For a half a decade, they tried to contain the problem, leaving the outside world ignorant of the war that was waging within. For five years they fought, and failed. Upon the dawn of the 16th Century R.C., they broke through. The Paleskinned beasts known as the Grogar, vile abhumans, if they even could be called that, were emerging from their fortress beneath the City of Reliance. The United Plains Coalition was unprepared for the numbers that swept through the city, the hulking horde swiftly took over the city and spread like locusts. The chaos of the attack led to several separatist uprisings as the military were halting the Grogar advance for a short while, civil order was falling apart, the country was tearing itself to pieces.

Twenty years have passed since the Grogar broke through the defensive lines. The Coalition had lost control of the country, and only held a small slice of land, surrounded by hostile factions that sought their final destruction. Despite their dire situation, the remnants of the UPC have held strong and held the line, fighting off the Grogar and making slow advances.

The Grogar, over the years had begun to splinter into warring factions, two of the most prominent holding the most territory. The Dragonfangs and the Legion. The Dragonfangs are marauders to the core, with no intricate agenda in mind, no higher purpose at all, typical of Grogar Clans. All they seek is the thrill battle and the perfect foe.

The Legion however, are something else. The Legion of the Exalted Mother, fanatical, yet highly disciplined cultists at the service of the being that spawned them, something they call the Exalted Mother or just The Mother. The Mother holds dominion of the fortress from which they're origins are traced. The Legion and its Master have a grand plan for the New World, one where all present are not safe from.

The Badlands
City of Waltonberg
Dragonfangs Territory

Another day, another battle to fight.
A man in his mid thirties in worn-out clothing laid against a wall in a broken down apartment building, avoiding the gaze of roaming Grogar snipers. All the while, the sounds of gunfire echoed through the dead streets as Union-backed rebels staged a new assault into Grogar-held lands, paving the way for the NAU invasion force that was follow behind very soon.

The man was gripping his bolt rifle tightly, peeking out the blasted hole, taking notice of a Grogar patrol, a trio of those hulking Oruk strains. "Perfect." he whispered to himself as he looked away, crouching down as he reached into a bag next to him, digging through a mess of items still he found hat he was looking for, a scope. After pleasant sounding "clicks", the man took aim with his makeshift sniper rifle, aiming for the lead grogar, he couldn't stand the sight of those damned monsters. "Pop goes the paleskin." he said in a mocking tone as he pulled the trigger, his ears ringing after the loud bang as the lead grogar fell, a gaping hole where his forehead was. His two comrades scattered, fleeing the scene before they were next. "Go ahead run you goddamn cowards." he said to himself, his hearinf slowly returning as the radio started to make sounds, someone was trying to communicate. "Manny, come in!" a feminine voice spoke up.

Manny frantically searched the bag, puling out the blocky portable radio. "I'm here jess." he replied. "What's going?"

"Paleskins got us pinned down by the market square!"

"Hold on, I'm on my way." He said as he hoist his rifle over his back, picked up the pack and ran to aide his fellows.

Just outside the north-easternmost borders of Franco-Iberia's North African holdings.

---

Suddenly a violent, staccato roar of rifle-fire opened up ahead. It was the kind of barrage which would have been terrifying in daytime, and at night it was far worse. However, the fire was not aimed at them; no one fell, no bullets whistled past them, and for some reason the flashes could not be seen. But it was obviously not far ahead f them and before long they were likely to be walking into it. Loud, urgent orders were given to deploy into skirmishing order, some to the right and some to the left of the road. After stumbling down a steep roadside embankment, they found themselves squelching blindly across marshy ground, water chilled a crippling drop in temperature pouring into their boots; after a patch of tussocks, they crossed a few shallow ditches and blundered across what seemed like a kitchen garden; by the time the order came to lie prone, the firing ahead of them had died down completely. New orders came to rejoin the road and form up in a line of march. Back they stumbled once more, tripping over the ditches and wading through the same marshy ground until they clambered back on to the roadway.

For a long time there was more shouting, re-forming, lining up. Then off they went again. Dark though it was, they were able to make out that the road was leading into a thick expanse of scrubland, identified by the towering, leaning groves of wild palms that lined its perimeter. Up overhead the tree-line, silently and quickly skimming over monstrous, black puffs of flak and low-lying clouds alike, the twin engines' glow of a jet fighter illuminated the thick haze descending onto much of the approaching forest. As they eventually marched through it, even the occasional flashes of far-off gunfire were blotted out. The battalions marched on down the road until once again the men were made to slither down the embankment - this time on to the dam of a mill-pond, then across a stream. From there they trudged uphill across open fields in between the eroded grooves in quantity great enough to amount them to a sizable half-track convoy, but on firm ground.

It seemed to be getting lighter, but the viability did not improve: even though they were on high ground, the darkness of the night had only given way to more thick mist. They struggled onward across rough paths and open fields, where the crop, whatever it was, caught at their boots; the main feature of the ground was that it was cross-crossed with little gullies and ditches, and so dotted with potholes, mounds, and makeshift earthwork that it was the obvious site of a previous border dispute. All at once, less than a kilometer to their right, another fusillade from several hundred rifle barrels and machine gun encampments opened up. But still no bullets came their way: the fighting was lower down and away to the right, and their orders were to get to the top of the high ground as fast as possible. Then, with a roaring and whistling, the gun-flashes flickering dimly through the mist, the Berber artillery they'd been promised opened up, to the delight of the advancing troops. Shrapnel shells burst with a fain glitter in the milky fog, and soon Egyptian guns began to reply, their shells falling a short distance away to the right.

While he had no desire for victory, Ibrahim could not help noticing with satisfaction that the Berber artillery was getting the better of this duel. There was undoubtedly a king of horrible beauty in the thunder of gunfire that was coming from one's own side. Although it was growing lighter, it was so foggy that visibility was no more than a meter, and the gun-flashes were even harder to see than they had been in the dark. And still they were driven through the thick, milky mist, across the treacherous gullies, rifles at the ready - faster and faster, lest they reach their objective too late. They ran panting uphill, then down a slope, up again and down again. It would have been safer to have crouched as they ran, but at that speed to run crouching was too much strain on the legs. So they ran upright. A few shells burst directly overhead, but so high that the shrapnel fell like a harmless shower of dried peas. The order was given to deploy into skirmishing order and fire from the shoulder.

They fired, although their target was completely invisible, and then ran onward again once their cartridges warranting reloading. No Douleur fell killed or wounded. It seemed as if they were making an outflanking movement around some Egyptian position. The hillside grew steeper and steeper. Ibrahim's heart was thumping, his lungs bursting; it was impossible to keep up this pace, all the more so in the damp, foggy air of the mid-morning Egyptian brush. It was now completely light and for all they knew the sun might be out,but nothing around them could be even vaguely seen in the dense, all-enveloping fog. Just as the slope began to go slightly downhill, the invisible enemy struck at them, the unseen attackers. Although they could barely see his muzzle-flashes, the bullets were whistling very close; one of them struck a stone and sent up a bright spark.

In the North Atlantic, due just South of Iceland, a few warships steamed through the water. They flew the flags of the Oceons, and were quite clearly the few new cruisers and destroyers in the small island nation's arsenal. The weather was overcast and gloomy, as usual, and a chilly wind swept over the cruiser and her two destroyer cohorts. That did not seem to affect the human standing out on the wing of the bridge in a winter coat and his uniform, peering through a pair of binoculars at at distant ship. The Captain of the vessel he rode upon, whose name was Vengeful Tragedy, is an anthropomorphic snow leopard squints against the wind and shields his eyes from what sun there was with his fuzzy hand. Finally, the human Admiral lowers the binoculars and steps back into the heated interior of Vengeful Tragedy's bridge. There, without the wind and the waves, the Admiral smiled and nodded to the Captain, "She looks fantastic, sir. Everything is set up right. Just tell me before you fire and remember, you are the one applying the patches if you miss!" Captain Johannsen just flashed him a sly grin and nodded, throwing a crisp salute before going and barking orders to his crew. They all looked similar, draped in anti-flash gear and their metal skullcaps. It was kind of creepy, in a way.
Through the bridge windows, the Admiral watched as the Number One turret, the very foremost one, spun precisely and laid its two eight inch cannons upon the target. The gun barrels twitched and swayed up and down a few times, before one barrel fired, and then the other, in concussive, sharp cracks of thunder. The Admiral drew in the scent of gunpowder through his nose in the split seconds before impact, and then the target was slammed by two HE shells landing almost on top of one another. The metal vessel had a huge hole blown in her. The target tug, an old Pegasus class frigate, was actually in danger herself because of how rapidly the target was capsizing. The tug's crewmembers shot the line to pieces and then hacked at it until it broke, letting the tubby frigate pull away from the stricken target. Admiral Tintin Beck shook his head and turned to his aide, a scholarly young beluga who had been watching quietly the whole time. Tintin tells her, "Make sure they know they shouldn't be firing at that line. Those bullets could bounce and hit themselves." To the Captain, the Admiral says, "Fantastic shot, sir. Looks like the Gen III sensors are doing well. Want to test the missiles now?" The Captain responded to the courteous question with a single nod.
Tintin walks over to the communications console near the back of the bridge and puts a hand on the shoulder of the tigress working there. He asks her, "What's the status on those Selenes?" Without even looking up she recounted to him, "ETA five minutes, sir. They had some engine problems but it is solved now." The Captain had a faint look of curiosity on his face. Tintin stands up again and grins to him, "You'll see, sir. Prepare your anti-air batteries." The Captain's eyes widened slightly at that point and he began barking orders as the Admiral went out onto the bridge wing again, peering off into the distance with his binoculars. After a couple of minutes, he saw the two Selenes. They did not get very close at all before dropping four target drones and banking around in wide, graceful turns, while the rocket motors of the target drones ignited after a short free fall. As he was hoping to hear, the ship's emergency alarm began to ring in deep, sorrowful whoops. The Hercules launcher on this side of the vessel swiveled and pointed the blunt, transparent nose of its missiles at the drones. Two pings rang out over the ship's PA. Both the Admiral and his aide, always at his side, covered their eyes as the missiles took off in bright flashes of white light. They uncovered their eyes and watched the missiles speeding off into the distance, guided by the ship's own tracking radar, which was visibly pointing its radar dish in the direction of the drones. After a few seconds, two of the missiles blew up two of the drones, and one of them clearly took a hard nick from the fragments of the detonating missiles and caught on fire. It swerved and dipped its nose, splashing down into the ocean as the last drone came into range of the ship's AAA guns. A cacophony from Hades broke out as the forty mils and then the twenty mils rattled off in cadence, spraying tracers in carefully controlled lines that sliced through the drone and sent it spiraling down into the ocean, wreathed in smoke.
The new Hercules missiles had done exceedingly well, and the radar controlled gunsights seemed to be doing fantastic as well. Tintin walked back onto the bridge, grinning, congratulating the Captain and his crew on a job well done and happy himself, because he would be a happy man on the helicopter ride back to the Song of Storms.

In the frozen capital of Moreau, an orca, a hare, and a wolf all walked into a bar. That sounds like the start of a bad joke, but these were the three Speakers of the main regions of Oceos. They didn't even need to flash their IDs for obvious reasons and all three of them plus a few aides found their way to a private booth, ordered some drinks, and started to discuss things. This was how it was done. They rarely held a place in a standard meeting room. They preferred to do it this way. The drinks were non-alcoholic, of course, and were instead something to warm them up after they had to step out of the limousine into the frozen Greenland air. Greenland had been warmed by the environmental cataclysm before the Day of the Last Signal, but it was still bone-chilling. The Orca sat down in a bench with her assistant and bodyguard wolfess, sighing, adjusting her own massive body and settling in. The black and white sea creature was the biggest of them all, coming in at six feet and five inches in height. She swept her small eyes over all of them, looking sharp in her blue suit. She accepted her hot chocolate with a little smile and a thank you, and took a sip.
The downright diminutive arctic hare dressed in a black blazer tugged at his tie and opened his briefcase, looking over some papers and setting them out on the table. His own right-hand man, a leopard seal, sat at the head of the table in a chair and pointed out things to him on the financial reports. He was going at a cup of black, steaming coffee, his ears laying out over the back of his head as he rubbed at the short fur atop his head and sighed softly to himself.
The last person sat to the hare's right and just stared out of a window, with one of his own aides, a human female, trying to get the average black-furred wolf to pay attention. The wolf blinked and looked down at the notepad, looking visibly perturbed. The orca, Britt, Speaker of Greenland, shot him a concerned look before turning to the hare, Jaylen, and asking, "How bad is it, Jaylen?"
He shook his head, "The new frigates plus that damned supercarrier are really, really straining the budget... this upgrade program won't help a damn bit." She quirked a brow and sat back in her seat, laying her tail across her lap and saying, "Is that so?"
Jaylen gave an exasperated chuckle, "My Parliament is practically ripping my ears off over how expensive this is getting. It is so!"
She couldn't help but jab at him, "Well, I am sure your own personal paycheck is getting a little expensive too. And those smear campaigns. Just how much did it take to call me a 'bisexual polygamous sex fiend'?"
Jaylen stared at her for several seconds. Slowly, his cheeks burned red. Then he shot back, "Well, you didn't exactly deny it!"
The orca rolled her eyes and waved off his remark, tugging over a copy of the finance report. Her eyes swept across it, and she jabbed her finger at something, "This powerplant. The Britannia Diesel Plant. Why exactly is it still operating? Those megawatts are vanishing into a surplus..." The wolf finally moved and leaned over to peer at it. Softly, he said, "It... It was going to b-b-be shut down but there was a-a-a delay in getting the w-windfarm at World's End going."
The orca frowned, "But that windfarm is going now, isn't it? Above capacity, if I remember..." The wolf nodded quickly. He adjusted his tie,
"Y-yes. W-w-way better than we thought it'd be, r-really. S-so that... that diesel plant is not needed..."
The orca beamed and lightly smacked the table, "Then we shut it down and stop paying for the fuel and the maintenance needed."
The wolf shrugged, "S-sure. I agree w-w-with that. It makes sense... p-place didn't employ a lotta people anyways a-and they can g-get jobs at the w-wind farm or e-e-elsewhere."
Jaylen smoothed out his headfur again and declared, "I will place it in front of the President when we next meet. So, now, about this whole complaint over noise issues caused by airliners..."

The three talked about minor issues for a long time, deep into the evening. It was a good time for Oceos. There was not a lot going on internationally. The citizens went about their lives in their own ways. Some worked on cars. Others hunted in woods and fields. Some others plied the cold waters, and others were enjoying the freedom and comfort afforded to them by the island nation formed out of the crucible of atomic fire so long ago.

The Mongols were starting to become a serious nuisance.

It had been approximately 3 years since the campaign in Mongolia had started. Though at least half of the former lands that made up Mongolia had been subdued, and alliances formed between the Great Han and the Local Tribes, under the authority of a central tribal authority at Da Kulun; The Tribal Authority at Ka La Kulun had yet to achieve control. The land was divided, with tribes loyal to the governer at Ka La Kulun, or with a more recent problem.

Tömörbaatar, a Mongol king, who had taken an Anti-Chinese stance, had formed a coalition of Mongolian tribes to fight against the Great Han. This 3 year long war was becoming a strain, with a near constant presence of Han Military forces in the area surrounding Ka La Kulun. The area was split in control between The Great Han and Tömörbaatar's forces.

Sun Kongming, as he was known to those around him, had been stationed in Ka La Kulun following the rise of Tömörbaatar's Confederation. Sun Kongming was well decorated, having participated in the Invasion of Burma, where his actions earned him the title of General. If there was ever a man to deal with the Mongolian Problem, it was General Sun.

A man, 50 years of age, he was born in Singapore, now known in the Great Han by the name Xinjiapo, he was brought to Sanxia to study war at 20, where he studied for 10 years and enlisted during the Conquest of Bangladesh, and then Burma. The fight against the Burmese had prepared him for the worst, and now his skills would be put to the test.

For the last week the fight was all the same, The Mongolians attacked, the Han Attacked, and The Mongols retreated. Currently General Sun's plan was to arm the Mongolian allies in the area with weapons, and send them out to attack Tömörbaatar's Army. However, he was finding that the Allied Mongols were far too disorganized to effectively fight The Coalition. Tömörbaatar had placed many tribes in strategic areas, cutting off conversation between Ka La Kulun and the Tribesmen. The Coalition was far too technologically disadvantaged to raid effectivly at their supply lines, however, they could overrun areas with the sheer numbers of their soldiers. The Coalition was, however, at a numbers disadvantage. 1 soldier for every 2 Great Han, and for every 5 Allied Mongolians, the policy was attrition against Tömörbaatar.

With any luck, they could cut off the head of this problem and take out Tömörbaatar himself, however finding him was hard to do in even battles such as these. A scout had returned, a Mongol boy named Nogai, from the tribe Olkhonud. Nogai was only 16 years of age, but had proven himself worthy of service in the miltary, after cleverly orchestrating the defeat of a Coalition Tribe by way of throwing the bodies of dead soldiers and animals into their supply of water.

"Sir, The Coalition is on it's way here, I can report that they appear to be coming with a force of 13 divisions, each comprised of 90 men." Nogai reported hastily. General Sun thought of the gravity of the situtation. At a size of this force, it was likely that they intended to take control of Ka La Kulun completely. Though, they would not have attacked so obviously, there must have been a secondary force behind them. At this rate however, the Chinese were unable to muster any Mongolian allies. They were completely off guard, and had to take whatever action they could. "Nogai, alert the men, makes sure that the Gates are closed on all sides of the city, and armed to full capacity. Arm the Artillery, we need to take out as much of the main force as we can before his reinforcements arrive. While you are out, alert the nearest Tribes you can to come to our aid when the secondary force comes after us, we will need as much help as we can. When that is ready, I want you to go out and find his secondary detatchment and report back to me immediatly what you see." he said, thrusting a small handheld radio into the boy's hands. "I will be listening in. May Tengri watch over you, Nogai."

And off Nogai went, his motorcycle at the ready as he drove off into the distance, on the lookout for any sign of what was comming his way. Meanwhile, General Sun was barking commands at his men in the city streets of Ka La Kulun, and delivering a speech to liven their moods.

"Men, the time has come. You opponent may look fierce, but remember, we have driven him to attack in desperation. These Mongolians are weak with hunger and exhaustion at being driven away by our allies. But we stand alone at this moment from their cowardly attack. But this is no problem, for we are stronger than they, even when over a thousand men come for 500 trapped in a city. So, when the Mongols ride in on their vehicles, we will rain fire from the skies, and pick off the survivors without mercy. They will relent, and Tömörbaatar will kneel before the Emperor and beg for his mercy. Now, on your ready, raise the artillary and release hell onto the Invaders."

And with that, the Artillery rocketed, flying over the city walls of Ka La Kulun, and out into the distance. Out in the surrounding land, explosions, both of the shells and of vehicles caught in their fire echoed; Snipers fired off, trying to take out as many of the Coalition Soldiers as they could. No sign of Tömörbaatar himself could be seen by any. Though damage was done, the Mongolians seemed not to take much of a hit, as the large wave came back from them. Large Tanks fired into the city walls, damaging them. The main riflemen stood at the gates, ready to fight back when the enemy breached the walls. Eventually, the gates were blasted open, and the riflemen oppened fire, gunning down as many Mongoians as they could, falling back for cover, though a few being unable to make it back. The Chinese armor stood up well to the rather low-quality firearms that the Mongolians carried, but they were no pushovers. Any Great Han solider knew a Mongolian could easily put a bullet in their face even in the thick of battle. The Goal was to put a bullet in them faster, and their lack of armor entirely often made that easier. Men with antivehicle weapons fired in as Mounted Mongolians raced into the gates. After 2 hours of fighting, the first retinue had been deflected. An a moment of peace achieved. But, this was not to be long, As the General Received a call on his radio.

"General Sun, this is Nogai. I've spotted the secondary army. About 2000 Men strong, heading your way now from the Southeast. I spotted Tömörbaatar's retinue within this group. I approximate less than 30 minutes until their arrival. However, I've contacted 5 Tribes, who can provide 1,500 Men in total. You're on equal footing now. The tribes should arrive within 20 minutes for the nearest, and the rest in 45 minutes."

General Sun formulated his plan. The Mongolian tribes would wait at the sides, as the Chinese attacked with artillery to lessen their numbers. When they were in range, the Great Han would go out with infantry, as the Allied Mongolians came in at the sides, meanwhile, the Later tribes would come in for a surrounding. The Question was how much of their force was able to fight. Altogether, the casualties of the last battle were numbered at 45 injured or dead. More than enough men, but their artillary was low. General Sun told the plan to his commanders and waited, waited for the decisive battle to destroy the Coalition and secure the Authority of the Great Han in this part of Mongolia.

Washington DC...

What was once this pre war city sat something new, raised highways ran through where the United states capitol building stood. The Lincoln memorial? Now the site of a lower income apartment complex. Through the changes though one thing remained the same, its the capitol of the nation.

Below a starry sky lay a modern star fort. Its white painted high walls was an imposing sight from the city and a testament to the military nature of the eastern united states descendants. Inside the walls sat numerous buildings but in the center was the most important of all, the kings residency.

On this night from that residency, lines of people emptied from it lazily. The sound of banter, cheers and in a number of places women pushing gawking men aside. A party had been thrown for his majesty Theodore, the first pre party for his birthday to be held next month. He was no stranger to parties and reveled in their majesty.

"The fasted way to a mans truth is through a bottle of liquor." He would say while his sister would always interject, "to a mans pants."

Inside the main hall were servants of all races cleaning the party's mess and in the middle, King Theodore sprawled out on a lone red couch. Over him stood his sister Charlotte, looking disappointed as ever.

"Was all of that necessary?" She asked calmly.

Theodore shot Charlotte a sadistic smirk, "It's like you think i'm treating them like tools."

She rolled her eyes and walked towards a small table with various bottles of domestic and exotic liquors strewn about. "Brother, this stuff makes you evil. I swear it will be the death of you if you do not stop."

Theodore pinched his eyes as he sat upright. As he opened his eyes and regained his vision fully his hand reached for a nearby glass of liquor. Before his hand could grasp it, Charlottes nimble fingers plucked it from his grasp. "What did I say.."

Theodore pinched his eyes again before standing up. "Fine.. Fine. I just hope you know that on my celebration, there will be flowing rivers of this red mystery 'whiskey'. They said there were crates upon crates found in a warehouse south of here. Isn't that amazing?!"

The care seemed to rapidly dissolve from Charlottes eyes and a monotone voice summed it all up, "Incredible."

"Prude." Theodore said quickly.

Charlotte started away mumbling her frustration as Theodore sat back down. "I think I'll sleep here tonight." he said softly.

--The next day--

Theodores waking eyes caught the sight of Charlotte staring out of a large window. He found himself in his bed, "When did I come up here?" he said while yawning. "How late.. what happened.. You know what, never mind."

Charlotte smirked as her eyes followed the cars driving inside the fort. "Brother, I think it is time we think about the "brazil" region. "Long have we eyed the resources there, free for the taking."

Theodore stood up and walked to a large oak table that sat in front of another large window. "But we have plenty of resources here.. enough for any long term endeavor."

She took a deep breath and turned to him, "Look, we already have Cuba, why not continue our expansion? This whole destiny of restoring the old ways is never going to pay off. Even if you manage to retake the central regions from the UPC remnants, what happens when you face a real opponent like the Cascadians. And even more so the creature race from up north? How long can we trust them."

Theodore shook his head before taking a seat at the desk. He brought his hands to his head and stared at the desk. "Sister, ruling is hard."

She smiled at him, "So long as you keep a strong mind and spirit, you'll be our best king ever."

He narrowed his gaze and nodded, "You're right. The Brazilians will kneel before our might. They will make grand subjects. But we cannot grow hostile towards our fellow Atlantic powers. I have faith our navy can defeat them but the war would be hard fought and possibly open our coast for all to grab."

There was a moment of silence as Charlotte stepped from the window. She turned towards the door and clapped her hands, signaling a waiter to bring in breakfast themed sandwiches upon a gold laden platter. After the waiter had laid the platter in front of Theodore, Charlotte dragged a simple chair from across the room and took a seat. Even in the comfort of a closed off room and her brother being the only company, her posture was still very feminine. Her bites were small and well managed, not allowing any crumbs to escape her lips. Drinks were brought in the form of a pitcher and goblets.

"I suppose you're right concerning the Beast folk in the north."

Theodore smiled at her before taking another bite. It would be hours before any word was to be given but it was clear that the NAU was once again preparing to march on another weakened and disorganized region of this new and mangled earth.

----------------------------

The central badlands, north America.

What used to be a semi-stable nation known as the UPC was now a mere shadow of its former glory. Skulls of men and women alike littered small towns that had been long since destroyed by warring humans and all of that was shadowed by a larger menace, the Grogar. These beasts were fabled to rip the turrets off of tanks and tear a helicopter in two. In reality it wasn't the case, even as strong as they are. These tales were meant to keep the soldiers watchful of the beasts, keep them in the mindset to always watch their backs. So far it has worked, when heeded.

This small town was the stage for yet another disastrous victory.

"Get down!" was the last words of a startled NAU soldier as a make shift grenade landed in their trench. All around was the sound of gunfire as NAU troops had breached a Grogar barricade. Supported by two tanks, forty soldiers had rushed in too far and too fast, a officer that wasn't leading with his head but more so his heart.. a heart set on earning medals.

The leading soldier, Lieutenant Fox, was pleased when the architect of this failed advance died, Captain Harris. Fox was a proficient officer but this operation had already failed from the get go. He radioed for artillery to the point that the gunners were peeing on their cannon barrels to cool them.

Meanwhile in the towns center, the two Davis tanks were firing wildly into buildings. Many had already completely collapsed from the sheer power of excessively powerful High explosive shells. Due to the lack of Grogar tanks and the Groger's natural mobility, the government had developed a potent tool to remove them in large numbers, and it was very effective.

Shrapnel flew in all directions as a two story building collapsed. The sound of Grogar screaming in pain was a pleasant sound for the nearly exhausted soldiers. For a time it would seem that Fox had a real chance at victory.

"Blue squad, get your damned machinegun in the second story window. We do not have time to fuck off like this."

"Yes sir!"

From behind Fox, one of the Davis tanks slowly rolled up before completely stopping. From its hatch a man popped out, "Sir, our radio just went out. Damned Grogar with a rocket launcher hit us."

"You ok?" Fox said with real concern.

"Yes sir, we're-"

Behind Fox one of his men pointed towards the Davis, "Get down!" he yelled as two Grogar leapt from a wall of rubble. The tank was no match at this distance and the first beast scaled the tank in one bound, literally removing the tankmans head with a large knife of sorts. The other dropped a grenade into the turret that exploded too early. Both the tank and the Grogar exploded in a flash that sent Fox to the ground. All around him now a new Beast offensive had begun. Within a minute, over half his men were dead alongside both of his tanks. Word had reached him that the artillery position had been overran as well.

"Sir we have to get the hell out of here!" a soldier yelled before firing his weapon again.

Fox tried to shake off the shellshock but the stress from this new turn of events was prolonging the effects to the point where Fox couldn't even see straight. A few more moments passed and now over three quarters had fallen.

"Shit." he said despairingly before reaching for his radio. "Tac-com, Delta four four, requesting air support danger close. Coordinate three five five."

"Roger"

Within seconds the roar of NAU jets could be heard and it was enough to even send some of the smaller Grogar running in fear. Beside Fox though, the ones that weren't afraid were within visual range of Fox. A pistol was drawn by the Lieutenant and his trigger finger was fast, depleting his magazine of fifteen in less than ten seconds. Enough to send the Grogar to cover thinking he had a machinegun or something equivalent. There was no time to reload though as the young Lieutenant caught sight of the incoming fighters contrails. Time even seemed to slow down for the officer as two large bombs detached from its wings.

And before they hit, two more fighters came into view but it was all blotted out by fire.. fire that even hell would be impressed with. The wave of napalm washed over the city, filling in the cracks with the burning death. Grogar never screamed as their lungs were pulled dry by the inferno. The same went for Fox and the remaining NAU soldiers. All for Fox was fire but it soon faded to black.

Hours passed, maybe days...

"Wake up." a nearly robotic voice sounded.

Fox awoke and with only one eye now gazed upon an NAU power armor bearing down on him. To Fox's left a Grogar moaned in pain as another Armor walked up upon it. Who knows if the Grogar was cursing the men for existing but a casual shot from a point blank high caliber weapon literally detonated its head into a thousand pieces. More motors could be heard but Fox was in now condition to assess the situation.

"You're safe now." the Armor said before lifting Fox off the ground. Fox arrived a whole man but left only half as he saw his right arm and left leg laying where he once was.

Approximately forty-five miles into Lower Egyptian territory's north-westernmost stretches.

---

They had long ago forgotten about their broken sleep, their unwilling blundering about in the dark, their wet feet and even their heaving lungs; now it was a matter of minutes - would they knock out the perseverance of these continued border infringements or wouldn't they? Who would come out on top? It was touch and go. Every man understood this, every man the himself into the spirit of the attack and Ibrahim with them. Their pouches crammed full of ammunition, they fired with reckless enthusiasm, deafened by the sound of their own shots, choking on their own excitement as they slashed and slashed at the mist with bullets. Wherever he could, Ibrahim did his best to stop his platoon from firing at their own side. He suddenly noticed that he was firing from his own side-arm, although this was completely pointless. Then over a ditch and through a hedge they jumped, and now they were having to leap over bodies too - not Douleur, but Egyptian bodies.

Fear and pride gripped him at the same time: keep it up, we're doing fine - say what you like, but we know how to fight. Now they were fighting in a village, taking cover behind houses, sticking their heads round corners, outflanking Egyptian strongpoints. There was no holding the guerrilla forces as they charged in with fixed bayonets, and Ibrahim felt as strange satisfaction as he blazed away. He hit and wounded a signaler, who was at once taken prisoner. All the while a yellow orb on their left had been growing brighter and brighter, until it finally burst through - the sun. A faint crack was heard from behind a distant wood, the sound grew nearer and an Egyptian shrapnel shell burst in a similarly yellow cloud ahead of them, slight above the town's towering minaret and to the left of it. Soon after the enemy had once more retaliated, after a short bombardment, by advancing on them from the north, not in a skirmishing line but in a column of march, so confident were they after their earlier success that day.

At once however, all twenty-five of the Berber guns having completed their registration shots, opened up with an oblique hail of shrapnel on the advancing troops from five concealed firing positions, dousing them with black fountains of high explosive and driving them back until they disappeared into the surrounding scrubland and behind the folds of the far-off desert dunes. Meanwhile the Douleur infantry battalions hurriedly dug themselves in while the Egyptians were halted and silenced. The sun crawled slowly above the low-lying clouds of dawn.Everything was still obscured in swirling mist, but it now began to thin out and everything grew clearer.

They could see the heavy dew which had settled on their rifle-bolts and bayonets, some of which were streaked with blood. As they were on such high ground, the fog was rapidly dispersing in wisps and the men's faces were plain to see, panting, elated with the savage joy of battle. And Ibrahim felt the same. Blue, red and orange droplets glinted on what little grass overcame the otherwise cripplingly arid conditions here, and the sunshine of the new day was already shedding its warmth over them - the victors. Somehow it was all over with surprising ease.

This was no hollow boast, no hearsay account of other men's deeds: a guard detail drawn from men of their own battalion was escorting through the village a column of about three hundred prisoners and a handful of officers, squinting glumly into the sun, some without caps, some having lost their carbines. And after the roll-call only three men in Ibrahim's battalion were reported killed and a dozen or so wounded, only on of whom was from his platoon. His men had kept together and were now cheerfully strolling about and swooping stories. Meanwhile the surrounding countryside was slowly emerging from the fog like a cunningly lit theatre set: height, depth and perspective began to fall into place. Right down into the nearby dunes everything stood precisely delineated and contrasted - things and creatures, living and dead, sunlight above and shadow in the valley, the greenery and the colors of field and garden.

From the top of the slope where they stood in the village, they could clearly see a column of several hundred turbans being led away, and beyond it piles of corpses struck down by Berber precision-shot. No longer in a hurry, no longer running, no longer afraid, Ibrahim sat watching it all from a bench behind a garden fence where he sat down to rest. Still possessed by a strange sense of triumph, he was bursting with elation at having had a part in a victory which had not been merely scored in verbal debate but won with his body, his own arms and legs. He sat there as though he was the great commander-in-chief in whose honor the deafened enemy was being led past in triumph below. The troops were given no time to rest; they had been ordered to dig in on the edge of the village. Ibrahim had to pass the order on to them, but he was not expected to do any digging himself and could stay sitting on his bench to admire the theatrical spectacle of the captured village and the blindingly bright swells of the orange dunes reflecting the sun's rays. In the silence around him (all firing in the vicinity had stopped), he was able to savor his oy and analyze his sudden, new-found emotion.

-=Neos Constantinople, Republic of Thracia, Union of Hellenic Socialist Republics

Old, ancient Constantinople, Konstantiniyye, Istanbul, Constantinople again, was a city that had suffered in the decline of the world. The sea had encroached, and most of the city had simply had to pack up and move before wholesale replicating a new version of the old, only to find the sea followed them. What had remained of the old city and that of the new had become New Constantinople. One of the greatest civil works of the era had finally shored up its defences, preserving the few crumbling ancient ruins from Empires barely forgotten and protecting the new gleaming beating heart of a Union finding its place in the world.

In a city where all eyes had once looked upon the Hagia Sophia, it now turned to a different dome - that which made up the seat of the government of the Union, where the delegates and representatives of all its republics met under a new architectural marvel of ancient marble and newwrought steel, a fusion of the old and new. The pride of Justinian, barely standing, looked on in envy.

It was here too that the Archon was found, at the heart of a sprawling new Urban centre only contained by the primordial forces of water. It shared its environs with places for the government both federal, local, and of the syndicate, but its focus was and always had been on the idea of a Union that the revolution had come to see made reality.

The Archon, an older man, once of the factories, then of the syndicates, then of the politics, was not one of the Hellenic elite, distinguished by now only by a few minor traits and a legacy of wealth and opulence that somehow managed to persist in as classless a society as the Union could bring to bear. He had once been blonde, but time had worn it dull, and the habits of a clean shaven man had given over to the wisdom of a seemingly ever growing beard. He was alone, looking at reports, at information, at maps, at bills. It was the affairs of any head of state that made up the role of the Archon, the first among equals, or so the ideologues would say, but every society needed a hierarchy to function, and so here he was.

The Franco-Iberian Egyptian matters were somewhat of a concern. They were not enemies, far from it, but the Union, long quiet, had begun to flex its international clout, but there was realpolitik at play. Athanasios was not Archon by chance, of course, so he took a moment to think. The Union's control of one bank of the Stait was tolerable, as long as the disorganized Egyptian state controlled the other, the latter could be, to a certain extent, controlled. Geopolitically, having it fall to the Franco-Iberian's was.. problematic. It was somewhat infantile, he mused, that if they wanted it then they needed it. Of course, there was no guarantee that the Franco-Iberian's wanted such a thing, not all campaigns ended well, after all.

He decided against offering the Egyptians any outright aid, they were not sufficiently prepared to embrace the revolution, and one brought by the sword was always problematic, as the Union's own attempts in the east had come to show, let alone the matter of the early Union's stability. He would not be known as one who brought the workers a struggle beyond their own eternal burden. No, there was a simple enough first step.

He penned a small note, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs would see to that. He then penned another, the Citizen's Marine would do the rest.

The Badlands
City of Waltonberg
Dragonfangs Territory
Manny practically ran through a marathon's length reaching to his comrades, traversing through wreaked blocks and streets as well as dodging Grogar patrols till he had finally arrived to his destination. The sound of gunfire grew louder as approached the entrance arch leading to the Market Square, entering one of the first buildings for cover, an old clothing store. Manny drew the radio from his pack, adjusting the device's signal. "Jess! Come in!" he called to her through the radio, for but a brief few moments that was only silence, tension building up until her voice got through. "Thank god!" She replied with a slight pant. "We lost buck...fuckers hit my arm..."

"Don't worry, I'll follow the gunfire, and I'll be taking care of 'em." Manny replied, determination building up as pulled out a revolver pistol and ran out the store, passing by the old, long abandoned markets of Waltonberg, once an civilized island in sea of rural villages and plains.

Ten minutes later...

It did not take long for Manny to find his fellow rebels, the firefight was taking place in an intersection of the market place, a water fountain and some benches at the center, Jess and the rest of her squad were holing up in a butcher shop, all the while over a dozen Dragonfang Grogar had taken positions in several stores, haphazardly fortified with furniture as barricades, only three of the ordinal six man squad were able enough to hold off the attackers, with the fourth, Manny, not too far behind to relieve pressure off them.

Before he came into view of the Grogar, Manny turned to his right and quickly leapt into another store, before he could be seen by the Grogar. He frantically searched ever corner of the store for some way up the roof or second floor or whatever high vantage point he could get, salvation came as he explored deeper into the store and found stares, climbing up without haste, the second floor of the building was a storage room, with two windows to manny's left. "Yes!" he exclaimed to himself as he approached the windows, looking down, only a few very bold Grogar were visible, taking cover behind the water fountain, while the others were hiding in the shops, but that would be enough.

Manny smashed his pistol against the window, shattering and pushing the glass away and clearing his view. He crouched into position, holstering his revolver in exchange for his sniper rifle and immediately took aim. "This is for Buck..." he whispered as he pulled the trigger, the head of one of the Grogar exploding into a red gory mess, brain matter and blood smearing his brothers, leaving them in a panic like the previous ones before, the other charging out as they fired in all directions, a different kind of response Manny appreciated much, all the more paleskins to kill. Before he could take another shot, he took notice of several small egg-shaped objects rolling in the center of the frenzied mob. "Well, shit." he said to himself, ducking in cover, followed by a loud explosion, moments pass as he peeked out, an even bigger gory mess was left behind at the center, one of them was miraculously still alive, if barely, his legs were blown right off, the blast tossing him against the barricades.

Manny quickly ran down the stairs and out of the store, linking up with his battered team, gripping his hands tightly with one another. "Good to see you make it." A young man by the name of Cole, who was shouldering an injured jess.

"A shame we lost buck.." A young woman spoke sorrowfully, she differed a bit from her squad, she was an Abehuman by the name of Cila, her only oddity being her pointed years.

"I wish I came earlier...but what's done is done.....let's head back to camp, we're in no shape to press on." Manny paused for moment, realizing there was one task left undone. "One more thing." He said to himself as he pulled out his revolver and walked over to the Grogar as he dragged himself away from Manny's team, he pointed his weapon and put down the beast with a loud bang.

The rest of the world continued to burn, but somehow, the chaos that had enveloped the globe was still not showing its face in the calm island nation of Oceos. It was all too clear that the haven of peace was not going to last, however... it was just too much of a target. Sexually liberal, composed of strange beast creatures, taking a passive approach to world problems... they were just too neutral to stay neutral.
In the Northern part of the Kings' Islands, there was a forest. This forest was made of thin conifer trees, with smooth bark and wide, high-up canopies. The forest floor was littered with leaves and small rocks, and the occasional bushes. This is the remains of what used to be Kielder Forest, which is slowly regrowing after taking a double whammy of climate change and flooding.
Walking between the trees on a faint footpath was three mares. The mare that walked in front walked on two legs, with her eyes up and her ears cocked. She was a six foot anthropomorphic mare, a paint horse, although it was hard to tell as her head was a pure chestnut color and her mane a dark brown color. This mare, named Autumn, wore a very covering robe with its hood up over her head. The robe came down to nearly her hooves and had a belt tied around the waist. On one side, this belt held a .357 five-shooter double action revolver, with a six inch barrel, shiny metal, and wooden furniture. There was a hole through which she put her tail, and this entire homespun robe was a dark blue. Underneath, Autumn's thickly built equine frame was wreathed in white splotches over her chestnut undercoat. On top of her robe she wore a harness, and attached to that harness was a couple of thick branches that had been cut from a fallen tree. There was also a bag that was connected to this harness with a couple of clips, mostly for food but also having a few spare bullets for both of their guns. The second mare, again anthropomorphic, was more of a pony due to her size.
Tessie was barely five feet tall and had a sandy coat with a white dash down her face, which was more angular compared to Autumn's. Her hair was a light bleached blonde, and she wore her mane and tail much longer and free-flowing than Autumn's, as well as a little ribbon tied around the base of her tail. She wore a crimson long sleeved tunic, a pair of tight-fitting pants, and a straw hat. She also had a holster containing an old-fashioned six-shooter revolver, this one chambered in .38 Special, again with a six-inch barrel, dark metal, and wooden furniture. On her other hip were three canteens full of water, tinkling and swishing quietly with each of her movements. She also dragged two large branches, though they were much smaller than Autumn's. She hummed a soft, sweet tune to herself, smiling, pressing her hooves carefully into the damp dirt and occasionally staring at the back of her girlfriend and admiring her form. Tessie blushed and glanced away when Autumn threw a glance over her shoulder and smirked, but caught a few more glances when the bigger mare looked away. They had been smitten with each other since their chance encounter fishing a little over a year ago. The two blissful lovers and their mostly non anthropomorphic pack horse, a huge black and white shire horse named Bandsaw, strode through the gentle rain that penetrated the chilly air, the rustling noises of the dragged wood and the soft pats of their hooves in the softened dirt audible over the rain and the pony's humming.
Bandsaw carried the three largest pieces behind herself, her synthetic fabric saddle unoccupied and her saddlebags stuffed with tools and supplies. The big mare seemed to have no difficulty in carrying all of this, and even she looked happy, despite the rain dampening her fur. She was mostly not anthropomorphic, but she did in fact used to be a human. It is entirely possible with the genetic technology the Oceons possessed to become a sort of Disney-fied animal, which can speak in limited capacities and has human intelligence. It is even more expensive and painful than normal anthropomporphosizing, but it can be done, and Bandsaw, or Bandy, had done this a long time ago. It brought advantages for the other two mares. For one, she could talk, and two, she had a humanoid lifespan and aging curve.
The three mares, Autumn aged 28 and Tessie and Bandy at 26, had just finished clearing out some fallen trees and harvesting their lumber to help them with an addition to their three-room cabin on the shore of a lake. They were about halfway there with just an hour or so more of walking when Autumn abruptly stopped. She perked her ears and looked around, her dark eyes glinting with alarm and her nostrils flaring. Tessie stopped as well and looked about, frowning and flaring her own nostrils, picking up on a sour stench in the air. Her thought was that of a forest fire, but Autumn knew the scent. There were odd scents out here, but most of the time it was someone cooking drugs or making moonshine. It was of questionable legality, but what happened in the forest, stayed in the forest, as far as they were concerned. That smell was not the smell of moonshine or drugs, however. It was the stench of explosives. Autumn shrugged off her harness and sack and pulled her revolver, cocking back the hammer and turning to her smaller lover. She told Tessie, "I don't like that smell. I'm gonna go have a peek... come if you want, hon, but you can stay with Bandy if you would like." Tessie shook her head and pulled out her .38, cocking it as well and grinning as she shimmied out of her harness and dropped the canteens on the ground on top of it. She told her mate, "I don't want to leave that pretty tail of yours uncovered." Autumn rolled her eyes.
The larger mare then turned and patted Bandy's flank, "Just stay here, Bandsaw, and we'll be back." She reached around the horse and undid the harness, telling her, "Don't hesitate to kick anyone into the next county if they try to hurt you." Bandsaw actually smirked as Autumn kissed her cheek, replying, "You know I won't!" After a little chuckle, the two anthropomorphic equines set off into the woods, crouching low and doing their best to minimize the noise they were making. It was not easy with their bare hooves, but they did their best. They followed the smell, their faces wrinkling as they got closer and closer. Autumn waved to Tessie to get in cover as they saw a dilapidated shack in the distance, a little log cabin with thick smoke roiling from the chimney. Tessie ducked behind a tree while Autumn, up ahead, crouched behind a rock. Tessie scanned the house while her girlfriend checked the woods around it, noting the three small utility vehicles, gas generator, and radio antenna. This was getting weirder by the minute. A man appeared out of the side of the shed, wearing a white dust mask. He pulled it off and then removed his goggles, smoothing back his black hair. Tessie glanced to her girlfriend and then holstered her weapon, suddenly appearing from behind the tree and giving a loud, "Howdy!"
He whirled around and nearly dropped his respirator, watching the petite pony approach the shack. She smiled at him even as she was cringing internally from the smell. She waited until she was closer to do a little curtsie before pointing to the chimney and asking, "Is everything okay? That smells awfully bad, and I've never seen smoke that thick." He stared at her like she was some kind of alien creature. Tessie kept up her friendly smile and the little cute perk to her tail, doing her best to look innocent while Autumn watched with wide eyes from a concealed position behind her. The older man stared at her for a few more seconds before blinking, rubbing the back of his neck, and spluttering, "A-ah, no, no, everything is fine, ma'am. Just burnt dinner, is all. I'd welcome you to dine with me but... a-ah, y'know, you probably don't want too now!" He chuckled nervously and shrugged as the small mare just giggled with him and exclaimed, "Its fine! I'd love to come dine with you. Never seen you around here before! We should get to know each other. I can help you make somethin', I know how to make a fine herbivore's dinner!" The man held up his hand and started to back away, "O-oh, no, that's... that's fine... it... it ah, won't be necessary." Tessie frowned, "Oh, come on now, it won't be a big deal!" She kept up with him, keeping the distance the same, "Besides, you gotta be burnin' something bad with that kinda smell... did you try burning drift wood? The paint on that ain't always so good for your lungs."
It was then he tried to pull a pistol on the pony. He regretted that rather quickly as the small pony whipped out her .38 like a cowboy and put a round through his gut, followed a split second later by a .357 magnum shot into his chest over Tessie's shoulder. He went sprawling into the dirt, dead within seconds as his blood soaked into the ground below him. Tessie let out a little hiss of breath between her lips as she slowly relaxed and raised her eyes to carefully approach the door. Autumn ran up behind her, letting out a loud curse and ducking as a shot shattered the dirty window of the cabin. It wasn't for her, however. The bullet ripped a hole through the brim of the pony's hat and made her nearly fall over in shock, whinnying. Autumn screamed her name, but Tessie quickly waved her off, shouting that she was fine. Before they could react, two more humans, both males, burst out of the cabin and scrambled away. The two mares let them go. They piled into the one room cabin and checked carefully for others hiding inside.Through the window they saw a fourth person came back from the woods, see the body, and turn tail, running away, yelling.
Autumn moved over and shut off some gas burners situated underneath a mess of chemistry equipment, waving her hand in front of her face and coughing. Tessie grunted softly and squinted, clearly doing her best not to gag on the thick fumes. They left the door open to vent the place, and Tessie went outside to guard the cabin while Autumn inspected the chemistry equipment upon the rough counter top. Just as she suspected, they had been cooking up high explosives, and one of the batches had gotten a little too warm and the reaction had fizzled. There were some cabinets, and inside them, she found pipes loaded with explosives and shrapnel, plus a binder containing plans. They were horrifying. It involved placing the bombs on some passenger trains and letting them detonate during loading or offloading, when the passengers would be most densely packed. There was an even worse one deeper in the book, planning a follow up bombing and shooting of an elementary school. It had the bone chilling words of psychopaths, such as "rotten plants must be snipped at the roots" and "bastard children of bastard animal wives and husbands must be culled like the sick cattle they are". At this point, Autumn felt bile rising in her throat, and it wasn't from the fumes. She dropped the binder and stepped outside, gasping and clutching at her chest. Tessie glanced over and gave her a concerned look, which the mare just waved off.
They had to take a few moments to recover. Then Autumn showed the plans to Tessie, and held her as Tessie gasped and nearly began to cry. Some of the things they had written in there were inconceivably awful, and they even had a few passages on the three mares themselves, clearly having been spying on them over the last few days. They called them blasphemers, sinners, disgusting animals, and all sorts of other things. While Autumn was praying to Zeus and all of his other gods, Tessie gathered as much evidence as she could in her arms, and then managed to get Autumn back to her feet. They completed their wood hauling trip, and then they rode upon Bandsaw to the nearest town to report their findings. They had stumbled upon a terrorist plot and foiled it, totally by accident. They made the trips in near total silence, fully realizing just how the rest of the world viewed them. It was a sobering thing indeed for the two who had just a few moments ago been blissfully ignorant in love and happiness.

Elsewhere in the world, another spot of trouble was brewing for the nation. The Northwest Passage was the easiest way for ships from Oceos to make their way over to the Eastern nations of the world. These ships, often armed with thickened hulls and icebreaking bows, would depart from Greenland and carry various goods to the Eastern nations. The only problem was Cascadia. Cascadia had proven they were not too keen on allowing any Oceon ships into their waters, and Oceon was not too keen on provoking them further. On this day, however, the Oceon icebreaker Olympus, a five hundred foot dark purple bulk carrier, was wandering down past what was left of the Aleutians and deep into Cascadian waters. She was an old fashioned ship with her superstructure split fore and aft, with the pilothouse forward and the split and raked exhaust stacks on the rear of the ship. In between were huge stacks of containers. She carried about twenty seven crew aboard.
On this day, her Captain was thinking of time, and how overdue the ship was at her next port of call. Sailing South would save a lot of time... So, he ordered a course change. The last incident with the Cascadians had been long ago, right? Surely they wouldn't be mad, stil... He was a reckless and carefree man, obvious by how oblivious he was to the danger he was putting himself and his crew in. The Olympus steamed into the EEZ of Cascadia, a massive radar target and impossible to miss with the naked eye. Her Oceon ensign was clearly flying on her forward mast for all to see. Her crew was armed with a handful of carbines and a light machine gun, but those were for pirates, and would not do a whole lot against an organized force. No one else in the world knew about this brewing disaster, except for some other more lawful Captains who radioed loud warnings to the Olympus, only to have them fall on deaf ears. That morning, the Chief Engineer and a young Able Seaman were standing on the roof of the rear house, leaning on the railing and enjoying the slight warmth radiating from the stacks behind them, trying to comprehend their Captain's plan. They watched the sun rise amidst a sky that was a bright, fiery red. The aging arctic hare turned to the younger polar bear, peering at him from behind a smoking pipe and a muzzle that was covered in thin, graying fur. He asked the young bear, "Do you know what that means, Finn?" Finn just shook his head and replied, "No, sir." Bishop turned back to the sea and its fiery glow from the sky, telling him softly, "Make your peace with your god of choice... you will be meeting them soon. I feel it in my bones."
The polar bear just blinked a few times and stared out to sea. After a few seconds, his eyes were closed, and he was whispering a prayer to Poseidon.

In the Capital of Moreau, the Foreign Relations Adviser, an aging human named Oliver Beulens, was struggling with his job. This shriveled old man with a wispy gray combover looked even more tired than usual as he gazed at the array of papers in front of him, which were mostly headlines and casualty reports from all of the civil wars going on across the world. From the corner of the room one of his aides watched with great concern as he cupped his hands over his face, sighing softly and shaking his head. The other human male approached the desk and asked, "Are you okay, sir?"
Oliver looked up with a little frown, "No, Arvid, I am not. I... want to do something about all of this death and destruction, but I just can not. None of them will accept anything from us. Nothing! I even offered some of our old frigates to the Han but they were not interested... I can not get through to them and people just keep dying! It's the same all over this damned planet!" Arvid sat down in one of the simple armchairs in front of his boss. He stared out of the window past the Adviser for a moment, then just sadly shook his head and told him, "There isn't much to do, sir. Sometimes... the world just breaks, and it has to fix itself. We can't fix it." Oliver set his jaw firmly and set a pair of spectacles over his face, saying, "Archeus Wadsworth secured one hell of an agreement with the NAU, though... why can't we do the same with the Han or the Cascadians? There has to be some way..." He started to lay out plans. The Oceons could sell designs for their amphibious machines, or send some of their old ships to these hostile nations to try and calm them down.
Religious mercenaries, Most Favorite Nation status, simple talks... they knew something had to be done, because their little nation out on the edge of the world would not survive if she could not make some more friends. Their Navy might be good but they could not hide in the Atlantic forever. No one wanted a war, and many were scared of one, with the state the world was still in. Cracks were already showing and it has yet to be seen if anyone could patch them in time, or if the illusion of happiness and peace would be shattered for all.

...

The city sprawled out below them, a steel expanse interspersed with groves of green. The drones moved about on foot below, countless numbers of them, some carrying suitcases or purses or the like as they went in and out of the subway. Cyclists rode on forth in the distance, far outnumbering the motorists. Colorful signs and billboards littered the streets below. One of them depicted a rather enticing bowl of oranges from New Nairobi, and advertised a new genetic enhancement procedure to reduce the number of hours one needed to sleep. There were buzzing lights, loudspeakers spitting out the news, and somewhere out of view there were market stalls with boisterous vendors selling kebabs, hot dogs, nem, sambosas, and fruit. The evening moon shined above it all. It was hard to imagine that Antanarivo, or "Tana," the Shining City of Madagascar, was once a war-torn battleground.

Some would look at Tana and think of words like "Industry," "Progress," or maybe "Neo-slavery." Some would apply moralistic judgements, or speak of "corporate debauchery." Some would be in fear or awe. But Amélie looked upon the Shining City and thought of only two words:

My empire.

It was a vast one, to be sure. Malagasy Enterprises possessed territories on three continents and political influence in all of them. Company constituents numbered at over a hundred and fifty million bodies, and that number was increasing. Trade was prosperous as ever; Franco-Iberia, the Hungarian League, the United Arab States, the USHR... Great nations all over the world were eager to get their hands on Malagasy goods. There was always room for improvement, but the state of the Megacorporation was good.

Of course, CEO Amélie Rakotomalala wouldn't have taken the wheel of the Corporate Empire if she was willing to settle for "Good."

The CEO pushed herself away from the large, bulletproof window from which she'd been staring down at the world below. She marched past the huge aquarium where she kept her one hundred and one fish, past the marble statues flanking the ebony bookshelf decorated with ivory. She brushed her finger across the surface of her desk where the button to activate the security shutters was kept, smiled up at the tiny holes in the ceiling from which hidden cameras watched everything. She glanced down at the floor, where her last would-be assassin had died not two weeks ago, and wondered how the amateur felt as his brain was assaulted with neurotoxins. Amélie would never know: the pills she took each week protected her from the gas.

CEO Rakotomalala pushed open the doors leading out of her office and started on down the hall. Her secretary looked up from her desk and noted casually, "The Peacekeepers requested that I relay information on the present conflict in the Congo to you, Chairwoman."

Amélie liked being called Chairwoman. It sounded so much better than "ma'am" or "miss" and reminded others she was more than just a figurehead for the company. Yet another reason to keep this secretary around.

"And?" Amélie looked down at the girl. She was young - twenty two years old - but was very canny, very keen-minded. She was of foreign blood, mostly Indian with some European in there as well, and so was much paler than Amélie herself. She had martial arts training and used to be the designated marksman in her platoon before she was transferred to Amélie's office. She was a perfect replacement for the secretary that died in that last assassination attempt. "You've gone over the information?" the CEO asked.

"Yes, Chairwoman," said the secretary - Ms. Kulkarni, that's her name - "It boils down to the maintenance of status quo with slightly higher than normal casualties. I've already sent the files to your computer for you to peruse at your discretion along with a summary of the data."

"Thank you, Ms. Kulkarni," Amélie answered with a smile. "Inform any callers that I'm out of the office presently. And remind the Peacekeepers that any routine notices of this nature are to be directed to the CMO who in turn will report them to me. They're supposed to use their private channel for important communications only. Remind them also that wasting my time is ill-advised."

"Yes, Chairwoman." The Indian girl began typing immediately, eager to please. Perhaps she needed a raise.

Amélie stepped past the next door where her two bodyguards stood on either side: one of them a pure-blooded Frenchman and the other of Swahili descent. They were genetically modified, of course, and were both incredibly strong despite being roughly 5'6" each. Both wore combat vests underneath their suits and carried machine pistols in their coats. Nobody would think them to be the highly dangerous men they were.

They left the building, taking the private elevator down to the bottom floor and walking past the different security checkpoints manned by the comparatively giant security guards. (Some were, in fact, ogres.) They went down the stairs flanking the huge fountain which served as a memorial of the War of Unification: every soldier who died fighting for Malagasy Enterprises in that war had their name etched in silver upon the black stone surrounding the fountain with water running across their names. Of course, there were some soldiers whose names weren't etched into the stone. A great many of the dead couldn't be identified.

Finally, Amélie reached her car. It was, of course, an armored van. Some civilians stared as the Chairwoman got inside with her guards, but they quickly moved on when security looked at the gawkers a second time. Amelia couldn't blame them, though: it wasn't often they got to see their boss face-to-face.

"How long until we reach our destination?" she asked the man sitting beside driver as she settled in.

"Thirty minutes tops," he answered in his gruff voice. That was Security Chief Henri Simon. Good man. There was also good blackmail available in case he ever stopped being a good man.

"Good. And the stage is set for the speech today?"

"Completed ahead of schedule. On-site security has already informed me they've positioned covert units among the crowd."

"Excellent." Amélie relaxed into her seat, reaching into the compartment where the drinks in the car were kept. As the vehicle sped off, she popped the cork off of her bottle of French wine and took a long sniff. It was a gift from the Franco-Iberian President, Attias. She knew her wines.

"Let's build some good PR," CEO Amélie Rakotomalala said before taking a sip.

Water, water, everywhere. Agata Jodan was rather sick of it by now.

Her journey had taken the best part of the week, and this last leg had simply swapped the ocean for a long, straight canal. At least the liner from the Westerijk, now behind her on the other side of the Atlantic, had been large enough to stretch one’s legs and, crucially, in the direction away from the engines. This new vessel, which skated almost haphazardly along the canal, spluttering out great plumes of thick smoke as it did so, willingly sacrificed the dignity of hearing oneself think for speed. She looked out of the window at the flickering scenery with a mixture of nostalgia and resentment; Jodesia would always be home to her, but the marshy, flaccid surroundings had, in her time abroad in the Westerijk, become little more than anathema to her. It was, of course, a Jodesian mark of pride that they had conquered their bland, flat, wet landscape and built a nation from it, and that pride burned in her heart as much as in the next man, but you couldn’t build modern rails on pride. You needed solid earth for that; not endless mud.

As much as she had hated the crossing from the Westerijk, Agata now realised that she had taken the ability to stand on the sweeping deck for granted. While the view at sea wasn’t vastly superior (glittering blue as far as the eye could see as opposed to an opaque green-brown), the canal sprinter in which she was sitting, while luxurious for its kind, contained only three, cramped rooms: an office and private chamber for herself, and a glorified waiting room for her guard and attendant. The bedclothes in her chamber had remained undisturbed since she climbed on-board; she had merely sat behind the desk in her office and twitched, a letter addressed to her brother, no less than Keizer Maximor himself, lying before her, still sealed. It had been entrusted to her for safe-keeping, an honour no greater than that of delivery boy.

Her valet rapped on the door, and entered discretely upon her curt acquiescence.

“Excuse me ma’am,” he said, diffidently, “The pilot has just informed me that we will be arriving at Galgoria in four hours.”
Agata gave out a noise that was indecipherable as either ‘gah’ or ‘good’.
“Are you well?”
“Quite well.”

This, they both knew, was a lie. She had had a face like thunder upon receipt of the blasted letter that lay before her, and though the valet did not share her confidence in the same way that ladies’ maids patiently cowed to their every humour, he was quite capable of connecting cause and effect.

“I have prepared your bedroom, should you wish to rest,” in addition to competent, the valet was also discreet. Agata had not slept for the final part of the journey, perhaps naively hoping that time itself would accelerate if stared at angrily enough, and now her valet was indicating that her restlessness had become literal, and now showed. She stood up, and pocketed the letter, an irrelevant defence against the trustworthy and the humble, but an instinctive precaution nonetheless.

“Very well. Thank you, Willem.”

Lying up in bed, a small four-poster that sacrificed grandness for efficiency, she accepted a small glass of brandy from the valet, and released her hair from its sharp bun. He, in turn, wished her a good rest and asked if she was pleased to return to Jodesia, to which her reply consisted of just one syllable.

The Badlands
Dragonfang-UPC border
For over a decade the Grogar of the Dragonfang Clan have repeated their endless assaults on the defensive lines of the UPC remnants, and now another attack is soon to be dawning upon the UPC, a sad reality for the people trapped on the other side of the trenches.

Miles away from the trenches, Black smoke rises high up towards the skies as an outlining outpost was overrun and razed to the ground by the Dragonfang Clan, charred and severed corpses of the unfortunate soldiers standing guard littering the ground, an assortment of Grogar looting the dead for weapons, ammo and other gear, some even fighting over who would be able to feast upon the charred flesh, just the way they like it.

At the center of the frenzied mob was a tall imposing Highborn Grogar, a well-muscled brute of a beast, who had a strong resemblance to the Warchief Argon, and for good reason, he wa his the oldest son, Nog the Scarred as he was called. He was flanked by two more Ashen Guardsmen, clad in their signature grey armor, segments of the armor painted in blood with dragon shapes.

Nog let out a loud roar as he aised his battle axe up high, all turning their eyes to him as they cheered on with unholy and beastly zeal. "I'd says that was a job well down, right boys?!?!?!" He screamed out gleefully in a graveling tone, quickly followed by cheers in unison. "That's what I wanna hear!" he said, walking forward, the mob clearing away as he thrust his axe towards the north. "This is it you bastards, time to send a message to the plainers, the Dragonfangs are not to be ignored! We're gonna burn it all, and in the ashes, the Ashen Devil rises! Glory to Argon! Glory to the Warchief!"

They cheered once more as they all charged out from the burnt out husk of the Outpost, the same being repeated in other locations as the warbands gather for their daily incursion into UPC Territory.

---

---

---

---

The sun had long risen from the east to greet the lands of Japan first as the moon retreated back into the shadows, bidding its time to come out once more at night. This is how its always had been since the first humans cam to the island, since the days of the Heien Court where melancholy nobles wasted away, since the days that samurai fought each other for glory and honor, since the days that America forced Japan out of isolation, since the days that the great wars had brought on the first act of nuclear immolation that had used Japan as its first live testing ground, since the days that the bombs fell and the old world melted away in fire. And now it rises first over Fuso.

Emperor Shou was already awake as the rising sun greeted him, servants waddling around, pushing carts around to the various major characters of the Imperial Palace complex built on Mount Fuji. He stood on the balcony of the upper levels, the breeze blowing around his silk robes in like soft sakura petals in spring. Here he stood above a new Japan, created by the great Empress Himiko the Golden Sun Queen as he lorded over the new capital of Meiji; the low murmurs of a city rousing from slumber could be heard as he peered over the railing.

Another day was about to begin and he was already running through in his mind. More diplomatic missions to the Han, some more tours around town, arrangement of finances... and the question of ONI. Shou sighed as a servant brought him his morning tea, a single sip and he felt his spirits improve. Gyokuro tea, isn't it? He thought to himself, the light, sweet aromatic tea made of leave treated with the utmost care filled his body, accepting the blessing of the drink.

"Your holiness." a voice came from behind Shou as he turned around to face the white-clad Prime Minister Niyoma, they bowed as a sign of mutual respect, Niyoma gracefully denying Shou's offer of tea as he cleared this throat for some serious talk, "I believe there is something you must know of."

"More pirates?" Shou responded, praying to the Himiko that it wasn't what he dreaded the most.

"No, our shore cannons have been able to repel their attacks as of late."

"Youkai incursions?"

"IRFA has been doing a good job at fighting them back and defending our people."

"Then what is it? Speak."

Shou's jaw dropped slightly as he drew a sharp breath as he heard Niyoma's resopnse. He had expected it to be such, there was no need for such dramatic shock, but yet it never failed to do exactly that. From his aged lips, Niyoma had spoken the one word that caused the winds to shift, "ONI".

Placing his cup down, Shou walked to the balcony railing and rested an arm on it, craddling his head from the hand the stretched from the layers of silk, "What is it Gendao wants this time?"

"He says he just want to tell you that his projects are coming along nicely but he would like more support behind them."

Shou lazily shot his hand into the air and within seconds a servant came with a check, without even looking at it he signed it. A paper worth 1.4 million yen left his palace and would eventually find its way into Gendao's hands. Hopefully this would silence that maniac for a while. Himiko knows what the hell he was making in his facilities he kept so tightly shut. Even Shou, the holy Emperor barely knew anything about what they did down there.

"Hopefully nothing horrible happens, this is money that I could be putting towards better things than shady operations in Himiko knows where."

"That makes two of us Shou."

---

---

Hiro Hihato awoke to a shimmering dawn as the light filtered through his window, the soft cloud that was his bed begged for him to stay and be wrapped in his warm blanket, but his alarm beckon as an all too familiar song played. As if he was a giant waking up from a thousand year slumber, Hiro felt himself dragging each one of his heavy limbs from his craddle as they slammed on to the wooden floor. After what seemed like another eternity, all of his limbs were depressingly stolen away from the comforts of his bed and upright, his arm reaching out towards the sound of song to turn it off.

Tramping his way down the hall, the boy went through all the procedures that any high schooler living by himself in an apartment did. Dutifully, Hiro brushed his teeth, washed his face brushed his unruly brown hair and went to the main area of his lodging for breakfast. However, instead of eggs and cereal, he got a nude girl lying on his couch.

Hiro thought about this for a second as he looked at the girl. She was beautiful, unworldly almost, but she was marred by a hideous wound. Around across her right shoulder was was a tightly wrapped bandage soaked in a dark crimson that seemed to almost crystalize with the bandage. There was no doubt this was some sort of bullet or blade wound, a nasty one if the blood was anything to go off of. Hiro spotted clothing messily thrown under the girl as his first aid kit had its contents eviscerated across the coffee table, signs of self-administered medical aid no doubt.

The girl shifted in her sleep, prompting Hiro to jump a little, he thought of what he should do but was interrupted by an outbreak of deep thought.

The boy paused for a second.

Then another second.

And then it hit him.

"What the hell is with this anime-like situation?!"

Washington DC, "Cruskies tavern."

Charlotte found her self alone in a dimly lit booth. Above her was a Television sitting on a shelf playing the news while another showed a shameless copy of what used to be American football of the late 20th century. All around her was the sound of preparation for a nightly rush as bus boys cleaned and waiters and waitresses prepared flatware, All while the Queens guard scrutinized every persons movement. The owners were pleased that Charlotte frequented this place for a drink and food but the servers hated it, hated having to get around those black suited guards. They did appreciate that Charlotte always came before peak time though so the animosity wasn't -as- bad as it could be.

As she sat alone in the booth, a well dressed middle aged male approached. He was the definition of tall dark and handsome. His voice was masculine yet peaceful. There was no real emotion in his eyes though, a very serious fellow.

"May I?" he said.

"By all means, take a seat." she replied.

The man cleared his throat and leaned forward, "Charlotte, is it done?"

Charlotte cringed and leaned back in her seat. "Yes, he is going for it under the guise of overthrowing a dictator." she said, almost with a hint of sadness an without a pause, his emotionless response, "Excellent." seemed to further her sadness.

"You've yet to tell me what it is in the 'Brazillian Federation' you seek. And it being so close to the Brazillian Republic, this could cause some real tension." She replied, showing some real concern at this point.

"We have confirmed reports of Focilite growing in the region." he said.

"What is Focilite." was her simple reply.

"Focilite is a..." He paused and looked around before leaning in close. "Focilite is an alternative fuel for nuclear energy, one which emits far less radiation."

She piqued a brow, "So we are going to invade a nation, harvest this resource... then what."

He smirked, showing the first emotion of his visit, "Well, that is up to your brother. He is the one doing the invading."

Charlotte frowned, "I suppose he is."

---- That evening, Kings residence.

Theodore found himself pacing back and forth, staring out of the window. "Where is she at." he said, speaking of his sister. His wait was not long though as she walked into the building. He was quick to greet, "Charlotte! glad to have ya back. I've prepared my generic invitations to the party."

Charlotte did her best to sound excited, "Very good brother, I assume you addressed some to the Grogar as well?"

Theodore gave a smug look then smiled, "Only the most violent ones. I figure we'd need a show."

His sister made her way to a large couch and sat lightly upon it. Theodore however wasn't as gentle as he plopped himself deep into the cushion beside her. Charlotte turned to him, "Brother, I have been thinking and I honestly believe this is not the time for a celebration, especially with the liberation of Brazil plan being underway."

Theodore shook his head, "Sis, seriously, it's my birth day. Every year I've invited select leaders from around the world, just like when they invite I go." He smiled again, stretching his arms and yawning, "It'd be outta place to stop just for a fight and such."

"Theodore." She said, but was cut off.

"Great, I know it's serious when she calls me by my first name. Look... Charlotte... I am going through with this with or without your consent. I merely wanted to know if there was anyone you wouldn't want me to invite."

Charlotte laid her face into her palms before taking a deep breath. Her voice was shaky as this confrontation wasn't what she wanted, "Theodore, Damn it. You listen here, This is not something to be taken lightly. You have many preparations to do in regards to this invasion. Yes, it is a party you've wanted for an entire year. Yes, you believe every one in this world loves you but you have to open your eyes. This is a serious event."

Theodore was surprised by his sisters outburst, something he was not used to at all, "Woah now, calm down. Sorry." he said, trying his hardest to diffuse her anger. "Look, I'll call it off. Nothing has been sent anyway." He sharpened his gaze at her, "I know you're gonna be pissed but I have already issued the order to invade. The Generals are planning it now and naval forces are already heading to cuba now."

She wasn't mad though, some how she knew he would go ahead and do it. His impulsive behavior had never been a problem before because Charlotte was always there to put out the fires. Seems this would be the case again. "Alright, So you've went ahead and issued an invasion. Did you bother telling the people? I'm sure they, and the world would love to know why you're attacking a sovereign nation."

Theodore smiled, "They attacked us first." he said proudly. "A certain general among their population sent fighters over our base in cuba, dropped a few bombs. All in the past hour!" Charlotte stood up, "Well then this is an act of war!"

He motioned for her to sit back down. He knew she was excited as this could've been a legitimate out for this plan she had instigated. "No no, this man was a long time NAU friend. Well, not friend but he was promised citizenship and refuge."

Charlotte sat back down and gave a concerned look, "Was?"

"Well, it turns out he was found dead. Strangled or some such."

She was shaking her head in confusion. "So let me get this straight. You had him attack us, then had him killed?"

Theodore leaned back, "Yep."

"How many people other than you and the general know about this." she said.

"One. well, two with you." he said, "But I can trust you both. The other is the man who killed the general."

Charlotte was frustrated to say the least but was starting to see a way out of this mess. "Brother, I think it is time we took the diplomatic approach and calm this whole thing down. Maybe we were hasty."

Theodore began gently rubbing his chin, "Well, It's a little late for that." He said, pointing towards a muted television. With the simple press of a button the room filled with the shaken words of a reporter expressing sheer terror at the attack that had just happened not even an hour ago. Within moments, the uproar of a now fanatically angered population could be heard through the streets and the sound of scrambling fighters could be heard in the distance. Charlotte sighed and with so many thoughts racing, one prevailed over all,

"What have I done."

New Brasilia
Capital City of the NBR
The city of New Brasilia lies on Eastern most island in the Amazon Sea. The city is the largest in all of the NBR, boasting a population of 5 million people. New Brasilia is the federal capital of the NBR, and inside it lies the former castles of the Eduarez dynasty that once ruled the Empire of Brazil and the home of current President Pedro Orelo Caraveles.

"Now listen, we need to begin the revolution in the Brazilian Federation soon, if we don't, we'll lose out on the reconquest of former Brazilian territories." states Pedro.

"You have no proof that the NAU is planning anything, and even if we start the revolution, what if it fails horribly?" says Carables, the closest advisor and childhood friend of Pedro.

"Then we blame it on the nation that has the best reason of expanding into the Brazilian Federation other than us."

"And the international community would believe us why, I mean we don't have the cleanest history of warfare."

"Because they know that the NAU is expansion happy, just look at what happened to Cuba and Panama."

"Oh yes, because we totally haven't conquered anything."

"What I'm saying Carables, is that we need to do this soon, no matter the possible consequences. We have all the cells planted around their nation, so we are in the best possible position to begin the revolution."

"Fine Pedro, but if this backfires, we know who to blame." Carables angrily replies.

"Okay than Carables, but I'm not done with you. Do you have any plans on how to stop a possible war against the Réptil Diablo?"

"Currently no, they are growing reckless and you can obviously see that some nations are willingly to support them in a war against us to further there power and influence in South America."

"Oh yes, because who in their right mind would attempt a war against us?" asks Pedro

"I don't really want to mention any names, but you know who."

"Whatever Carables, go give the order for the revolution to spark in the Brazilian Federation and begin having all News Sources begin speaking of the revolution."

Carables nods and walks out the door.


5 Hours Later
Article in NBR Daily
Revolution in Brazilian Federation
Inside of the Brazilian Federation a revolution of those who state that they are fighting against the dictatorship of the current administration inside of their nation. President Pedro has come out and stated that he supports the cause of the rebels and that he hopes they can bring freedom to the people of their nation. He has also stated that he would be willing to supply the rebels inside of the Brazilian Federation with arms if needs be.

It was for good reason that Shanghai was known as the "Capital of the Pacific". Since the Han Zisunguo first reclaimed Shanghai Island, it's position facing outward across the vast canvas of ocean only worked to solidify Han domination over the nations across the sea. It was a daily occourance to see the navy running drills in the waters 20 km due north of the Island. The crucial position of Shanghai worked not only to bring out ships, but to take them in as well. The Capital of the Pacific must have a glorious palace, and what better palace could there be than the technological wonder that was Shanghai Harbor. Truly, the harbor captured the zeitgeist of the Great Han. A massive structure, designed and assembled by the greatest engineers of the Han State. Beyond the docks was an impressive steel structure, truly a modern building, but as with all things in the Han, calling back to the glorious days that the people tried to rebuild in this tattered world. Within the building was the standard fare for foreign processing, customs officers, processing departments to make sure the cargo met the stringent standards of the Han State.

Zhao Rongshi was, in all but his ethnicity as a White Hui, a Christian Han, a normal government official. Today he had been slated for overtime work, dealing with clerical error that resulted in a shipment of oats originating in the neighboring republic of Fuso arriving without the proper documentation. Rongshi was to stay and work to on contacting the company of origin and obtaining the lost information. It was lucky that the freight company did in fact have documentation of the source, and Rongshi got set to work requesting their assistance in recovering the lost documents to direct the shipment to it's destination. Until then, Rongshi would be assigned to this case until it was solved. Seemingly doing all he could do today, he as met with a surprise visitor.

"Excuse me," the man spoke, "I'm here about an appointment my employers arranged"

Rongshi perked himself up, shaking off any traces of frustration in his previous pursuits as he met the guest. "Yes sir, I am able to help with that." Fingering through the scheduling book before coming across an appropriate name, "Ah, Mr. Tao, you're with the human freight group, yes?"

"That is correct, I was sent to talk about organizing a dual shipment with your company using this and two other locations; Xi'an and Chengdu. I was told that you could handle it here at the main office?"

"Of course, of course," I just need to know the origin of your shipment and where their destinations."

"We will be coming from the railway out of Da Kulun in Mongolia. We'll undergo processing at the Xi'an office before splitting into the two groups, one going to Chengdu, out through Tibet and to Lahore,Punjab; the other will come here and be shipped by sea to Hawaii."

"Are their any special requests?"

"My employers recommend that extra security be placed with the shipment; we're dealing with captured enemy soldiers."

Rongshi felt a slight chill, knowing immediately who these men were. Not a week ago, the Mongol coalition lead an attack on the outpost of Ka La Kulun. It was obvious who had come out with the upper hand, as the walls of Ka La Kulun stand tall as her would be destroyers find their way to exile or worse.

"As well, we are told that, whatever cargo does not sell in Hawaii, to dump on any unclaimed Polynesian Island for disposal"

"Very well, sir. I've put in the order for your shipment."

...

CEO Amélie Rakotomalala stepped onto the stage with a sombre expression. She was a middle-aged woman, forty years old now, and her chestnut-colored face was beginning to wrinkle. Her black hair had a very slight shade of red to it, but now had a few streaks of gray as well, and was tied back in a long and stately ponytail. She wore a black skirt suit with a green-and-red tie: the colors of Madagascar. Applause greeted her stately figure as she reached the podium, and she waited for it to die down, folding her hands together gently. And then she spoke the first words:

"Two hours ago, a terrible tragedy struck the North American Union," she said, taking a deep breath as she finished that sentence. "While we cannot say with certainty what the death count is, this unprovoked attack by the Brazilian Federation has destroyed the families of at least fifty soldiers and citizens. Let us have a moment of silence in honor of those honorable dead."

The crowd fell silent. The Chairwoman bowed her head. The crowd followed suit. Sixty seconds passed. The Chairwoman raised her head.

"The bombings today were an act of murder. Such unrestrained, unwarranted aggression is a threat to all free peoples. Such needless violence begets more needless violence. It makes humans turn on each other, makes us escalate violence. It makes humans forget that we are all citizens of the same, ultimate state: our good and green Earth." Ms. Rakotomalala fell silent again, letting those words sink in, staring out at the cameras and at the crowd. "And that," she said with a sad smile, "is why Malagasy Enterprises was founded. We do not sail for the future which is the past. We aim to steer this great nation, and through this nation the world, to brighter shores.

"And so it is I must answer the very pressing question: 'How is it that Malagasy Enterprises will bring us to that gentler future?' And to that I answer: 'By the light which we cast.'" As a map of the Americas was shot onto the white screen behind the Chairwoman via projector, and she turned slightly so her body faced it. "The Republic of Brazil, led by the honorable President Caraveles, has promised to support the freedom fighters trying to overthrow the very government in the Brazilian Federation that attacked the North American Union. And from the north will come North American vessels and planes to combat those twisted men who thought it well to strike at innocent people. President Caraveles and King Theodore have good aims, but we must not forget the civilians who will be harmed in the crossfire, the same civilians who have suffered under the rule of despots for far too long.

"So, Malagasy Enterprises has deemed it necessary to join in the Liberation of Federated Brazil," said the CEO, bringing her clenched fist over her chest. "We will take every step necessary to guarantee the people of northern Brazil an independent government with a fair election to vote for their new brand of government. Whether they choose to create a democracy or follow the same path you gentle Malagasy people have found in our Enterprise is up to them; but if the Union, the Republic of Brazil, and Malagasy Enterprises work together, we can ensure a brighter tomorrow for those beleaguered souls in Federated Brazil.

"So let us thank God for this opportunity to better the people of North Brazil - no, the people of Earth - and let me thank you, my friends, for trusting Malagasy Enterprises to invest in our collective future."

CEO Amélie Rakotomalala stepped off the stage to the sound of resounding applause.

---

"That," mused Mr. Nirina, "should keep the other interested parties on their toes. Do you always aim to impress?"

"Please," answered the Chairwoman with a smirk, "I never aim to impress. It's a mere byproduct of my work."

Alex Nirina chuckled as they sped away in a van from Rebirth Square. He was the CMO - the Chief Military Officer - so the matter of guaranteeing the independence of North Brazil was a matter of utmost importance to him. It meant more work for him, of course, but he knew how important it was to keep any one power in the Americas from growing too strong. If the balance of power became too uneven, well...

"It's a bold move, keeping that piece of land out of both Union and Republic hands while talking about working together as a planet. You won't make friends with either of them that way. I have to ask..." Alex turned toward Amélie and cocked an eyebrow. "Do you have a bigger plan?"

"Well, I certainly don't plan to conquer that place for us, if that's what you're asking." Amélie reached inside her jacket, removing a small box of sweets. She popped one free and plopped it into her mouth, chewed, and then added after swallowing, "We're known to be open to negotiations, however. We are, after all, a business. If, say, we were to keep either nation from gaining total control of the region, then were to withdraw once the nation's 'independence' were secured - say, after they held an election to merge with one of the two nations..."

"Ah!" The CMO snorted, folding his arms over his chest. "So, we're going to sell the land, then."

"But of course! And if neither side offers us a lucrative enough deal, we'll simply ensure the elections in newly freed North Brazil are fair. They'll be independent, grateful, and thus a good trading partner. And," added Ms. Rakotomalala with a raise of her finger, "the international community would look unfavorably on anyone trying to disrupt efforts to help a tyrannized people live freely, no?"

Alex shook his head and laughed. "You are shameless."

"I have nothing to be ashamed about," retorted Amélie with a practiced, political smile. "I'm just a proponent of world peace."

---

...

Blood and bullets were everywhere.

From behind trees and beneath trenches did the Peacekeepers and Congolese Guard paint the verdant jungle red and black. Black clouds rose from smoking craters where men had once stood. Lifeless bodies littered the ground like trash, their guns useless in their cold hands. Peacekeeper platoons inched forward, taking what ground they could. Some of them were led by sergeants now, as several lieutenants had been taken out by sniper fire. Elsewhere a handful of ogres charged through machine gun fire and ducked under rockets as they bulldozed through enemy defenses only to be taken out unceremoniously by a bomb from the sky. It was chaos.

And in the center of all the chaos was Gerardo Asturias, Knight-Captain of the Chevaliers.

Gerardo strode on forth in his Iklwa battle suit, unleashing Hell on the Congolese bunker ahead. One, two shots from his autocannon were enough burst it open like a tin can; a fiery jet from his flamethrower did the rest. Gerardo pitied the men screaming inside the shell of a bunker, but he kept his voice level and business-like as he spoke to his team: "The bunker is down; I repeat, the way is clear. Get the tanks rolling in here now."

"Copy, Captain," answered his lieutenant, her voice crackling through Gerardo's headset. "Peacekeepers alerted. Permission to rendezvous with treads, over."

"Permission granted. Lead them in through the gasp and take out any planes that get near 'em. Ratrema, Leon, you two are with me."

"Affirmative!" snapped Leon.

"Ten-Four," rumbled Ratrema. The fight was on.

The Knight-Captain led his men through the thickest of the fighting, riddling enemy infantry with machine guns and blowing up an ammo stockpile with a well-placed autocannon round. Ratrema was more than happy to use his rocket launchers to take down two enemy fighter craft as they sped over the jungle. They crashed with satisfying screeches. Leon was more than happy to focus his fire on the sole tank that rode up to challenge them. He crippled it by shredding its treads with heavy machine guns, then ran in close and twisted the tank's barrel with the hands of his suit. Its crew was easy pickings after that.

Asturias twisted his neck from side to side with loud popping noises. It was going to be a long day.

---

...

The Malagasy transport vessel snailed its way into the port. It had heavy and dangerous cargo, the sort that rolled over trees and blasted heavy shells at ugly things. A dozen HK-27 Lehels, six outdated and six modern warmachines, were deposited into Separatist hands for nary an American dollar. There was no need to ask for payment. Malagasy Enterprises was, after all, invested in helping these moderate rebels achieve their goal of independence.

Ambassador Erica, of course, had a suggestion to deliver to Dominic Williams. She had to convince the rebel leader to push the Grogar tribes to the north out as quickly as possible so as to reduce the number of fronts the would-be nation had to worry about. She also, of course, had to ascertain what sort of further military support would be necessary to achieve that goal quickly. Knowing what tools were right for the job was perhaps more important than having any tools at all.

Of course, there was the small problem of hungry Cascadia looking for any excuse to snatch up land from what was once the United Plains Coalition. Finding a way to delay their inevitable attack on the Separatists was integral.

One problem at a time, thought Erica as she strode on toward Williams' headquarters.

His hands gripped tight the marble railing, and it seemed all the world lay under his gaze. Below him untold numbers went about their lives, each one with hopes and aspirations, and each one suffocating under the weight of their peers. Packed like sardines into the claustrophobic streets of Vanver the throng suffered as one, and they looked to him for succor. The weight of the expectation was crushing. Year after year he felt the burden of their hope, and year after year he felt the agony of failure. How was it they loved him? How could any praise a man whose best efforts still fell hopelessly short? With a sigh Joseph Mannerheim leaned into the balconies railing.

It seemed every solution he’d reached was insufficient. The new housing projects he’d put to the last Prime Minister had helped, but soon enough there was nowhere to build. The breakthrough in hydroponics he’d funded had staved off mass starvation, but what was the point if all it meant was a shortage of everything else? The last situation reports were unequivocal. He wanted to rage, to scream, but time had long disabused him of his youthful fire. He regretted nothing that had been done, for it had been needed. He blamed nobody, for they had all given their best. Yet still, Cascadia was being crushed under her own weight. Her shining capital of Vanver was a city naturally constrained by geography, and yet even it had grown inconceivably large under the tide of refugees fleeing the UPC. The nation’s very core could bear no more.

Yet, he knew there was still hope. The people loved him, they loved him because even if their King had failed to save them today, they had faith that one day he could. This was a truth he could not deny, and if their trust and hope rested on his shoulders, he would not betray them. So it was for this reason he had come here today, to the highest reaches of the grand shining white tower that housed the Cascadian Parliament. Three years ago the might of Cascadia’s military had been entrusted to him in this place, and it was with that strength he would finally put the nation’s greatest struggle to rest. If the streets had become cramped, the houses full, more space would simply have to be made.

The telltale creaking of double doors sounded from the lavish room behind him and stirred Joseph from his rumination. Turning in time to see the Prime Minister entering alongside a number of cabinet members and generals Joseph could only smile, the time had finally arrived. Dusting off his grey jacket the King walked in from the balcony to meet them, loosely pulling the outcrops glass door shut behind him. Outstretching his hand Joseph greeted the party, “Prime Minister Schmidt, ministers of the cabinet, it has been far too long.”

Meeting his old friend’s smile Schmidt returned the gesture and shook the Kings hand, “Your majesty, I am loathe to say I must agree. These times have been trying for all of us though, and as much as we dislike it, I fear social gatherings have taken a backseat… Speaking of, shall we be seated? I have a feeling this will be a long meeting to be on our feet.”

With a chuckle Joseph gestured to the long table at the room’s center, waiting until the assembled had each found a place before taking his own at the tables head. With a cough to clear his throat he started, “Gentlemen, while I trust we all have a reasonable idea of why we’ve meet here today I feel it best to recap. One week ago an internal report was issued by our Ministry of Justice in collaboration with the Ministry of Domestic Affairs, and needless to say its contents were troubling. As I’m sure we’ve all read, the report—citing scarcity and overpopulation as the cause—predicted that while the government remains poplar, we stand one unexpected shortage away from mass rioting. Such riots, if they were to occur, have been predicted to start in the new developments and among the refugee non-citizens.”

Perking up from the left row of chairs one of the ministers spoke, “If they say it would start among the non-citizens, why should we be concerned? The ingrates who incite it, if it happens at all, can just be deported.”

Casting a cold glare at minister for their interruption Joseph replied, “Because, minister, if we were to crack down upon this theoretical riot, we would lose the confidence of the Plainers. If that happened our image will be tarnished irrevocably in their eyes, and we would risk open insurrection. You mustn’t forget they compromise nearly a quarter of our population these days… Besides, this report merely points toward the potential symptoms of a larger issue; we’ve run out of room. The UPC has failed, and those who’ve sought refuge here are like to stay here. They won’t leave, they can’t leave, and now we have nowhere to put them. Save hollowing out the mountains there is only one solution to that, we finally act on the Reclamation Plan.”

At that the room fell totally silent, and not even the rhythmic tapping of Schmidts pen could be heard any longer. The first one to speak was the Minister of Justice, the very individual who’d penned the report, “Your majesty, are you certain that’s wise? I cannot deny the urgency, nor can I refute your conclusion, but the militaries attention is still concentrated on the pacific. I’m no general but I imagine it would take months to prepare for Reclamation.”

At that Schmidt nodded, “He isn’t wrong your majesty, though I must presume you know that, given it was you who insisted that we prepare for further pacific campaigns. Tell us, why the change of heart?”

With a scratch of his beard and a frown of consternation Joseph turned to the Prime Minister, “I was aware of the issues at home when I set that policy, but it is to my shame I underestimated their extent. This latest report is proof of that. Still, this may be a blessing in disguise, after all if it takes months to reposition those are months we have to plan and recruit. The Plainers may not be citizens yet, but if we sell this campaign as an action to drive out to Grogar we may yet be able to make them as loyal as any natural born Cascadian and provide them homes in one blow.”

Looking up for the first time in the meeting the Defense minister, Tristan Bishop spoke, “His majesty speaks true, we would have needed that time anyway. While I understand some of you may have concerns about launching a hostile action so close to our own soil, what other solutions can you offer?”

A few grumbled, Schmidt nodded, but there was no reply. Smiling Joseph stood, “So are we in agreement? That the Reclamation Plan, to seize Northern California by force, is the best solution to our dilemma?”

Around the room ayes both enthusiastic and begrudging sounded, and Cascadia set its pace once more to the drums of war.

There was a flicker of tension, and then an embrace. It was close. Agata gripped her brother tightly, with one arm over his shoulder and the other around his torso, as Kezier Maximor III did the same. They stood, bodies pressed together, for a few moments, their tall, well-built bodies, imposing in most contexts, dwarfed by the Keizer’s Residence at the heart of Galgoria. The Galgorian Channel, which exploded into an intricate network of smaller canals around the city itself, followed all the way to the palace’s entrance, if you were to trace it on a map. Needless to say, Krijgsguard-manned checkpoints prevented anybody from simply sailing up to the throne, but the symbolism was clear: the Keizer was the heart of the city, which was itself the heart of the Jodesian Rijkdom. The notion that all roads might lead to Rome had died long before a Jodesian could proudly scoff at it.

“How was your journey?” asked the Keizer, as the two made their way up the grand steps to the entrance hall.
“Wet,” Agata turned her palm up to the sky, and narrowed her eyes, “If it begins to rain, I will get back on that boat this instant.”
“Then we must hurry inside.”

The Keizer reached out an open, meaty hand to the top of her back and gently applied pressure. Out of spite, she stalled for a moment. The Keizer was her brother, and she loved the man as both, but she had not been off the canal sprinter for more than five minutes before she had been reminded of the other great reason that was happier in the Westerijk.

---

The Keizer had had the kitchens lay on an informal dinner - just the two of them, and the practically invisible staff. By now, they had retired to the drawing room, where each puffed on heady, thick cigars, which Agata had brought with her as a souvenir. She had not bothered with formal gifts; the notion of bringing an emperor a gift from within his own dominion seemed superfluous at best and insulting at worst.

“And how is the Regentes?” asked the Keizer, casually.

The brother and sister each released a vast cloud of smoke through which they locked eyes. Agata reached into her breast pocket for the letter and handed it across the lounge to him. She had wondered how long it would take him to ask, and now carefully observed his fingers as he pried the rich envelope open and ruptured the waxy seal. For the next few minutes, he sat in the drawing room and read. Agata sipped her brandy as patiently as she could muster.

Jodesian names were tenacious. Agata was named for Agator II, her great uncle and former Keizer. The city in which she now found herself was named for the Keizer that founded it. When the siblings’ mother, one of the few female Keizers, had passed away, there came an influx of newborns called Marmora for her, or Maximor for her successor, as the namesakes took on a sudden popular relevance through absence and novelty respectively. And now, Keizer Maximor III, with a grand portrait of himself visible behind his wingback chair, was reading a letter from Regentes Maximor-Alfona, who had taken on his name in addition to her own following her appointment.

He finished reading, his face not betraying a hint of emotion, and returned the letter to its envelope - just as there came a knocking at the door.

“Come!”
“I apologise to interrupt, Your Highness,” a member of the Keizer’s personal staff entered the room, scrutinised from two angles by hard eyes through the haze, “The North American Union has been attacked.”

There was a pause, in which the Keizer and his sister looked at one another.

“Have you summoned the Rijksraad?”
“They are coming as we speak.”

The chamber was a vast, circular room, around whose periphery ran a stone colonnade, intricate designs carved into the hefty rock. Where other nations’ artistic histories would perhaps have led to imposing grotesques and gargoyles, the Jodesian Rijkdom had never been one for effigies or caricatures; while portraits of the Jodan dynasty and secondary respected families did now proliferate across the small empire, they, Agata knew, were inherently modern, and frequently backdated. She and the Keizer were both painfully aware that the beige landscape in Jodesia was figurative as well as literal, and his policy of which she most approved was refracting the jewel of the Westerijk across the Atlantic and into Jodesia, to build, if belatedly, a heritage befitting a modern nation based on more than just the diversion of water.

This was, of course, difficult to accomplish without giving the impression that Jodesian culture could in any way be improved by any other process than the refinement of what was already there, and therefore it was no surprise that the comparatively laconic chamber of the Rijksraad, an echoing bunker of a hall beneath the Keizer’s living quarters, had not yet been touched by that ray of verve and colour. Comparable architecture in the Westerijk, built far more recently than the heart of Galgoria, took on many modern and American influences from its neighbours, while maintaining the strong spirit of home. Although Jodesia had some way to go, some modernity had nevertheless crept in: Keizer Maximor III was the a thoroughly modern ruler, at home on his throne in military regalia, far-evolved from the crownèd kings that once held court with sceptres and ermine, even on the same throne. Even now, he was reading and re-reading the letter from the Regentes of the Westerijk, only periodically glancing up at the assembled council.

“The Rijksraad is in session,” announced the Keizer, to Agata’s left, as the last attending member of the Rijksraad took their own, less grand, seat. The thirty seats of the Rijksraad, including the Keizer’s throne, were arranged radially, a quaint tradition that once indicated that each member of the council had a voice equal to that of the Keizer, rather than a supporting role in the overall chorus. Of course, the most important seats were occupied by various members of the Jodan family and only just fewer than half had at least some blood connection to the Keizer to speak of.

“I’m sure you have all heard the news,” the Keizer looked around at the assembly, “That Nationalist Brazil has struck our ally, the North American Union, in an attack of unprecedented cowardliness. Even as we speak, fellow peaceful nations around the world mourn the NAU’s loss, and we mourn with her. I have already sent a missive on the behalf of the whole of the Jodesian Rijkdom to express our sorrow and our support.”

“Hear, hear,” came the discordant voices from around the chamber.

“It is worth reminding ourselves at this time, particularly those of us with our feet firmly on our home soil, that the Westerijk is not just the neighbour of the North American Union, but her friend, and were the Westerijk not happily under our stewardship, it would happily be under theirs. One of Keizerin Marmora’s finest accomplishments,” there was a murmuring of unclear but respectful utterances at the mention of her name, “Was to maintain the peace of the Westerijk following its contested allegiance such that it could flourish to both nations’ benefit, and that the Jodesian Rijkdom and the North American Union reached a peaceable solution is a shared heritage of which we must all be proud.

“Therefore, it is my considered opinion that the Jodesian Rijkdom must not merely be the NAU’s friend in her time of grief, but her staunch and loyal ally in however it is that she chooses to mend her wounds and ensure,” the Keizer stroked his thick, dark, beard, giving his words due consideration, “That further acts of aggression are sufficiently discouraged.”

“Would this support extend to the deployment of military aid, Your Highness?” asked Raadslied Jeron, uncertainly.

“If that is what is required, then the answer will be yes.”

There was a pause, and his words gave way to a moment’s silence. The Jodesian Rijkdom had not deployed troops in almost two decades.

Raadslied Jeron, to his credit, respectfully persisted; “What of the Treaty of New Vaduz, Your Highness?”

“May I, Keizer Maximor?” Agata lightly raised her forearm off the arm of her chair, the languidity of the motion giving way at the wrist, her first finger pointing directly upwards, with the others tightly restrained by a powerful thumb to gently, but firmly, draw attention to herself. The Keizer nodded, “The Treaty of New Vaduz simply does not apply to the Westerijk. The Westerijk follows Jodesia’s policy of military minimalism only for the sake of the … sensibilities of our European neighbours. This does not mean it is bound by the same terms, nor do those terms apply to the non-military, purely domestic Rijksguard.”

“What do you have to say to this, Jeron?” asked the Keizer, with all the grace of King Solomon and the steely gaze of a prosecutor.

“With all respect to Raadslied Agata, I am simply suggesting that much caution is due.”

“With mutual respect, Raadslied Jeron,” said Agata, without awaiting the Keizer’s permission to speak, “The implication that his Highness may act rashly speaks little of your trust our nation’s leader. The Westerijk has the resources, the reason, and, insofar as we should respect that Treaty, the justification. We cannot abandon our allies on one side of the Atlantic at the beck and call of a twenty year-old piece of paper imposed on us on this side. Quite the opposite: perhaps now is the time to prove on the global stage that Jodesia is an outward-looking, modern nation that deserves respect.”

“Deserves, Agata - not demands.”

Raadslied Jeron looked surprised by his own words as every head around the circle turned to face him. With a voice like bottled thunder, the Keizer asked whether anybody else had any reservations, which, it appeared, they did not.

---

“Agata.”

The Keizer reached out and touched his sister’s arm as she made to leave the chamber. The other members of the council had already filed out, having given their consent in so far as their consent was relevant.

“Thank you for your support.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” Agata knew there was more to come.
“In order to best offer my support to King Theodore, I have decided to travel to the Westerijk. From there, I can also best supervise whatever support it is that we can offer the Union. I hope this doesn’t… put your nose out of joint.”
“If that is what you think is for the best, brother. This is about Jodesia and her allies, after all.”
“It is.”

Even as they wound their way back upstairs from the council chamber, Agata could not help wonder whether her brother had Jodesia or her allies in mind at all, or whether she might have been better to throw that letter into the sea.