December 1st, 2015

Doctor Dong Ha Gyeong stared blankly out the window of his office and only one thought passed through his mind.

It will be a harsh winter...

The mountain peaks in the distance were a clear white, and like paint upon a canvas the snow spread downward in all directions. Soon enough that same snow would cover every blade of grass and inch of pavement in Chongjin and the northern villages. Gyeong would much rather had been back home in Pyongyang, but leaving so late into the project was not only illegal but outside of his moral code. No matter how cold the weather became, he would hold his post and his staff together.

"Doctor Gyeong, a word?"

He had become so lost in thought that he hadn't noticed the man who entered.

"Ah, Commander Cho, please come in." The Doctor said, rising to his feet to salute as the older officer entered.

Commander Gyoo Cheol Cho was the leading military officer and adviser for the north western nuclear testing grounds. Cho had been in command since before Doctor Gyeong had taken the position of Head Nuclear Physicist only three years prior after an 'accident' occurred to the previous one. Needless to say, when Commander Cho wanted something he would receive it.

"Doctor, I bring news from Pyongyang." Cho said, taking a seat opposite Gyeong and crossing one of his legs. "In the last three years our nuclear program has rocketed ahead of the southern program. No pun intended of course. Of course, the state does not ignore that you only took your position as Head Physicist three years ago as well. You make your country proud Doctor." Cho smirked.

"Well, thank you Commander. I, like the rest of my staff, have continued to strive onward regardless of failures or setbacks sir."

"Aye, and we thank you for your enthusiasm. However, praising your work ethic isn't why I'm here.. By the week's end inspectors and the Dear Leader himself are traveling for a visit to Chongjin, and our testing grounds are on their route. I'm here to ask how prepared is your staff for a new test."

Doctor Gyeong sat back in his chair. Pondering for a moment as his eyes moved from Cho back out towards the snowy mountains. He chose his words carefully before he continued.

"If you can stall their visit to the grounds until the 8th, my team will have something prepared. I make no promise of a hydrogen bomb, but I believe we can have our development goals reached by the 8th."

Cho nodded slowly, his eyes scanning Doctor Gyeong carefully. He rose to his feet and adjusted his belt, his pistol giving a barely audible jiggle in it's holster.

"Very well then Doctor. If I'm going to be stalling a man such as President Un I can only pray your words equal your actions. Otherwise I imagine I won't be the only one meeting a firing squad before the year's end."

With his words piercing the Doctor like ice, Commander Cho marched to the door. He gave a final nod to Gyeong before stepping out, his boots echoing down the hallway as he went on his way.

Doctor Gyeong sighed, removing his glasses and rubbing his head with his spare hand. If he was going to make a breakthrough worthy to present to the Great Leader, he knew restless nights were ahead of him and his staff. However, a few nights of exhaustion were far better than anything disappointing the President would bring...

December 2nd, 2015

Vladimir Putin sits at the table in his house, going over the current events in his head, thinking of a way to keep Russia with its superpower status

The turks just shot down a plane of the Russian Federation and NATO is starting to become more violent in its "propositions" to the glorious federation. Putin knew that if he where to get Russia out of this hole that they are in right now, he would need an idea to not only combat NATO, but the EU in general. His door seemed to knock in agreement when Putin just began to think of something.

"Come in." Putin states

Dmitry Medvedev, the Prime Minister of the Russian Federation walks through the door.

"Hello Putin, I just came by to ask you something." Dmitry stated, looking Putin sternly in the eyes.

"Dmitry, it is three in the morning, why are you here right now?"

"Well Vladimir, I come to offer you an idea, I've been thinking about how NATO seems to be threatening our glorious nation and... and I believe that we should create a NATO-like organization of our own to combat these Western Liberal Cretins."

"Dmitry, are you proposing what I think you're proposing?" Putin asked with a smile beginning to grow on his face "Because I was just thinking about this, and I believe that a creating an organization to combat NATO is a great idea."

"Well, that was easier then expected, I thought I'd have to go through and give you the facts to make you agree with me."

"Dmitry, I may be stubborn, but I'm not stupid."

The Prime Minister chuckles at that, Putin was a lot of things, stubborn, insane, power hungry, but he was most certainly not stupid.

"Well in that case, I'd like to tell you the nations I'm thinking of inviting to this new organization. The Peoples Republic of China, The Democratic Peoples Republic of North Korea, the Islamic Republic of Iran, the Hellenic Republic (Greece), the Federal Republic of Nigeria, and the Syrian Arab Republic." Dmitry said.

Putin sat there for a moment, contemplating the thoughts and outcomes in his head. If this worked, then the west would no longer worry him.

"This, is a great idea Dmitry, but I see one problem. How will Greece join, they are currently in the EU and NATO, and the only way I see them leaving is if someone from Golden Dawn successfully takes the current Prime Minister out of power." Putin replied.

"And this Vladimir, is another reason why I came to you. I am thinking that if we meet with the current leader of the Golden Dawn party in Greece and we..fund them, then hopefully they can take control of the government."

Putin nods in agreement, this was it, the Federations big break. If this succeeds, the United States will no longer be able to ignore Russia's strength, because if they do, they will have it eventually bite them.

"Yes Dmitry, tomorrow I shall send the message to all of the leaders."

December 3rd, 2015

December 3rd

Jinping had received the message from the Russian’s as he got out of his car arriving at Zhongnanhai. It was interesting to say the least. Skimming over the message once more has he sipped his tea. Proposition was indeed appealing seeing that it would hold off the west and the accursed NATO. Upon hearing the door open to the council room, seeing fellow party members and other figureheads of the country.

Jinping had let everyone sit and their tea to be poured by the staff aids everyone looking to one another. Each of them had read Putin’s Memo, but refrained from saying much.

“The Russians have proposed the Moscow Pact, as a defense agreement against westward imperialism.” Jinping spoke, afterwards taking another sip of tea.

“It would help relations with the Russians to secure petroleum resources keeping them locked with us. Also keeping the United States out of our affairs. Also I would like to report that we’ve acquired more American debt which we can use to our advantage if needed.” Spoke Gaoli, also taking a sip of the tea.

"Also that we will be increasing production prices for manufactured good for the western world. Since they lack a the manpower and current engaged in other affairs. A minor price but still, impacting their finances considerably." Gaoli had spoke again

“Good.” Nodded Jinping. “I will go to Russia and sign this pact. If any of you hold ideas for this Moscow Pact, forward them to my secretary and will bring them up at the conference if they have any merit. “Is there anything else that warrant mention?”

“Yes.” Madam Liu spoke out. “Our athletics program has been promising better results this last few months. In Rio de Janeiro we will surpass the American’s in the Olympics.” She spoke with a straight face. Her job after all depended on it.

“I look forward to see this Yangdong. This is all for now. I will look forward to your suggestions, ladies and gentlemen.” Jinping leaving him the last one to follow out to his office, his secretary in tow.

Exhaling as Jinping sat down writing a brief memo that would be sent out to Vladimir. "Have this sent to to Vladimir Putin post haste." Nodding the middle aged woman had left to return the message to the Russians.

Tokyo, 2nd of december 2015,
It was early in the morning as the Japanese cabinet gathered fort he discussion on the Japanese security strategy and defense budget for 2016. The government of Shinzo Abe had already increased defense expendature and was looking for ways to increase Japanese influence on world politics. Mainly by looking for ways to bypass Japan’s pacifist constitution. Many topics would be discussed this morning before the final plans would be presented tot the Diet, Japans parlement. The chiefs of staff of the Japanese self-defense forces also attended the meeting.

As Shinzo Abe entered the luxuous meeting room, all attendees raised from their seats to bow as a sign of greeting and respect for the Prime Minister. As Shinzo Abe opened the meeting, Fumio, Kishida, minister of foreign affairs was the first cabinet member to take the word. “Prime Minister, members of the cabinet. In the present world the largest treat to our security comes from the People’s Republic of China. Her economic growth of the past two decades have lead to an ever increasing defense budget that is now used to advance their claims on territories that do not belong the the communist state. China’s aggressive persuasion of claims in the South China Sea has not gone unnoticed by many Asian countries. Many nations have falen victim to Chinese transgression of their exclusive economic zone and violations of their airspace. These hostile actions As minister of foreign Affairs I strongly plea that Japan will take a front role in creating a united Asian-Pacific front against Chinese aggression in the region. I strongly believe we can overcome our mutual security treats by multilateral cooperation between democratic nations in the region.”

Most of the cabinet nodded in agreement. Nobody was against closer cooperation with international partners. However the minister of defense and the chiefs of staff started to whisper with eachother. For a moment it was silent until Gen Nakataki, minister of defense took the word. “Multilateral cooperation is an exelent idea but we should not neglect our own Self-Defense forces and rely on other powers for security. If we want to take leadership in such endeavor, we must be willing to invest in our own security forces. Prior to this meeting, the join Chiefs of Staff have sended all cabinent members a multi-year plan for increasing the size and assets of the Japanese Self-Defense forces. Please consider assigning the additional funds as requested in Plan-J”

The discussion on the different aspects of the Japanese security policies went on till well beyond midnight. The following policies would bes end tot the Diet:

1. Japan will host the Asian Security Summit in Januari 2016. The goal of this summit is to create a defensive pact against aggression of autocratic states. Furthermore cooperation between the potential member states should be promoted by hosting a series of military excercises. The invited nations will initially be The United States of America, Australia, South-Korea and The Philippines.
2. The Japanese government will addopt Plan-J in modified form. Plan-J will focus on increasing the capabilities of the Japanese Maritime Self-defense Force, Japanese Air Self-Defense force and the formartion of the Japanese Marine Self-defense Force.
Plan-J: Phase 1.
a. Japan defense budget for 2016 will rise from 47.7 to 54 billion dollar.
b. The budget increase will be used to strengthen the Maritime Self-Defense Force, strenghten the Air Self-Defense Force and continue to develop the Marine Self-Defense Forces.

December 1st 5:00 am Paris, France:

Jacques Boisvert suppressed a shiver as he made his way towards the metro trying in vain to shield his body from the ongoing downpour; winter currently besieged the "City of Lights" bombarding the populace with endless volleys of icy rain, nature seemed to almost echo the bleakness that permeated Paris after the recent terrorist acts. While the reactionaries and revisionists that compromised the government were peddling these joint retaliatory bombings against ISIL to the public, class consciousness amongst the proletariat was only growing as it has become readily apparent that capitalism riddled with its contradictions could no longer maintain the façade of democracy. It was rather ironic that reactionaries were fighting each other while ignoring the fact that capitalism had all ready nurtured its own gravediggers and it was inevitable that the workers would seize the means of production from the bourgeoisie.

Jacques could not help smiling as he was confident that his comrades (mostly compromised of leftist students) agitating within the Paris Métropolitain and other public transportation sectors had sufficiently radicalized enough of the workers to organize wildcat strikes outside of the capitalist approved unions. If successful these strikes would act as the proverbial springboard into rectifying not only the failures of May '68, but also those of the short lived Paris Commune.

A buzzing in his pocket indicating that his throwaway cellphone had received a text-message interrupted Jacques' thoughts, he did not need to look at the correspondence to know what it said as it was merely a signal to those participating in this day of action indicating at least to Jacques that a specter has returned to haunt Europe.


Representatives of major French transportation unions today publicly denounced December 1st's string of strikes seemingly organized by the workers of the Paris Metro. Union officials claim that outside agitators are behind the strikes that have ground public transportation within Paris to a halt. The strikers have yet to release any demands and it's unclear how long these strikes will continue. Experts are concerned that a prolonged strike could do untold damage to the local economy if they enter into a prolonged state or spread into other industries. President François Hollande has called for unity in these troubled times, but has yet to publicly condemn the strikers. We will continue to report on this story as it develops.

BRAZIL


December 1st, 2015
Brasilia, 4:00 AM
Men gathered outside a small bar in the suburbs, looking on at the man standing on the roof. "My brothers and sisters! For too long we have allowed the imperialist dogs to keep this country down! The monsters of the North believe that they have dominion over our homeland! I say, no! They shall not control us! While the government bends over to American interests, we shall plan to bring about a new order! South America will be united under the banner of the Auriverde!" The crowd cheered the man, shouting support. "The time to strike is soon brothers. Gather all the loyal men, all those who will fight to free Brazil! Gather the weapons! Bring the military to our cause! Revolution is nigh!"



Boa Vista, 6:53AM
A run down butcher's served as the hideout of the Sons of Marx, an underground radical-left movement. "It is simple Luis. This country is falling apart." A scrawny man in jeans and a t-shirt spoke to Luis, leader of the Sons. "Our sleeper cells are awaiting our order to stand up and bring about the revolution. We could secure the North within a few short days." Luis stood, adjusting his butcher's apron. "We need more men. Foreign fighters, perhaps. Send messages out to those who support the revolution. Anything they can spare we can use."

---

Old Royal Palace, Home of the Hellenic Parliament, Athens, Greece

Alexis Tsipras, Prime Minister of Greece, lounged at his desk. He flicked aimlessly through a sheaf of papers, not really absorbing their contents. All the important decisions would be made by other members of the Syriza-dominated Cabinet.

Tossing the manuscript aside, he drew his chair towards his desk and pondered for some minutes about the virtues of far-left socialism; how it had reigned supreme in the form of Communism in the great days of the past Soviet Union, and how his own country had, led by fascists, joined in an alliance to bring about the downfall of the greatest concept in world history.

Alas that the modern Russia was less tasteful.

Tspiras extended a hand and withdrew from the haphazard pile on his desk that constituted 'official documents' a single paper - a message from Vladimir Putin. A true Fascist if there ever was one, perhaps not quite at the level of Mussolini, but close. Offering an alliance - what madness. Germany and France had proved that Greece could manipulate the other European Powers to fund their revolutionary welfare system. The Prime Minister did not believe that the Russians would fund the country in the same way.

He scrunched up the paper and cast it into his waste-paper basket, not even bothering to pen a reply. He would make a statement, and rely on NATO to provide a diplomatic cushion if Greco-Russian relations soured. Greece had not a care in the world.

Oh, wait. The economy.

---

Neo Irakleio Golden Dawn Office, Irakleio

Nikolaos Michaloliakos stood in the company of several high-level Golden Dawn members, deep in discussion. As Igetis, or leader of the Party, he was responsible for monitoring the activities of the Party as a whole and ensuring cohesive and unified operation of Party policies.

"How go things in the Cypriot branch, Christou?" asked Michaloliakos.

Christos Christou, President of ELAM, Golden Dawn's pan-Hellenist wing in Cyprus, cleared his throat and answered;

"We have been able to organise several anti-Turkish rallies in the southern parts of Cyprus. A number of 'accidents' in northern Cyprus have taken place at our behest, in an attempt to demoralise the Turkish occupiers."

"Well done. The Turks will regret the day that they first occupied Byzantine territories. Northern Cyprus will be the first step in the Hellenes reascension to glory."

The Igetis patted Christou on the arm, and reached into his pocket. He produced a folded piece of paper and waved it triumphantly.

"Now, my friends, a light has appeared at the end of the tunnel. Vladimir Putin of Russia, who has so skilfully brought the Russia Federation out of the dark age brought upon it by the western Powers, has sent us a message of support." He handed the paper to Christou, who pored over the parchment in awe.

"This... this is incredible!" cried the Cypriot, looking up. "Putin has given us a free hand to glory!"

"Indeed. I have decided to issue a directive - Operation Metaxas is a go. The 'removal' of Tsipras must be achieved. You, Christou, will initiate Metaxas in its secondary form - your agents must eliminate Mustafa Akıncı and Ömer Kalyoncu in Northern Cyprus. Retake Hellenic lands and expel the invaders, with our blessing."

Michaloliakos turned and looked upon a map mounted on the wall. His gaze wandered from Athens, north to Thessaloniki... and then east, to the great city of Istanbul, or Constantinople. The destiny of Greece was at hand.

---

Ukraine, December 2nd

It's a gloomy, overcast evening in Kiev. Prime Minister Arseniy Yatsenyuk sits stiffly in his office. Russia's show of force, in claiming Crimea, has left a lasting impact on his nation's people. Across from him sits President Petro Poroshenko, looking unusually timid.

"I've just gotten off the phone with Yulia..."

"And?", Poroshenko inquired calmly.

"Damn it Petro!... Damn it all!"

"What is it?", Poroshenko again inquires.

"It's Putin. That bastard, that lunatic, will be the death of countless Ukrainian countrymen! He marches his men across our boarders, takes what he wants, and what does Europe do?"

Poroshenko gives no reply. He sits, waiting for this storm to blow over.

"Fucking nothing!", Yatsenyuk spits.

"Well, why should they?", Poroshenko responds calmly.

"Because Russia treads on their doorstep, gun in hand. This won't end till the Soviet states are reclaimed, till Putin has his empire."

"Well", Poroshenko contemplates, "It does us no good to contemplate our own mortality. What can a mouse do between two giants?"

"The mouse can pick one."

Seoul, Korea
"<It's nice to be out of that office.>" said Prime Minister Kang Seo Yeon as he walked along his garden with Kuk Yi, one of Yeon's most trusted advisors. "<I agree with you. The weather is too perfect to be stuck inside that office.>" Yi replied as she took a seat on one of the wooden breaches, setting her bag aside her. The Prime Minister smiled at the response as she also sat along her friend and asked her, "<So, what do you have to show me this time?>".

Yi laughed at the question and smirked as she tried to stop laughing so loud. "<You just had to ask that, didn't you?>" she said as she reached for her bag and opened it up. The bag had a dark red leather body with top zipper and water-repellent, durable nylon lining. Inside, a separate, padded pocket with a hook-and-loop closure protects your computer while allowing room for files or other reading material; two mesh zipper pockets prevent small items from getting lost in the bottom of the bag. Exterior pockets keep travel or commuting essentials close at hand. She reached into her bag and pull out a couple pieces of paper, with the words "Classified" on them in bold red.

"<What's this about?>" Yeon questioned as she looked at the papers when she was handed them by her advisor. "<It's a letter sent by the Japanese Government, asking from South Korea to join the Asian-Pacific Partnership for Peace pact among with several nations.>" the advisor said to her friends as she tried to remember the details of the paper, "<A letter was sent by Prime Minister Shinzo Abe, requesting us to join. The other nations might be joining the pact are Australia, The Philippines and The United States.>".

Yeon listened to her friend as she was reading the letter to herself and the little detail on the APPP. She grinned as soon as she heard that the US 'might join the pact'. She thought that the whole thing was another way of getting Japan powerful enough to face off against China, Russia, and North Korea. And she also thought that it was another way from America to get their hands tight around Asia. However, America is a strong ally to have against North Korea and China. As for Japan, that's another story.

Yi kept speaking about China’s aggressive persuasion of claims in the South China Sea and how it's related to the pact. "<Yeon, how do you wish to process with this pact?>" she finished, her long speech and looked at her bag for some tissues. Yeon got back into the real world and said to her, "<Any suggestions?>".

After getting some tissues from her bag, she blew her nose with it and threw it in the trash can near her. "<Personally, I wouldn't join this pact. We don't know anything about the pact and we don't really have any reason to join. Other than the threat up north.>" Yi said to her after thinking about the question for a minute as she was blowing her nose.

Yeon gave her decision a great through as she tried to piece together the pros and cons for her decisions. And she finally says to her advisor, "<I am not going to join the pact. Inform the President and the State Council about the pact. I have to write my reason behind the decision to Abe, I am such that it would upset him a whole lot.>". She stool up from the bench and put down the papers next to Yi as she begun to walk away. Yi grabbed the papers and said to her, "<I shall. Thank you for spending time with me.>".

Yeon turned around as she said to Yi, "<I forgot about the papers. Make such that they are 'destroyed'. Our allies wouldn't like it if the pact was discovered so early.>". After Yeon was done talking to Yi, she walked away to her office. She has a letter to write.

---

December 4th, 2015, Moscow Russia

In the inner sanctums of the Kremlin, Vladimir Putin sits with his closest advisors, men that the public don't even know about.

To the right of Putin sits Petros Konstantus, the man who Putin appointed for the plans he doesn't want the public to know about. On his left sits Anton Vasilev, the man Putin assigned to developing military projects he wouldn't want the United States, or any other nation for that matter, having the ability to take the plans for it through hacking.

"You both know why I called you here, correct?" Putin asks.

Both Petros and Anton nod, from Putin's tone, they can tell this is urgent and that he is not in a mood to be annoyed.

"The Ukrainians just sent in an offer stating that we should move out the Crimea, and they expect us to accept it! The fools, its like they are just trying to make themselves look like the victims in this war." Putin states angrily.

"I saw sir, and I personally think that the offer might be possible, but with the right changes of course." Petros states.

"And what changes would those be?" Putin asks.

"Simple sir, we tell them that we shall keep the Crimea but we will help the Ukrainians with stamping out Novorossiya, along with the other agreements they put up."

"That does seem like a good idea." Anton states in favor of what Petros stated.

"Okay then, I do believe we have that settled, but now to two other things, we must settle out what to do with the Golden Dawn and the Brazilian Fascist movement." Putin states.

"This can be simple and can play out in our way, if we use the cards right." Anton states.

"Anton is correct." Petros adds on, "We must fund both movements, and we should arm the Brazilian Fascist Movement, but we must do this as secretly as possible."

"Well Petros, thats obvious, we must stop the communists in Brazil from opposing our interests, and maybe if we get Brazil on our side we could threaten the Americans, but what about the Golden Dawn, they are stating that me must give them a loan for their transition to the Dracma for them to leave the EU." Putin responds.

"That is a lot more difficult, after this meeting Petros and I will be right on it planning." Anton states.

"Perfect, that stops majority of the international things other then both China and the Golden Dawn leader agreeing to come to the Moscow Pact meeting, but I can easily resolve this myself. I say its time to begin planning Project Царь поднимается." Putin says, smiling.

---

December 4th, 2015, St Petersburg

Dmitry Medvedev sits with his closest allies, the others who are planning the fall of Putin. Dmitry has a mole inside the Kremlin, and his knowledge of Project Царь поднимается shows that they must act quickly, because if they fail, the whole world may be at risk by a mad man with the power of a god.

"Lets get down to business, how are we going to stop Putin?" Dmitry asks the people around him.

"That is difficult, we need to find away to get the public to stop supporting him, but we have to do this before the 11th, if we don't, it will be to late." states one of the anti-Putin supporters around Dmitry.

"How about this, we have a way to broadcast something across all of the channels in Russia, what if we send out a message revealing what Project Царь поднимается is when the leaders are meeting for the Moscow Pact. Then we'd most likely have riots all across the country, causing Putin to step down." Dmitry states.

"This idea could work, I will send my team to get planning." states Sergey Vanislovia, the man Dmitry appointed second in command of his plan to take down Putin.

It was a late afternoon lull. The lunch crowd had long since departed from the bar leaving an interim peace between the mid-day crowd and the dinner crowd. Without the noise of chatter the tavern retained a sort of private air. Outside across the quay road the Liffey River slowly flowed through the heart of Dublin town, chunks of ice drifted languidly in the dark waters. The mid-day traffic slowly wound its way down the narrow city streets as foot-traffic plod along the narrow-sidewalks. Across the river the stout turn-of-the-century townhouses and offices stood with their subdued greens, salmon reds, whites, and grays. It was a dreary day, and the sun came filtered through heavy clouds overhead.

In a corner of the bar a handful of young men sat at a table leaning over plates of food and half-drunk glasses of Guinness. It was a warm meal in a warm setting that was a welcome division from the chill December air just outside the door and misted windows. Large flat-screen TVs hanging over the bar played the pre-recorded snippets from the last football games, commentary provided through the benefit of closed captions. Likewise was the news.

“Folk're sayin' the Russians are trying to make a NATO.” a young man pointed out with a scraggily head of hair. He was looking up at one of the news TVs, which despite the choice of topic was in the middle of discussing the elections in the United States, “I thought the buggers had something like that of their own.” he added as he shoveled a fork-full of Shepard's pie into his mouth. He chewed contemplatively around the beef and carrots as he watched the silent footage roll of Donald Trump with a banner loudly denoting his most recent aggravating statements.

“Who the fuck really cares Brian.” a lunch companion quickly responded. He combed his meaty fingers through his thin, short cropped hair as he took a hit on his stout, “Let Putin be Putin, it's probably not the most ridiculous thing the Russian are doing.”

Brian Raleigh wasn't much of a man as he was still a boy. Though late into his twenties his soft round face betrayed a lingering appearance of youth. His head of netted curled over hair was as well doing him little favors as it fell and dropped across his wide brow. Many had made the joking quips that there was negro in his blood from the weight and prominence of an unconquerable fro. Perhaps it was true, perhaps it wasn't. But whether or not he was black on the inside did not matter, for his skin was as pasty and white as any Irish born lad.

His companion, Robin Kilroy was the far opposite of him. The same age as he, maturity had hit him with a hammer. He bore a chin sharply chiseled and carved like stone, no soft boyish edges in it. And to top it off the man could grow a beard by command, even as they sat at the table the beginnings of a day-old beard was as prominent as a badge in his features as it shrouded chin and lips in thick, coarse twisting hairs. His eyes were a sour storm of a brown and green kaleidescope.

“Just sayin', why try t' make something they already 'ave.” Brian again mused, “T'is not like the Federation is lackin'.”

“Don't think too hard about it,” Robin continued to caution, “you might not go crazy.”

“They're just trying to get on the news.” a third dinner mused, “Before Trump eats it'all”

Robin shrugged indifferently, “Fine by me.” he admitted.

“On the news, what are we gon' do about ours?” Brian asked, looking at the third. Christy Sheamell. A man so Irish his hair was on fire with it. “I mean, P.I.R.A made the news, but it's just because some intercepted a gun shipment.

Christy Shaemell, also sometimes referred to as Christy of Donegal was a large young man with a light of sharp intelligence in his eyes. He looked up at the TVs with a distant detatched look as he ate, seemingly in other places. But it was the other traits in his face that won him other titles.

The remains of bruises and healed over scars that covered his face suggested a life of pugilism. He was a fist-fighter through and through and was sometimes referred to as Dublin's “King of the Travellers” for his heroic bouts against the traveler clans in and around Dublin in their fringe, underground fighting rings. It was a feat he somehow exercised without having had his brain smashed to jelly against the inside of his skull like those gypsies.

“It's hard to get guns when we have no money, it's hard to get money when all you do is shitpost about Ireland on Twitter.” Christy reminded Brian, looking down at the boyish man with a dissenting look. The others at the table chuckled warmly at the banter. Brian's face flushed red with embarrassment.

“We may not have that issue for long.” a heavy-set man spoke up with a tense quivering voice. The others looked over at him with curious expressions on their faces. “I managed to find a guy...” he choked, pushing his glasses higher up his nose.

“Do tell Twiggy.” bid Christy. Twiggy being the pet name of the awkward Seamus McFinnigan.

Seamus was a heavy set porpoise of a human. A youth behind computers and on the couch watching TV had not done well to bless him with muscle mass. And a diet of chips wasn't much better. “I was, ah- digging around and I found a name.” he said nervously, “Some guy, does a lot of investment in things like this. He claims to be the funder for fire temples in Kurdish Iraq, financial supporter of Uyghur and Tibetain culture. I don't know where he gets that money, but I sent him a message to see if he can help.”

The table starred at him silently. “So, have you got a response?” asked Robin.

“Well, no... Not yet.” Twiggy responded.

“Then how do we know if he's real?” Robin inquired deeper, “For God's sake, you could be colluding with the British and not know it!”

“I- I know!” Twiggy professed nervoudly, “But, it looked like our best lead and I th-” Seamus was cut short when the phone in his chest pocket began to sing the lyrics to Sinead O'Connors' This Is A Rebel Song. The rest of the table cackle.

“Nice ring-tone.” Brian commented.

“Shut up.” Seamus grumbled, his head a bright red as he pulled the smart-phone out of his pocket. Swiping a meaty finger across the screen he unlocked it and looked down at the text there-in. His expression immediately dropped from anger to astonishment. The Pope could have walked into the room and he wouldn't have noticed.

“Excuse me.” he mumbled sitting up.

“What is it?” Brian asked as Seamus squeezed past him.

“Was it something I said?” he asked, shouting.

“Leave it,” Christy ordered, “We'll hear what happened later.”

"So it has been decided, then."

Prime Minister Juha Sipilä sat in the back of his car as his driver brought him to his office. It was snowing outside, but that wasn't anything particularly odd for literally any location in Finland in the middle of December. His phone-the latest in the Lumina line-was pressed close to his ear as he looked out on the peaceful-looking buildings of Helsinki, their roofs covered in a thin layer of fluffy white snow. Though he often preferred to speak to his aides in person, being able to look out the window without seeming rude was one of the many upsides to speaking over the phone.

"Yes, Prime Minister. It was a close vote, but the parliament has chosen to pass the bill."

"Damn. I know we need it, but... Russia will see this as a provocation. We might get a few more boots out of it, but the tensions will skyrocket."

"They will, but they are already climbing steadily. The Russians already have troops on the border, and with their new Anti-NATO, it is doubtful that they won't send any more. This will simply speed up the tensions, which isn't exactly a bad thing. It gives Russia less time to build up their military against us."

Juha shivered at the analysis. His aide was entirely right, but he just didn't want to think like that. He spoke as if war was inevitable, and perhaps it was. Still, that wasn't something he himself wanted to accept. Sure, Finland had survived other wars with Russia, but there was no denying the fact that Russia was a military juggernaut, while Finland was a tiny nation that didn't even have a technological advantage. If all the reserves could be mobilized at once, and Russia didn't mobilize their own reserves, then they could be beaten. Unfortunately, the vast Finnish reserve pool couldn't be mobilized fully without a lot of foreign assistance.

So, regrettably, NATO was the only place they could turn.

"I shall have a statement prepared shortly." He said, sighing. "I just hope we never have to call for their help. What of the 2016 budget?"

"Still no consensus, but it looks like the military budget will be increased. Some of the more... militant members of the parliament are advocating for the restoration of the Salpa Line, which of course, requires a significantly higher budget. I doubt that it will be increased that far."

"Good. Restoring the Salpa Line would be nothing more than a provocation. Is that all?"

"Yes, Prime Minister. Good day."

"To you as well."





Snow covered the trees as more fell down from the sky in the never-ending bombardment that cursed the village. Tourists always seemed to like it, but only because all the tourists were either skiers or the rare history buff who wanted to see the giant bunker line that never actually saw combat. The skiers were there specifically for the now, and the history buffs were too busy talking about how important the Finnish climate was in repelling the Soviets in the Winter and Continuation wars.

In the middle of the never-ending sea of white, a small section of wooden brown stood out. It wasn't a tree trunk-the surrounding trees were all rather short, and their trunks were sheltered by their needles. Which, of course, were covered in snow. Though the wooden brown was rather hard to miss if one was looking for it, if one was not, they would never notice it. Which made things that much better for the two people that lay behind it.

A flash came from the oddity, which then let out a great bang. Seconds later, a deer a few hundred meters away fell to the ground.

"How far was that? Two hundred? Two-fifty?" Said one of them, their voice muffled by a scarf over their mouth.

"Closer to three hundred, I'd say."

"Jesus, three meters with iron sights. You are good, I bet that's on par with military snipers."

"Most of our snipers use 12x scopes, no clue what kind of training they get though. The Americans are supposed to be able to land first-shot hits on targets six hundred meters away using a 10x scope, so if we do the math, I'm technically five times better than an American Army sniper."

"Technically?"

"Well, obviously. You can't just apply math to skill, they're completely different things. An American sniper might not be able to pull off that shot using my gun, but I'd bet money that I'd do worse with one of their guns in a combat situation."

"Well, your name is Sisu, so I have my doubts about that."

"Don't remind me that I have a boy's name, you mulqvist."

One of them stood up and lowered their scarf from over their nose and mouth to reveal a playful smile. The second did the same, had chuckled at the mock insult.

"Are you ever going to explain how you got that name?" Said the second one, whom followed the first down the hill they were on towards the fallen deer.

"I would if I knew myself." Said the first, her breath making clouds of moisture in the below-zero December air. "Honestly, I don't think even my parents know at this point. They probably just thought it was a cool name."

"I still think it fits you, you know."

"Hah! As if. Not having shaky hands while giving a practice speech is hardly an example of anything of the sort. I'm not the kind of person to run towards gunshots, I'm the kind of person to hide under a desk and wait for the police. When I actually pull something crazy off, then you can say my name fits."

"When you actually cower under a desk, you can say your name doesn't fit."

"Touché, Kristoffer, touché."

December 4th, 2015
Communal Flat, Paris, 1:00 pm
Students of France Rise Up!!!The revisionist Hollande and his capitalist masters have lulled you into mindless complacency. To them you are no more than puppets used to further bourgeois interests. Only through solidarity can the proletariat break the oppression of the capitalist class; the failure of 1968 will be avenged by 2016. Strikes are salt in the proverbial gears of the system. Join the ongoing strikes and help the workers seize the means of production from the imperialists. All You Have Left to Lose is Your Chains!!!

Jacques Boisvert put the finishing touches on the leaflet and mockingly wiped nonexistent sweat from his brow. "I envy the man that had deluded himself into believing that revolution is a tea party. Compromising a leaflet is an arduous task you know. The destructive power of words is equivalent to that of a hydrogen bomb; thusly one has be careful when handling words."

A loud burly chuckle emanated from directly behind Jacques startling him quite a bit as previously thought he was alone in the communal flat "When the real fighting starts be careful not to get a paper cut comrade."

Jacques turned around to face his longtime friend and comrade Gaétan "Gorilla" Boudreault. Like Jacques Gaétan was in his late thirties, but while Jacques had the physique of a bookish college professor Gaétan had always been of gargantuan proportions hence the nom de guerre of "Gorilla"; with his bushy black beard, unkempt prematurely greying hair, and piercing green eyes one could honestly mistake the large man for a renegade silverback.

"Still endeavoring to spread class consciousness amongst your imprisoned simian brethren Gorilla? Is it true that the orangutans at local zoo are staunch libertarians?"

Gorilla unsuccessfully attempted to retain a stoic expression on his face before unleashing one of his trademark laughs. "Oui. It is true. Dr. Zaius is still trying to get me to read Atlas Flung the magnum opus by Aynrangutan."

Despite being hit by the full force of that lame pun Jacques felt a smile creep across his face. Despite his unnerving Gorilla could disarm a person with his quirky sense of humor. "Alright enough monkeying around...ugh...now you got me doing it...In all seriousness I need you forward this leaflet to your contacts in the Union Nationale des Étudiants de France. We need to build revolutionary connections with the youth before the reactionaries can act."

December 4th, 2015
Élysée Palace, Paris, 3:00 pm
French President François Hollande was relaxing at his desk ruminating on today's meeting with his advisors trouble; in layman's terms the consensus was that trouble was brewing at home and abroad.

Being a center-left social democrat Hollande had little patience for his far-left counterparts like the fools holding the public transportation industry hostages with their wildcat strikes; they were quite counterproductive and with reelection looming he was not going to embrace their cause. His office released a statement earlier today officials denouncing the actions of these provocateurs and offering an ultimatum. They could either engage in productive dialogue with the government through their union representatives in order to reach a reasonable compromise or have their illegal strike disbanded by police the first of the year.

The Ukrainian situation was more pressing to Hollande than some communist sideshow. Here was an honest chance for the European Union to construct a barrier against Russian expansion and the E.U. was sending it to committee for further discussion. France's relationship with Putin's Russia was lukewarm at best and E.U. sanctions had dried up trade between the two nations; Hollande was sure the joint bombing against ISIL was just Putin trying to muster up international goodwill. In accordance Opération: Piège à Ours(Operation: Bear Trap) the new multi-pronged approach to dealing with Russia France would cooperate with Ukraine with or without the direct approval of the European Union.



Also in accordance with Opération: Piège à Ours France would naturally back Finland's proposal to join NATO.



President Hollande lean backed in his rather comfy chair and contemplated France's renewed role as the polestar of European excellence; however, before he could completely relax the power abruptly shut off and an aide came rushing into his private sanctum.

Mr. President horrible news...the workforces of Gaz de France and Électricité de France have spontaneously answered the saboteurs' call for a general strike.

"Merde! Merde! Merde!" Hollande exclaimed while pounding his fists on his desk. "Don't just stand their you imbecile get the unions on the phone and get the power back on."

With the evening falling fast over Dublin so did Christy swiftly return to his flat. Perched on the sixth floor of an old flat, his apartment was a sparse studio of minimalist design. Draping from the brick walls a Irish flag attempted to give the room a warm color. Alongside of it hung a small portrait of St. Patrick, no bigger than a magazine cover but full of the piety of the man and patron saint of the Irish nation. Alongside the painting at a much smaller size was a wallet-photo sized picture of Che Guevara.

Making the sign of the cross as he passed by the drawing of Saint Patrick, Christy made a brief prayer before gently touching his finger's to the saint's image. Christy didn't count himself a holy man in the church-going sense, but was all the same born a God-fearing Irish Catholic, even if his church attendance was sparse and life of pugilism suggested otherwise. Hanging his coat up on a metal hook alongside these effigies he wandered into the center of his open studio apartment.

Through the windows the winter lights of Dublin shone in the drawing darkness. Like fiery diamonds the incandescent and fluorescent bulbs of offices shone from Dublin center. The glow of street lights cast the city below him in a soft amber glow. He stretched out his shoulders as he approached the windows and looked down into the street below. Life in Dublin went on as if nothing were to ever happen. He wondered if it ever would.

A part of Christy's mind insisted that I.I.R.A was a real thing and not a comic joke; though he had long forgotten the punchline. It was now a thing, a little thing that kept he and his companions together since graduation from university. But since they had been with-held in their progression through Irish society and it felt unnerving. It felt unfair that across that Sea of Ireland that London would and should fair so much better. That British Ulster had shopping malls, and Donegal was still dealing with sheep in the road.

Never mind that. He put the thoughts behind him and turned from the windows.

In the corner of the room a futon sat alongside the flat's radiator. The white coils of the clicking and loudly purring machine was capped with a dented water pot for coffee. Occupying the same space too was a battered and weathered punching bag. The heavy grain in the leather was well on the way to being eroded out by Christy's fists and large sections of it were held together by duct tape even. It was something straight from a movie set, like from the gym of Rocky.

On an end table alongside it he kept a roll of boxing tape. Taking slow breaths he wrapped the tape around his knuckles and turned to go at it with the bag. His fists connected with loud smacks and pops. The chain groaned as the sandbag swung on its joint. But it soon melded together into a steady symphony and song. Christy slipped himself into a boxing-fueled meditation.

The contact Seamus had mentioned today was someone he had brought up earlier. Christy didn't fully realize it was the same person until after he left. But a week prior he had approached him saying, “he found a guy”.

Christy had asked him who he was, but Seamus didn't elaborate. He put the thought aside as a simply hoax against Seamus. But Seamus didn't put it out of his either wholly. Though the questioned loomed: what had taken this person so long to respond? What was his game?

He threw a hard right-hook to the side of the bag and the chains holding it up rattled and squealed as the bag swung back to kiss the wall.



The air-conditioning and traffic outside his window hummed through the walls. The ambiance was like that of a space-ship at drift in space, with the sounds of the engines and life-support in the wall humming and churning in respect to that. And illuminated by a pair of glowing computer monitors it commanded the visual effect of the darkened corridors of the control room. And in the middle of it Seamus sat in his computer chair, his girth commanding the space with the stubborn presence of an elephant. Leaning over the keyboard he stared into the glow of the computers. The limited glow of Dublin in a third-story window back-lit the monitors.

It had been a long process of tag over texts and instant messaging to get to where he was now. The responses were slowly directed, and perhaps not at all clear. But now with the Tor browser alive on his screen he was where he was confident the games were to end: a simply built anonymous chat-room in some deeply encrypted corner of the internet. There was one other person on, but no activity. Seamus hung back, glossing over to his other monitor to scan his email.

With a beep, a message was deployed.

“Are you still interested?” it read cryptically.

Seamus leaned forward. Placing his meaty fingers on the keyboard he responded: “Yes.”

There was a brief reprieve of silence. Then the other side responded: “What is it your people need?” it asked.

The question froze Seamus. What did they need? Manpower? Weapons? Explosives? He quickly found himself lacking the basic knowledge to run a proper insurgency. In his indecisiveness he answered with the only thing his guy said they needed. “We could use money.” he typed.

Waiting. Again.

“How much?”

How much was the great question. Seamus pulled a number out of his ass.

“One million.”

“One million?” the response came quicker. Seamus could only assume one million in what.

“Euros.” he informed the man on the otherside.

The other man was again slow and hesitant to respond. But he did eventually: “What'll be the future reimbursement on a small loan of one-million euros?”

Again, a question Seamus couldn't rightly answer. He wasn't Christie. But if he were here he could probably answer. He looked down at his phone of the desk and wondered if he should call. Or would that make this man impatient? He needed to play his cards right. He took charge of the situation, although it didn't feel right.

“How does this work?” he typed sheepishly. He felt trying to change the direction of the conversation was the best he could do.

There was a longer silence. So much so he was afraid the man had up and left. But the tally in the corner of the screen denoted still that there was still one person present on this page. Seamus was getting nervous. Butterflies hatched in his stomach as he tapped his fingers on the table, waiting.

“I can see you don't know.” a message finally came, “But I'll cut you the benefit of the doubt. I don't imagine I could loose out with a million euros.

“We'll consider it a test.” a following message said, “One million I can make up on. We'll follow up at a later date. But talk to your boss and get back to me. Then we can settle a meet.”

A meet? Somehow that made Seamus' nauseous anxiety worse. But he complied, “OK.” he wrote back.

Lviv, Ukraine

December 6, 2015

A light rain falls on the streets of Lviv. The sun is only peeking over the horizon, and the air is cool and crisp. Few cars are on the street. A grim figure stamps through sidewalk puddles in a long wool coat, holding his black umbrella close. Giving a quick glance over his shoulder, the man veers sharply down an alleyway to his right. He throws another glance behind him, breathing heavily, and hastens his pace further. Ahead and to his left, he sees a faded wooden door, with a soiled drunkard sprawled on its step. Approaching the drunkard, he gives a final glance out of the corner of his eye.
Suddenly, a gunshot is heard, echoing down the alley. He swings around to see a man stumble from behind the corner, before falling to the ground, dead. Two grizzled bums, with long dirty beards and weathered winter coats, stand over the body, and give a nod to the man. The drunkard glances up from the ground, and stares into the man's eyes.

"Area secure", the drunkard reports. "Welcome sir."

Rising from the ground, the drunkard raps his knuckles against the door several times. The door swings open, revealing a six foot tall man in a blue suit, silenced pistol in hand. He steps aside to allow the other two entrance inside. As the door is closed behind them, a thump is heard as the two "bums" toss the body into a nearby dumpster, before resuming guard.

"Zhuk?", the suited man grunts.

"Melnyk.", the other responds.

"Ah, this way.", the guard gestures down the hallway behind him, to a door on the right.

Melnyk steps past the guard, and down the hall. The drunkard stumbles outside again, and slumps to the ground, resuming his post. Entering through the right door, Melnyk finds a room with no windows, and a large conference table in the middle. Around that table are President Poroshenko, Prime Minister Yatsenyuk, Chairman Yolodymyr Groysman, and other stone-faced government officials. They stare up at him blankly, with sleepless eyes.

"Good", Yatsenyuk mutters, "now we can begin."

"What about Zhuk, and Levchenko?", Groysman asks, "Shouldn't we wait for them before commencing this meeting?"

"There's no time. We can't afford to wait for them.", Yatsenyuk replies, "Tell them the meeting has been cancelled."

"Alright", sighs Groysman.

"So,", Poroshenko begins, "Russia has made it very clear, that there is to be nothing gained from further association with them. The filthy snake has risen from hiding, and is ready to strike. And this new... Moscow Pact, they're calling it... is troubling to say the least. I don't suppose we'll ever see our country united again. Thankfully, we may yet hold on to what remains of our Fatherland."

"So the UN has agreed?" Melnyk inquires excitedly.

"France has agreed. The UN will follow shortly.", Poroshenko explains, "This is enough to act. Preparations are already underway. The lock-down is coming, and soon. Arseniy."

"Yes?"

"Are we ready for the refugees?"

"Completely,", Yatsenyuk states, "The beds are ready and waiting."

"And the men?"

"Cold blooded, and in position."

"Excellent," Poroshenko sighs, relieved. "The rest of you, brace yourselves for the coming storm. Karpenko, I need you in Poltava, with the first regiment. Wait for my signal. Suprun, Donetsk. Melnyk, Mykolaiv. Volodymyr, I need you in the bunker. When the Russian assassins come, and they will, I need you alive to keep our government running. Samshur!"

"Yes sir?", responds Ambassador Oleh Samshur, stiffly.

"In one hour, you're catching a plane back to Paris, with this letter."

"Yes sir!", Samshur repeats.

"And Oleh...", Poroshenko pauses.

"What is it?"

"Whatever they want... If they request 100,000 men, promise them 100,000 men. If they demand the moon, give them the moon. I want you on your knees, if it suits them! Do I make myself clear?", Poroshenko hisses.

"Perfectly... sir."

"Finally, the rest of you!", Poroshenko booms, "I need you in Donetsk. You'll find a full Ukrainian military occupation within a week of your arrival. The Russians have been aiding terrorists within our boarders, and we can't abide any longer. If suspects are found to own a Russian flag, if they sympathize with Russian intentions, if they've immigrated within the last five years, I want them captured and interrogated. If we find anything that ties them to the Kremlin, or to the terrorists, imprison them! We have no time left for mercy. Do I make myself clear?"

"Sir!", Melnyk speaks up, "The Ukrainian people won't tolerate such a show of totalitarianism!"

"You underestimate the pride of this republic!", Yatsenyuk jumps in, "We're making contact with every news outlet in the country as we speak. We're entering a national state of high alert. We shall no longer refer to the terrorists as anarchists within our boarders. Does the west speak of it's conflict with ISIS as simple suppression of local radicals? NO! IT'S A WAR! From this point on, we are at war with Luhansk and Donetsk. These are heartless monsters, who murder innocent civilians. It shouldn't be hard to convince the Ukrainian people that enough lives have been lost already. As bombs fall on ISIS, so shall bullets rain on the LPR and DPR."

"Of course, within this larger picture, this is a necessary action.", Poroshenko continues, "The day is fast approaching, when we will need to hold the line against the imperial hordes. If there are already armed Russian forces on either side of the wall, before the siege has even begun, we've already lost. Once our country is secure from within, we can properly protect ourselves from the forces without. Now, time is moving quickly. This meeting is concluded. God protect you men. Now hurry!"





(Edits made to tone down the flavour text, please consider updated, calmer version, as of 12/15/2015)

5th of December, 2015

A Bar In Brasilia
"Marcio! Terrific news!" A balding man with a thick beard practically threw the door off its hinges as he ran inside to greet Marcio, leader of Esperança. "The Russians have agreed to fund our cause!" Marcio grinned from his position at the back of the empty bar, taking another puff of his cigarette. "Wonderful." He rose slowly from his chair, hobbling around the table toward his friend. "I have another task for you though, Fabio." Fabio nodded in response. "The leftist pigs are preparing something in the North. I need you to go there, to Roaraima. We have a few members hiding out in Boa Vista. Go there with Enrique. He will train them, you must recruit more." The large man nodded again, grinning at his friend. "It has been too long since I tasted Commie blood."

Marcio placed a trembling hand on Fabio's shoulder. "No beserker crap out there Fabio! No charging people with an ax or swords. You will fight smart and you will fight safe. You are too valuable for Esperança to lose." Fabio patted his belly, laughing. "Marcio, nothing can kill me! There is a reason they call me The Bull."

Marcio coughed, his body feeling as if it was on fire. He fell down against the bar, Fabio grabbing him in time to stop his complete collapse. "There are many places in this great continent where a smaller opponent regularly kills a bull. Be careful, friend."

"You too."



6th of December
Boa Vista, Brazil
Luis's Family Deli
2:43AM
At the back of an old butcher's, behind hanging pig carcasses and freezers, is a small room, large enough only to fit two couches and a small table. Sitting in the middle, smoking a Cuban Cigar, Luis leaned back on his chair and threw his cards down. "I believe that is a full house." He laughed and reached out his hand, drawing the chips towards him. Men laughed with him, with the exception of the scrawny lieutenant Carlos, who was now out of the game. "Carlos, you really must stop going all in on a two pair!" The young man rolled his eyes, adjusting his jeans and getting to his feet. "I'm going to head home now. Goodbye Luis." He turned to the other men. "And to all of you too, have a good time." The small wooden door swung open, Carlos leaving the laughter and smoke behind.

He walked out onto the street, hearing singing in the distance. It was a cold night, one where clouds had lingered from the overcast day and made it nearly impossible to see where he was going. It was made worse by the glow of high-beams, one driver obviously being too inconsiderate to realize he was in a residential area. As the jeep rolled closer, Carlos stepped to the side of the road to avoid being hit, only to hear a loud voice from inside. "And then I receive a glorious letter! The Russians had decided to support us! We will surely crush anyone that stands before us!" As the car rolled past, Carlos looked inside and saw the man they had all been warned about. The bull.

Luis needed to know.

Kurdish Troops come closer to taking Mosul, Kurdish protests begin in the areas where they are the majority in Turkey, causing Erdogan and Company to start worrying that they might begin a revolution.
Revolts begin all across Turkey demanding more rights and less Erdogan.
Serbia has gone and officially gone and recognized Nagorno-Karabakh as a nation, defying Azerbaijan's claim to the area.
Ethiopian troops have begun moving into Somalia to try and end the anarchy in the region, with some nations questioning if the actions are for ending anarchy or conquest. It has caused Eritrea to mobilize in case of an Ethiopian attack.
Lastly, more protests in Catalonia call for independence from Spain.

The early morning sun rose over the rooftops of downtown Dublin, painting the roofs and valleys of streets in a waking warm light through breaks in a depressing gray gloom of mid-winter's clouds. Leaning against his wall, Christy looked down out at the city sipping at warm coffee from a battered mug. The image of Donald Duck frowned woefully at the outside as the paint of his image slowly cracked and peeled back. There would be a moment of personal collection before he turned to head to the offices. Though, that realistically wasn't until the mid-afternoon.

With a grumbling sigh he left the wall and walked to the fridge in the corner by the windows. He threw open the door and rummaged through the contained chaos of expired or near-expired foodstuffs for a fresh carton of milk. He was moving to the cornflakes when his phone rang.

In the morning grumpiness he was ready to let it ring on. But the high-strung shrill scream of his ring tone was corrosive to his patience and he dropped what he was doing on the counter by the time he brought a pale green bowl down onto the scratched, grime-covered counter top. Fishing his phone from the unwashed depths of untended pockets he brushed his fingers across the screen and brought it to life. The screen read 'Brian'.

Saying deeply to himself he pushed aside his annoyance and filed it away for some back part of his mind as he took the call, “Hey myate, what's the craic.” he answered.

“Hey mate, what's happening?” Brian said through the phone. His voice chipper and clear. Resting the phone against his shoulder Christy went about pouring his morning cereal.

“Grand.” Christy mumbled, “Why are you calling, it's bloody seven in the morning.”

“Because I know you're a morning person and I saw something that would interest you.”

Christy grunted indifferently as he threw aside an empty box of cornflakes, starring down at what was really a bowl of milk. “Well what is it?” he asked agitated.

“It's from the ol' Traveler community.” Brian reported, “Apperantly some new bloke heard of your so-called title.” The King of the Travelers.

“You sure?” he asked.

“Yea, I'll send you the video. Hold on.” Brian said. He went silent before a soft chirp summoned Christy's attention to something new. Pulling the phone down from his head he looked down to notice a text message. A link. He poked the link and leaned against the counter as he drank his bowl of tepid milk as the page loaded.

As the spinning circle died he was greeted immediately to the finest of Irish society standing in a tank-top in the middle of a muddy, snowy bog surrounded by caravans. His body thick as a bear, and primitive face only as attractive as a brick was a piece of art.

“Treesis fer you fukkin' Christtree o' Donegael you fukkin bahstad. You jhunkey bass-stahrd. Fukkin' gaelin' yerself da kin'o da people. Well dat'ah juhnkey juhnkey way'a call year'elf.” the man began to boast loudly. Flexing his arms hulkishly as he stomped about the lot with cross-eyed fire in his eyes. The camera followed him loosely, swerving and shaking as it struggled to keep the fine example of culture just right of the center, almost as if the camera man were more interested in the snowy ground behind him.

“Wheel jah aye jew-keys bahatahd ya ear. So jah cum and fukkin' fight me ya fool so jamaican meke ya sum fool yer ear. So cum'on dun and lemme feet.”

The video ended as suddenly as it began, leaving Christie wondering what he had lost in those moments he had spent watching it. He continued the call with his friend with the precision of an apathetic librarian, “He's a piece of work.” he commented.

“He is.” Brian confirmed, “But you know these types. If they think you offended them and you don't answer they'll just get louder. Do you really need to be Joe Joyce?”

“No, I don't.” Christy moaned, “Listen, I'll go down there and shut him up. I don't want this to escalate. How many have seen the video?”

“About a couple hundred hits in twelve hours.” Brian confirmed.

“Right, I'mma go get this done and shut the. So mate, bye, bye. Bye.” he pulled the phone from his face and hung up. Slipping the phone back into his pocket he downed the rest of the milk in a gulp and headed for the door.



Christy's car pulled up to along the road side, into a plowed dirt patch at the mouth of a caravan park. The cold air was quick to greet him as he stepped out and closed the door behind him. Wrapping his winter coat tighter about himself, Chrisy made for the park.

Clustered with ramshackle caravans the park was nothing of important note. Gaudy flamingos decorated the rented lawn space and shared space with plastic picnic tables. A few burn barrels smoldered in the winter chill and more than a few bully dogs stood chained in the cold as they watched the intruder walk through the camp underneath brows as heavy-set and primitive as their own masters. Here was a look into a life in the apocalypse, a possibility of life in wind star caravans and thirty-year old trucks should the worlds great powers ever go nuclear.

Never mind atomic wastelands, the real world could end to the smell like piss, shit, and cheap whiskey. But in a strange fashion it was his world. The world he had claimed after a drunken bar crawl. And despite his apathy and disdain for the socially disconnected Travelers and Gypsies of Ireland he was all the same here to maintain the title he had simultaneously created and won.

And at the center of the camp stood the champion that decided he would oppose him. Clearly kicked out of something and half naked and hungover. Sitting at a bench alongside a fire with five other older men as he nursed a bottle of vodka is giant sausage hands. His shoes splashing to a stop meters away he looked up and saw Christy. At first there was nothing, then the blank stupidity was blown away by a sudden morning dawning.

“Jew!” he shouted, standing to his feet. “Jewda won jamaican dey lays!” he shouted.

“Top of the morning to you.” Christy greeted.

Looking at his company he noted several were long-term residents of the present camp. And at least one was one of the respected elders. The two eyes met, and they regarded each other with polite nods.

“O'Donegill.” the old man said.

“Longfurd.” Christy replied.

“Oi, glisten air yer bahstahd. We nun gown dalek!” the challenger shouted.

“I know I would rather.” Christy responded dryly. Unwrapping his hands from his coat. He wrung his knuckles together and sighed.

“Oi ya budder.” the challenger boasted, holding up his fists he snarled and spat, “Eye lettuce 'um 'balk fer me.” he crooned, showing off knuckles scarred deep by years of boxing no doubt. Or beating his wife. Christie decided to go for the later.

“I don't fight blokes who have fists softened on women.”

“Oui, yew fuggin' say hoot ya bloody cod?”

“Uh-huh.” Christy nodded, steeped in total apathy.

“Smeer on me mum m'eight I'll ground ye two doodst.”

Christy blinked. “Are we going to fight or not?” he asked, “Because what I see is a fucking retarded ewe that I'd like to send back to Wales where he belongs.”

“OY YA FUGGIN BAHSTAHD” the champion traveler shouted, lunging at Christy with fists barred.

His arms flew up as the man's fists crashed towards him. There was an audible smack as knuckles connected to arms as Christy blocked the blow. The punch was quickly followed by a follow up that swung around his block from the right. The Irish youth ducked into it as the sound of the rogue fist whistled over his head. It wasn't until it was clear of his head that Christy himself had rammed himself into the beer gut of his contender, knocking him off of his feet.

He dodged to the left as the stumbling man tried to take a right-bound swing from the left. Sliding across the muddy turf he grabbed hold of the man's trousers and threw him to the ground. With a cold splash he landed sharply to the ground. Now hovering over him Christy introduced him to his own fists and there was a bone crunching crack as his hand met his mouth.

The man on the ground twisted to try and grab his foot and bring him down, but the drunken hungover skulking of the Traveler made it too easy to telegraph as he was met with a boot to the cheek that rocked his head to the side. A ribbon of blood splashed from his lips as a tooth was kicked loose.

Mumbling or sobbing wetly through a mouthful of blood, Christy danced over his downed opponent and took the time to plant his toes into his kidneys. It was enough that he coughed and spat and he rolled over onto his side, clutching his stomach as he wheezed through a broken mouth, and a bruised gut.

“Don't you fucking try this again.” Christy crooned, “And let it be fucking known I beat your fucking ass.” he sneered. His heart was pounding away in his chest, completely unaware that the fight was already done and there was no need for the climax of adrenaline. He shook off his knuckles as he stepped away.

“Cor Christree, ya reelly buggered him.” Longfurd chirped as.

“Should'a known who he was fucking with.” Christy pointed out, “So wrap him up or something and take him in to the hospital.”

“Water'fir?”

“A truck.” Christie nodded pleased, “He got hit by a truck.”

---

Home of Alexis Tsipras, Athens, late evening

Alexis Tsipras lay dozing on his sofa, a cheap adventure novel draped across his chest. His eyes, half closed, flickered gently against his cheeks. The television hummed quietly in the corner, the channel long since closed for the night.

At the back of his house, a small scratching noise broke the silence. A window, left slightly open, began to move outwards slowly, inexorably. A camera, concealed in a darkened upper corner of the back pantry, registered the change and rotated, a light beginning to flash.

SMASH! The camera shattered into a thousand shards. The light died. A shadow slipped in through the window, vanishing into the velvet-black darkness of the room.

In the living room Tsipras was roused by what sounded like a breaking glass. Groggily, he hoisted himself up from the sofa and swung his legs to the floor, his book sliding off his lap to the floor with a thud. A sigh escaped his lips. What now?

Suddenly, a cord swung around his neck from above, quickly pulling tight. His head was jerked roughly upwards. A muffled face stared down at him, two bright eyes glinting from the eyes holes of a balaclava. The cord dug deep into Tsipras' neck, constricting his airway and stifling his attempted calls for help. His breath came in gasps, each shallower than the last. As he took a last choking wheeze, the darkness closed in around him, the two shining points of light the only feature of the empty plain of night,

Tokyo, Shinzo Abe’s office
Prime minister Shinzo Abe was enjoying his first cup of coffee of the day when he suddenly by a few knocks on the door of his office. He looked up from the documents in front of his as the minister of foreign affairs entered the room and bowed before him. “Sit down, Fumio-san. I hope you bring good news today”
Fumio Kishida sat down and brought out the reports he received this morning. “I am here to inform you that the Prime Minister of South-Korea declines the invitation to attend the Asain-Pacific Security Summit and also declines our generous offer of a defensive military pact. It seems that prime minister Kang is worried that signing a pact would enrage North-Korea and China.”

The news that the South-Koreans would not join did not come as a surprise to Shinzo Abe. The relations between Japan and Korea have been complicated since the end of WWII. Both countries have a different view on their shared history which lead to diplomatic tensions. The Japanese prime minister sighed “I was kind of expecting such an awnser from mister Kang. He is more worried about the wrath of the communists today then their ambitions of tomorrow. It seems that the Korean government fails to realise China’s economic and military potential. The People’s republic has come a long way in the last 20 years and have the ability to surpass the US in the next 20 years. It is a shame that the Koreans refuse the option to make a united stand against the Juggernaut China might become.”



Tokyo, Japanese ministry of defense
Akio Shigunemi’s eyes went from his computerscreen to his watch and back. 10 more minutes until he could go home. Eight more minutes until all the files where copied to his USB tumb stick. He could feel the tension as the looked at the filename “Project-J: Japanese re-armement program”. The file has been tagged TOP SECRECT but due to human error of the IT department made available for the lowly civil servent Akio Shigunemi. He could not control his curiosity and had opened the file. What he had read in there deeply worried the man. He quickly looked around to see if any of his co-workers where looking at him but they all seem to mind their own business. Suddenly his pc gave a small beep to indicate that the file transfer was complete.

Akio quickly grabbed the USB stick, put it in his pocked, pressed the shut down button on his computer and walked away from his desk. He hastly walked across the hallway to the elevator and waited. As the elevator door opened two security guards left the cabin and much to his relief ignored him. As the elevator went down to the first floor Akio could feel his heart racing. Just the realization of the fact that he was smuggling top secret government information made sweat run down his head. As he entered the main lobby he walked passed the security checkpoint and quickly greeted the security staff on his way out. Rather than going left towards the Underground Akio crossed the street and entered the Internet Cafe across the street. He quickly plugged the USB stick in the nearest computer and entered wikileaks.com in the browser. On this dark December night, the top secret re-armament plans of Shinzo Abe’s government where disclosed the the entire world.