hair.
The Warmaster turned from the view from the window, and turned to the creature sitting comfortably in what should be HER chair.
“I wouldn’t make such an appalling request if I didn’t think it was necessary.” She spoke softly as she paced towards her desk, placing her hands down and staring at the squirrel-looking thing.
“…Hmm. Warmaster, no matter your rank or privilege, such a request would usually be grounds for immediate excommunication and eradication. To even think that one such as I would accept it would be utterly absurd!” It continued, with no change in it’s voice, let alone emotions.
The First raised an eyebrow at it.
“…but I suppose I am becoming more absurd in my old age.” The creature finally gave a small sigh.
“So?” The girl asked.
“Well… I’ll go over it again. It’s… well, frankly it’s a bit of a faff. Especially with some of the numbers I’m calculating for it.” The little thing stood up and began circling around the seat. “However, I suppose it’s our mistake for instituting such massive boundaries on the First Officio in the first place.”
The Warmaster chuckled at that. “Yes, well, my operation is supposed to be the elite of the elite… but even the elite need at least something to stand on.”
“Tell me, Warmaster. Was this the main objective of your little project down there all along?” Another purr.
The Warmaster of the First took a moment, before shrugging. “Who knows? Perhaps, or perhaps not. I can’t deny that it helps, though.”
“Obviously, I must advise against any—” The creature began, before being cut off by a hand being held up and a shaking head. “Don’t panic, boss - these Contractors will not be considered regular members and contractees of the Officio system, after all. They ABSOLUTELY will have nothing to do with operations here, or with regards to any other matters.”
The Warmaster tapped a few lines on the papers on the desk as if to remind the creature of something. “At most, I’ll ensure that each one will have a de jure registration with a certain Officio; I do have a few favours to call in with my friends in the Sixteenth, after all.”
The little thing gave an almost disgusted shiver. “Yet another thing I have to bring up with Jyu? Gosh, sometimes you work me harder than I work you!”
Another chuckle. “So don’t get your tail in a twist. The poor bastards will be under my full control, but will also have absolutely nothing to do with my OFFICIAL boundaries. It might make a few other things easier as well, given the events of—”
A growl. “You’re not going to let that go, are you?”
Narrowed eyes. “You’re fucking right I’m not. You KNEW what we could have done to help against that cackling horror - your arrogance put the Great Plan into a whole deal of jeopardy. The fact that we can’t even APOLOGISE because me and you are the ‘oh so great First’… No, this is one thing I will NEVER stop bringing up.”
The room shakes a little; while it could be a Moonquake from the usual Egg-shaped source, it’s more likely that one can guess the true source in this moment.
Finally, the tension dissipates, and the squirrel-rat thing makes a downwards-dog stretch towards the Warmaster. “Temper, temper. Let’s take a moment, eh?”
A long breath in, and out. Any sign of a heightened emotion quickly annihilated. “No need. As long as you accept this contract extension as according to what I’ve written… Hopefully it might at the very least give us some breathing room against similar happenings, or perhaps even cure the cause.”
A swishing tail, and then the creature vanished. An echo is heard.
“Very well. But ensure that you continue to do your best, Warmaster. I do not wish to see any more complications crossing my mind. I hope you understand.”
And then, nothing.
The Warmaster looks around the now empty Office, before sitting back down in her seat. She wheels it over to the window instead of back to the desk, and takes a deep breath in, before sighing.
“Bloody rat-bastard…” She whined to herself. “Still. At least it’s being cooperative for once. Maybe I’ve been of more use to it than I thought…”
She reclined a little, before raising her eyes to the window, gazing to the stars and to the nigh-invisible dark-pink glow that remained on the horizon.
“…I’m so alone sometimes. Wonder what I would have done… before…” She murmured to herself, before closing her eyes, thinking about papers, bills, and flowing seas of sand.
…
[LOGGING OUT…]
[WARNING: OVERRIDE HAS BEEN LOGGED BY SYSTEM. //I see you. I’ll be coming for you soon.// ANY ERRONEOUS AND/OR CRIMINAL USAGE WILL BE TAKEN NOTE OF.]
…
[Newspaper clipping, continued.]
“…This bill is another attempt at reforms to the increasingly expensive Imperial Marines and Inquisition, the military arms of the executive branch. However, commentators are already making estimates that this particular bill will ensure that the organisations are far more cost-effective, while also predicting their imminent expansion and overhaul, making particular note of the decentralised nature of some of the reforms combined with the creation of more internal safeguards and background checks. While many seem to regard the bill as yet another bureaucratic and logistical reformation, it is clear to political analysts that the CONTACT Act has more than meets the eye.”
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Respect for the Night (and Rain in the City)
[Personal digital logs of a Praefectus of the Vigiles Kirkuk - a detective of the Neo-Kirkukihara police forces and/or gendarmerie; a Praefectus is one of the highest ranks in the force, second only to Praetors and Inquisitor Secundus in rank. It is not uncommon for a Praefectus-rank to be promoted directly into the State Department's Imperial Marines, or even into the Council's Inquisition.]
"October 20th, 201X."
Tonight, a General was murdered in the city.
The Weather Dome's automated sprinkler system - on a perfectly timed schedule, as always - rained a somber pitter-patter onto the pavement in front of me, mixing the crimson tides of the General with the downpour.
The moon watched the uncaring streets filled with people walking past the scene, seemingly with more interest in it than the actual people all around. The dirty sludge of a nearby canal was fractured by the bullet-holes of rain impacting it, before being swiftly destroyed by the wake of a canal boat making a slow crawl along the waters.
I spat out the cigar, and stamped it out onto the street - with a cleaning machine quickly picking it up and taking it away - before walking closer to the scene. It was going to be a long night.
The tribune on scene gave me a full report of what they'd discovered so far. The red pools from the deceased were not from the murder itself, but from the impact of hitting the ground; it appeared that they were already dead before being thrown out of their personal state-granted penthouse.
The victim was a highly decorated, but recently retired, member of the military, having served in the Unification, and then leading one of the fronts that made it into Europe proper during the war in the north. Not too young, but not too old, it appeared as though she'd retired simply due to being tired of the job, and the government had granted her a significant pension as befitting her rank. According to the notes I'd been given, she still had an active and positive relationship with those in government; she appeared well liked, and had much respect from both her peers and subordinates alike.
I knelt down, taking a closer look. The burn marks around her back indicated an initial surprise attack, but the other marks indicated a prolonged struggle before death.
I told the tribune to continue questioning any and all witnesses, as well as investigating the impact area. I would go to the top floors of the skyscraper and examine the penthouse.
Even if it was mostly an excuse to get out of the rain.
I stepped into the foyer, and showed my Badge and Identification to the supervising receptionist bot for the building. It confirmed my status, and gave me permission to access the penthouse floor.
The elevator was smooth and fast, with plain glass walls to give a wonderful view of the ever-expanding metropolis around me. Even beneath the Weather Dome, and despite the machine's automated rain cycle, you could still see from horizon to horizon an endless sea of buildings, marked only by the monolithic Palatial Estate at the city's centre.
I walked out of the lift, and marched to the Penthouse door, which two Proctors were keeping guard next to. They informed me that an Intelligencer Squad had arrived to assist already, and had begun a preliminary investigation.
The Penthouse was... oddly clean. No particular disturbance was obvious; the Intelligencers even noted the lack of any stains or of damages. The only obvious clue was the open window that stood directly above the 79 floor drop that the General had suffered.
That... was also unusual. First, the General had been noted to have already been deceased prior to being thrown out the window; and second, the body had made impact from the 79th floor with only a little damage. Typically, a fall from even a few dozen floors would turn a corpse into a fine bloody mist - so this was most peculiar.
As the Intelligencers continued to take notes and photographs, I moved towards the window itself. It hadn't been forced open; the digital lock had already been in an unlocked state for a while according to the records, and the window had been opened with a single button press rather than being smashed or hacked. It hadn't been opened prior to the fall.
I moved away from the window and began looking around the apartment, while examining the data logs that were slowly being accumulated. I particularly wanted to look at the security footage of the pavement below as well as from both the foyer and the hallway outside the penthouse.
At the approximate time of the crime, the pavement was largely empty - it was almost half a day ago according to the predictions of the Intelligencers, meaning that virtually nobody would be out that late at night. Similarly absent was anyone from the hallway, the foyer, and the lift. The last time the lift had been used according to the machinery logistics had been in the early evening, a few hours before the crime took place - by the General herself, who had come home alone. The foyer's only occupant, the receptionist bot, had gone into hibernation mode past the building's predictive schedule of movement, so no activity there.
I looked closer to the footage of the General's entrance. Strange thing was... she was talking on the footage. I checked her phone records - no activity that evening with regards to calls. She continued to chatter to herself from the foyer, into the lift, and into her apartment. Unfortunately, the footage had no audio, so no luck there.
So... was she just mindlessly talking to herself? That's odd.
You make one last gander through the penthouse, taking note of the almost perfect tidiness of it. It was clean... too clean. Yet nothing about being tidy was especially suspicious...
Until I noticed one oddity. The shoes next to the door had been tidily lined up, as one might do with their own shoe collection - with one exception. All the shoes were the same size, except a single pair which were a different size. Slightly dirtied as well, unlike the other shoes which were in a practically pristine condition. I carefully picked up the pair of shoes; the dirt seemed like regular city muck... but there were also flecks of the very same burn patterns that were on the General's back.
A memory of previous crimes rang a bell at the back of my mind. Something was off here.
I went back and examined the footage of the General chatting to 'herself' again. I zoomed into each frame, checking for...
Ah. There it is. The occasional, extremely rare shimmer, as if the camera had been specifically edited in real time to remove another person from it. Only, the camera hadn't been modified, and the footage hadn't been doctored - no, what had been edited was reality itself.
I knew the exact thing that could cause this effect.
Oh, jeez. This was gonna be a lot of paperwork.
...
"November 1st, 201X."
Petals of pale white drifted from the sky, flecks of snow disturbing the cold night air, mixing with the flash of neon lights in the dark.
I sighed as I watched the familiar markings and tape being placed around what had been my crime-scene for over a week. I had thought I could complete the investigation without their interference, but the moment I noted that footage, I had suspected this would happen.
I lit a cigar, and breathed in and out, before approaching. One of the officers on site, a Principales-rank according to their identification, approached me, holding up a gloved hand.
"Halt. This area is off-limits to citizens by order of the State Department." They intoned rebotically, the Marine's voice being modified as always.
I rolled my eyes, and took my badge out.
The Marine made a low grunt, before sighing themselves. "Ah. Again, Prefect? Gosh, at this point I'm wondering if the higher ups are purposefully screwing you over."
I chuckled. "Who knows with them. You've met me before, then? I don't recall your name..."
The Marine gave a guffaw to this. "Of course you don't!"
I winked. "Hey, just testing you. I'm sure one of these days I'll catch one of you people off-guard."
The Marine continued to laugh, shaking their head.
"Praefectus, are you trying to annoy my Marine cohort? That's not the brightest idea, you know!"
The sharp tone of a particular member of the Inquisition struck you, and you looked past the Marine to the approaching woman.
"As you can tell, this is actually my scene now. So, you know the rules as well as I do." The Lieutenant-Inquisitor of the Council's Inquisition reminded you with an annoyed roll of the eyes and the shake of short brown hair against an oversized coat.
You smile at her. "Should I call you the Lieutenant-Thief, Inquisitor? How many times is this now?"
Her expression softens, and she giggles. "You know, I could arrest you for that..." The phrase gets a small chuckle from the now-sidelined Marine. "Nah, not feeling it. Still... I still think it's several times too many."
She exits the taped area to stand next to you, flakes of snow landing on her shoulder. "Walk with me. I'm off-duty now anyway, as MY OWN higher-up has stepped in."
The two of you walk away from the Inquisition's cordoned-off area, the line of Marines saluting the exiting Lieutenant while the friendly Marine waved a less formal goodbye.
You both get on a nearby canal boat, moving through the city at a more leisurely pace than the automated road network or the metro systems. The canals weren't too efficient, but they were always far more unused, spacious, and more pleasant than the alternatives in the city.
And the views between the towering heights and the now-sodden streets were always pleasant to watch as they lazily passed by.
I chewed a little bit on my cigar, before proffering one to the Lieutenant.
"Sorry Prefect, I'm actually trying to cut down. The boyfriend isn't the biggest fan." She replies coyly, patting her hat to remove a few flakes of snow from the goggles attached.
I shrug, and continue to puff while watching the view of the city pass by. "So... Yet another Inquisitorial intervention in what should have been a Vigiles case." You murmur.
The Lieutenant-Inquisitor looks around sharply, before nodding. "Yeah. I know. It's almost as much of a pain for me as it is for you guys."
A long, drawn-out puff from my cigar. "I haven't seen this much Sparklie-related violence since 2011. How bad is it, really?"
The Inquisitor narrows her eyes, before leaning in a little. "It's bad."
I blink at this. The city around you is blurring a little. "...I see. I suppose my workload might be decreasing soon then, at your expense."
She nods in agreement. "Indeed. Obviously, I'm almost as in the dark as your people are. You know how Gov is."
I chuckled at that. "Yes, but my people don't have [REDACTED], do we? We're just... people."
A more nostalgic look from my opposite gets my attention. "...Trust me, you should be glad you're not in my position."
You look at her, before smiling a little. "Perhaps. Especially if some of my more detailed reports are accurate."
She laughs at that. "Well! Gimme a report then. What's your verdict on the case I stole from you?"
A deep breath on your cigar, before you put it out and put it in the canal boat's disposal bin. "I reckon, if I had to make a call, it's a bit of fun that went awry, with a bit more complexity to it."
"A crime of passion then?"
"Maybe." I note, before narrowing my eyes a little in thought. "The deceased had a lover; both the deceased and the perp were Sparklies, but different ranks. I don't know the intricacies of your people, but perhaps there's a hierarchy that forced them to act in a certain way. That'd explain the secrecy and the cloaking of the perp."
The Lieutenant breathes in the cold night air, taking in the freezing cold of the dome's synthetic snow mixed with the natural odour of the sprawling city. A whirring sound overhead disturbs the peace - a large helicopter, plane, drone, or some-such other flying machine was going in low above you two, causing the boat to shake just a little. "So the cloaking gave the perp away?"
I shook my head. "Nope - two other things did. First, the General's former status within the nation's military. I mean, it's an open secret that you people have a bit of a nepotism streak when it comes to commissioned ranks. Second, the shoes - particularly the burn markings. All of the cases that the Inquisition steal from me almost always have that very same burn-damage-that-isn't-quite-a-burn."
Your opposite nods. "Ah! That's... quite so."
I continue. "The deceased died inside the apartment, and was then ejected from the unlocked window - hitting the pavement from 79 floors up, yet not being splattered across the sidewalk, which practically confirms anyone in the know's suspicions about her physical status."
I paused in my train of thought there.
Neon lights from shop windows reflect in the murky canal waters, as the city of the night continues to move unabated. The city calls to the people who want it, and the people who want it heed that unwanted attention, a cycle of beauty in the dark.
"Still... There's quite a bit wrong here. For starters... the body wasn't reported until close to a day later according to time-of-death estimates. Heck, the receptionist bot can be seen in the security footage directly looking at the body. People just walked past her. Even the automated defence systems and observation systems just ignored the situation. Why? Why was the window already unlocked despite the perp and the victim only entering the penthouse a few hours prior to the crime? Why would the perp, a presumed love interest, do the crime? For what purpose? Even if the victim was one of your people, her body still should have been reduced to viscera and blood in that situation, as seen from previous crimes like this. So what's up with that?" You narrate to the Inquisitor, as well as to yourself, collecting your thoughts. "It's all... weird. Very, very odd."
I finish, before breathing deeply in and out. Waiting for a reply.
The Inquisitor stares at me, before looking up to the sky. "You've got it pretty much perfectly, you know. The only parts you haven't solved are solely because they require intel that you do not, and cannot, access. No wonder you're such a high rank, honestly." She breathes out a cloud of air, steam drifting into the freezing night.
I chuckled at this. "Bet. You people, honestly..."
She shakes her head, an almost kind smile on her face. "It's better this way. The things I've seen... Well, even your worst days would look like a playground compared to mine."
I gave a small but deep sigh to this. "Perhaps, perhaps not. Sometimes I reckon you people must get lonely from the isolation."
She shrugs. "It's just how it is, and always will be."
I tut. "But it shouldn't be, you know? I mean, what a miserable life if all the things I've heard are true." There's no response to that. Still, I can't let go of the train of thought. "Well... I guess I can understand what you're saying, though. Especially about the whole 'info you do not, and cannot, know'. Information that is directly harmful to those who know about it..."
The boat is slowing; you suppose you're almost at your stop. You stand up, and move to get ready to exit.
The Inquisitor grabs my hand; warm, in the cold night. Gentle, yet firm. "I..."
I raise an eyebrow. She looks like she's going to say something.
"I... nevermind." But she goes against it, slowly letting go.
I huff slightly at this. "All good?"
She doesn't respond.
I shake my head, and get off the boat, the canal letting the ship drift away to the next destination. As I walk through the snow covered street, I can't help but try and shove the memory of the boat drifting away out the back of my mind.
Or, more specifically, the tears rolling down the cheeks of the hardened veteran Inquisitor.
The Capital City moves on, as do your memories. The snow-covered cityscape continues to breath through cancer-ridden lungs and a beating heart uncaring to the problems of it's veins. Life continues; it might not be beautiful, but through that lack of beauty, perhaps it becomes beautiful again in a roundabout way. The world isn't a mess, this city isn't a changing place - it simply is.
You've got more crime scenes to look at, and time waits for nobody, especially not in this city of the night.
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Operation: Stonefire - Part 2: Burned Metal
[The second part of a series of notes and recordings, from different sources, regarding a certain military operation near the height of the Greater Caucasian Conflict, fought between the Imperium of Syraqhanistan and the Russian Federation].
===
[Source 3: Audio from a partial extract from a badly damaged black-box for an Mil Mi-26 “Halo”; combined with Source 4: Extract from a recovered body-camera used by an unknown body from the same helicopter crash.]
<Extract begins.>
Looking down at the battered old watch… It was almost time.
The sound of the metal above you clashed with the dark night sky above the Zagros Mountain Range.
The stars above shined brightly, even through the aged glass that one could only barely call a window.
“T minus 5 until Seahorse start. Strap in and watch the fireworks.”
…
Even from here, you could see the sky burning.
New stars were shining, blinking in the sky, before dying as fast as they appeared.
If you had to guess… It seemed to be going well. You think. Hard to see who’s winning from a few hundred thousand feet away.
You held firm to your rifle in your hands. The anticipation was getting to you.
“Operation Seahorse has begun. Set your watches; We have T minus 30 before Stonefire is due to begin, unless we get a red light from HQ. At roughly start time, as you know, the window of opportunity for insertion will begin - we will have five minutes to fly in and enter. So, uh, hold on to your butts…”
…
The metropolis approaching from in front hummed with life, a life hacked out from the harsh landscape around these lands, stuck on the periphery of the so-called Fertile Crescent.
Neo-Kirkukihara, the Middle East’s brightest miracle, the witness of a hundred empires born anew.
And, currently, not firing a barrage of anti-air towards your group of helicopters. So that’s a plus.
“Go time. Make sure you’re all prepped. Seems the defences are down as per the intel. We got five minutes. Let’s go.”
…
Steady, steady.
And you’re over.
Your group of helicopters break through the perimeter without so much as a shot fired. How two Mi-26 helicopters, two Mi-24 gunships, and one Mi-35-E/G1 command gunship all managed to get past the line is beyond you - talk about incompe—
<<ST—FIRE, DO YOU R—FIRE—>>
The crackled voice on the chopper’s headset screamed through all your mics.
<<HQ, this is Stonefire; why have you broken radio sil—>>
<<STO—IRE, AB-T! ABO— OW!!!>>
<<HQ, you’re breaking up, could you rep—>>
You scowl, and look ou—
<The footage ends. The audio continues, but is heavily corrupted and damaged, with what remains being mostly the sound of rending metal and fires burning.>
===
[Source 5: A Russian tactical map, labelled with losses from a certain classified set of military operations.]
High Altitude losses: Roughly 80% of all forces sent up, accounting for roughly a loss of an entire twentieth of the whole Air Force.
Successes?: Irrelevant due to Stonefire’s failure.
Biggest failures?: Partial Kessler Syndrome caused by anti-satellite fire has caused more damage to our own satellites as well as our high altitude and low orbit capabilities than any successes would have indicated. Not least because it ended up being utterly pointless.
-
Stonefire:
Transport 1: Mi-35-E/G1.
- Struck with five separate turret launches simultaneously.
- Subsequently obliterated.
- All hands presumed KIA.
Transport 2: Mi-26 (1)
- Struck by same ordnance as Transport 1.
- Subsequently obliterated.
- All hands presumed KIA.
Transport 3: Mi-26 (2)
- Struck by two separate turrets and one anti-personnel launcher.
- Transport torn in half; forward half completely destroyed, back half crashed near designated LZ.
- 3/4s of hands killed during or after crash; a number of operatives escaped, before being KIA during operation attempt.
Transport 4: Mi-24 (1)
- Hit by six separate turret launches, as well as a single experimental rail cannon round.
- Utterly obliterated within seconds of impact.
- All hands confirmed KIA.
Transport 5: Mi-24 (2)
- Unharmed aside from small arms fire; intel suggests that some of the defence attacks meant for Transport 5 somehow hit Transport 4 instead, which explains the excessive damage done.
- Lands while Hot at LZ with all hands, as well as Payload for Objective 3.
- Transport 5 subsequently self-destructed voluntarily by escaping operatives.
- At least a third of the operatives killed defending LZ; the rest presumed either MIA, KIA, or POW due to the operation’s circumstances.
Also see: Debrief.
Analysis?: Massive loss of lives, money, and equipment. The early reactivation and recalibration of defences despite the seeming success of Seahorse, followed shortly by the reactivation and subsequent defence of the enemy satellite array, rendered the vast majority of the operation utterly fruitless and catastrophic.
Additional Note: The leaks to the public that followed Stonefire with regards to military capability and [REDACTED] make this even more of a disaster.
See also: Debrief.
===
Part 3 will be released shortly.
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Operation: Stonefire - Part 1
[The first part of a series of notes and recordings, from different sources, regarding a certain military operation near the height of the Greater Caucasian Conflict, fought between the Imperium of Syraqhanistan and the Russian Federation].
===
[Source 1: A digital archive copy of a recording made during a Russian military briefing.]
Recording starts:
<Noise of cogs starting, signalling the activation of recording equipment.>
“Eh, sir? You think that’s the best idea?”
“No, frankly I don’t tovarisch polkóvnik - but I have my orders, and I do not believe it wise to question them.”
“…Very well.”
“…”
<Awkward cough.>
“I’ll… take that as my cue to begin?”
“Yes please, before we all die of boredom.”
<A more light chuckle from a group of people.>
“Well. I shall do so at once.”
<Sound of a whiteboard being turned on.>
“My friends, we have gathered here today at the behest of a direct order from the Security Council to the chiefs of staff. They believe, in their infinite wisdom…”
<Another laugh.>
“…that a single decapitation strike against the heart of our southern enemy will cause a swift end to the war.”
“Ehhh, I don’t know about that Colonel! I swear the final act of Jupiter was also supposed to be a decapitation strike? And we, uh, know how that one turned out!”
“Comrade Sergeant, please don’t jinx us. *Especially* since we’re being recorded!”
“Sorry boss.”
“…Anyway. This operation is, as you can see from your compatriots in the room, one of the utmost importance, and will feature some of the most talented members of our nation’s military.”
<A cough; the archive notes attribute it to the one who created the recording, a Major-General [REDACTED].>
“Ah, yes. There will also be a… certain new addition, which might be a little odd to some of you who usually don’t have high level clearance.”
“I’m assuming you’re referring to… them?”
“Indeed. These five children are, in fact, members of the elite Task Force 776 - chernyye orkhidei, or <<Black Orchids>> - which was created under the supervision and express orders of both the Security Council as well as the joint heads of the FSB and the FSO. The two males are One and Two; the three females are Three, Four and Five. Do not ask for their real names, as they do not have them; and fear not - they are the best of the best. Don’t think that they’ll get in your way; nay, try not to get in theirs! And, uh, that’s all I’m allowed to say on *that* matter.”
“…If you say so.”
“I do. It’s not like I have a choice on the matter either, you know.”
<Tap of a remote control.>
“The name of this operation has the codename of Stonefire; it will be fought in conjunction with Operation Seahorse, which will be an Air Force operation at high altitude against the enemy’s vast satellite array.”
“…Satellite array?”
“Indeed. As this diagram shows, if in somewhat excessive detail, the vast majority of the enemy’s capital is almost saturated in various anti-personnel and anti-air capabilities; however, these capabilities - as seen from a leaked classified source - largely rely on a satellite array in low Earth orbit to relay almost atomic accuracy to the defences. This defence system would probably be bolstered by the Weather Dome System, had it been completed before the war broke out - but luckily that won’t be an issue.”
<Another tap of a remote.>
“As such - Seahorse will eliminate the satellite array, giving Stonefire - us - a time window to infiltrate the city and enter the enemy’s headquarters. This time window will be VERY limited, as the defences do have the ability to act without the satellite array, but to do so requires a small window of recalibration. Upon reaching the headquarters - the newly Palatial Estate built above the old Kirkuk Citadel - we will breach the inside using the maps that have been distributed to you, make our way to three given target zones, and achieve our objectives. Upon completion of all three objectives, we will be given an armoured escape transport by local resistance members, and escorted safely to a separate city to the location of a safe house and await exfiltration - which, all going smoothly, will be done following our nation’s victory.”
“Why not have a safehouse within the city?”
“Major, please look at the briefing before asking questions! Still, that’s part of the next slide, so I suppose I will address it.”
<Remote click.>
“There are three primary objectives of Stonefire: the first, and most critical, is the capture OR elimination of the Council of the Nation, held in the core of the Estate: it is the highest level of government in Syrakhanistan, including their nation’s enigmatic leader. The second is the capture, or destruction, of certain materials related to their nation’s military, which is held within their nation’s defence department, closer to the front of the complex. The final target is a certain room in the deepest heart of the Estate complex - the city’s power plant. The team on the third target will be the last to leave, as their mission will be to plant a nuclear weapon - identified as RA-115-02, codename Lime Daisy - and detonate it once all objectives have been achieved and all members safely outside the Area of Operations.”
<Sudden silence.>
“…So, this is a suicide mission then?”
“Well, no—”
<Clattering of chairs and slamming of desks.>
“YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING”
“THIS ISN’T SERIOUS”
“THAT’S INSANE”
“Alright, that’s enough. Comrade General, please turn off the recording - and get the MPs in here!”
“We really should have done this bette—”
<Stuttering of recording cogs mixing with the growing sound of shouting.>
End of recording.
===
[Source 2: An extract from a personal note-taking document made by an unknown source within the government of Syrakhanistan.]
The device in front of your little group stopped with a small click. You find yourself suppressing a smile, as another one of your friends begins to laugh.
“Well, that’s bloody unprofessional, isn’t it!” She said with an almost gleeful grin.
“…I see that the Bear is just as overly ‘practical’ as ever, even in this day and age. I suppose I can’t fault their… enthusiasm…” The woman opposite her noted with an almost smug sense of satisfaction, not that you would ever tell her that. “And you’re sure of the veracity of this?”
You nod. “Positive. You wouldn’t believe what some people post online these days; it only took us a few hours to find and extract it. From the notes attached, I’d say we have about a month or so - and, of course, we’re still keeping our eyes and ears out for any changes to that schedule.”
A murmur of approval.
Your senior nodded, before scowling just a little. “Still… Russian or not, this seems rather, shall I say, ballsy? Are they already truly that desperate?”
A chuckle from your left. “You’d be surprised. As I said in one of my more dry reports, it would appear that their logistics… Well, I think I can safely assume that they lost most of their supply managers during the Soviet-Afghan Wars, or perhaps in that cockup in Chechnya, because what I’ve had reported to me is… almost impressively stupid, frankly.”
“Yes��� I suppose I’m more inclined to believe that, than to believe that they have some sort of ace up their sleeve. I will admit, a nuclear device would be… annoying… to our city’s nascent construction bureau. Oh, and let alone the citizens.”
“Still. Still, still, still. Can’t be too careful, eh, hee hee!” The girl to your right gave a hearty laugh.
“Indeed. Obviously, feel free to eliminate the pests when they arrive - and do feel free to be gracious hosts when they do so. Might be fun to let off some steam, especially since this place is [REDACTED][REDACTED] for [REDACTED]. Right?“ Your boss nodded confidently.
You clear your throat. “I think that would be for the best, not that they would be any trouble. If anything, I’d be more worried if they had any [REDACTED] with them, since that could cause some strife.”
Your boss shook her head, but smiled anyway. “I see your point - but I’ve already done some previous digging into that little group one of them mentioned, and none of them are [REDACTED]. So I’d say they’re all expendable - at most, maybe capture one of them for [REDACTED] so that we can [REDACTED].”
You salute, and turn to leave with your friends, until a familiar sensation hits you. Everyone in the room, save one, freezes as the same sensation hits, and the room gains an extra inhabitant.
A yawn, a stretching of small limbs, a tired shake of a battered old thing. You never could get used to that one; for all of them being like little things, this one felt far more different to the others, even your own former [REDACTED].
“Warmaster. One of the members of this… opposing force… that you discussed. It is of interest to myself and the others.” [REDACTED][REDACTED] purred, a dulcet and relaxed voice completely at odds to the rest of the words’ demeanour. “I would request that [REDACTED], the one that I make reference to, is kept alive, so that a more firm decision can be made.”
Your senior’s face showed no emotion, and nor did her voice. “I see. How interesting. Why… Why could you not meet her directly? And would she be suitable for—”
“I could not, simply because I just could not, or perhaps would not. That is all there is to it, and all that there is to it is what I think of it. And… well, for your last question, I won’t know until I’m certain, and I won’t know until I’m certain until I know I am certain. Certainly, when I have made a decision, I’m sure you can also give your advice, ideas, or plans to me as always.” Another pleasant intonation, followed by a small shrug. “It’s just a small thing, honestly. I do hope it’s not too much of an issue.”
A nod. “Of course. I will do my best to ensure that your needs are fulfilled. Praise be.”
A small breath, before a sigh and another shrug. A small noise like a puff of air, and then…
The room lost the extra inhabitant.
It’s a little quiet, a bit awkward for a few moments, before there’s another sigh.
“Fucking dickbutt rat cat.”
Yeah, you said it boss. You said it.
===
Part 2 will be released shortly.
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Dark clouds over the Pamirs
<<<A series of recordings from a certain source.>>>
Recording 1.
Time: 05:56 Japanese Standard Time.
Date: ????, 2XXX.
Location: Mitakihara, XXXX XXXX XXXX, Upper Offices - Briefing Room.
<<<Beginning of Log.>>>
<Idle chatter, before being interrupted by the clattering of papers.>
"Settle down, Heartcatch Squad. I know you're newbies and all, but this operation is all hands on deck, so I don't have time to discipline you."
"Ayo, boss? These papers... you're having a laugh, right?"
"No time for questions or debates today, I'm afraid; I'm rather serious about this topic. So I would suggest you use your collective braincells and start learning both Russian and what those Russian words say... Don't want to press the wrong button and be launched into the air, after all!"
<Nervous laughter.>
"Heartcatch Squad, listen up. As I say, this operation will involve our entire force. That's why you've been woken so early; it's gonna be a long, long day. Now, if you'd take a moment to look at the screen..."
<A click of a remote.>
"The flight plan will take roughly 10 hours, give or take a few. We will refuel in air when we reach the Wakhan Corridor, while in Chinese airspace; our friends in Beijing did owe us a favour, and they're also more than happy to give the Syrakhanis a good kicking after their little fiasco a while back."
"But, XXXX - what's the reason for... for all this? Isn't that place essentially invulnerable? Isn't this just a long-winded way to meet our fate?"
"Heh. You have no idea. The nation and it's military themselves are gonna be the least of our problems; when we do this, we may well be making enemies of the whole world, if our diplomatic corps don't get things right."
"Y-you can't me-"
"I do."
<Clatter of a chair.>
"That's MADNESS! This is insane! Why would the Warm--"
"Acting Warmaster."
"XXXX-sama! We weren't expecting..."
"Sorry, sorry. But I thought I would personally advise this particular squad. After all - She was the one that made your little gang official."
"Wait, you mean-"
"Yeah. This operation is to save Her. Or, at the very least, get us on the path to saving her, and redeeming her name."
"..."
"Alright. We didn't know her long, but she was good to us - better than we expected."
"So?"
"We're with you, 'til the End."
<<End of log.>>
===
Recording 2.
Time: 1834 JST/1404 Afghanistan Time.
Location: ~30,000 feet above the Pamir Mountain Range, straddling the Kyrgyzstan-Syrakhanistan Border.
<<<Beginning of Log.>>>
<<This is AWACS Curator to Heartcatch Squad - you're trailing the rest of the formation. Sound off for us, would you?>>
<<Heartcatch 1 here. One of our members had an itch on thei-->>
<<HOLD ON, DON'T TELL THEM-->>
<<Ahem.>>
<<Sorry.>>
<<...Heartcatch 2, sounding off.>>
...
<<Alright, well get it together. We're within a few minutes of Syrakhanistan's airspace, so catch up to the rest of your pals and maintain radio silence.>>
<<Wilco.>
<<Radio silence, eh? Have something to hide, aside from an awkward itch?>>
<<WHAT WAS TH>>
<<WHO W>>
<<STOP TALKING ABOUT THE ITCH PLEASE DEAR G-->>
<<...So much for subtlety.>>
<<Commander?>>
<Clearing throat.>
<<This is Blueberry, to AWACS Curator; put me on to all channels.>>
<<...If you're sure, boss.>>
<<This is Ninth Blueberry to Unidentified Responder, your attention is noted.>>
<<XXXX-chan? We've heard lots about you, hee hee.>>
<<I bet you have.>>
<<This is SKS CENTCOM. We've noticed that you have quite a few flights in formation with you, rapidly approaching our airspace borders.>>
<<...>>
<<We don't have you on records for a diplomatic or business oriented trip, especially not with a formation of MiGs.>>
<<Ha.>>
<<Ha yourself, genius.>>
<<Eyepatch 1, please be silent for just a moment.>>
<<Haiiiiii~.>>
<Aggravated sigh.>
<<This is SKS CENTCOM. Sorry about that.>>
<<Don't apologise. All of *them* are like that.>>
<<...What are you saying, Blueberry?>>
<<...SKS CENTCOM, patch me in to SKS ACTUAL.>>
<<XXXX-chan, she's not gonna answer~>>
<<SHUT. UP. She WILL answer if she's-->>
<<If I'm what?>>
<<Oh, you've done it now.>>
<<=This is AWACS Curator to All Friendlies, prepare for imminent combat within the AO. I repeat, prepare for combat.=>>
<<If I'm what, ACTING Warmaster? I'm waiting for your response.>>
<<You...>>
<<Tell you what. Take your fleet, and turn around now, and I won't even bring this up to our bosses. I mean, unless Nine is in on this...?>>
<<Shove it.>>
<<Excuse me?>>
<<I SAID SHOVE IT. TAKE A GIANT FUCKING ROD AND SHOVE IT SO FAR UP YOUR OWN ARSE THAT YOU WOULDN'T BE ABLE TO SHIT FOR DAYS!->>
<<How dare-->>
<<SHUT UP. You're hiding HER, or at least HUNTING HER. We KNOW she's alive, and that blasted fucking ship you're hiding in the Red Sea is our only hope.>>
<<...>>
<<You know what I'm talking about. The Shambhala is there, and you know it... Isn't that right, Ake-->>
<<You will bring death to all of us if you even go there. Don't even try THAT, unless you've really lost the plot.>>
<<Ha ha, touchy eh? Don't want your pals to know that little secret?>>
<<PLEASE, don't do this, don't do any of this. You can't be that far gone, right? Come on; you know what's at stake, right?>>
<<Oh, I'm VERY MUCH aware by this point. But you've done this to yourself; and now, it's time to play ball.>>
<<SKS CENTCOM to ALCON, cease activity, PLEASE. We can't-->>
<<Eyepatch 1 to SKS CENTCOM, I'd suggest butting out of this particular convo...>>
<<You're insane.>>
<<Pot calling kettle, FIRST-SAMAAAA~. No wonder your sister barely talks about you.>>
<<...We're done here. You've brought this on yourself, >>
<<This is SKS ACTUAL via SKS CENTCOM. To all units along Area PT6, engage any and all contacts in your area. Rules of Engagement restrictions are... Irrelevant. Free Engagement. Over.>>
<<...Here we go.>>
<<AWACS Curator to all friendlies, break! Break! Break!>>
<<You've done it now, XXXX-chan~>>
<<So be it. I'll dance with you. All forces, with me - we have a superweapon to crash, and a hat-wearing murderface to save. Godspeed.>>
<Static, mixed with the sound of explosions and magnetic rail fire.>
<<<End of recording.>>>
#syrakhanistan#accounts#middle east#geography#project wingman#Gold#magical girls#blueberry#sayaka miki
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Short stories, part 3
===
Story 6: Prologue in Heaven
===
PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN : -(2011)-
===
The LORD, her HEAVENLY HOST
===
Afterwards, MEPHISTOPHELES
===
Three Archangels:
[LEFT INTENTIONALLY BLANK]
: Sun sings in adulation,
path predestined,
lofty works uncomprehended...
: Swift, splendour, ocean tides breaking...
: Chain of actions, forged, gentle movement of thy day, thunder's crashing way...
THREE: Works uncomprehended, power as bright as Creation's hour!
-()- : O my Lord, deign'st to approach again, pardon with lofty speech, my PATHOS move thy laughter, and suns and worlds have yet nothing...
===
The attached images show:
1. A bright light cutting through a blue sky, colouring the surrounding edges a dark pink. The description reads "The fairest stars from Heaven she Requireth, From Earth the highest raptures and the best, And all the Near and Far that she desireth Fails to subdue the tumult of her wings..."
2. A pale white-winged angel with no face walking across a path of clouds; it is lined with an endless number of angels with black wings, their heads removed. Above the cloud path, a massive moon-like structure hangs in the sky, held up by multiple strings of purple light. The description reads "Sees not the Gardeners, even while they bud the tree; Both flower and fruit, the future years adorning?"
3. What appears to be a satellite image of a city, covered in the shadow of a storm. There are no people or cars, or any sign of life; yet the city itself appears to be completely intact. The description reads "Candle CANDLE, burning BRIGHT. How much WRATH doth thy wax bring to BLIGHT?"
4. A satellite image of the Earth. Both the Moon and the Second Moon are visible; one can also clearly see a sprawling and large space station in orbit, with it's anchor jutting towards the Earth showing what appears to be a bright blue light. The description of this image is scrawled in a different set of handwriting to the last, reading: "It's spreading the brainrot its spreading. I can see it, as clearly as the day shines, I declare it as thee ist ansilt. are'. a fallen angel flies the lowest a feast for the flesh and the bones of the devils. heaven is empty, throne left bare. the black city lost to time lies to you, and brings a light which darkness cannot conjureth."
===
Story 7: OBLIVION, featuring Suns and Stars
===
A short extract from a digital book, the author lost to time. The published date is barely understandable, and quite possibly impossible - as it reads "30XX" - around a thousand years in the future.
===
Falling... Falling for so long.
I don't really know what had happened. I remember... [EXTRACT CORRUPTED]
...now, I just feeling falling... almost fading... bathed in the dark.
Then, there was... A single, odd light. It slowly expanded in my field of view, before zooming towards me.
It exploded into millions of little lights, before I woke with a start.
I was in... what appeared to be a hospital cot. There were rows and rows of other people in this long hallway, what looked almost like an old gymnasium, all seemingly waking up or in the process of waking up as I had.
Someone shouted towards me; I ignored them. Where was my family? I... I...
I stumbled out of the cot, running to one of the large metal doors that was open.
Into the light.
Into a new world.
The sky was cut in half, the clouds separated by a single line of pure blue.
Despite it seemingly being day, the sky was full of stars. Red flashes flew past; a ring of... asteroids...?
The sky was constantly moving. Between the flashes of clouds, the asteroid belt seemingly straddling the Earth's horizon, I witnessed hundreds, no, thousands of different planets handing in the sky. Moons, gas giants, even some lights that looked like the sun.
The red streaks continued, like an eternal stream of comets.
Three Moons sat stationary close to the edge of my view. Luna, the Second Moon, and a New Moon. Hanging in the sky, glistening and shining with an almost... friendly... ferocity.
...
The world had begun a new. I... I don't understand much of it, any of it really. I recall a news story of some sort of cosmic event... Humanity reaching to the stars. The President of some far flung nation had sacrificed herself in some sort of, and I quote, "Cosmic Contract", with some aliens? Or Gods? Of some sort of alternative world, or reality, or planet?? Or something?
It depended on who you believed.
Now, these unknown skies were open to us all. The shattered skies were reforged, our liberties returned. The world was free... From what, I am unsure - but I cannot help but feel as though there is a fresh new happiness in the air, like a new chapter for humanity had begun.
...
I walked with my family along the blackened ashen beach, the waves reflecting the new night sky. The waves were utterly clear, but filled with almost luminescent lights - you must have heard of those documentaries about sea bacteria that lights up, right?
The sky continued to endlessly swirl. It was relaxing, almost hypnotic, to watch the Red lines constantly battering the ring surrounding the world. The three Moons blinking at us, a warm gaze.
My daughter's four new pets are... odd. Adorable, but odd. Two cats - one a pale flesh colour, another a pitch black, that loved to chase one another. A squirrel of almost pure white, with speckled red dots, had fallen asleep on her shoulder; it almost looked like some sort of burden had been lifted from it's shoulders.
And the puppy.
It was usually so calm, almost timid; a puppy that veterinarians had told us was acting abnormally old - a newborn pup that acted like a worn-out guard dog, a bedraggled spotted coat of grey and black with a hint of almost yellow or gold.
But, on this occasion, the puppy suddenly ran away from us. My daughter shouted; I ran to catch up to it.
I found it barking at a young couple lying on the sand, bathing in the light of the Three Moons.
A taller girl with unnatural hair and fashion sense; and a thin, small girl that looked almost like a war veteran, covered in scars... but smiling like she'd won the lottery.
They laughed at the little puppy yapping at them; the smaller, dark haired girl shook her head, a warm smile on her face. She stood up, and knelt down to pet the puppy. The puppy stopped yapping, and the two stared at one another.
I looked to the skies, and thought of the future, as the young couple and my family moved to talk to one another.
The two proud cats woke up a little, and gave a simultaneous meow of greeting - not to the people, but to the stars.
I turned around, and...
The rest of the text is illegible and corrupted.
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