Eight men and women sat around a table deep in an underground bunker, underneath the French city of Nice. They were the Oculus Senators, each responsible for overseeing different parts of the world in The Oculi's name. Unbeknownst to all but those in the room, one of these individuals was also the alter-identity of Cerberus, the leader of the organization. The Oculi was perhaps most famous for its collection of world leaders in exile from their home countries, and the most influential of these were appointed Senators.

"The situation in Italy is working out surprisingly well. We're working closely with the Roman Catholic Church to restore stability and allow for a democratic system to emerge again. The Papacy has become one of our closest allies," said Woodrow Caldwell, the former United States Secretary of State during the third World War and North American Senator. Caldwell tried to promote peace, and was shamed out of office when the war turned badly for the States.

"Now that Italy stabilized, I believe that it's time to turn out attention to other nations in the world," Maria Fernanda Espinoza said. Espinoza was the President of Peru before being overthrown in a coup by her top generals. She readily accepted a position as South America's Senator, and has been lobbying for a full scale invasion of Peru ever since she joined Oculus.

"Peru needs to wait. Your generals are expecting us, Maria. They're on constant vigilance," Caldwell responded.

"I'm not talking about Peru," Maria snapped. "I can recognize other areas needing out attention. Areas such as Central America. As they're Hispanic, they're obviously in my jurisdiction. They need our help."

"I'm not aware of any human rights violations in Central America," Birdie Conway frowned. Conway was a movie starlet in her days, just after 2010, reaching worldwide fame. In the 20's she retired from acting and became an ambassador and human rights activist from New Zealand. Conway joining with Oculi gave it a boost among older citizens who remembered the name Birdie Conway with fondness and respect.

"That's because there's nobody to report it," Espinoza countered. "There is no central government. Just feudalistic dictators doing whatever they damn well please, especially in Nicaragua."

"You'll have to look into that, then, dear." Birdie responded. "But little warlords aren't a threat to the world. We need to focus on larger threats. The North American Federation needs to be taught that a dictatorship won't be tolerated by our organization. Am I right, Woodrow?"

Caldwell nodded. "Absolutely."

Washington D.C, North American Federation
The Oval office had undergone some changes since the formation of the Federation. The Presidential seal on the floor had been replaced by the symbol of the NAF, a picture of the North American Continent encircled by a blue circle, with Unitas emblazoned below it in big white letters, the Latin word for unity. David sat there awaiting for his Secretary of Relations to come in, they had some things to discuss.His black hair remained ever dark. He had a standard business suit on. He had a mostly straight face, with a bit of stubble for a beard.He thought about the progress the Federation had made after the end of the war. The policies of rebuilding continued, trying to bring economic stability to the NAF. Mines and farms were rapidly setup to give the people jobs and farm, and the NAF, while still suffering the effects of WW3, were a lot better of then other areas.

The door to the oval office opened to reveal Brent Chadsworth, the Secretary of Foreign Relations. He hid mostly under a trenchcoat and hat, but his blueish eyes could be seen, along with a bit of his long flowing blond hair. He sat down and discussed many things with David, including the stability of the Central American states. Brent eventually left, leaving David to more paperwork and other reports.

African Congo, Odzala National Park

The hot wings of a slicked back aircraft cut through the hot African air as it soared over the green mat of forest. Rolling over gentle hills a vast jungle spanned in all directions for as far as the eye could see. Deep rivers cut through the green jungle below, barely visibly through the heavy vines and leaves that crowned the forest below. A dark world lay below, hidden in its tangled vines and dense under-brush. A land that was suicide to trudge through.

But they were in the air.

The aircraft, a duel-rotor Advanced Osprey from out of the US in the late-war was a sleek, cut back sort of plane. Low angled cuts across its surface gave it a dense, polygonal structure. The heavy rotors at its side spun and burned with electric force, hacking at the dense humid air with mutilating speed and pushing them forward as each of the flanking rotors hung pushed forward, running parallel to the ground that the great black comet streaked over.

The windshield of the craft was almost invisible against the sleek black carbon-body form. Under its nose hung a bulbous camera fitting that spun, scanning the thick green forest below as it continued its route onward. A number of weapons ports were embedded into the gun-ship's side, tucked in sunken portholes. Invisible.

The new Osprey though wasn't as dark as the jungle was green though. As sure as Odzala National Park was a checkerboard of environments so was the Vertical Take Off craft. Though, many might consider it some kind of vandalism, it was still within the accepted company plan. Though it made many officers cringe all the same.

Drawn across the nose in big blocky white text were the words, “Love and dominate”. The same phrase was repeated in French just below it.

The tail of the helicopter was equally painted over. On the fins of the rear tail assembly bore – on both sides – the image of a white pony. Reclining on red pillows the snow-white equine lay posed as if in some manner of burlesque parody of a sexy woman. What might pass as the content of a lingerie ad, and where the model was unafraid to show off what she had.

It would have been all, if the subject wasn't holding a pillow in her mouth. As well, a light-pink heart inset with a reversed swastika rested over the side of her ass.

The decal shone in the African sun with a ceramic gloss quality on the outside of both fins. The roar of the engines whisking hot breath past her waiting stare.

Inside, the interior of the aircraft was hardly as warm as it was on the outside. The soft kiss of air-conditioning managed to keep the inside at a cool and crisp twenty-five degrees celsius. The warm yellow of the sun was replaced by a dull red glow. And the sights of a green forest was hidden behind tiny windows, covered over in an assortment of spare gear and first-aid kits.

On the far rear wall assault rifles hung on racks, clean and ready for use. Their owners sitting on benches flanking a pair of sealed doors on either side. From the cockpit emanated a soft blue light from the flight consoles. A weakened sun pouring through the tinted cockpit glass before loosing itself in the computer glow on the pilot's laps.

“A'ight, yer mugs,” one of the pilots yelled back through his coms to the waiting team in the back. His voice thick with an Australian accent, “We're coming up on tha Gabon border. I'ffin ya need t' give another brief cap', I'd do it now.”

A man looked from the back, seeming to hesitate as he ran through the words. But as they sunk in not a few seconds later his expression lit up, and he jumped to his feet in the middle of the cabin.

He was a tall man by his nature, fit well. His face looked to be something that could have been excused for a Hollywood facial job, if the only thing that was changed about it was his tan or his hair; noticeable even in the red glow of the interior cabin lighting. Sharp angled nose, broad chin, strong brow, and bright blue eyes. As he cleared his throat to speak he slipped his helmet on over his short cut, douche-bag California dyed blue hair. His helmet bearing some light modification in the form of a orange pony plush with blue hair, secured on with heavy black zip-ties. White marker proclaimed his nickname to be “Flash Sentry”.

“Alright!” he said enthusiastically, clapping his hands together. “Welcome to Air Sentry.” he cheered above the noise of the rocketing Osprey. He had no fear in holding back his enthusiasm in his face. He was practically jumping on his heels with it, “Today's mission is the neutralization of some cunts Kinshasha has said need to go.

“Now we've observed our suspected targets between here and Gabon, which intelligence suggests our targets are using as an operational base for when shit gets to rough for their tender asses to take in this northern part of the Congo.

“Our run is merely going to run as interception against a patrol suspected to be a part of the Mboko group of the Lingala people who had the reason to start a civil war up here when they decided they didn't like their neighbor's cattle. As we believe the responsible army has fled to Gabon to escape and continue beating each other with clubs, but we're going in to get them out.

“Command wants us to get what prisoners we can to bring them back for interrogation. So that is our objective men. Today's wonderful waifu.

“Oh, also. We need to be quick about this. The longer our asses are in Gabon the more danger we put at being found out we're not supposed to be there. I don't think they have any reason of knowing we're there, but the shorter and quicker we can get out, the less we have to worry about Liberville having felt us driving something hot and heavy deep up their ass, and the less pain means the less pain for us.”

“Captain Flash, sir,” a younger soldier said, leaning against the hull of the osprey as it pressed its throttle ever heavier to Gabon. He was dressed over fully in his equipment, helmet on tight, and darkened goggles obscured most of his face. But he was clean, perhaps hardly old enough for a full beard, “What's the ground plan looking like if we do find them?"

"What do you think, Vinyl!" Sentry shouted, laughing and pointed to the window, "Have yo looked outside."

"Last I checked we were in Savannah, sir. That's before we loaded up the windows with our shit. No offense, but I got no damn view!"

"Then I hope you look good, hard wood when we manage to get down there." smirked a larger soldier. A heavy reinforced suit of armor clad him over. Bulky servos built into the legs and arms no doubt helped him move. Scars and burn marks ran a pattern work like a children's puzzle across his bald scalp, and his lips stretched thin across his broad cheeks as he grinned.

The Mosquito Coast

Jay Holden carelessly flicked a spent cigarette into the luminous turquoise water that lapped against the ARC Velez. The Velez was a Columbian destroyer, a sharp-angled Zumwalt Class designed for stealth, gifted by the American Federation as part of the World Peace Commission's effort in taming the war-torn anarchy in Central America. Jay had only served in the last few years of the war, where he saw action on the Ivory Coast. What he had saw there would stay with him. When the war arrived in Nigeria, it tore the country apart. He had saw entire villages slaughtered and burned. He had saw refugees, starving and maimed, cross burning grasslands to get away from their patrols. In Abuja, he saw a man literally explode has his blood quickly boiled from the heat of a thermal missile going off beneath his feet. When that had happened, he had wore that mans blood for days before getting the opportunity to wash it off. And they said Nigeria had been a skirmish in comparison to Central America.

The sun had all but set, framing the darkened coast in red flame. This must be what it had looked like during the war, when the entire region burned. Even now, a year after the fighting had officially came to an end, they could see pockets smouldering amongst the new growth. In the daylight, the scars of war had been visible. The landscape was marked with unnatural valleys and ravines where new jungle growth was only now starting to take hold. In other places, growth refused to take hold at all. They had said that strips of the landscape were permanently blackened where the soil was too poisonous to host plants. It was true. From what Jay could tell, the entire land looked poisoned. The jungle looked sick, filled with trees that reached a certain height only to die. During the day, it had looked noxious and unnatural. At night, it looked evil.

Their mission was on behest of the Peace Commission. Ricardo Palacio Delgado, the Director of the Panama Zone, had insisted on aid in patrolling the wild coast of "The Tears." His recent declaration that the Tears were rightfully his territory, and his ploy to win support with such antics as naming a young girl who had been maimed in the fighting to the nothing-office of "Vice Director", and changing his name legally to "Mister Promises", had caused the Peace Commission to reconsider his sanity. Panama was a laughing stock to the international community, but the eccentric Director was popular with his own people.

Jay flicked a second cigarette into the water. Had it been that long? The war had made it difficult for him to sleep. He found himself spending a lot more time staring into nothing, thinking about just as much. The moon was rising in the east, and the coastline was enveloped in blackness. Jay rounded the bridge and found his way to the other side of the destroyer, where lights were propped up around a gathered crowd.

Most of the sailors were Columbians. They had lived a hard life, their country ceasing to exist early in the war as revolutions within revolutions tore at each other for a decade. There were more men with burns or scars than there were without. Some of them were missing digits, or hands, or features on their faces. Jay had talked to a man who claimed to have survived having his throat slit, and he had the scar to prove it. Most of them had fought against one another during the war, and old loyalties still divided the crew. The captain had decided that an outlet was needed. That was how they came to organize the fight.

There were soldiers in the crowd as well. Some where American, some German, some British. They came from everywhere that honored the Peace Commission's interests as a gesture of adherence to the Treaty that ended the war. The old rivalries had been less of a problem with them. Even those who had fought each other had somehow learned to hate the war itself over their enemies. Disturbingly, Jay had found himself far more comfortable with old foes than he did with his family back at home. The war had fashioned it so he had more in common with the people he had tried to kill than the people who had raised him.

Between them, a makeshift ring had been fashioned out of rope and orange rubber cones. Lights focused on the two sweaty combatants, a hispanic man - one of the Colombian sailors - and a white woman. They were roughly the same height, the woman being an inch or two taller. The sailor had taken his shirt off, revealing a somewhat flabby torso with little more than a tuft of hair in the center of his chest to match the tuft of hair on top of his lip. He was smiling like a devil despite the blood oozing out of his busted lip. It looked like he hadn't had more fun in his life.

Jay knew the woman. She was a Dane, though the war had saw her fight for the Germans as well. Soldat Heidi Raske. She was more comfortable with the men then most female soldiers he had seen. Her dirty blonde hair was kept in a tight bun behind her head, simple and out of the way. She had lost her leg during the war and gained a cybernetic replacement. Most people wore a skin-tone sleeve over their cyber-limbs, but she never did. She said it was too difficult to clean.

Her nose was bent slightly, a product of it having been broken one time too many. Even now the fight had left it bleeding. Her cyber-leg looked like something that belonged in the engine of a car, with blackened steel parts formed in such a way that was reminiscent of the muscles they had replaced. Wires protected by thick rubber ran up and down the struts. The feet, more delicate than the leg, were protected by a black leather "Shoe" shaped vaguely like a foot.

She was enjoying the fight as much as the sailor, though Jay considered that it was likely for different reasons. These men hadn't seen many women like Soldat Raske. When her opponent took off his shirt, she had followed suit, wearing a simple military training bra. It didn't reveal much, but it didn't take much for this lot to take interest.

Every time Raske landed a shot, the rest of the Peace Commission soldiers cheered. The Columbians cheered anytime somebody was hit, and twice as much when there was blood. The sailor wasn't afraid of hitting her, but he did look distracted none the less, so it was no surprise when a leeward glance ended in an upward strike to the jaw. He looked like he flew before he fell, and it was over.

Jay joined the rest of the soldiers in congratulating her. They surrounded her, clothed in a variety of different uniforms. There were greens and greys and grey-greens. A few were dressed in camo, and a few is straight black. They represented different nations, all unified here off the coast of a place that had lost all unity to them and the weapons that had been brought under their flags a decade ago.

Washington D.C, North American Federation
The continued questions of what to do since the end of the war were running through David's mind. The economy had been destroyed, ideological questions were rising in everyones mind. The future of the Earth remained uncertain. David in his head began exploring the effects of the war in his mind, and what the North American Federation. The Army was smaller but running off better weapons and training. It was still a question of how to fill those empty ranks however. This also applied to the FBI, CIA, and Secret Service, where David had been taking away from the military and adding to them in attempt to prevent the waves of revolutions and terrorists that had weakened so many other nations.

The war had killed a lot, it lasted almost 15 years, 18 year olds or 20 year olds had spent a good portion of there life only knowing the war, they couldn't remember what life was like without war, without the constant threat of invasion. The war had killed a lot of the former workforce, and the NAF had taken the way of using automatization, machines took the jobs of workers. They ran faster and did it cheaper then a worker ever could. However this hadn't new method of production hadn't taken over in the mines and farms, jobs were still desperately needed.

Even then there were still a lot jobless, certain goods were still more expensive them all the gems in South Africa. The NAF had been instituting homes for these people, and also started a series of reforms similar to the New Deal Plans from the Great Depression, building roads and new factories and resource production centers with funds from the Reconstruction Plan. They were then given water and food.

Socialism was also starting to dominate the minds of populace, in the aftermath of the war many saw it preferable to the exploitation of Capitalism. NAF Policies even reflected this, strengthening the power of Worker's Unions and running mines and farms under socialist methods. Socalists had also been advocating full automatization in factories, along with new methods of production like 3D printing. Capitalism was seeing its fall, in the NAF at least.

The NAF had instituted no economic ssanctionssince the war, and removed any that had been placed during WW3. David was mad at those who ccontinuedto place ssanctions which threated the economic rebuilding that many countries were trying to attempt. David was actually planning to make a broadcast soon, that would be bbroad castedat the world. He wanted to call a summit of World Leaders so they could discuss the future of there fragile world. No country would be able to work alone, it was now more then ever that they needed to work together.

David stepped out onto the steps of the White House flanked by two Secret Service agents, and a massive crowd in front of him. He began his speech, in a deep loud voice.

"Now time is more then ever when we need to unite together and attempt to strengthen each other We can no longer stand divided. Capitalist or Communist. Republican or Democrat. Young or Old. We need to stand together to attempt to restore this world once more, and that doesn't apply to us individuals, but to all nations. I request personally that all nations remove trade sanctions if they still exist, to help with economic building. I'm also calling a summit of World Leaders in New York, it is important that we get together and try to figure out this mess. We have a world, lets try to make it good once again shall we?"

David finished his speech, leaving a cheering crowd behind him. He hoped for a better world, out of The New Order.

Reichstag Building, Berlin, OFR Empire. 1300 Hours

Kaiser Schwartz sat at an ornate oak table along with the rest of his cabinet. Among them were Barbara Foist, Head of the War Department, Armin Les, Chief of Public Relations, and Schwartz' chief political adviser, Anton Alderweiss. Laid on the large wooden table was a map of Europe. Pre-war borders remained, but were drawn over in large markings identifying the newer span of the empires. Among them laid a single small piece of land towards the north.

"How goes the advance onto the Denmark Territory" the Kaiser asked in German.

"The Eighteenth Panzerdrachen line of Panzer X's and Tiger VIII's have begun to reach the border. There are smaller towns putting up fights towards their southern boundaries, but they've been put into submission for the most part thanks to our bombers. Our estimates state that by 1500 tomorrow, both the Panzerdrachen and Silberschwert brigades are to reach to the capitol. Once we oust their leader, we will be able to send our appointee to their as soon as possible to create a potential power vacuum." Ms. Foist explained.

Heinrich nodded, taking a sip of his tea from the table. "Honorable Les, have you been able to establish communication with any of the leading bodies in Denmark?"

The aging officer shook his head, scratching the graying hairs on the back of his head nervously. "Unfortunately, no. They seem to refuse to speak with the Order, Kaiser. I have kindly reminded President Lund that our military forces are invading from the south, but he did not respond. As far as I am concerned, Kaiser Schwartz, Denmark will not resolve this peacefully."

Suddenly, Foist piped in. "Kaiser, perhaps they've heard Les' message and are preparing to defend the south and western ends of the capitol island. However, if we were to launch a stealth fleet from the east, without alerting Sweden, we may be able to catch them off guard in Copenhagen. Our forces I am certain are much larger than the Danish military, so we could attempt both approaches with minimal casualties."

"How do you suggest a stealth fleet, Honorable Foist?" the Kaiser asked, rubbing his bearded chin quizzically.

"The Fourth Unterseeboot Fleet is currently stationed at one of our docks in northern Poland, ready for action. We can maneuver towards the east end of Copenhagen and launch a salvo of ballistic missiles. Heavy damage might force them into withdrawing some. After this, the rest of the Silberschwert and Panzerdrachen lines can head into the city, where they will assault the capitol and attempt to remove President Lund from office."

Heinrich muttered a "mhmm" in thought and agreement. He turned his head to Mr. Alderweiss, who had twiddled his thumbs nervously and remained quiet for most of the discussion.

"Would you say it would be worth it, Mr. Alderweiss?" Kaiser Schwartz asked. Alderweiss snapped out of his trance and hasted, "W-well, as long as we can minimize Danish casualties, I'm certain it could work..."

"Then it's decided! Honorable Foist, contact the fleet leader of the FUF and have them prepare to move in towards Copenhagen. Have our footsoldier and tank lines speed things up to be prepared when the bombardment starts."

"Yes, Kaiser."

"Then this meeting is dismissed. I must recess to my office, I will see you all later." With that, Kaiser Schwartz and the others rose from their chairs, and strode to their individual offices in the building.

Congo-Gabon Border, Africa

The soft lights of control panels shone in the pilot's face, giving readings on the Osprey's condition as it glided above the thick jungle canopy below. Low rolling hills could be seen in the distance, mired from view by the haze of distant mist. Dark, distant clouds hung in the bright blue sky, beckoning a coming rainstorm.

“It looks cloudy.” a female voice said. The co-pilot. She was a dark-skinned woman, lite chocolate features from a mixed parentage, “Think we can get this done before it rains then?” she asked, turning to her partner.

“Naw, naw.” the Aussie said in a exasperated breath, “It looks t' be too far out t' caw'tch up with us.”

“You think?” the copilot asked again. Half-assed writing on her green pilot's helmet read: Fleetfoot. Her partner: Soarin.

“If we'a go t' faw'r in then we're coming back out and we tell the baw'sses.” Soarin said flatly, checking their GPS position on a screen to his left, “Maw'be we can get us some help with a saw'tellite.”

“I copy.” Fleetfoot replied, “Should I get the drone down then?”

“If you wo'uld.” Soarin nodded, “Let's get this dawne so we can get some o' that barbie at base.”

“I hear you.” smile Fleetfoot, flipping a switch a small screen to her right clicked on, showing a flickering black and white screen of the jungles below. With a twitch from the flat plasma screen the scene began to move. The ship's on board drone helicopter was down and on the move.

Dropping through the air the jungle below began to rush upwards only to slow to a crawl as the small device gained control of its descent and whipped forward over the trees, controlled by the gentle and precise twitches and moves on Fleetfoot's controls as she dove it into the trees.

Under the tree line, the merits of the black and white interface came to. The cold trees glowed softly, just enough to be visible against each other as the view through the thermal camera peered on through the thick brush. And over it all, the burning white hot shapes of living, roaming mammals and birds that populated the higher crowns of the thick Congo.

No sound came through the drone. It wasn't needed, not for the purposes of Fleetfoot and the crew. Soarin as well had his own thermal imaging. Tucked under the cockpit hung the bulbous, tumorous main thermal camera. A center screen showed the heat-signature of the forest below, though most of the information it could provide was lost in the incredible noise of the forest. The thick leaves shrouded everything but the birds that flew above, or the monkeys that climbed in the high branches. Occasionally, other images would pass through, but the veil of leaves made it hard to make out anything, especially flying so fast.

The Osprey flew over the forest, searching for anything that might be their mark. And in the distance, the clouds grew closer.

“Found them.” Fleetfoat said plainly, breaking over a half an hour's silence, “fives miles out at 175 degrees.”

“Cawpy that.” Soarin said, rounding the Osprey around.

“Looks like twenty individuals, armed, walking south by south east.”

“Sawnds like we gawt our blokes then.” Soarin smiled, hitting a button for all unit coms.

“We got 'em.” he said. On cue from the back the small team they carted shot up off their benches to take their stations by the door. As the Osprey turn about they readied their lines.

“Straight ahead, four-hundred meters.” Fleetfoat said after several minutes.

“Good on 'em,” Soarin added, “Sending a present.”

Through the cockpit glass two silver spears shot out from the side of the craft, trailing white smoke behind them as they screamed over the jungle canopy and into the tree-line to explode in a brilliant flash of fire and light. The trees parted and bowed against the explosive blast as a black cloud bloomed over the greenery. With a rush the Osprey flew over the smokey, still smoldering crater they had left, a harsh alarm signaling the opening of the doors as the craft lowered.

“Move! Move!” Flash screamed as the sound of the rotors roared into the cabin. Sweeping buffeting winds ripped through as the fist cables were anchored into the ceiling and dropped down over the side. Soon after the pinging of bullets against the hull of the hovering Osprey.

The first pair of boots to hit the ground mushed down the singed and still burning foliage left by the Osprey's missiles. The bright red dome of the soldier's helmet acting as a magnet. But the small arms fire the pinged and reflected off could do little to phase the heavily armored beast as it stepped forward out of the firing zone. Bits of ash and leaves dancing in a cyclonic spin around him. The bulbous plates on his shoulders and the heavy chest plate giving him more of a build akin to a heavy beetle.

A small, chain-fed machine gun rested in the ballistic-plastics reinforced gloves. Stepping out of the landing zone, the machine gun let open its rounds. Bright flashes of yellow swept the edge of the artificially forced clearing. Brass casings flashed in the sun as behind him the rest of the squad landed, and swept out, firing into the trees.

Gun fire popped and echoed through the trees as the mercenary squad spread out, dipping into the trees. And in moments, the firing silenced.

Kampala, Uganda

“Hey, what the fuck did you do to the TV!?” cried a man as he sat up from his chair, angrily yelling over the dull silence of the office. The room was very nondescript, and featured many of the same features of a growing Kampala. Plain, colorless dry-wall, a dropped ceiling, and a tasteless blue-gray rug could make it feel like it was any old office from the 2000's. Cheap photos in plastic frames hung from the wall, and suspended in the corner of the room was a flat-screen TV with a broken, frozen image.

“Hey, I ain'd did shid man!” shouted the man's companion. A tall native with broad shoulders. A Ugandan dressed in a ASF uniform some few sizes too small for him. Some effort had been made to tuck it into his dress pants as he leaned against the reception counter. But the effort was lacking, and was made up for by a clean white under shirt. “Mutesa ain'd done shid, man.”

“Better fucking not, I'm missing the game!” swore the other. A white man in a more relaxed uniform. From behind the counter he had been trying to watch a soccer game. But the satellite image had died and was now showing a jittering two frames a minute as the rest of the image lagged and broke behind in huge square chunks. Absolute silence hung over the cool office as the two sat by, staring at the dead screen.

“It's the fucking African cup.” the white man said, saddened and frustrated.

“Well maybe id's da Oculli.” Mutesa smiled, “You know deh do da crazy dhings, man. Deh like da Illumandi and shid.”

“Are you fucking crazy?”

“Aw no, you da crazy one Mark.” Mutesa laughed heartily. He had a distinctive deep throaty laugh. It was a done that matched his size, and the cheerful sort of disposition he had. But he was a fortunate one by some respects, many from his village did not enjoy get high paying jobs.

“Hey, just because the fucking Illuminati started the fucking world war to kill Obama doesn't mean the Occuli are taking over my soccer games because it's not some limp-dick liberal shit.

“So fuck off and fix it man.”

“You do know id's supposed d' rain today bruddah?” smiled Mutesa, “You dhink dhat's why?”

“God fucking damn it, I need a drink.”

“Too early for Waragi, bruddah. It's only two.”

“Yea fuck that.” Mark grumbled, drumming his fingers across the reception desk as he stared at the frozen TV screen. Thunder rolled outside, heralding the storm to come. The TV screen flickered weakly, before shutting off and being replaced by a dancing signal lost box. “Shit, now I'll need to read up on the match later.” he cursed.

“Id can'd be so bad.” Mutesa comforted, pushing away from the wall and walking across the room. He smiled as he kicked across the cheap carpet. He could always mess with Mark more. In fact, he could. “So who do you d'ink ordered d'is wea'der dhen? Dhat Birdie chick?”

“Oh to Hell with you.” chuckled his Mark, shaking his head.

“You know she wasn'd so bad, once upon a d'ime.” Mutesa continued, “I remember going d'a see a movie of her's wid an' old girlfriend of mine.”

“And it was mediocre?” Mark said.

“Like shi'd.” Mutesa laughed, “You whide man an' your sill dhings. Id makes no sense d' me somedimes.”

“Hey, you familiar with Emilia Clark at all?”

“Is she one of dem crazy ones?”

“Aw, no, no!” Mark cheered clapping her hands, “I take it you never heard of Game of Thrones then?”

“Shid sounds like some Umerican gameshow.” Metusa snickered.

“Aw, no. No.” Mark laughed, “I'll need to see if I can find it then.”

“Well you besd be careful, dhey say da interned is a Iranian conspiracy now.”

“Fine, fine.” Mark muttered.

From the far-side of the room there was a soft electric ring that cut through the silence like the cut of a knife. The soft subtle ring broke the eerie TV-less silence and drew the two's attention up to the entrance. The figure that stood in the door brought the two to a sharp salute of attention at the stiffly standing figure.

“At ease, gentlemen.” a voice spoke in a soft French accent. The two men on duty responded, relaxing and watching in Pierre Loffaine.

Pierre was a man whose features have been dictated by almost constant conflict. The battles he fought and wars he witnessed were etched deep into his face and body. Weary, tired lines ran around his features like an artist's attempts at accentuating every wrinkle in his face. His eyes starred off distantly, but knowingly. And staring into them Mark and Metusa both knew that the Frenchman could see deeper into them than they could him.

The kiss of Africa had come to rest on his face. The sun had tanned him, if not burned the top of his nose which glowed a fierce red, even inside. His bright blue eyes shone strong against the soft amber-orange around his eyes. “I see we are doing well.” his stress-thin mouth uttered as he looked between Mark and Metula. “Your uniform is small.” he commented to the Ugandan.

“I-I'm afraid the quader masder got my size wrong.” Metula said tensly, trying his best to defend himself.

Pierre simply noted, “Is he working on it then?” he asked.

“He is, sir.” nodded.

Pierre nodded his head slowly, stepping through the reception room. His steps were taken slow, almost sagely. The years of battle was not only on his face, but wore on his entire body. At several places even claiming whole parts of him.

Much of the commander's left-arm had been replaced with metal. All he had now to claim as his own was a heavy metal prosthetic. A cybernetic implant of steel and titanium. As he walked the shining red arm rose to his chest, the rubber-tipped fingers gingerly playing with the buttons on his uniform.

“Keep up the good work.” Pierre said distantly as he strolled through into the hall, disappearing out of sight.

Iran-Iraq Border

"You know the last time we were here we were trying to kill everyone, right?"

It was an incredibly sunny day: rays of light shone down on the massive convoy of military vehicles that were sputtering along at a comfortable speed of thirty kilometers per hour. Convoys generally couldn't move any faster without vehicles crashing: the armed forces was never going to be devoid of teenaged drivers slamming their trucks into each other. So the massive lines of armored cars and trucks stretched far across the horizon, carrying thousands of soldiers bound for Baghdad. They were expected to rebuild the country that was struggling against an insurgency and dozens of combating rebel groups seeking control of the different regions. But for now, combat was a far off prospect for these troops, only coming in the form of fighter jets screaming overhead to launch missiles at emplaced positions far beyond the horizon. It was an especially exhilarating time for the men of 4th squad, 3rd platoon in bravo company belonging to the 1st Battalion, 506th Infantry Brigade. Some, like Specialist Mohammad Tayebi, had never actually been out of the country. He manned the 12.7mm gun of his team's sleek armored utility vehicle, laughing at his own jokes while he tanned his pale arms.

"Shitty way to spend your summer!" catcalled Private First Class Mahmoud Abbas from the backseat as he fiddled with his grenade launcher.

"The babes here aren't even hot, man," sulked the driver: the fashionable PFC Raza Ali who was the butt of most of the gay jokes in the platoon.

"What do you know about babes, Raza?" Tayebi asked with a grin. Ali delivered a swift punch to the bottom of the knee, collapsing the leg and nearly sending Tayebi faceplanting into his gun.

"Plenty, thanks. I've had more pussy than you've ever seen on the Internet," was the rebuttal.

"Impossible!" cried Abbas. "Tayebi watches porn every night, the filthy swine!"

"Maybe our man Raza is actually a playa, underneath all the gay-ass clothes he wears. Did I catch you with perfume before deployment?"

"Don't judge a brother for smelling nice," unashamedly replied Ali, turning his head back with a goofy smile. "And it was cologne, dammit."

The windows of the truck rattled as a helicopter swept in low from the left, its crew chief waving at the convoy while a cardboard sign hung from the skids: "Baghdad or Bust!" The dust trail spiraled outwards and floated lazily towards the convoy, all while Tayebi violently gestured a thumbs up to the long-gone pilot. Go fuck yourself. This came to the amusement of Sergeant Taha Aziz as he watched the men under his command - all of them around nineteen - bicker amongst themselves. "I never imagined that war could be a party until I met you sorry shitbags," he observed.

"What's that, Sergeant?" asked Ali, batting his eyes facetiously. "Everywhere's a party with me around!"

"I was kind of picturing less people with both legs, if you know what I'm saying," Tayebi chimed in with a chuckle. "Like those peacekeepers in the twenties. Man, they got fucking wrecked!"

"We're peacekeepers, dummy!" reminded Abbas, flicking Tayebi in the leg. "Maybe you'll have to walk home on a robot leg."

"Dude, that'd be fucking sweet. I wish I lose both my legs, so I can be like Robocop or some shit. We have the technology."

"You're quoting the wrong thing, dumbass." Abbas shook his head. "That's the Six Million Dollar Man, a seventy-year-old TV show from fucking America of all places."

"Hey! I'm American!" Ali defended, giving a thumbs up gesture to Abbas in the back.

"Yeah, you've said," muttered Aziz. "Still have that Southern California charm, dude."

"Oh, make fun of my accent will you? Well, I'm afraid you don't understand the sociolinguistic effects of massive influxes of ethnically-Iranian-but-foreign-born-citizens, Sergeant. In fact, I'd say Operation Hundred - the fuckin' invasion, mind you - and the following demographic shift brought some much needed diversity to the Farsi vernacular," shot back Ali rapidly. He turned his eyes back to the road - or, more accurately, the rear bumper of an identical vehicle with an identical team of men shouting at each other inside - and adjusted his helmet before dropping an imaginary mic.

"Oh, so you're an academic douchebag, too. That's nice. Another thing I've learned today," was Tayebi's response.

"Didn't learn too much in school?"

"Nah, I was too busy blowing dudes for drug money in the back alleys of Tehran," the gunner remarked sarcastically.

"I'm so sorry. Please don't offer me any sexual favors for like, boot socks or something."

"I did that once on a field exercise," Tayebi proclaimed. "Can you believe this shit?" he asked Abbas and Aziz. "He must think I'm a fag."

"You and Raza. Both are fags," determined Abbas before smacking an imaginary gavel. "Death by stoning, and not the fun kind."

"I'm going to escape from jail and bang your girlfriend," proclaimed Tayebi, still not slowing down on his rampage against everything good society held dear.
I mean, she's not hot but she's doable."

"You're into Armenians, Tayebi. You like Christian girls because they're way nastier than Muslims," Aziz pointed out.

"Not true! I had one Armenian girlfriend who wouldn't do sex with me. Her parents were also crazy as fuck."

"'Do sex'? Are we in primary school?"

"The Army is daycare for man-children. Did they not teach you this in basic?" frowned Ali. "They make fun of me because I'm beautiful."

Before Aziz could intervene to stop the bickering, Tayebi's eyes spotted something. "It's the border!" he shouted. "See that sign?"

A large blue sign appeared a few meters forward, approaching slowly. In faded, strictly authoritative letters, it announced that you were leaving Iran. No fanfare. This, coincidentally, was when the convoy ground to a halt. Ali held up his hand to stop the talking as the radio began to squawk: "Attention all units, two units have attempted to merge at the highway. We are experiencing some minor traffic delays."

"Minor my fucking ass!" shouted Tayebi as he jumped to the roof of the vehicle to look over the trucks in front of him. "We're fucking jammed to the horizon. Who the fuck plans this shit? My fuckin' six-month-old? I can drive her stroller better than these academy graduates can drive an army!"

"Simmer down," ordered Aziz. "Hop back in before someone important sees."

Tayebi reluctantly agreed, hopping back down into the vehicle as his boots made a metallic thump against the floor. With that accomplished, he ducked down into the truck and sat next to Abbas in the rear, basking in the cool breeze of the air conditioning. Flipping his goggles up to his helmet, he sighed and rubbed his eyes. Somehow, dust had gotten through the liner - an indication that he would need to replace his two-year-old goggles soon. They weren't of the highest quality, but they were still advertised to protect his eyes from shrapnel. They liked to fog up despite the anti-fogging agent and self-healing glass panels, making Tayebi think that maybe he should just go with the better brands next time: pricier, but they wouldn't get him killed when he couldn't see anything. Abbas continued to flip his grenade launcher's sight up and down, on and off, while the radio was turned back onto the Iranian Military Network. Ali began monotonously singing along to some pop song with a vaguely shoehorned message about being the best that you could be, while Aziz played around on his phone. After a few minutes of this, Abbas told Ali to shut his fucking mouth and stop singing, and then only the radio filled the cabin. The engine hummed along with thousands of others on this sunny day, punctuated only by screaming missiles thundering by a kilometer away. This was war, alright. A massive traffic jam.

Kampala, Uganda

“Herr Lofaine, it's a good day to be in Kamapala. Ja?” the man said as Loffaine hobbled into his office. The battle-tired French man took great strides across the office.

“And to you, Till Hasch.” Pierre greeted with a polite grin, as he took a position alongside a large plush arm chair.

Till Hasch was a German, that was for sure. His background was reflected very strongly in himself. For those in a time a hundred years ago, he might almost be considered a specimen of the Aryan race. Almost.

Those his shortly kempt hair was golden, and his eyes a smokey blue like steel, his features were round in a strange way. There was that German sharpness in his jaw and his cheeks. But either it was the curse of his fat rolling body that gave him more the build of a misshapen pear or it was some other misfortune that widened most of these across his face until they appeared round. His eyes looked down a large bent nose that dropped down over his lip like an ogre.

But under neath it, he still had his muscles. Even under the fat and his finely trimmed gray uniform that was so standard among the corporation – which made them more an army than a business – defined muscles sprung out at the shoulders. And as he walked over to the desk with a bright smile on his face his raised back and high-held shoulders gave the impression he was still on the drill yard, taking orders from a sergeant, or addressing his general. It was engrained, if anything. He was a man with atmy in his background, all the way down to the first world war. And like that distant blood, he had seen a greater war and lived, but hadn't retired from the rifle; not yet.

“So what is the is the matter that brings herr Piere to Kampala?” Till said warmly. Pierre regarded him with a stoic look, treating him to a partial smile.

“I'm here on a inspection.” the Frenchman said, “the World Cup's coming on in a little over a month and I wanted to check the preparedness of the entire force. We still got lingering threats of China's influence down here to worry about, the last thing I want is to see the lingering ghosts from The War coming to life during this. Juba's been very patient for the last fifteen years, I don't want to dampen the Sudanese.”

“July does come fast.” Till sighed, “But I suppose the start of our thirty years needs to be tested at some point then. Is there anything you want to know?”

“Yes,” Pierre began, turning about looking over his office. Till's office was a shrine in some respects to his own career. Adorning the walls were all sorts of photographs from when he was a private in the German Army some ten years before the war. His accomplishments weren't much to speak of in comparison to Pierre, given the general activity of the German army. But what there was, Till proudly displayed.

Pictures of home in southern Bavaria adorned the wall. Smiling family some many thousand miles off, and green fields; not barren dirt wastelands. “I have read the briefings concerning a small regiment of men somewhere out on the Tanzanian border, I hear they've been as far north as Masaka?”

“Oh yes, those.” Till snickered, “I would have sent men to dispose of them if the Ugandan courts agreed. But they seem to be of the opinion that they haven't done much of anything, and they feel they're some small militia group hitting out against trafficking. Or, that's what their 'independent' report said.” Till sneered. His fists clenched around court and report. Deep seated animosity glowed in his face. It was understandable, he was a man of intuition and action, and something said that group should go. But the contracts held him at a tight leash.

“Have you tried to to investigate possible Chinese connections then?” Pierre asked, “Direct, indirect. Whatever as it would be.”

“Well, I tried. But we didn't produce anything conclusive I'm afraid. They are armed with Chinese guns. But, schiesse! You know just as well as I do that now the war's done all of Africa is crawling with AK74 copies and Type 00's. Our own men use them from time to time. But that's all we can find on the group.

“Apart from having to confiscate a few guns because of outstanding convictions on about a quarter. But we both know they'll get them again.”

“I understand.” Pierre said, “What about connections? Have you identified a leader? What's his record?”

“We have, and I was about to send a dossier to you on him.” Till nodded, slowly and stiffly sitting down behind his deck. He grimaced lightly as he rubbed his knees.

“So give it to me now.” Pierre invited, stealing a seat himself.

“His name is Jean-Marie William Monbuka.” Till began reciting, “He is a Roman Catholic priest of the Baganda people. He was born in Masaka, and will probably die in Masaka. As far as we can tell his only foreign contact was a trip to England and France, so he's at least literate enough in French alongside the as-expected English and Swahili. We believe is father came from France too, but information on him is sparse; I can only confirm he paid taxes.

“Now, he runs a small church in the heart of Masaka. He's been known to preach to the youth and has a distate for just about anything modern. He wants to see computers smashed, and our mobile manufacture burned in hell fire. So he's sehr conservative.

“But, I found no direct affiliation to China. Or anything that would confirm the schwinehund to be associated. During the years of the war he disappeared, and talking to who I could some claim he fled to the Congo like so many others, but where to is sketchy. I've heard into Goma, or as far as Kinshasha.”

“Why would he go to Kinshasha?” Pierre asked, “That city was being shelled today as the Two Congos fought each other off.”

Till shrugged. “The inconsistencies make me wonder, but I can't hold it up in the Ugandan courts when I request warrants to search his home, his church, and any personal information he has. According to the judges at least.”

“So you have your suspicions then?”

“By got I do!” Till yelled, “But nothing to back it.”

“Alright.” Pierre nodded, “Well, for him I do give permission to put them under surveillance leading up to and through the World Cup when it hits Juba late next month. But, keep is discreet, of course. Send someone to Irish Alley or wherever if you need a mole. But don't arose anything suspicious and put this district in danger.”

“Understood.” Till agreed, “I'll have someone dig through there in the next couple of days. Hopefully have him in and working his way in by the the start of next week.”

“Timely enough I suppose on short notice then.” sighed Pierre, “How are the conditions of the men then?”

“Alles gut.” the commander said, “we've ample ammunition for our peace-keeping and providing efforts, I haven't had to sign many disciplinary papers lately, and I believe no one in the local units has gone into the dark corners of Irish Alley lately. So I can only pray that they learned not to be pricking themselves with needles since I started breaking jaws.”

“Fuel?”

“Enough to keep the aircraft in the air every day, and twice on Sunday.”

“I'd like to see them then.” said Pierre, “May we?”

“Ja.” Till smiled, standing out his seat, “And I'll have the full briefing on Monbuka to your office in Kinshasha as soon as possible. If we haven't emailed it already.”

“I await the reading.” Pierre said. As they walked to the door he added, “And is your knee bothering you?”

“Kliene, kliene...” Till responded, “It's lousy Italian production. I should have bought German!”

“I do hear the Japanese have good implants.”

“Don't get me started.” spat Till as they went through the door.

Mbandaka, Congo

(Action Tiem)

The black Osprey cut through the sky in the breast of a rainstorm that flowed over the Congolese jungle like a wet blanket. The hard rain that poured down on it and across the windshield as it passed over the Congo river below. The brown, dark confluence of water that was the river cut clean through the heart of the jungle. Its wide, deep waters running out to the sea, and Kinshasha-Brazzaville; the twin cities and final gate into the heart of darkness.

Though, light had come to the Congo in the last decade. By sheer force of foreign armies doing the fighting for the Congo, and the need to equip and supply them in the wet jungles of central Africa development had happened. The once darkened city of Mbandaka had power, and it shown in the storm.

Below, through the water-washed, tinted glass of the pilot's canopy of the Osprey with the white mare the African city glowed with a soft yellow light. The ironic fortunes of post-war somehow finding an unexpected home down here. For the war had a way of re-writing the economic landscape.

In the east, India's croplands had come to burn under multiple foes. And while it did someone needed to pick up the slack. When the dusts had settled, the victorious government of the former DRC acted on the new landscape. It chipped away for this city on the confluence of the Congo and the Tshuapa the park that had long protected the jungle that grew up to and butted against the city. With new land, cheap land, anyone looking to try for their wealth in farming came in over the past year and cleared out what they could.

The city on two rivers grew. Fields bordered by still-standing jungle trees cut a pattern of agriculture in the dark tropical soil. Lights shone in the distance as the presence of the ASN worked in. The mercenaries needs had expanded parts of it as well.

As boats shipped the new goods down the river to the capital a bridge long incomplete for nearly a century was being tackled by goods some commanders or private investors in the PMC had acquired. Though, no one talked about it; the talk was about how it was time to lay over the face of the city carved by intense conflict since the 1960's. It was a time for grain, rice, roads, rail, and soldiers.

In the back of the Osprey two bound, gagged, and bleeding captives lay on the cold dirty steel of the helicopter as it pivoted and moved in on its landing. The two run-way local airport was lit for them, and behind the small terminal was its landing pad.

Communications between the two picked up as they neared. Relays on landing orders were given and requests accepted, appropriating a quick landing.

Water splashed and buffeted in the cyclonic winds kicked up by the rapidly chopping motors of the Osprey as it came to land on the helipad tarmac. It had been quickly laid out, like much of the airport. And much of it still was in construction, like the rest of the city.

The rain continued to fall on the town as the engine's died, clicking and steaming as they cooled in the falling rain. The lights shone onto its accented the dripping and falling water, making the black hide of the craft flow. Even the painted mare took on a more erotic look as the fresh rain water fell across its painted pearl-white hide, mane, and raised tail.

With a pneumatic hiss the side-doors opened, sliding to the side as the crew on board jumped out. The captives were handled roughly, ran across the tarmac with a hand at their zip-tie bound hands and another at their necks as they were dashed through the cold, rainy, afternoon evening. Guards posted at the edges followed suit, ready to over see the hand off of the prisoners.

With his armored boots splashing in the pooling water alongside the Osprey landed Flash Sentry. He took a quick glance to the sky. “Fucking rain.” he hissed. He removed his helmet, and pulled the plush pony that had been strapped to it out of its ties; one having been shot off during the fire fight made it easier.

“Captain Bradely!” shouted a technician at the landing as he ran over, “You still got that fucking thing?”

“You mean Flash?” Bradley smiled, as he flipped his helmet and through the orange and blue pony plush onto his own blue hair, capping it with his helmet, “I ain't fucking getting rid of it, damn good luck charm.” he smiled cockily.

“Yea whatever, but a thing like that should have burned in the war a long time ago!” the man yelled as Flash walked off the tarmac.

“And every soldier needs his lucky charm you motherfucker!” he yelled, smiling, “I don't see you got one! Guess you got it boring!”

“Hey, I got one!” he shouted, gesturing down to his crotch, “Ain't no pussy shit either.”

“And here I thought it got blown off.” Bradley jested, stopping at the edge of the tarmac.

“You wanna fight?”

“Aw shit no, I wanna eat. I heard there's food, where the fuck is that?”

The airport hand waved him off, shaking his head. “Hey fuck you. Grub's in the terminal building. Don't be afraid of any Japs seeing you eat, this ain't the suit and tie place to be.

“But the commander wants a debrief, so go do that first.”

“I wouldn't have it any other way.” Bradley, or Flash Sentry called back. From behind, the pilot and co-pilot were just stepping out, regarding the rain in bitter taste.

The commanding officer's office wasn't much to speak of. Like the rest of the terminal, it was a quickly built room composed of what was probably pre-fabricated walls welded together and bolted on top of a concrete base. Like the rest of the building. A small window on one side looked out into the dark Congolese evening with the rain still pouring down. The soft lighting gave the room a warm glow, for all its spartan amenities. A aluminum desk, a few chairs, computer, and some creature comforts comprised of family photos filled the sparse atmosphere.

But it didn't need to do much filling, because the man at the helm could fill the room easily enough.

It was not to say Colonel Jacob Mozabe was a fat man. But he was certainly a large, brutish man by African terms. The way he sat at the computer was like one would expect from a comical guerrilla. He peered through – or over – the frame of a pair of glasses too small for his large face. His gray suit was worn tight over him. Even what little hair he had seemed a little too little for such a big creature.

“Capdain Bradely.” he said finally, after a long silence that Flash took standing at attention. Mozabe's voice was thick and heavy, and accented. Flash had once taken him for a Jamaican, though he had politely corrected him by saying he was South African.

“You may sid down.” he added, not changing his position or demeanor as he typed.

Flash slouched from the unexpected command. Sighing defeatedly he stepped around the chair, and took his seat. His superior continued to type.

After what felt like a prolonged wait, Colonel Jacob turned to his officer, his hands still on the keyboard in that off 'too big for this world' way. “Your assignment doday, How'd id go?” he asked.

“It's a success.” Bradely began, Jacob typing along, “We encountered OPFOR patrol across the border in Gabon at around 3:33 in the afternoon. Pilot sergeant Kimbly opened the engagement with a pair of HE explosive rockets, opening a LZ in the jungle and startling the initial patrol for our landing. By 3:35 we had loaded the Osprey, and were en'route for home.

“Total engagement time was approximately forty-five seconds.” Flash said with a tough sigh, leaning back into the chair, “Total searching of, and confirming the dead lasted a minute, after which we detained two injured, but live captives and returned them here to base. They were escorted into custody as we landed.”

“Who dreated the capdves as you flew?” Jacob asked, “Cathlyn Mierrie?”

“Yes, Re- Cathlyn Mierre treated the captives injuries and restrained the bleeding for the return.” Flash Sentry said, restraining himself from referring to their team medic by her call-name, Redheart.

“Injuries or casualdies?”

“Just a single zip-tie.” Flash smiled.

“Dhat will be on your bill.” the colonel said dryly.

“Ooh, a dollar! I'm so sad.” Flash joked, playing at wiping a tear from his arm.

“So what was the ammo expenditure?” Jacob asked.

“I would say about a clip each.” Flash reported, “Mac burned through half a belt on his gun in suppressing our targets for us to mop up with burst-fire.”

“Any potential intel captured during the mission?” Jacob inquired.

“No sir.”

The colonel nodded, brushing his thick sausage hands over a few last keys before mashing enter. “Dhank you capdain.” he said with a smile, the first expression during the entire endeavor he made, “You're free to report in for dinner. What I hear it's a pork barbeque and chicken.”

“Beans sir?”

“Someone skimped on dhat I'm afraid. Sorry.”

“It's no big deal I guess.” Flash frowned as his stomach growled.

Kremlin

The Minister of Agriculture and the Minister of Finance stood arguing in front of President Ivashov. There were unexploited area's of the country that would be excellent for the production of crops... the only trouble would be building the infrastructure to get there and actually ridding the area's of the wild life that had over run them, a significant investment to say the least. This was only strengthened by the general consensus that they had enough food, and they had enough oil, why would they need to exploit it? But Ivashov was no fool, he could see the bigger picture. The worlds oil was fastly running out, and even Russia had maybe 45 years of oil left now, after the new reserves were discovered in the mid 2030's at a time Russia's oil was dwindling to perhaps 10 years remaining on the clock. The country now felt secure in the knowledge that they had nearly half a century of oil remaining, but some were fearful of what would happen when it ran out.
"If we developed the land in these places, we would be able to use them for crop production... I'm sure you are aware our country has great potential for such, and we would be able to grow more Energy Crops to reduce our reliance on our oil as a result" The minister of agriculture said as he pointed to the circled area's of the map, but the Minister of Finance shook his head
"Developing it is too costly, besides, we have enough proven oil to last us for a few decades still, and there could be unproven reserves. It's too costly to invest in the infrastructure to get low energy yield biofuels" The Minister of finance said slowly
"But what if there are no more reserves. What if this is it? A few decades and that is it, all the oil gone? Then WE start importing? Then a huge chunk of our economy is taken out? Your the minister of finance, you know exactly what will happen to our economy if we have no fuels"
"We don't have the funding to create the infrastructure you are proposing, we would require more investments to turn that land into something usable again it's over run!"
"If we did we would be able to reduce our reliance on..."
"Reduce our reliance? But it cannot fuel our entire country and our military, can it?" The minister of agriculture rolled his eyes
"Not at the moment, but with the rate of development of alternative fuels across the world it is possible that..."
"Can it or can't it?"
"It can't... Yet."
"Then that settles that, it doesn't produce enough energy" The minister of finance stood tall, feeling victorious while the minister of agriculture slumped beneath him with a sigh. But it was for the president to have the last word here, and he would indeed for a moment later he raised his hand to silence them before speaking
"You say our oil will last decades more and that is brilliant, I agree. But the more we reduce our reliance on it, the more with have to export and at the current global rate for oil we need more to export if we wish to keep our profits high. The investment into this infrastructure and clearing of the fields is a great one, but it is required for Russia to keep her economy going past a few decades down the line. The choices we make today could give us sizable rewards within a few years, even your reports figures agree with this" He said, glancing to the minister of finance, before continuing "Thus I think it is an entirely good proposition for us to go through with this agricultural investment. We can produce biofuels with the excess agricultural land and should our population grow we can convert it to provide food for our people. Let us move on the metal industry." The Minister of Finance piped up a moment later
"Yes, well. Profits are down, as to be expected, the demand for metal has dropped exponentially now there is no longer a war on, as can be said for our weapons industry. However, given the state some countries are in while rebuilding, our metal exports are still profitable as they are being brought for many reasons but... it is simply not the same boastful economy boost we used to be able to spout. I would advise we move some funding away and to Minister Bodrov's agricultural fund if that is the way we are heading, and the dairy fund, now that land has been ravaged and crops destroyed, we stand to make more money on food exports, if we able to produce enough. The same cannot be said for the arms industry, our 'private' dealings are certainly reigning in money in that respect, particularly to area's with high civil unrest and to where the fighting has yet to come to a conclusion."
"I see, put these changes into effect immediately" The President said as he lent forwards over the map. Russia had much less people than the NAF, only a third. Some thought this a curse, but Ivashov saw this as a blessing. Russia required less food than it's land could provide, opening up windows of oppurtunity for biofuel production. While it was true there were parts of Russia that were frozen all year round, this popularized view was not true for all of Russia, and there were parts of it perfect for agriculture.

Mbandaka, Congo

The afternoon air felt like a hot bath. The sun throwing down its heat on the jungle city below, simmering from the leaves and from the soil last night's rain. It felt as if the entire city was simmering and broiling in the hot evaporation of last night's storm.

There was no respite from the steaming heat cloaking the city, or the airbase. Or anything that would justify remaining in doors. For the temporary accommodations that was the ASN's operations in the north-west Congo had enough holes for the heat and humidity dripping through. Many even claimed to have watched water drip down the mirrors in the bathrooms and shower-rooms, even when the water did not run. What ever comforts the men could manage came in paper-thing umbrellas, and what few industrial fans they could locate and connect to generators. So for the occupants of the Mbandaka there wasn't any reason to be anywhere as they sweated away their free time.

“God fucking dammit I miss fucking New York on days like these.” moaned a red-headed woman. Done away with her uniform, she sat slouched in her chair in all but a pair of shorts and a large white tank-top. The sweat wasn't doing and favors and crawled through the fabric; her army-styled sports bra showing through the slowly wetting shirt.

“If you're so uncomfortable, you can throw yourself in one of the rivers.” smirked the soldier nearest her. He was a large man. His balding head cut by scars and burns. His widened chin, stubbed nose, and beady eyes made him out to look like some comic-book lizard man. If only he had scales.

“Like Hell I'm walking a fucking mile in this fucking shit.” she grunted in protest, lifting her head up and turning to him. The aviator sunglasses she wore caught the sun and flashed brightly in the beating sun. Her physique was thinner and daintier than he, or anyone else in the unit. What fire she had to compete with her contemporaries had drawn out from her limbs and into her strong vernacular and breasts.

“Sure princess, whatever you say.” he laughed, turning back to the table.

Like the lawn chairs that had been scavenged or brought in for lounging in the extensive lawn of the airport, the table was a sun-cooked hulk of plastic was was already half-way in getting coated over in a layer of mold and mildew that was as hard as stone under the hands. “So what do we say?” he asked.

“We could carry Redheart and Fleetfoat to the river and throw them both in.” Flash Sentry smirked as his hands ran nimbly over a disassembled pistol. Quickly clicking the parts back together, and then pulling them apart as he worked over the gun on a mess hall napkin, “I know you and I would like that, wouldn't we Big Mac?”

“Like hell the two of you boys will!” Fleetfoot protested. The chocolate-skinned woman crossed her arms over her chest as she frowned at the two men with a bitter expression. Like her companion, she too wore shades. Her medium-length hair combed back across her hair and tied in a small bun. Her narrow angular chin snapped to the side as she clicked her tongue, “If you both do it then I swear on Soarin's mother I'll try to steer that fucking Osprey into the jungle.”

“Yer nawt bringin' me mum into this.” the Australian protested as he reclined in his chair, leg thrown over the arm as he looked down at the tablet in his hands, idly flipping through the news; silently hoping the company network wouldn't die at any point. The beaten leather hat he wore to keep the sun out of his eyes only added to the Australian effect. With the chiseled chin and long face he looked almost like a regular Crocodile Dundee.

“Well if you had to let Fleet crash that chopper into something, what'd it be?” asked Big Mac, as he leaned over towards the Aussie. An excitable look on his face as he bit the corner of his lip.

Looking up at him from under the brim of his hat Soarin couldn't help but feel reminded on how terrifyingly large he was. Somehow outside of that armor he wore he managed to be even more terrifying than he was inside it. Maybe it was something to do with his battle-mutilated face, like a dingo had reached up and tore it to shred, only for him to be kicked by a mule later.

“W'uldn't mind seein' it crash into t'e Riechstag me self.” he quipped, lowering his tablet, “W'uld at'lest give us a corke' of a fight befo' we're t'rou. Damn krauts gone ma'wd during t'e War mate.”

“Yes well, so did everyone.” a smaller member of the group said. His physical frame was more athletic than it was physical, much like Sentry's. His soft Latino features reminiscent of the former Colombia, or Panama. The man looked to be the youngest of the group, and could have more right to be called a boy between any one of them. He looked between his colleagues as he swatted away a rogue fly from his brown eyes, “So if we're naming shit lists I'd put it down into Moscow. How big of a fire bomb could we make of it?”

“Fai'r it coulda bring down'a brick shit 'ouse on its own, mate.” Soarin said, “An' mawbe if t'e awmaments were live we'd 'ave a blazin' good time 'en 'ell.”

“You know we'd have no business up there, you know that don't you? Caramel?” Flash asked.

“Why would you think I'm serious.” the Latino mercenary laughed, “And when are we going to stop using these names anyways? I didn't think I'd end up in a unit of people still stuck thirty years behind!”

“Because when you do damn good on your shit getting in, they stick you with the weird ones!” boomed Big Mac, laughing, “And besides, we're not going to do anything that'd fuck up the decals I painted on. Aryanne ain't fucking worth that shit!”

“You know, why do we even have that thing painted on our helicopter?” Fleetfoot asked with a bite of offensive.

“Because Big Mac cheats at cards.” Flash Sentry said plainly.

“And you got over it!” Big Mac laughed, “We all do. And what's it worth if we can't have fun anyways. The only people I know that'd get pissy are from what's-that-site and the types that get angry we exist anyways. So it don't matter.”

“Gentleman.” a rolling highstrung voice spoke out, calling the assembled squad's attention up to the man approaching him.

“Shining.” Sentry greeted, nodding at the still-too-pale Brit walking up to them, hanging by his arms were two long black cases. A smile hung in his round face, and beads of sweat shone like diamonds from the tip of his long hooked nose. A olive-green bandana tied around his head kept his wild sweat-soaked hair from his hair.

“You see this, mate?” Shining said, stopping alongside an uncomfortable Caramel. “I find out what goes bloody on here and I say I want to be fukkin' Sombra. And I get the pale cunt.” he added, jabbing into Caramel's shoulders with the back of his wrist.

“That's because your vocabulary is too deep for that name.” joked Flash Sentry.

“I don't even know what you're fucking talking about.” swore Caramel.

“It's not a fucking pre-requisite to fucking know what these three are ever one about.” Redheart moaned as she slouched back in her chair, “It's also Flash's fucking joke anyways.”

“In any event, I want to borrow the banana bender.” Shining chirped with a smile.

“Y'u w'at, mate?” Soarin said, looking up at his better-blooded distant kinsman. His face was a knot of confusion and frustration for the interruption.

“Yeah, I'm fucking bored you aussie wanker. You want to shoot?”

“I'm r'adin' 'ere.” Soarin pointed out, baffled.

“You can still bloody read when we're done.” Shining sighed, rolling his eyes, “Now get up, we're going over to the river.”

“We were just talking about the river!” cheered Big Mac, shooting up from his chair with astonishing speed.

“An' I wah's gonna wo'k on t'e 'eelo laet'eh. 'ey g'aht six fookin' hours o' fleight t' catch up on!”

“Don't worry mate, I managed to borrow a jeep for the afternoon.” Shining laughed, “I'll get you back, mate.”

Soarin sighed, rolling his eyes. Mashing his thumb down on the tablet he threw it onto the table. “A'ight. You win you f'uckin ugh.”

“Cor!” Shining cheered, “So where's the rest of us then?”

“Last I saw, AJ was trying to nap back in the dorms.” Mumbled Redheart, “If you got that I guess I'll go get something and wake her ass up. The rest of you can find where Braeburn, Lyra, and fucking Elusive went.”

“A'ight, where'd they go then?”

“Last I heard Lyra wanted some cold. So they went to see if the Congo heard of ice cream.” Flash Sentry said, “You'll need to call one of them to find out where.”

”Irish Alley”, Kampala

If there was a place least likely to find an Gaelic community, than the war-time Irish had found – and settled – it. Through sheer force of pure Irish luck the post-war years had ensured that in the great scramble of defeat that many were left behind. And none were no misplaced than the Irish and Scots who had fought for the United Kingdom. Strewn across the world by their commanding masters, lost in the complexity and length of the war or inturned into the PMC-system that rose at the end of the war entire ethnodemographics had turned up in estranged portions of the world.

From Americans to Iran, Russians to China, the Chinese to India, or the Indians to America. The self-proclaimed Irish expat community – from either the Emerald Isles or just mid-town New York – found themselves in darker places without the personal fortunes to find their way to.

This is what Irish alley catered to.

In other parts of the world where these people may find persecution for being different, the Ugandan people somehow turned that coin again of African identity and showed the comforts of their hospitality to the misplaced white men. The same gifts shown to American truckers who flocked to Africa on some great quest for fortune during the nation's recession in the 2010's were wheeled out again with smiles and booze to the unfortunate victims or war, or their benefactors. Burried in the muddy dark slums of inner Kampala the songs of a cold, wet island mingled with the streams of banana-brewed war gin and between the legs of the local women.

Irish Alley itself was a densely packed block of bars and brothels on a muddy street named St Mercy on the north side of Kampala. Perched atop a hill overlooking the new outer construction of Kampala the lights and music of floor-stomping pub music roared into the night and into the chagrin of Bagandan leaders who found room to argue about it while continuing the fight of status Kampala has in the Kingdom of Buganda.

But as the aristocrats of Ugandan power looked down on the estranged, alien corner of their city so loomed the headquarters of the ASN. Not far from its hill the mercenary company took residence in range of its glow in its darkened, rented skyscraper in yet another oasis of commerce in urban chaos.

“Now there's an ocean between us,” a ginger-haired man sang, holding the center of a stage literally build of soap boxes. He swayed drunkenly to a song carried by accordion and plastic buckets used as make-shift drums. And the singer and band's rosy complexion suggested that all three were inebriated. But the crowd the singer conducted in a slurred chorus did not care, for they were equally drunk. Above his head he waved a mason-jar full of crystal-sparkling gin that he waved back and forth in the air like a conductor's baton as he sung woefully:” Where I am and where I want to be. So you prayers in doubt, doubt not for me!”

The crowd followed him only a beat off, the words loosing themselves in the piecemeal chorus of followers. But they loosing themselves did not matter, for their leader belched out the song in such a powerful voice it could have shot out any amplifier he would have had.

His drunkenness also did not aide in the song, as a sober man could point out that verse-for-verse the song had been scrambled. Almost in a state of drunken improv:

“So you drank with the lost souls for too many years.
“Time to be right cause they'll cripple with fear
“Never been righteous, though seldom we're wrong
“Life's only life with you in this song “

The crowd followed on, almost screaming the verse as they competed with on another to match their master's sway.

In the corner of chantey two man sat, swaying all the same to the song sung before them. Gray uniforms made their identities all too clear. And the clarity of their eyes said that they were not drunk enough to partake in the hedonism.

Sitting with their respective jars of gin they looked on as a sea of black and white followed the eschewed song.

“I remember hearing this the way it should'o be performed once!” one of the two men shouted. Black hair fell along the side of his face in unkempt curtains. Sharp green eyes scanned over the heads of the party goers, trying to see see if any one had some deep, drunken secret they were hiding. His shallow sunken face made him look like a tired man. But years of going hungry for the King's Rifles in service to England has seen to breaking him physically, and his enthusiasm for King and Country.

“Was it as slurred as d'is, brotheh'?” laughed his companion. A local by appearance, with his deep dark skin. But his tone was far too foreign and distant compared to the locals. Too American. As he sat and watched the feverish, drunken crowd dance as he smiled.

“Oh no.” his English friend laughed, leaning against the ply-wood wall, “And there's more electric guitar, usually.”

“Back in N'awleans d'is was pretty regular.” he laughed.

“You said once you drove a'cab there.” the white man laughed, “Plenty o' singin' in that yes?”

“More d'hen I remembe' hearin' back where I was born in Hai'di.” he laughed, “Somedh'imes I d'hink I should go back to N'awla. D'hen I come here an I d'hink: 'Fuck it'.”

“Fuck it is always right!” the Englishborn laughed, raising his jar for a toast.

The glass clinked with a soft hallow note and the two both drowned the sweet, burning contents of banana-made gin. It filled them with warmth and good cheer, and they both even began to mouth the words to the song as the crowd sung.

As the sung through a third repeat of the butchered song, a rustling in the back pocket of the Haitian brought to his attention something else. Knotting his face he sat up, pulling from his back pocket a thin black smart phone. He looked down at it with a knotted frown, as dashing through the screen he searched for the purpose of the alert.

Coming to, his expression dropped. “John my friend,” the Haitian started, “commander wants us.”

“The blood'eh fuck does he want, Emmanuel?” John spat, looking at him. Turning the screen to his colleague Emmanuel illuminated his face with the summons.

“Oh, I see...” he started, realizing what was wanted of them both.

Caldwell Private Jet, Coast of Maryland

Woodrow Caldwell stared gloomily out of the window of his jet. He had not been in what had been the United States in three months. He hadn't even been in his home state of Georgia since the beginning of the third world war. His former nation brought dark thoughts to the forefront of his mind. He saw his face plastered across every television in America, in Times Square, his character ripped apart by Fox's Greg Gutfeld on The Five. Secretary of State Caldwell: This Generation's Chamberlain was under the pictures, followed by a recording of one of his conversations with a journalist: "I truly believe that the United States can avoid war, if we stay focused on the path of disarming our nuclear arsenal" over and over. Caldwell disappeared from the public days into the war. The government later admitted he resigned on day one, but it kept it covered up until a proper replacement, one who called for total war to show America had not lost its position as a superpower, was found. It was not long before the shamed man found comfort in the words of Jean-Baptiste Mercier, a longtime friend. Mercier and the Oculi movement represented everything Caldwell needed in his life. He needed to move on, embrace forgiveness, and accept change.

Caldwell opened the suitcase on his lap for the dozenth time and shuffled through the documents inside. They were a copy of the Oculus Constitution. Caldwell only prayed that the Federation was willing to see reason.

"Mr. Caldwell, we'll be in Washington in a few minutes," The pilot announced over the radio. "Radioing in the request to land. With luck, you'll be in the White House in half an hour, sir."

Washington D.C, North American Federation
The plane was given permission to land at a non-commercial airport used for those who have there own planes. The strip was mostly devoid of planes, since not as many people were able to afford one. Guards hustled about, making sure nobody was trying any funny business. The pilot was handed a set of keys that allowed him in and out of the strip, and was told to return them upon leaving. New structures could be seen rising in the distance, they were vast constructs of metal and concrete.

Caldwell stepped out of his jet and looked at the city in the distance. He nodded, squeezed the handle of his suitcase, and set off, accompanied by a short woman who appeared to be in her fifties. She wore a pink pantsuit, large glasses and had close cropped gray hair. They walked swiftly, escorted by whatever guards the Federation deemed necessary to protect the nation from these two aging diplomats. As soon as Caldwell got off the plane, he turned to the nearest guard. "I am Senator Woodow Caldwell, and this is my companion Del Rosenbaum. We are here on behalf of the Oculi. We ask to speak with the Dictator of the Federation regarding an urgent request from my organization. You can tell your superiors we offer an alliance, if they're wiling to make our deal.

As they were being escorted, Rosenbaum turned her head to Caldwell. "You know there's a good chance they're going to just kill us and be done with it," she whispered. "We represent change. That's never good for a dictator."

Caldwell frowned. "They'll only kill us if they want a full war with the Oculi. In seven months we've overthrown two major governments. I'm sure some of this Federation's leaders were at Bresson's funeral. Of course they know what we represent."

Washington D.C, North American Federation
Before the guard could speak a new person approached.
"I'm afraid you won't get that meeting. We know of the Oculi, and we are not interested in your constitution. Ours has been strengthened in fact, Congress holds more power then the President, or Dictator as you call him. The punishments are more severe and we have greatly expanded the rights of the citizens. David will never meet with you, nor will anyone that could push your constitution through." spoke the man.

Del raised a finger to the newly approached man, signalling that she wanted him to wait for her to be ready. She looked to the Senator with raised eyebrows. "He raises some valid points," she said.

"When has Congress ever led the American people astray?" Caldwell responded.

"And you can never be more sure that citizens' rights are guaranteed than a shady government goon telling you they are while he's forcing you out of his country. At least, in my experience." Del sized the man up. "He certainly does play the goon nicely."

"If we're rejected here, I'll have to set up a base somewhere near this fine city to see if Mr. Goon here is true to his word. Oh my, and what we'll be forced to do if we see any discrepancies with the Official Story." Woodrow shook his head sadly.

"But think of the weekend trips to Georgia you can take," Del pointed out. "I've always wanted to try their peaches. I hear they're the best in the world. Coincidentally, I happen to know the name of a fine pair of brothers in Georgia that make bombs. Terribly inbred, unfortunately, but they still get the job done with remarkable efficiency."

"Coincidentally, I may have to get their names from you, my friend." Woodrow nodded. "I mean, sadly I have no meeting to get to with anyone in this city, and I've toured the Mall twice as much as a government official on a campaign should."

Bandar Anzali, Iran

There was something about the Caspian that had always enamored Ali Pahlavi. The fair winds and steady seas, perhaps, for its sailing. The coasts were lush and beautiful, hilly and forested. The beaches were nice, too: a stretch of beautiful clean sand extended for kilometers in front of the Shah's summer vacation estate. The sleek, ultramodern building sat on a hillside overlooking the sea and the various vessels that sailed out on it. The spacious compound was lined with tall windows and porches that wrapped around, hanging over the cliffs over the sea. It looked like it would be more fit in the possession of some sort of nefarious Russian oligarch, but it had been constructed in the thirties for an oil baron. When the oil baron was imprisoned for financial crimes and his assets auctioned off, the Shah decided that he liked the property and bought it for a hefty sum. His grounds, located near the Bojagh National Park, had amenities for all sorts of outside activities. There were forests, paths, a golf course, a dock, and fields for playing games like football. An avid outdoorsman, Ali was fond of bicycling, golfing, sailing, running, climbing, and shooting guns. Today was set aside for the latter, and the Shah had driven up to his shooting range located on the perch of a hilly valley. Locking his car at the parking lot beside a squat white building, Ali pushed through the doors to see his rangemaster sweeping the floor absently.

The middle-aged Afghan looked up from his job and waved hello to the Shah, before putting the broom back in the corner and heading over for a handshake. The rangemaster was a scout sniper during Operation 100: before that, a close friend of Ali's sister when they lived in Los Angeles. His daughter had gone to the same highschool as her and his son was her boyfriend for a while, or something to that effect: Ali was never one to keep track of whatever his little sister was doing with whom just as long as she didn't come back after prom with a baby in her uterus. But the rangemaster - his name was Karim bin Ghurid - was an excellent shooter and often talked about firearms with Ali when he came to the house to pick his sister up after a sleepover or some other sort of social. Eventually, during Ali's studies at UCLA, the two would go off and shoot guns at the local ranges. Karim, for some reason, had been able to purchase a legally automatic firearm from before the gun control measures of the 2010s - a piece that he loved to flaunt and shoot and that attracted the attention of curious law enforcement from time to time. Of course, none of them enjoyed California's particularly repressive gun laws. Politics came into play shortly thereafter and Karim agreed to participate in Operation 100: he spent the Revolt traipsing around Bandar Abbas and shooting IRGC officers.

When that was over, he had chosen not to continue his career into the newly reformed Imperial military and instead accepting Ali's suggestion that he should set up his own business. With the backing of some of Ali's fortune, Karim decided to set up a firing range on his friend's estate on the coast. He catered exclusively to the Shah and the rest of the staff on the estate who liked to shoot guns, and was paid damn well for it. He had collected an arsenal of guns that he rented out to the Shah and his servants for weekend shooting.

"Welcome, Ali! How's it going?" Karim beamed, smoothing out some wrinkles in his khakis.

"Salaam, Karim," the Shah replied casually as he patted the rangemaster on the back before stepping back to allow his wife to introduce herself. Ali's wife - Tosya - was almost unanimously determined to be stunningly beautiful. She was an Armenian with dark eyes and darker hair, but with a fair complexion similar to the Shah himself. Her spotless face gleamed under the lights as she accepted a traditional kiss on the hand. Parallels to Jackie Kennedy had been made many times, but now wasn't the time for glamorous dresses. Instead of a carefully made public appearance, she wore just a plain blouse and shorts to accompany her husband's sporting trip. Tosya shook hands with Karim before stepping back to peruse the various arms manufacturers' flags on the wall.

"Coming to shoot today?" asked Karim as he led the monarchs back to the armory's counter.

"Of course. It's a pleasant afternoon. Wind shouldn't be too bad."

"Oh, no, it's been calm all this week," agreed Karim as he swiped a keycard hanging from his neck across the scanner. The door clicked open, and he went in to look for some guns. "Is Tosya shooting with you, too?"

Ali looked back at his wife who smiled sheepishly and shrugged. She wasn't as into the sport as Ali was. "Maybe," Ali determined. "I'll let you know if we need another piece."

"That's totally fine. I'll put out some rifles just in case. Had any in mind?"

Ali nodded, and said that he'd like to try out the new Fabrique Nationale battle rifle: the FN2040. In experimental use with some European special forces, Ali had managed to purchase it off of the assembly line in what may or may not have been an FN-sanctioned deal. Karim, in turn, withdrew a black plastic case from a shelf behind the counter emblazoned with the company's logo. When Ali opened it, he saw the fierce, futuristic weapon sitting in a foam insert and lifted it up. Incredibly lightweight, being made of some recent polymers. An electronic scope on the top rail turned on and displayed a crosshair over the captured image. Ali aimed it up at the nearby wall, finger still pressed against the receiver, and tested it. A small knob on the side changed ranging - displayed by a small red number of meters on the bottom left - while another changed magnification. A switch cycled between normal, IR, BHOT/WHOT thermal viewing modes, and a backscatter xray mode that allowed him to see through certain materials. The scope was probably at least as expensive as the gun. A lot of these vision modes were rather useless, of course, but people liked to play with them and show up at events with the flashiest technology they had. The Shah, still being rather young at twenty-seven, was not immune to this. He grinned at Karim as he lowered the weapon and said: "I quite like this."

"It's no match for a keen eye, but sometimes even the best needs a little help," commented Karim wisely, sliding another case full of magazines over the table. 7.62mm caseless match grade rounds. Ali smiled and took them, placing the briefcase on top of the rifle case.

"Any lane?"

"Any lane. I'll pop up some targets. Enjoy today... and you, too, Tosya!"

Tosya nodded her head kindly and took the rifle case from her husband as he pushed open the door for her. They emerged into the still, warm air, and headed off to where they had parked the car to retrieve Ali's baseball cap. It was a black cap that bore the logo of the LA Galaxy football club, betraying his American heritage and youth. He placed it squarely atop his head and offered to take the rifle case from Tosya, who gave it over without too much of a hassle. She smiled: "Thank you, dear."

The couple had approached a shooting line shortly thereafter and laid out their belongings to the side as Ali fiddled with the rifle's bipod. "I've got to videoconference with the agricultural minister tomorrow," he lamented as the green light came on telling him that the range was clear.

"I don't like him," agreed Tosya. "He keeps trying to throw his colleagues under the bus. That, and he's a drunkard. Didn't they catch him with a hooker in Isfahan last year?"

"Yep. Plowing her like a field of beans while drinking too much."

"And we kept him?" asked Tosya disgustedly.

"He does his job well, even if he is an asshole. I mean, have you seen the reports that I forget about and leave on the kitchen table? He knows his way around agriculture. We're expanding our food production by a huge margin."

"I don't read those," Tosya shot back, shaking her head. "I turn them into paper planes and throw them into the fireplace when I get bored."

"Heh. I love you so much," the Shah said with a grin, looking up at her and slapping her on the ass playfully.

"I know," she replied with a similar cheeky smile.

"Anyways... After that I meet the energy minister about this new solar plant we're building in Tehran. I'm supposed to be there, you know, to encourage the progress in renewable energy. I get to cut the ribbon," Ali continued, placing his hand on the grip and shouldering the piece. "I hate it. I feel like a douchebag when I do it. But you smile for the cameras."

Tosya let out her beautiful laugh - a giggle, really - and squatted down by her husband's side as he went prone. "You don't know the least of it, dear! I'm supposed to be the Iranian Jackie Kennedy, so I have these reporters following me around and posting my dresses and hairstyles all over their stupid blogs. Or on slow news days, they talk about how I set style for the Iranian women. They can't find anything else to report on? Isn't there a war in Africa?"

"There's always a war in Africa," noted Ali before taking aim at a target 100 meters away. The white target was outlined in red, with two blue circles representing the chest and the head. It vaguely simulated a target with an intact body before Ali landed three shots into its torso. The rounds - kept in place by a delayed blowback system on the rifle - entered evenly and pierced through. With the scope, Ali dialed in to see the damage. He whistled coolly while Tosya picked up a set of binoculars from the nearby folding table.

"You're an assassin," she complemented. "Maybe you can countersnipe the people who want to kill you."

"The whack Shia fundamentalists? We smashed them during Operation 100 and gave them to Pakistan."

"Among other people," Tosya joked.

"If you threaten to poison my soup again-" Ali warned before being cut off.

"No sex for you tonight if you keep it up," hissed Tosya. Truly, the wife was the boss.

"Sure thing." Ali shook his head. "I'll be quiet."

"Awesome. It works just like TV," the Queen grinned with a facetious raised fist. She was making fun of him now.

Ali wordlessly blasted through another set of targets, mentally imagining the agricultural minister's face on each and every one of them. They were all older, of course, and didn't quite understand why Ali did the things he did. Why did politicians have to politicize his evenings out with Tosya? Or his shooting sports? The answer, obviously, was to win support for their parties and shame Ali into giving the go for legislature in order to retain public support. But it was a far cry from just six years ago when he was a happy college junior at UCLA, driving around in his car and trying to pick up cougars at bars because his friends had dared him to. Hell, he wouldn't be surprised if the agriculture minister would try to use that as some sort of excuse the next time he was caught naked in a car going double the highway speed limit. Ali thought that maybe he would just fire him the next time that happened. It was embarrassing, and he would have to groom the undersecretary for the job as well.

"I actually like videoconferencing, though," said the Shah as he eyed the targets.

"Because you don't kill anyone when they're being stupid?" asked his Queen.

"That. And then I can put beer in my coffee mug and wear boxers."

"Is that a game to you?"

"It's a game to see how many government officials I can videoconference with without pants on, yes," Ali joked. "I've gone through entire crisis meetings sans my pants. Basically, I get bored."

"I don't think you ever really graduated out of highschool," Tosya observed while shaking her head. "I feel like I'm the mature one sometimes."

"You just threatened to boycott sex, Tosya. And before that you were going to kill me."

"Yes, but I do it because I love you," replied his wife without too much sarcasm. She bent over and gave him a peck on the cheek, smiling.

"Yes, yes. A woman will drive a man insane."

"Not as insane as the government. Maybe you will snap and shoot up the place. Imagine that headline in the news. Shah Snaps: Shoots 47 in Psychotic Rampage."

"May Allah deliver a sweet and merciful death, along with my 72 virgins in Heaven for exterminating the sinners in my cabinet," Ali prayed, clasping his hands together almost mockingly.

"Was one virgin not good enough for you?" shot back his wife.

"She was plenty."

"Then not another word out of you, King of the Aryans."

They continued to talk and shoot for another two hours, with Tosya eventually shooting off a few rounds at targets. She missed wildly, of course, but she still posed with the gun for a picture with her husband. They made silly faces and said that they'd keep the picture forever, because that's the sort of thing that they should do. Then Ali continued to ramble about the government and his responsibilities: the police action in Iraq, the international meeting that he would need to fly out to soon, and the oncoming World Cup in Africa. His schedule was busy for the next week, overseeing the various departments keeping his country running in good shape. The neutrality had worked out for him, but brought with it certain problems. Iran was now a regional power, and that thrust Ali into a position of responsibility that he simply hadn't been groomed for. For the most part, he listened to his advisers. But at some points he began to feel fear and uncertainty. He was practically alone: his family had moved to Tehran but they were normal people. His father had been the owner of a media company, for God's sake! Not a king like his grandfather, who had died of lymphoma in 1980. He was of no help, despite his best efforts. His wife hadn't come from a royal dynasty either - there was none to speak of in Armenia. He had just met her while out clubbing in college and married her shortly after graduation. But this wasn't on his mind as he packed his gear and headed back to the slick grey SUV that sat on the gravel parking lot. The gun was turned back in to Karim, and Ali drove back to the estate with his wife at his side. They returned home, and Ali fell asleep an hour later while watching the football game on the couch. He would awake the next day with much to do. For now, though, he dreamed of being back in college: back when the world was so much simpler.

Mbandaka, Congo

A cloud of dust kicked up by the rubber of the jeep shot up into the high afternoon air as a drab, olive-green jeep jostled and bounced along down the long dirt road. On either side, fresh plowed and furrowed fields stretched over the hills. Young shoots of still green wheat grew in the rich dark African soil. Thick borders of ancient jungle trees and bushes built an edge between each field, separating the acres of fields like ancient palisades.

“Can you believe we could not find any ice-cream?” shouted a young exasperated woman over the sound of the turning engine and the rush of the hot afternoon air as they cut down the path. Her dark, oily black hair hung behind her neck in a tight bun. “It is all I wanted today, but no one has a ice cream parlor! It's silly, this whole place is silly. How do they expect to do anything down here without ice cream?”

“It's not our world to get upset about, bird.” Shining said smugly, his hands on the steering wheel as he navigated the jeep around pot-holes dug deep in the dirt road. Farmers with their mule-pulled carts pulled aside as the military vehicle cut passed, giving them as much room as possible without cratering the vehicle; which was not nearly enough to many.

“Well they should.” the girl snickered, puckering her caramel lips sourly, “Every one likes ice cream.”

“All th' same Lyra, hon,” replied another woman leaning back into the stiff seat of the jeep's back seat. The rest of the squad that could not get space up front lounged in the back with the mis-matched assortment of standard gear that came with borrowing the jeep, “Maybe it jus' hadn't crossed their minds.” she finished, smiling warmly up at Lyra as she stood leaning up against a top rail of the jeep.

“Oh, and haven't you ever had ice cream?” Lyra said, locking her cyprus-green eyes with her seated companion's royal blue, “It just doesn't feel right to be somewhere so hot and sticky without something cool, Applejack.”

Applejack laughed, shaking her head. Lyra's insistence and bitterness for not finding anywhere to get ice cream was obvious on her face. From her puckered frowning lips to her furrowed pencil-thin eye-brows. She was a picture in that regard, and her thin rounded chin stuck out when she was made. It was almost childish, and probably rightfully so. Of the group she was the youngest, just before their newest: Caramel or whatever Flash had named him. And probably just like him she was just about at odds with the post-war world as they could be.

But, she was also dangerous. To herself probably. Her long, thin, curved middle-eastern body would be a siren's call for most men. It wasn't made much better by her liberal dress on some casual days with the casual, low-cut tank top that fearlessly showed of her bust, or the low-cut jean pants. Between Applejack, Redheart, and Fleetfoot it was a sworn mission to keep her safe. They were all family, and she was their sister, their daughter.

“I know how hot that want can be, sugah', but it's no reason to get mad. There's other ways to cool off.” Applejack smiled, “Back in Mississippi we just closed up for the day when it got like this and took a nap with the air on.”

Lyra snorted hotly, turning away from her to look back down the road. She was mad, but she'd get over it soon enough. Applejack rolled her blue eyes before returning to what she had left sitting on her lap. The dim screen of a tablet on her lap lay on her legs with a half-written message for home. In the sun much of the screen's light lost vibrancy in competing with the reflections that instead shone in the plastic. AJ's face looked down at her faded letter. Her dirty, golden hair. White sun-kissed face and fading chocolate freckles. Bright red lips. She wondered why she had the nickname she did, then again she wondered why any of them had these names. She was hardly familiar with the source, and the progenitors of them were tight-lipped enough to keep it from being known. Maybe it was their joke, their squad's joke. Something to do to deal with the world post-war, however it dealt with it.

As the jeep took a gentle sweeping turn passed a field of fledgling corn a bank of towering trees came to the fore-front view. Green moss and a thick crown of leaves branched and fanned out into the sky as thick vines wrapped up the trunks to fall in drapes from the branches. Beyond the net of vegetation the sparkling of the shine of the Tshuapa river shone in the afternoon sun. Slivers of silver on rusted and muddy brown water, flowing gently down and around the bend as it sought its convergence with the mighty Congo.

The jeep rolled to a gentle stop as they made the sandy, dusted bank before the trees. The rocks popping softly under the tires as it gently softened. The grass brushed along the frame as it drew to a stop at the edge of the road. The engine idling in pause before cutting out abruptly.

From the back, boots buffeted on the bed of the utility vehicle as the rest of the crew jumped to their feet and hit the ground. “So you ready, banana bender?” Shining Armor smiled as he pulled himself from the driver's seat, squinting against the sun, even though a pair of soft blue sunglasses.

“'ey'v been shootin' wild dogs in t'e outback for sixteen years, mate.” Soarin jeered as he jumped from the bed, the two cases Shining had brought slung under his arm, “Longe' than you've been shootin' skeets, mate. Y'know what I'm sayin' y'e co'nish pooftah.”

“And you're not on recon.” Shining argued back with a smarmy grin, “Mac, you got the bloody discs.”

“Damn straight.” Mac grunted, hoisting a large box over his shoulder, “Let's get started, before someone gets upset. Someone may have left a stove on too.” he added with a sarcastic smile.

“Bloody brilliant, you're going to try and be funny?” Shining said, annoyed, “Let's just get this down in the river and burn time.”

“And before we fucking melt.” Redheart protested loudly as she stretched on the rear bed. Once bound hair hung in short strands of dulled red-orange. Chance had given her time to change, and under a fatigue vest the straps of a dull silver-blue bathing suit ran up her shoulders. She hadn't given up the sunglasses. “Also can you boys shoot down river, last thing I want to find is one of Armor's cigarettes or a dead bird Soarin picks to shoot.”

“Though you would like those, love.” Shining teased as he took one of the long black rifle cases from Soarin. The Australian kept his mouth shut, laughing as he shook his head instead. Readjusting his battered bush hat he headed off through the trees.

Caramel stood back and watched distantly as the squad got their things together. Half-hearted teases were thrown between each other, more loudly between Soarin and Shining as they blazed the trail through the thick tropical undergrowth to the river. Flash Sentry followed alongside Big Mac with his box of clay pigeons.

There was a brotherliness, something that had brought him in when he found nothing like it back home in Honduras. When he returned lost and beaten.

“Monsieur Latino.” spoke up a voice, bringing Caramel to jump. His heart skipped a beat violently in his chest as he spun on his boots. His hand twitched to a gun that wasn't there. “Are you going to join them?” said the man as he turned to face the voice.

“I-” Caramel started, finding himself staring up at a tall, slender built man before him. The imposing figure had to be at least almost a head and a half taller, and he looked down at Caramel with a distant, expressionless stare. Dancing between his fingers bright flashes of silver glinted as he danced a thin metal-cassed cellphone between his long boney fingers.

“I, was going to...” started Caramel nervously, lowering his hand. He still shook as his heart still beat. The man before him continued to regard him with that same distant, passive stare. Sharp brown eyes scanned him from head to feet. His long mouth frowned in distaste for the young soldier.

He himself didn't look like one either. Though he had seen him around the base, and he had come in with Lyra and Braeburn from town. He wore a soft, off-purple vest over top a white dress shirt, the sleeves had been rolled up passed his elbows. In his long dress pants and short-cut, combed back hair he didn't come off as a man who had lived an entire life on the battlefield.

“...You're Elusive, right?” Caramel asked.

“Oui.” Elusive responded, scratching his squared off chin. “And you are Caramel. We going to the river?”

“Yea, yea...” Caramel started nervously, turning away and heading for the river. Sticks and dried leaves cracked under his foot as he moved along. Elusive close behind.

“So where are you from, ami?” Elusive said, starting casual conversation as they bowed under a low branch. On the river front Shining and Soarin were setting up. The gun cases had been cast aside and each held in their hands long sleek black rifles. They checked over the actions and the bolts, looking down the sights and checking the range.

“Honduras...” Caramel replied uneasily at the conversation striking up.

“I read that when you came into the group.” Elusive groaned. His French accent was thick, and it only grew with the annoyance, “Where from Honduras?”

“Why do you want to know?” Caramel asked defensively, turning on the towering French man. Mid way under a crooked twisted branch.

He glared at him disapprovingly, a deepening frown defining his expression. “Because I'm trying to be friendly.” he said coarsely, “And if anything happens I can write family.”

“I don't have any family anymore.” Caramel choked, “There's no one to write, no one to send me back to if anything happens.”

“Fair enough.” the Frenchman grumbled as they continued on, stepping out onto the hard-packed clay shore of the river. The loud crack of rifle fire heralded that Soarin and Shining's shooting had begun. The cracking, thundering shot made Caramel fidget as he turned to them.

“Ri'ought, let's start!” he heard Shining cheer.

“You're tense.” Elusive observed with a still voice.

“No, no I'm not.” Caramel started defensively. Elusive saw differently as he looked on the young man. His foot was kept planted in the clay, and the way he carried his weight suggested he was about to drop for cover. He could even hear his breath, stressed and cautious over the splashing of the water as the girls took to the water.

“When was the last time you visited le médecin?” asked Elusive.

“The what?” the boy replied aggressively.

Elusive nodded slowly, holding out a hand he took him by the shoulders and gently turned him from Shining and the rest. The Latino took it roughly, with a violent throw of the arm he threw off his comrade's hand. “What!?” he shouted.

“Let's sit down.” Elusive invited, “Watch the girls.” he added, walking to a crumbling log high on the river bank.

“Why?” spat Caramel. He felt hot inside. Mad almost. Why he was being prodded by a member of the squad that had not taken to introduce himself now was beyond his imagination.

“Because we have some matters to discuss.” Elusive said with a cracking voice, walking over to the log. “And you don't like the figure les femme?”

“I'm sorry I don't speak French...” Caramel said nervously.

“Las mujeres.” Elusive corrected, in a form of Spanish that was heavy in French style. Sitting down on the log he drummed the metal case of the cellphone against his knee, watching him and waiting.

Caramel's repulsion for the Frenchman was enough for him to hesitate, but looking between the separated groups he suddenly felt he had no where else to be. On one side of the river, the loud reports of rifle fire echoed over the river as pigeons were thrown and exploded in a flower of shrapnel as the Australian and Englishman traded shoot on air born targets. On the other, a group what was best to not get into as advice went.

Feeling lost got the better of him, and he stiffly walked over to the log and sat himself down the edge.

“Tell you a dirty little secret about myself,” Elusive grinned as he rummaged through the front pocket of his vest. He looked off to the girls swimming in the river only a few yards off. Operatives Applejack and Fleetfoot had taken to the refreshing water like young girls, having already started an energetically war with splashing each other. Applejack had hardly changed into a formal swimsuit outside of the appropriate bottom half, and had kept the uniform jacket on; of which was already clearly soaked from a distance. Fleetfoot on the other hand wore some single-color, blue one piece that hugged against her small features. Redheart had already swam off mid-way into the river, where she kept herself floating against the current, and Lyra sat perched on the trunk of a tree that had half fallen over the river, merely kicking at the surface of the water below her.

“What is it then?” asked Caramel.

Elusive grinned down at him as he pulled an unlit cigarette from his pocket. Biting down onto it he smiled as she stared off into the river, not lighting his smoke. “First thing first, tell me when you last saw the psychiatrist, ami.”

“Why would that matter?” Caramel spat defensively, “Why does the shrink matter at all!?”

“It does, do you want to hear it?”

Caramel bit his lip, drumming his fingers against his knee. A heavy sigh passed through his nostrils as he shook his head. “Alright, alright.” he said, defeated, “A few months ago, when I wan my exams.”

“They probably didn't tell you your profile then.” Elusive nodded as he rose his cellphone.

“No, they didn't.” Caramel nodded, looking out at the girls in the river. He felt too annoyed to feel anything in it, but they were there. And they looked better than Elusive.

“Right.” the Frenchman nodded, “Well, I used to live outside of Nice.” he started, “Before I moved to Toulouse.

“Anyways, when I was le enfant I would visit my grandparents in this small city named Menton, you heard of it?” he asked.

“No, I haven't.” Caramel said flatly, watching Lyra kick her feet over the water, smiling and laughing as AJ and Fleetfoot splashed up river water into each other's face.

“They called in la perle de la France.” Elusive continued, “But my grandparents had a small farmhouse on the east side of city, just outside. Close to the border with Italy. We would go there every weekend and visit them.”

“Where's this leading to?” asked Caramel.

“I'm getting there.” Elusive laughed, “On this visits I would sneak out every Sunday while my parents and grandparents went to church. I was never a very religious kid, and Catholic mass was too long. But long enough for other things.

“When they went, I would steal out towards the Italian border, with my grandfather's binoculars under my arm.

“This was before the Union went to Hell, and the border was as open as the air we breath. No one cared.

“But as it was, there was a nude beach not too far, and I would go there and be back watching les femmes bathe in the sun. And my elders were never the wiser!” he laughed.

Caramel lowered his head, laughing softly. “So how is that relevant.”

“How is it not.” Elusive remarked coyly, raising his hand – and cellphone – to the girls in the river.

Caramel looked out at them confused. They were girls, and they were young. And they were presumably watching them. But none were topless, to Caramel's subconscious distress. He was about to ask Elusive why this was relevant, until he noticed the light in the cellphone's screen, and the faint message in it.

“What'd you do?” he asked, looking into the glow of the cellphone.

“As the communication's officer and long standing request of le capitain, I am here to keep us running smoothly.” Elusive said, dryly, professionally, “My friend, I got you the first of hopefully many regular psychiatric appointments for tomorrow afternoon.”

Standing up he looked down into Caramel's beat red, confused and angry face, “Le Armie takes our psychological health strongly,” he added, “You will be there, or le docteur Lieughen will find you. And he finds everyone.

“Have a good day.” he said, bowing out as he walked to the shooting match, brushing debris and rotting wood chips from the back of his pants.

Athens – Greece

The Greek nation stood in morning over the passing of Nikolaos Michaloliakos, the First Leader of Byzantium and the Unifier of Greece died in his sleep as the army made preparations for the forthcoming funeral as they placed the wake at the Church of the Holy Apostles nearby where national and international news groups lived streamed the footage from Athens. The wake was heavily guarded to prevent whatever anarchist and anti-government insurgents would attempt to steal or desecrate the body. Greeks and Serbians, along with a few Bulgarians paid their respects, Veterans and soldiers saluted to the corpse as they made their way around him, while a few citizens that were mostly women and children kissed the glass of the casket before they were asked to move away to prevent them from being forcibly removed. The leadership stood by and watched over the citizen passerby and let their heads low in respect of their former leader while members of the Order watched over and gave comfort to the grieving family of the former leader.

However for the new leader, General Officer Feodor Anastasios, his successor was working in his office at the Capital as he was watching the live-stream of the event on the computer while he prepared a speech for the upcoming burial. He preferred to work on strengthening the international influence of the Confederacy and making the region prosperous, believing that he would rather honor his legacy than morning over his fellow leader as he seen much pain and sorrow over the slaughter of his men from insurgents and rebels from the Serbian Unification conflicts. His attention was briefly interrupted by a knock on the door of his office, taking a look of the security feed to see a young woman dressed in black with flies in her hands.

“General Anastasios,” the woman spoke at the door as her voice spoke though the security feed. “I have the files that you requested from the Council. They also said that they would like to arrange a meeting with them regarding the rebuilding of Sarajevo.”A short buzz from the door caused the double doors of the chambers to unlock as she made her way though as the General stood up dressed in his military uniform and medals, and gave a light smirk across the handsome general’s face. “Thank you for doing this errand for me. I was watching the wake on the national live-stream and needed time to reflect from the ongoing funeral.”“Oh no problem at all. It’s my pleasure. Is there anything else you need?” She asked in an innocent manner, curious on what he might want next walking towards him as she placed the files on his desk.

“No, I still got a lot of problems. Roads and towns to repair, cities to rebuild, perhaps later I can build monuments to him and myself. Plus, dealing with the Oculi and anarchists for their chance at insurrection always looms even after much bloodshed.” He said in a disinterested tone as he sat back down and began to read though the files, even if he was under a lot of stress. She looked down at the carpet just before she headed out the doors and thought for a bit before rising her head back up turning to him again, and gave an innocent glance at him. “Perhaps after the meeting, you should tour the world and make a few alliances to help the Confederacy prosper. The NAF and Russia are potential allies.” Listening in, he stopped reading and looked at her directly with the same smirk on his face. “Perhaps… Russia is a valuable trade partner that helped us during the war, but there is a bit of bad blood from the former regime and the U.S. as it is now. Personally, I don’t consider the NAF to be an ally at this time, but trade relations can close and heal some bad wounds for the moment. I am visiting Serbia soon so I can attend the meeting in Belgrade after the burial. You are dismissed…”

He then turned to the files and reports on his desk, before for a moment he was curious about the secretary’s name.

“Wait…” he spoke as she headed outside his office as the doors were still open. “…What is your name?”

She turned around and gave a smile as she froze in the doorway before the doors closed on her. “Anya…”

As the doors shut and she went back to her desk down the corridor, the general thought for a bit as a small feeling of joy came to him that grew a smile from his face.

“Anya…” he whispered to himself before he went back to work.

Juba, South Sudan

The day-time heat poured off of the hood of the Cadillac as it drove through the capital of Africa's youngest nation of twenty-nine years. The war and strife that had afflicted the African country had been hidden well here over the years. The frequent internal conflicts that had embroiled the country until the twenties seemed long forgotten here. Programs to develop the nation's national capital and the capital gained from the nation's northern oil wells had helped the young state's coffers. And driving through the silver jewel on the White Nile it was easy to forget than in the life-time of Pierre Lofaine the city had come up from being little more than rural huts in the heart of the Sudanese bush to being a metropolis that looked, felt, and tried to be a symbol of progress in the developing world.

The men and women that mingled along the street alongside jalopy, thirty-year old Toyotas carried themselves through the paved streets of Juba, not caring or seeming to not register the fact that thirty years ago they would not be worrying about the trivial aspects of urban living as there was in traffic. They paid no heed to the profound circumstances that allowed their infant state to beat such favorites as Rome or London for the World Cup. But then again, The War had seen to their memories.

Refugee migrations and the fear of a second wash of civil unrest had managed to subdue anger and cries of corruption that lead to Juba being put on the world stage. The demands that the money that made this spectacle possible could be better spent developing the nation's still non-existent electrical network and weak roads. Years of Ethiopian refugees and soldiers returning to the street had buried it all as western armies clashed with Chinese interests across the continent. The Sudans weren't alone either, as the two briefly clashed over the border. But in the end, things turned out alright to the citizenry. The Arab north had been pushed back, and they cemented their claim on Sudanese oil. The black suits settled on their new wealth with fat smiles and flabby asses to increase the size of their bank roll. Internal investment promised and showed growth as budget cuts privatized most of the nation's security forces and police. Western experts imported in to oversee the continuing growth and work with the president to see Sudan meet its full potential as a fertile agricultural state.

Pierre didn't need to look or think hard to still find the exorbitant corruption that afflicted Sudan. But he couldn't complain, it gave his company a job.

Pierre Lofaine grumbled as he turned from the window. The old thatch and brick huts of old Juba had disappeared under carefully prepared plaster facades in the down-town district. Decoratively planted trees rose from the side-walk, giving the district a distinct tropical home-away from home appearance. And between shops, hotels, and the bars rose the glittering silver of casinos and their cheekily hidden brothels. Even by day these glowed.

But for all the changes in the recent decades, nothing could solve the persistent problem of traffic in Africa. Despite modernizing some elements had lagged behind or simply refused to move. Foot traffic mixed with automobiles and animal-drawn carts as dogs ran between it all. Destitute men with skin as dark as the night wove through the cars, washing windows and begging for change.

A dull pain throbbed through Pierre's arm from where his prosthetic met with his elbow. The coarse irritation of a poorly fitted socket and the painful itching sensation of it beginning to rub against him. The sensation of having lost his arm in The War hadn't left him either, and even with the shining red implant he still felt something was missing on the fields in Germany. It kept him up at night sometimes when he felt that his arm was somewhere it wasn't.

The arm met his body at a plastic cup just above his elbow. The flesh swelled underneath. He was told the fit would be tight, perfect. Just enough that he wouldn't need to worry about the powerful discomfort of a poorly fitted arm. But now his arm glowed the same fierce red his arm was stained and polished in. He ran his fingers up and down around where his implant met his skin, hoping to soothe the pain and kill it. It wasn't much, but it was the least he could do as his metal fingers tapped across his knee.

Pierre's attention drifted from the traffic jammed streets outside to the front of the Escalade. It was cooler inside than it was outside, and the softly glowing screen in the dash was evidence to that. It was a soothing hundred degrees outside. Inside, a cool and comfortable sixty-nine. The Chevrolet logo glowed over top at the crown of the dash as soft melancholy classical music sung through the cabin.

At his side pair of armed guards sat impatiently tapping their knees or staring out of the window as the driver and front passenger glowered angry at the back up of mule-drawn carts and a battered, chipped and faded 2011 Toyota Tacoma sat idling in front of them. The sides were spray painted in weak Ethiopian colors that weakly hid bullet holes across its side. A frame of iron bars in its bed, built right behind the rear window suggested that in a worse time, someone had mounted a gun to it. There wasn't much else to it. It had the scars of war, just like Pierre and his men.

With a jolt the Escalade shifted forward, and traffic was again moving along the streets of Juba. At a impatient crawl they crept through the streets of Juba to their final destination. “Ist Langsam.” cheered the passenger from the front as he clapped his hands together.

****

The Escalade bumped and jostled as it turned off the road and drove down a desolate stretch of road in the heart of town. Grass yard and grassy knolls passed them by on either side as they drove down a stretch of decorated road way. Towering palm trees marched along the drive like towering sentinels as native, black-skinned workers worked around their bases, replacing old mulch at their trunks, tending to weeds, or repairing neglected electrical lights.

The drive was smooth, and at the end stood like a nest of steel and iron was their destination. Built as some convoluted representation of ancient tribal huts, the Juba International Stadium was South Sudan's prize of corruption. Built to impress for the World Cup, Pierre found it did little on him. The gaudy tiers built into it and the artificial stucco that turned steel to wood was something more out of a Disney attraction than real life. Shoddily crafted roof work ensured that the lowest tiers of the building looked to be half as real as a tribal hut's thatched roof. And all of it was crowned with an open nest of high-beam lights, cables, flags, and banners.

Scaffolding only made its outward appearance worse. Over ten years of disuse since the World Cup was delayed had done enough that demanded that the government minders that built the clusterfuck look into repairs. It had been mothballed for over a decade as the war tore itself apart. It had briefly been used as a command center for Western Alliance personnel against Chinese insurgency. And Pierre reckoned that it had been used for everything but soccer.

But it's big chance was coming up. It'd been delayed for this long. The mercenary commander's chariot pulled alongside the sports palace. In little under a month this stadium would be making the news again.

Pierre looked out at the expansive open parking lot and shuttle terminal that wrapped around the building. Slowing to a halt the bulky car passed into the shade of the lobby terminal's awning. Where there stood a congregation of suits and ties, and uniforms. With a soft jaunt the Escalade stopped solid on the tarmac and idled as the doors popped open.

“Good afternoon, commander Pierre!” a voice sang out in a proud sing-song voice. Pierre rolled his eyes as he pulled himself from the car. Spending a brief moment to look out down the drive for far longer. There was an abrasiveness to the tone of voice that got to him. The way it held a tone far happier than it needed to be.

Taking a deep sign Pierre turned to the speaker. Standing at the head of the armed guards and South Sudanese officials stood a tall white man at stiff attention. A still hand hovered at his sharp stone-trimmed brow in salute and darkened sunglasses. And despite the straight cut and rigid posture a proud beaming smile dressed him.

“Colonel Adam.” Pierre said, waving a hand at him, putting him at ease. For Pierre he found a surreal difficulty in working with Americans. Not that they were any worse at what they did than anyone, but for him they talked too much. Were too polite. Something that Colonel Adam was all to sure to express on any given meeting he had with him.

“Fancy a tour of the facility, sir?” Adam asked, lowering his hand to his waist.

“It's why I'm here.” the Frenchman said with a false smile.

“Excellent.” Adam crooned, stepping aside as his boss joined him and the various presidential aids and ASN guards men.

****

The air inside the Juba stadium was dry, but at least cool. All around them the sounds of work echoed in the open halls and causeways of the stadium as repair crews set to diligently address the number of issues that had arisen with the de-mothballing of the stadium. Holes needed to be patched. Light bulbs checked, and faulty wiring redone. The floors needed to be cleaned and new security systems installed. And the television screens that were outdated for even their time needed to be replaced or checked for any failure that had come upon them over time.

All around them the workmen of Juba was hard at work at their jobs. Tell tail light-blue helmets singled them out from the ASN security personnel who were fast at work installing their own security devices, or drilling a few of Juba's native police officers in how to use their security cameras. Several small news outlets stood by, speaking in a wide range of tongues in scattered carefully picked locations as they gave out a rundown on the preparations for the coming World Cup.

“We're well on track for Juba.” Adams said with a beaming smile, “Really, I'd say we're ahead of schedule, on our end at least. These private contractors seem like they keep finding something to address and don't ever get anything done. But that's beyond my own authority.” he laughed.

“I can tell.” Pierre said distantly, stepping around a step ladder. At the top a Grey-suited technician fitted a wireless security camera to the side of a support beam.

The entire entrance lobby stretched up some two to three stories, and every available part of the vertical space was filled – or set aside – to proclaim South Sudan's growth and to paint a picture of growth in Africa, much the same as South Africa decades ago.

“We're really just worried on staff allocation throughout the compound.” the colonel continued, “We got a lot of space to cover, and last I checked my X-ray scanners are still waiting in Isreal, but I was told in my last Email with our logistical office they'll be down whenever I need them. I frankly just need to get the staff to operate them and do regular patrols.”

“What about the locals?” Pierre asked.

“They're fine, but I wouldn't want to use them for major things like that. I might request to have them on the floor as a presence, but I wouldn't put them at scanners. Frankly, possible loyalties concern me.”

“So it really sounds like we're not ahead of schedule.” Pierre commented with a frown.

“Wel- well in terms of hardware!” Adam laughed, “But man power, maybe you can help out? I don't want to run minimum here. This is too big a thing. Locals would help, but there's still a lot of Ethiopians in the city and just as much in the force. And both of us no doubt got the NGO memos post war, even local criminal statistics.”

“I hope you're not implying that our police force is corrupted, Mr Hetman.” one of the local representatives said. A tinge of deeply felt offense wavered in his deep voice.

“Not at all sir.” the colonel apologized, “But, I want to take precautions is all.”

“Precautions or not Mr. Hetman I will not of our local dignity cut out of this chance of a life-time on baseless assumptions on our men!” the same man argued. The local police commissioner. As the party stopped Pierre turned to watch the altercation. Juba's commissioner was a large man, even by large man standards. He dwarfed Adam in both height and width and his bald head was incredibly sharkish for a man.

“Monsieur Indiga,” Pierre responded, “rest assured I have no intention of cutting your men out of this chance. But for an event this large and with things unresolved in Africa, it's sensible to take precautions on such a matter. I know things have been pacified in part in Sudan. But we still got an active network that has proven destructive.

“I do not doubt the loyalty of your men and their capability. But right now, let us keep an open mind for all factors, so we don't invite tragedy. Oui?”

Pierre's sharp confrontation appeared to silence the commissioner as he waddled on his hippopotamus sized feet. “I am merely defending my men.” he apologized. His tongue was still bitter and the delivery stiff and angry. But Pierre took it.

“I'll look into the manpower shortfalls.” he said, turning back to Adam, “I'll be in Tel-Aviv at the end of the week and I'll bring it up with the board. I was going to request an update on our recruitment efforts so I will look into sending you men on the rotation to cover your needs for something of this scale.”

“Thank you sir.” Adam nodded, grinning widely, “It'd mean a lot to me. Air cover to if possible. Just for presence purposes if anything.”

“I'll look into it.” Pierre said, “Now, what more do I need to know?”

Mbandaka, Congo

The clock in the distant corner of the room ticked away the silence in the room. It was a simple sound, but so irritating. And it only hammered home the surreal alien nature of the office. Where everything was built of the same cheap supplies and pre-fabrication this room had a strange sort of feeling. A distant reflection of another land. From the looks of the office space, there was a cleanliness to it. Care. Dark, stained wainscotting ran a wide stroke along the bottom edge, standing as tall as the fine hard-wood tables that rested along it. Faded birds decorated the off-white wallpaper as they ran to meet a ceiling of dimpled stucco. From the ceiling hung a wide fan.

Of all the things in the town of Mbandaka, this had to look the most European with its bookshelves packed full of books. The only thing that stood in the room that reminded any visitors it was Africa was the window. The faded yellow and stained window. Set high on the wall it let in a faint yellow glow.

“Carlos Ortemega.” someone said from behind as a door opened. Accented, European. Almost Germanic. Seated in a basic metal-frame chair in the center of the office sat Caramel. He rung his fingers over his knees, partially out of impatience and partially over annoyance over the inconvenience.

“I hear you gave my psychiatrists shit earlier this morning.” the man at the door said, laughing. He was a tall and well built man. Skinny, but there was a proportion to it. He was a man with a long rounded face, with the slight suggestion of sagging cheeks and deepening wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. His hair glowed a bright golden yellow as it receded back across his head.

The man took to a brisk pace as he crossed the room. His gait wide and bounding. The natural speed at which he moved from door to desk somewhere between that of a run and a jog.

“Doctor Lieughen?” Caramel asked apprehensive.

Lieughen looked up at Caramel as he took a seat behind his desk. “Ja!” he said with a smile, “Pleased to meet you.”

“Alright, well if you don't mind I'd like to ask to go back to base...” Caramel started nervously. His voice wavered with uncertainty as he shifted in his chair.

“Your last appointment with an ASN psychiatrist was your preliminary employment examination ten months ago.” Lieughen said, cutting him off and giving no merciful answer. At his desk he unfolded a small folder, no doubt containing Caramel's psychiatric and medical files. The doctor reached into his pocket, producing a pair of glasses he unfolded and rested on his nose.

“General ASN procedure towards combat vets with a history is to designate a minimum tri-weekly regimen of meetings with the central or designated operations psychiatric evaluator.

“We have not had one scheduled appointment from you in eight months, Da heer Carlos. Why is that?”

“Because...” Caramel trailed off apprehensively.

“The copies of my medical report says that you told the evaluating body you 'would call' to schedule an appointment.

“Of course, the initial suggestion on your character suggests that at the time you didn't require a strict regimen to help you in your psychiatric help. The only warning I got is distancing and disassociation to your area of deployment: Panama.”

“Why is this relevant?” Caramel asked. He felt tight in the chest the infant stirrings of anger turned in him.

“There are reasons.” Lieughen said in a low grumbling voice, “Do you happen to remember the motto of the ASN, Carlos?”

“Why?” Caramel responded.

“Because it matters.” Lieughen said, “And I hope you don't we're going straight to the point, brother.”

“I- what?” Caramel confusedly muttered, “I- well it's about family...” he stumbled. This fucking doctor. What could he be getting at? Why does it matter?

“Please say it.” Lieughen said, holding his hand out invitingly.

Caramel sighed as he threw his head back. Did this fucking matter? Drumming his feet against the floor he said in a long drawn, impatient tone, “Together we are family.”

“Very good!” Lieughen complimented. A genuine smile glowed on his face, and he relaxed his posture, leaning on his arms. “As family of course, it's our duty to support one another. Da heer Ortemega, we're all here to support you. From within, and without your squad.”

“What does my squad have anything to do this?” Caramel grumbled. He could be somewhere else. Doing something else. Why did it even matter to be here? His chest felt like it was filling with plasma. Boiling and expanding. But looking at the doctor's smug expression, that smile and glow in his yellow eyes... He was toying with him. It had to be that.

“A lot.” Lieughen said distantly, nostalgically. “They are to you as your brothers and sisters back home were to you before you went to service. It's the duty of all of us to care for and nurture each other and to help us through troubles. A lot of us are troubled, Carlos. We all faced the world.”

“You know, it doesn't even fucking matter, Ok!” Carlos shouted, rising from his chair, “If this is about my fucking tour in Panama, then it doesn't matter! I left that shit behind!

“Do you see a fucking pistole to my head right now!?” he roared like a lion as he took a step on Lieughen. His face growed red and the fires of Hell were erupting in him. “I- I'm not going crazy doctor!”

“Carlos, would you kindly sit down. Please?” Lieughen asked gently.

“Can I go!?” Caramel shouted. Throwing his arm to the door.

“Only until I'm satisfied.” Lieughen replied.

“With what? What do you want!?” Caramel snapped back, kicking his boot against the ground. To Lieughen the soldier was quickly becoming like that of an immature child. He beamed with agitation. It was clear that he was getting fed up.

“Things, brother Carlos.” he said with a distraught sigh, “Now, if you sit down we can go over things. Because I'm not going to let you go until I'm satisfied. And you can tear this office apart from ceiling to floor, but that will just get you the stockade. And trust me, brother. It's a lot worse there.”

Caramel threw up his arms. And with a loud thud threw himself down in the chair, crossing his arms.

“Fine.” Lieughen nodded, pushing his glasses higher up his nose. Picking up the evaluation report he leaned back in his chair, “Let's start then with your service record. Served in the Honduras armed forces? In the reserve?”

“Yes.” Caramel replied.

“And with the Central American task force you fought in Colombia and Panama in 2032? This says you were only sixteen. Can you confirm?”

“I did.” Carlos said distantly.

“Through your service, you went through four squad changes. Most being killed in service and merging into new battalions?” Lieughen asked.

“Yes.” the Latino said. Reapproaching his service drew a dark cloud on him. He felt colder, distant from reality. The smells of those rotting fields crawled back. It was almost like his nightmares...

“Then I take it at any time you likely did not come to feel close with your comrades then?” Lieughen asked.

Carlos went silent as he starred down at his boots. He tapped his toes together, frowning sourly down at them. He wanted to forget. He needed to forget. But it couldn't ever go away.

“Did you?” Lieughen asked again, in a soft voice. He stared into the distant look in Carlos' eyes as he stared down at his combat boots. He felt worry. He knew it felt best for him to ignore it. But it was better in the long run to confront it. To not do so is a disease. It'll curse them all.

“No. Not at all.” Caramel said sourly.

“Then you haven't confided in anyone about this.” said Lieughen, “No one who would understand, or would life long enough for the trust?”

Caramel looked up at Lieughen. He looked vacantly at him. And hungrily. A Golum of mixed spite and shaken remorse. It would have been expected if at the moment he started talking to himself. But when he spoke it was directed to the doctor, “Do you?”

“More than you know.” Lieughen nodded. With a hand he pointed up to along the wall, where a circle of photographs, paintings, or framed letters hung. Caramel noted that three of his fingers on his left hand had been replaced with prosthetic implants, boney, sinewy implants. They looked like what the Terminator's hand resembled. Caramel recalled he didn't think he'd see the day when he first say that movie so many years ago... Like a life time.

“I was a serviceman in the Dutch army.” he said, “Combat medic in that, and then in the UN and various NGO groups before returning to Dutch service.” Lieughen said softly, “I can tell you a lot about the hurt I've seen. I have perhaps seen as much suffering as brother Pierre.”

“Well congratulations...” Caramel muttered, trailing off. “But have you seen it in Central America?”

Lieughen smiled, like a comforting father. Shaking his head he said: “I'm afraid not.”

“Then how would you understand?” Caramel asked.

“Because it will.” Lieughen smiled, “I realize this may not be something you want. But I need you to confront what happened for me. I will with you too, if you promise we maintain the appointments. You won't need to see my underlings, and I can give a medical notice to keep you off of nonessential missions. If it will help.”

Caramel sat silently, playing with his thumbs. Biting his lip he looked up at Lieughen and up at the artifacts of his career. There was many. He felt like a mess. Scared. “An- and the nightmares?” he asked.

“I know.” Lieughen replied.

Kampala, Uganda

Even at night, the ASN offices in Kampala were open. At least to those that wanted it to be. The sight of the two visitors stirred the janitor as he mopped the day's dust from the floor of the building. Looking up in shocked amazement that at one in the morning men would still be using the building. No words passed between him and the white and black man that entered through the lobby. But it was doubtful that the old man would be able to hear anything they said with the Goodlyfe Crew being piped into his ears from the pale, worn ear buds that hang from his shirt.

Emmanuel and John both stepped into the elevator; those last to leave had kindly left the elevators to rest on the first floor. And with a soft sigh the nickle-plated doors closed behind them and they began their ascent up.

“What do you thing 'e wants us for?” John asked as he leaned against the far corner. Drumming his knuckles against the false-wood siding.

“I dun'kno.” Emmanuel said. The buzz of the waragi still swam in his head. But not enough so to drown the doubts he was sober enough to meet with colonel Hasch.

“Infiltrate the police?” John laughed, “That was fun.”

“Say you.” Emmanuel grumbled.

“Admit it, you thought it was enjoyable when you caught on to the fun shit they were on to.” John giggled, “And the way you ran out of that office with the chief with a club over his head. It was the life of the month.”

“I'll chase you wid'a club ne'st d'ime. How'd d'hat be?” Emmanuel snickered.

“That would be your treat, wouldn't it?” John laughed.

With a light ding the elevator stopped and the doors slid open, letting them out into the dimly lit hallways beyond. Nearly half the lights in the build had been turned off, giving only the most basic illumination. The office décor and signage faded into the shadows and the long halls took on a very monotonous look. They all became the same in the half-light. But the two knew the offices like the back of their hand and it wasn't long until they came to the doors to Hasch's quarter of the building.

Opening the doors and entering into the command waiting room they were greeted by the still sparse life that occupied the building. Reclining in a chair and watching a fuzzy television screen stood at guard a pair of guards. They looked tired, and bored.

The man at the desk gazed slowly over to the two guests. With a distant expression he asked: “Meeting with the colonel?”

“Yessir.” Emmanuel nodded.

The desk sergeant nodded, “You know where he is then, you two.” he grumbled. Looking back at the TV.

As the two started for the hall the man at the asked: “Is it still raining outside?”

“It's cloudy.” John said.

“Perfect...” the receptionist sneered.

****

The door closed behind them as they entered into Till's office. There was a lonely silence about it. Something almost meditative. A large window spanned the far wall between shelves of military paraphernalia. And in the corner of it gazing out at the lights of night-time Kampala stood Till Hasch. The white elephant of man stood proud with his arms cross behind his back.

“Colonel, sir?” John said, approaching Till.

The German turned about, clapping his boots about as he did. With a flat uncompromising look he looked over John and Emmanuel before nodding. “Bruden.” he said, “I've got a job fer the two of you.” he added, “Vill you take it?”

“Certainly.” John said.

“Gut, gut.” he smiled, “It'll be no doubt easy for the both you. I need some'vone put under surfeilence, und I can't trust die local police. They refuse to coordinate.”

“Sounds like'd be righ'd up o'r alley.” Emmanuel smiled, “Id's no'd enouthe' police office is it?” he asked, frowning.

“Nein, nein!” Hasch laughed, breaking his tense official posture and holding his arms out. “Though I do remember die debrief. I vish I vas there.” he said laughing.

“You should 'ave!” cheered John, to Emmanuel's distaste.

“To business.” Hasch said, “vhat do you know ofv Jean-Marie William Monbuka?”

“I 'ain't eve' 'eard that name before.” John said. Emmanuel nodded his head in agreement.

“I see. Vell, I hafve reason to believe that he may be ein suspect in an investigation on die remaining Chinese insurgencies.” he said, “Du remember die Ugandan Popular Army?” he asked.

“Yeah, d'ey weren'd d'had popular if e'rembmer...” Emmanuel said, “Mo'e 'dribals from Rwanda looking' d' s'dard d'rouble.”

Hasch nodded, “Jean-Marie claims he left die country during the insurgency. But vhen I look fur confirmation I can't find it. Und he's leading a growing armed group in Southern Uganda that I don't like. I need him looked into.”

“For how long?” John asked.

“At least until a couple months.” the colonel said, “However long it take fur du zwei to get intel on them. Profve he is legitemate or not.”

John nodded, “Well that doesn't sound too hard.”

“Fur men ofv your talents it should not.” he replied smiling, “I hafve great trust in you, that you will not fail me. You know the procedures?”

“Ye'.” said Emmanuel.

Hasch nodded, “I'll hafve someone drive you down to his area, eleven hundred hours.” he said, “You can read our brief on him on the vay. I vanted to tell you to pass this onto you.

“So good luck, und got bless.”