Stockholm, Sweden

Though the sun sat triumphantly in a clear sky overlooking the warm and vibrant day Birgit once again found himself in the Riksdag’s uninteresting and distasteful offices meeting with the conservative party’s equally unappealing leadership. With a sigh Birgit gave a glance out the window on the side of the room at the green trees and multicolored flowing plants in the outside square, unfortunately this just pushed the point of how remarkable a day it was outside and made the experience of sitting there worse yet. Looking forward to the conservatives again as if he were paying attention Birgit blindly drew random and haphazard lines on his notepad, a relief from the grinding and scathing voices presented to him. Though he was not a man who ignored others Birgit had grown all too tired of these meetings which had been a constant plague throughout his presidency. Flanked by two members of his cabinet Birgit was once again facing the two most powerful members of the once mighty Conservative party. Birgit tuned into the conversation and placed his pen down. However it quickly seemed apparent that this was a mistake as the topic had not changed in forty minutes, though it never had before so this was not remarkable.

The older man sitting at the helm of a grand oak desk placed with back to an empty wall in the drab office was Albert Cen; the elected leader of the Conservative party. An older man Cen had a signature green tie and a striped suit like some mafia goon of a bygone era. Why he dressed like this was left up to question, still regardless of dress the man the behind it was dangerous. Birgit tuned in just as the old man got to his point, “-as you can see gentlemen if you continue to refuse our amendments, once again my party will be forced to fight you on this bill.”

Birgit finally opened his mouth after overturning his notepad to avoid the embarrassment of not having listened to the entire meeting; he began with a sigh and followed with, “Albert, do you ever tire of this nonsense? You drag me over to the Riksdag every single month on whatever day is most inconvenient just to tell me you will once again oppose a bill we are putting forward unless we add some nonsense about communists. You simply can’t stop any of our bills Albert, if you forgot we had a majority in the Riksdag last I checked.” Birgit, who was simply done by this point stood up and straightened his tie before continuing, “While I know this isn’t going to end any time soon I am obliged to suggest that you should learn to work with us Albert, there is no point in leaving this nation’s government divided for reasons as petty as yours.”

Albert stood up some noticeable time after Birgit, being a man of advanced age the wrinkles in his face told why he took longer. Albert responded in his dusty voice, “If only you could see the failure in this effort to reinforce the public sector without any limits Brigit. You know one of these days we might look up and mistake you for a communist yourself. Should you continue to ignore us there will eventually be repercussions… You know one day I might find out how you and your henchmen won a majority election for both the presidency and the Riksdag after trailing in polls for months.” The old man put on a distrusting face and outstretched his hand.

Birgit smiled despite his desire to smack the old fool and shook it firmly; Cen was surprisingly strong for his age shook back with equal strength. Birgit spoke up in a vaguely sarcastic tone, “Well, thank you for this Mister Cen.” Before turning and walking out with his entourage. Birgit waited until he heard the click of the door behind him before moving closer to his finance secretary, a middle aged man of mild manners, and saying in an uneasy voice, “You think they have anything this time Damian?”

Damian responded a calm voice, “Of course not, it has been two years Birgit if they had anything they would have brought it forward by now. It’s just blind threats on their own paranoia, though you should not have treated him like that, no matter how tired you are of this. Regardless you should worry less Birgit, the people love you and the country isn’t at war, more than can’t be said for much of Europe.”

Birgit shook his head and looked ahead, the secretary of the foreign affairs whom had gotten ahead of them gestured to him and Damian as they had been clearly lagging behind. Birgit hurried his pace; he couldn’t wait to get out of this poorly decorated and decrepit building that was stuffed with people of similar qualities.

Malmen Airbase, Next Day

The morning breeze greeted General Dirk Egon as he stepped out of the stuffy armoured car that had driven him to the airfield. The sun had just crested the horizon and the day had begun. The General took in the morning for a moment before walking forward towards a small delegation on the tarmac. The man immediately leading the delegation shook the Generals hand and led him on a walk down the tarmac to the tower and hangars in the distance. He began, “It’s a pleasure to see you here sir! I admit I wasn’t sure if you were coming, last time a general visited we nearly killed him. Though sir I do have to say that we warned him that the plane was… Unstable.”

The General gave a hearty chuckle and took the white gloves he was wearing off before placing them in a chest pocket on his light blue uniform that contrasted with the man’s dark grey beard. He began in a jovial tone, “No worries Dolf I heard about the incident and honestly it’s more of a joke on old Gen. Mance than your base. I am not worried about your prototypes dropping out of the sky; though do tell me if these rumors that your new prototype completed all the initial trials are true!”

Dolf exhaled in a breath of relief before responding in a more enthusiastic tone, “We intended to publish the results tomorrow but yes sir they are absolutely true. We think we finally solved the issues in the initial prototypes. If you want we can give you a demonstration sir, the new prototype will be going out soon and if nothing else it is certainly nice looking.”

The General looked more at attention on the mention of a demonstration. He immediately responded, “You could? You know came here just to oversee operations for the day but if it’s no intrusion I would be delighted.”

Dolf smiled at the news and in perhaps a rather grand fashion stood tall and spoke to the General, “Would you move a bit sir?” The General did as he was told and Dolf pulled out a flare gun from his coat, aiming the device to the sky he fired a bright red flare that was bleached tad dull by the newfound sunlight. From some distance at the hangers a similar flare was sent up in response and a few pops followed by a roar could be heard in the distance.

Dolf handed the General a pair of binoculars he had also stowed in his coat and gestured for him to watch as a bright white aircraft with blue and yellow stripes taxied out onto the runway. The plane, a propeller driven monoplane with a sleek but buff look and wings that were cut straight at the ends with two pronounced cannons on their mid sections was certainly a sight to behold. The general looking down toward the plane commented, “You certainly built a nice looking plane Dolf, so how have these successful test flights gone?”

As the plane accelerated down the runway and got closer the roaring intensified and Dolf had to raise his voice a bit to say, “Excellent sir! The pilots report great high altitude performance and impressive dive performance, we haven’t done much maneuverability testing but so far the pilots say that it’s more sluggish than a biplane but more agile than those half rate midget planes we bought in the forties!”

The General momentarily took the binoculars off his face as the plane zoomed past him and Dolf and pulled up into the sky. He asked, “As for weapons what did you come up with?” Before once again looking into the binoculars Dolf provided as the plane shrunk into a dot.

Dolf responded, now at a normal volume, “Well we put one 20mm on each wing and two 12.7 mm’s on the nose. Of course we haven’t dialled in the weapons yet so we can’t say what they can do in tandem.”
The Plane vanished from view and the General asked, “So where is it off to?”

Dolf responded simply, “Some turning and roll tests a dozen or so kilometers out, it will be back by noon. Until then shall we get around to our original business? R&D is just a short walk to the hangers now.”
The general nodded and lowered the binoculars, still gazing in the direction the plane left in spoke, “It certainly is a beauty isn’t it? Anyhow back to business you’re quite right there Dolf.”

Rio De Janeiro, Rio De Janeiro

The room was silent, a dim light illuminated the office space as a small T.V. occupied a fine dark wood coffee table. It had been the final moments Evelyn was waiting for, the moment when she would be announced as the loser or winner of the race to Presidency for her country, Brazil. Evelyn was attractive in all the right places and had this glow about her that could submit even the most stubborn of men. She had proportioned lips and a soft jaw line that was paired with a small nose. She dressed in a black knee length skirt that contoured to her frame and her long defined legs. Evelyn's hips were curvy as was the rest of her body but most of this would be hidden under a button down and black jacket. Brown eyes matched her long, thick, dark hair that had always been up in a bun or pony tail. It was the "professional" look and she had to adhere to this look for as long as she wanted to be seen as a leader and not just a baby maker.

Women in Brazil were now finding themselves on the rise when it came to careers, politics, and even military. Although still regarded as behind males within the industry, they were not far behind. The fact that she was running and running a close race for presidency showed how far Brazil had come from the rest of the world. BNNC reporter had popped on the screen as the votes were being revealed, a phone located next to the T.V. In this small dingy dim lit office began ringing and vibrating.

Without hesitation one of Evelyn's aids reached for the phone and answered it, eager, anxious, and exhausted from the waiting. The silence still floated and the tense atmosphere built even more as the head shook and nodded from the aid as he held the phone up to his ear. Slowly he placed the phone back down, "You won...we won!" The aid exploded and so did the rest of the room. Tears filled some of the faces who were in that office and a large grin slid from ear to ear on Evelyn's face. The BNNC quickly after the call reported, "We are proud to announce that President Evelyn Vera Alaverez will be the new face of our dear country Brazil!"

Some would be unhappy, while others would find this as a huge leap for Brazil in many aspects. She promised to continue the war on drugs and continue building foreign relations through trade and commerce. This would be beneficial to Brazils economy and ultimately grow its population and solidify her power within the first term. There were many things that Evelyn had planned, but not all of them were met with open arms when it came to some of those who were already in power, political or criminal.

Evelyn stood up and examined the room as everyone fell silent from the celebration of her victory.

"It is time...we only have four more weeks to prepare before the transfer of power, and then the public inauguration. Once I am officially President our plans must go into effect, immediately, even while I'm still being bombarded by the press. We need not waste anymore time...ladies, gentlemen...the administration before us was a good one, however, we must be great!"

Brasilia, Capital of Brazil four weeks after the unofficial tally

"How are you feeling?"

The sun light seemed to find its way through the cracked spaces between each blind, while a small box with a metal fan inside puttered away in a circle slowly shoving air in whatever way it could through the window and into the room. Brazil was humid, hot, and air conditioning in a lot of buildings were not as efficient as they should have been.

Evelyn had her legs crossed with her hands folded over the desk, she did not like the capital all that much, but understood that for the next 6 years, it was what she would now call home. Reality was slowly setting in as were the ideas of the mounting responsibilities she was about to gain once the transfer of power was finished. Her body upright and wrists ornamented with jewelry, but with no ring on her ring finger.

She gave herself whole to her job and the vision she has had for Brazil, letting nothing stop her to reach her goal. She once had a fiancé, who ultimately left due to her lack of accountability in the relationship. She was always traveling for work or in a meeting to rally for the next campaign. It was a life that her fiancé did not want, even if in the beginning he was understanding.

"I am fine, Carlos, shall we depart?"

"I believe so Ms. President."

A smile appeared on Carlos' face as he acknowledged her by her new title, a sense of accomplishment not only filled him as one of her advisors but also he knew it would raise Evelyn's spirits. To be reminded that she had reached the top of what this country had to offer and be the one to decide its future was worth all the sacrifices made and sacrifices that are to come.

The two exited the office building that she had been located in for about a week, her administration had already began laying down the ground work for the first year and as soon as she was placed into office, her plan would ignite almost instantly.

Brasilia, an hour after the ceremonies

It was so surreal to have a crowd of millions cheer you on while arriving to an event. Signs, banners, and more all paved with your name across them. Evelyn was the most famous female in all of Brazil and possibly her countries history and already she found herself escorted by Thiago Delgado, the commander of the BAF or Brazilian Armed Forces. He walked slightly behind her right shoulder and arms length distance away.

"Congratulations Ms. President, I apologize for the immediate summons but unfortunately time is critical and something we do not have enough of. You will be briefed upon reaching the office, there are several officials and military officers who will be up in salute upon your presence. Acknowledge them and dismiss their appropriate gesture, it will be then that I will begin the briefing and await your decision."

They had reached the double doors of a room that when opened by the Commander revealed a large conference room. It was a well decorated and neutral colored room with a very expensive wood table that had been the center piece of the entire room. At the end of the room was a projector and a wall of names with identification photos next to the names. Lines were drawn from one photo to another and a chair was left untouched for the President herself to approach and sit in.

When she entered the room, the men stood up and greeted her with respect and the salute she deserved. She was not use to the formal etiquette of being the President and had hesitated in dismissing them from their current status. Realizing once she made it to the chair that she had yet to dismiss their saltire, Evelyn nodded, dismissed them and then took to her chair.

"Commander Thiago the floor is yours, tell me why I am here." Evelyn spoke with a bit of authority in her voice, something that just kind of slid out without her realizing. It was noted and she liked the tone she used and thought it was received well. She did not sound menacing, but she sounded as though she was actually a leader of a country, her country, Brazil.

"Ms. President, these are the names of those who were identified to be at the top of one of Colombia's largest drug cartels, the Blanco Cartel. During the last administration an operation was conducted with the help of the SAC members and with approval of Colombia to find, and eliminate the drug lords stemming from Colombia. You know our history with drugs and fortunately for Brazil we had competent leaders who identified where the problems were coming from, it is the reason why Brazil is what it is today and not infested with cartels ourselves."

Evelyn cut the Commander off, not out of disrespect, but she already knew her history all too well and she just wanted to hear what all of it was leading to, "Commander, I am sorry to interrupt, but there is a reason why I am the President of Brazil, I know our countries history, I know our countries current events, and I listen to the people of Brazil. Spare me the history lesson and tell me why you brought me here, the real reason."

The commander took a second and was not prepared for such an interruption, he did not mean to offend her but he understood if the introduction was not needed.

"Yes ma'am, during this operation we removed several key figures in the cartel but never the big catch we were looking for, until now...sources have just revealed that a Felix Martinez and a Jaco Torres will be meeting in Yopal, Colombia...right outside of the city Bogota."

The commander stopped for a second and looked at his aid, quickly the aid changed the slide on the projector and up came Felix and Jaco's photo with a brief bio and location on a Colombian map.

"Felix Martinez is the weapons man that the Blanco cartel deals with, Felix moves a lot and has even been reported in Mexico from time to time. We think this is where he buys his stock, although a different investigation entirely this man has led us to Jaco Torres. Jaco is assumed to be the runner for Allen Ramos, the right hand man of Andres Blanco. We have a team ready and briefed, our plan is to observe the behaviors of both Felix and Jaco, follow Jaco back to where he is running the weapons too, and intercepting Felix before he makes it out of Yopal."

Evelyn nodded, "What of the Colombian government, do they know what's going on and what about the rest of the countries operating in Colombia apart of the SAC?"

The commander hesitated and gulped spit down his throat, he was parched and had not had water in what seemed like forever. He had been finding the new President a bit difficult to work with but was impressed with her at the same time.

"Ms. President, we have not revealed any of this, except to one man...Governor Cabrera , it is fragile and unfortunately I as many others in the Armed Forces do not feel we can trust the Colombian government in its entirety. Several leads from the first operation went missing and even some were false leads given to us by unknown sources that the Colombian government swore by. We feel that their government is nothing but a bunch of money hoarders who are paid by the cartels. Cabrera however has proved to be an asset to Brazil, he sees what Colombia can become if drugs can be contained and has helped Brazil through leading us to this very moment. As far as the other powers in the SAC, operations have decreased on all accounts and they are looking else where to spend their money."

Evelyn nodded once more and understood, she knew Colombia's history or at least enough of it to understand the struggles there when it came to politics.

"Commander, one last question before I decide, the Blanco Cartel...what makes them so different from the other large cartels operating in Colombia, I know there are several...why put so much at risk with this one? And how do we know we can truly trust Cabrera?"

Commander Thiago smiled, he would love to answer this question but instead handed it off to another official in the room who was now looking down at his notes and began spouting out information.

"Andres Blanco, leader of the Blanco Cartel has complete control over the roads and border lines that Brazil and Colombia share. If the Blanco Cartel falls, cocaine in Brazil will drop significantly, so much that small time and big time gangs in our country would have to literally alter their entire scheme for money. Blanco accounts for more than 80% of the cocaine in Brazil. If the Blanco Cartel is shut down, Cabrera will bring to light information that would end the careers of several politicians in line for Presidency. Ultimately, he has just as much as risk as we do."

The commander stepped in before another question could be asked by Evelyn, "We will be setting Cabrera up to become the next President of Colombia, if he wins, Colombia will be on the road to recovery and in our debt."

Evelyn did not know how to handle the overwhelming load of information, the last administration had so much going on and not enough time to truly finish its vision. Was it up to her to continue the vision? Was it a proper vision? Or was there a better way? She knew a lot of changes were coming to Brazil, but nothing could have prepared her for this. If everything that was mentioned happened, then Brazil would have crippled the Drug World, instead it would be dealt with at a local level. Access to the Gulf of Mexico, Pacific and Atlantic would be huge for the economy, and they would be the gate keepers of South America. If it went wrong, Evelyn surely knew she would be the first one to rise to the top of a hit list somewhere within the underground networks.

Suddenly Evelyn began to realize what power could do to someone, she came in to presidency with such naive ideas, she was now realizing that to bring Brazil to where she wanted it to be, she had to flex its muscles a bit to the world before her. Evelyn stood up from her chair and looked directly into the soul of Thiago.

"Commander Thiago, It has only been a few hours since my term began and yet you ask so much, if you fail me and you are wrong...it will end me, but I will make sure it ends you first...do not fail me, for your sake and mine."

Commander Thiago saw a change in Evelyn's demeanor and saw fire in her eyes, she had already begun to realize the responsibility of what being a President was all about. Thiago nodded and waved his hands to the officials and officers, they quickly dispersed and left the room to prepare for the upcoming events.

Yopal, Colombia

"Yes sir...yes sir...roger that commander."

The phone was placed gently back to its resting position, mounted on a machine attached to the wall of the apartment building. Six men were huddled in a small two bed room apartment that seemed to have a five degree higher temperature than the outdoor climate at all times. Poor air circulation, broken vents, and six large men did not help their case. Each room was filled with weapons, magazines, vests, and other sorts of gear that would be required for a special operations mission. Most of the time these men were dressed in civilian clothes and carried a concealed firearm rather than their standard issue rifles that typically rested in the vehicles they drove with or left back at the apartment with two officers staying behind.

Some of the men had a thick beard, one was clean shaven, and another sported the 5 o'clock shadow. These men were apart of a unit tagged 404, highly trained field operatives that reported under the Garra but worked mostly in Colombia and specifically tasked with hunting down and capturing high profile drug lords. These men had about 7 years of combat experience alone inside Colombia just in this unit.

"Alright men, bring it in."

Charlie was the senior officer and team leader in charge. The other men began walking over to Charlie and gathered around,

"I just got off the phone with Commander Thiago, he has a special assignment for our team and our team only. The other SAC countries will have no part in this which goes without saying whatever information is given and found is highly classified and confidential. Now to the fun stuff, there is a source within the Colombian government that is ready to exercise his power by giving up the politicians involved in aiding the drug rings within the country. He has also given the location of a meeting that will be taking place in Yopal, a Felix Martinez and Jaco Torres will be our persons of interest. A very detailed description has been given and I will present it to all of you at 0300. This will be the time we will be packing up and heading to the location, any questions?"

The men nodded acknowledging their senior officer and then waited for the dismissal. Once provided by Charlie, the men dispersed and began situating their gear to fit the mission. They would be convoying in a white, rusty, compact two door vehicle, and a four door sedan that looked to of been painted in the dark. Once they finished their preparations, the detailed description was then provided, packing up the cars and heading out followed quickly after.

They would head out and set up a day or so prior to the meeting. This would allow them to gather intelligence in the area and on the target building. Evelyn and the others would now have to wait in suspense until the show was finally over.

Yopal, Colombia: Moments before Felix's arrest

Felix Martinez had been feeling better about the day, from the time when he woke up in one of the hotels he stopped at along the way to the meeting his stomach was just not feeling quite right. It was a gut feeling that Felix knew to follow in all his years smuggling guns across international borders. His biggest money maker was the Blanco Cartel, hell they ran the country of Colombia. He never thought that anyone would have the balls to try and stop their number one flow of weapons.

It was only 9 blocks down when a four door car swung out in front of him and hit the breaks. Felix was angry at the shitty driving of the person in front of him and began yelling in Spanish. It was only when the first black hood was spotted that Felix knew it was over. Everything he had worked for was finished, his wife and kids would never know what happened, his last job...it would be this way, Felix thought. Pistols were being waved at him and the yelling of "Put your hands up, hands up!"

Time itself had slowed down, the movement of the hooded men seemed to have took hours before reaching his car door. One large hand gripped the lever and all Felix could do was watch, his legs could not move and his arms could not move. It was not that he had never been under gun point before, it was the fact that he knew these were not cops, they were professionals. There was no where for him to go. The door opened up and instantly time raced back into place for Felix as his head was jerked from the car and his body thrown to the ground with a knee smashing into his back. More yelling followed as a zip sound slipped through his ears while feeling a tight uncomfortable sensation around his wrists. He was zip tied, his body forced up and into a standing position. He could feel two hands gripping both biceps and walking him toward the vehicle. Felix was thrown head first into the back of the car, two men sat in the front seat and one man in the back with Felix.

The car doors all shut and the wheels spun for a second as momentum was gained and the car spun off. Felix could hear a second car spinning off and he looked in the back window, his car was following them and then a hand gripped his entire face and sent the side of his head into the plexiglas divider.

"Keep your eyes down." One of the hooded figures commanded and then a sting was felt in the back of his neck. Shortly after his eyes began to feel heavy and he drifted off into darkness.

Malmen Airbase

It had been a couple hours since the General had left and an unusual nighttime rain had hit the airbase. The prototype was on the black new tarmac outside of the R&D hangers when the skies darkened and the rain started so bringing it into the corrugated metal hanger was easy enough. Dolf watched from underneath the hanger overhang as the plane was pulled towards the hanger by a small orange tug. The headlights flashed across Dolfs face for a moment and he winced before the tug straightened out from the adjustment and carefully lead the plane in. The rain was a drizzle for now but Dolf expected that it would get worse as the night went on. Even thought it was difficult to see in the dark the distant blinks of lightning divulged that this would be an unusually large storm.

Turning to go inside where the plane had come to rest Dolf nearly crashed into a man of small stature with comically thick glasses that made his eyes seem larger than they were. Dolf jerked back for a moment, hand moving to his sidearm and then quickly realized that the man in front of him was simply his head engineer Alexander Ekbald. His hand arrested its motion and Dolf breathed in slowly, Alexander quickly sputtered, “Oh! Uh… Eh… Sir I’m so sorry sir!

Dolf put one hand on the shorter man’s shoulder and with the other then gestured to go inside as he responded, now calm, “No problem Alexander, just try not to sneak up on me like that again, or really try not to sneak up on anyone with a gun. Anyway you have something for me Alexander?”

Alexander walked inside as he was instructed and glanced back at the worsening storm and the now audible yet distant thunder. With a cough and an apparent correction of his posture Alexander began in a more clear voice, “I have news on the tests we did earlier today, the fighter is around where we expected on roll speed but it demonstrated a turn radius that we found lacking. Now that wasn’t unexpected but I have an idea on how to cut the turn radius by a bit with a minor adjustment to the wings.”

Dolf looked away from Alexander and towards the plane before inquiring, “You’re sure this would work? You have done a preliminary test on one of the models right?”

Alexander responded a bit nervously, “I did do the preliminary test but I… I can’t be sure that it would truly work, as you know the model does not always translate perfectly and-“

Dolf cut Alexander off by saying, “Do it then, we have only a month and a half left before we hit the deadline for the budget this year. It has been 12 years that I have been here, since this program started Alexander. While I might be in charge now I was a pilot then and I now I run a division, in that time I learned one thing Alexander. If you don’t get results you don’t get funding. So get it done and do it right, before you know it we will be either short even more money or starting mass production.” Dolf was ready to shake Alexander’s hand and head to his office but something else hit his thoughts and he continued, “By the way Alexander have you and your team given it a name yet? It’s been years and you are running out of time to make your mark on history there.”

Alexander responded a tad more confidently, “The team agreed a while ago we want to see if we can name it the Sol Fågel, if that is ok with you sir?”

Dolf scratched his head and then responded, “Sun Bird? Makes enough sense, sounds nice. I’ll do what I can to see that’s what we call it in the end.” Dolf then shook Alexander’s hand and started to walk to the other side of the hanger where his office was located on several metal stilts and a small staircase. Dolf looked back for a moment and called, “And Alexander! Tell your team they do good work.”

Stockholm Sweden, Next Day

Birgit Walked out onto the balcony of the Statehouse, his government provided residence for the time he was elected. The balcony had originally been fitted with bulletproof glass and was more of a greenhouse then a place to watch the city. Of course this was not only an apt comparison but a literal fact considering the last president’s wife used it for exactly that purpose. Birgit had the glass removed, much to his body guard’s distaste, a week after having won the election.

Resting his hands on the thick, dark and intricately carved wood railing Birgit looked out over the river toward the Riksdag and the royal palace, both firmly in his view. Perhaps it was symbolic that a grander building had been built on the other side of the river than the royal palace in the aftermath of the great change of 1931, and perhaps it was also symbolic that the island that the Riksdag was built on was the dominating feature of the view from the balcony. Birgit however was not the president that this symbolism was supposed to appeal to. He hated the decadent palace of a house he lived in and even more he hated that he had to look at the Riksdag from here. He spent enough time there regularly, hell to him it seemed that he spent every day there.

Turning around Birgit walked back into the house, as he was on the second floor he could look down from the walkway he was on past the lavish chandeliers and marble stairs to the main floor below. Save a few guards the house seemed empty as ever. His wife was likely still in bed so Birgit decided to get into his suit and go to a small café not far from the Statehouse. Sadly this involved walking some distance to the monstrosity of a closet that housed his suits, another downside to the intolerable building he lived in. Once he had gotten there he simply grabbed one of the four suits he owned in the expansive room that was designed to house hundreds. Birgit was tightening his it when he noticed how empty of a room this was, an unusual sight as most of the walls were covered in portraits and masterpieces. It would have been nice had the room not reminded him of the office he had to visit the day prior.

Making his way down the stairs Brigit encountered one of his guards. A man of tough demeanour with a brown beard and hard brown eyes the guard was certainly an intimidating sight. However over the years Birgit had come to know the man as an outdoorsman with an affinity for fishing, though he rarely killed the fish he caught. The guard spoke up as Brigit reached the last stair, “The café sir?”

Birgit chuckled and responded, “Quite right there, how did you know this time?”

The guard following Birgit responded, “It’s always the café after you spend some time brooding on the balcony.”

Birgit smiled and said in a jovial tone as he stopped at the door, “If only I could read the sharks I deal with so well.”

The guard laughed and replied as he opened the front door and let Birgit out of the house, “If you could sir you would have to be one of them.”

The two stopped the conversation and continued down the sidewalk, Birgit occasionally waving at passerby’s as he walked down the old stonework sidewalk. The statehouse loomed in the background even after Birgit had made some distance from it. Still the well decorated and vibrant rightly packed shops and houses was something that Birgit always enjoyed on these walks, a reminder of the people he was to represent, even considering how he came to represent them.

Eventually Birgit and his guard came to the café he enjoyed so much, approaching the counter the old lady that manned the cashing punched something in and spoke, “Decafe coffee today sir?”

Birgit responded, “Well it seems my pattern is a tad obvious today so how about this, a normal black coffee.”

The lady typed a few things in and said, “Ok sir, as always a minute.”

Birgit walked to the side and sat in a small metal chair while his guard sat opposite around a small metal table with a mosaic top depicting the Swedish flag. Birgit looked up and admired the woodwork roof before speaking up, “It’s nice to be out on such a nice day, if nothing else my wife certainly finds it nice to have a break from me, however much she disagrees with me being out among the people.”

The guard looked up and asked cautiously, “Not to pry sir but things are ok?”

Birgit sighed and responded, “You’re not prying. I imagine it’s been a bit obvious recently, she things I have been working too much, I guess it is true since I come to her all day long with whatever obscene issue I have to fix and of course my argument with my own party on reopening trade with the North Finns. I hardly speak to her save about my work.”

The guard responded in a more direct way, “You do work too hard sir, the people love you for it but the last time you took a vacation it was to celebrate winning the election.”

Birgit responded, “It seems so.”

It was clear he had more to say but to woman at the desk yelled out, “Your drink is ready sir!” Cutting Birgit’s thoughts short.

Yerevan, Armenia

The day was as clear as could be, the cold highland winter giving way to a pleasant day. A few gusts of wind rippled the sea of flags below, but otherwise it was calm. Assanian himself stood on a podium at the forefront of the Presidential Palace, overlooking Republican Square. In the center of the square's lawn that had been carefully landscaped to mimic the pattern of a traditional Armenian carpet, a bronze statue of a stoic Fedayeen clutching his rifle atop a defiant horse laden down with a guerrilla's equipment looked out over the crowd. Police kept a ring around the garden to keep people from trampling the flowers and climbing atop the monument, and the result to Assanian's eyes was an island in a sea of people. Just beyond police barricades were people packed as tight as could be. There had to have been hundreds of thousands of people. Almost the whole population of Yerevan, and then some. Today was Victory Day, of course. Everyone wanted the glory of the ticker-tape parade in the capital city. But that hadn't commenced quite yet. Assanian, being the "father of the Armenian state" that he was, had to give a speech worthy of the history books. It was expected - almost required - of him.

So the President of the Republic of Armenia shuffled his papers and leaned towards the microphone. "Good morning, Armenia," he began. Almost immediately, the national orchestra, on the landing below the steps, struck up the national anthem. A famed folk singer began to passionately sing. Her beautiful voice struck a defiantly optimistic tone that seemed to render the whole crowd speechless. Whereas before, chanting and singing filled the air, Assanian's quiet - almost timid - introduction was enough to stun everyone into silence. The singer kept them that way. For a few beautiful moments, Yerevan was silent. Armenia was silent. Her anthem was broadcasted throughout the country, to bars and houses and farms in towns far away from the affluent capital. Men and women stood silently with their head coverings firmly on their chest. Many tears were shed from the more enthusiastic countrymen. The singer uplifted the souls of everyone listening, radiating innocence and purity and pride. She was almost angelic in the hazy euphoria of victory. The President himself, usually a cynic to these things, had to find the strength to appear as his typical unflappable self. After all, it was not the father's duty to become emotional.

The song had finished, and the Square lapsed into an unsettling silent. The whole nation looked towards Assanian, gazing through their eyes to see a man at the helm of a nation with unmatched potential. And with the weight of the Armenian race on his shoulders, Assanian spoke.

"Men and women of Armenia, I welcome you today to a milestone in the history of our people. Two thousand, four-hundred, and ninety-two years before Jesus Christ's birth, Hayk created Armenia. He is the Father of us all. He gave his name to this land and its people - a name we still carry despite hardship, extermination, subjugation, and persecution. Where others have gone extinct - the great Mesoamerican civilizations of old who were vanquished by Spain and Portugal's conquistadors, for example - we have carried on. We have carried on under the boot of countless empires, from the Achaemenids to the Byzantines to the Seljuks to the Russians... the Ottomans. Many of those - the exception being our brothers in Persia - have tried to exterminate us. We were raped by the Mongols so many years ago, scapegoated by the Russians. More recently, we were denied our earned and just right for self-government when the Ottomans acted against international law and indeed, morality itself, to invade and annex in a display of military might that spared nobody. It was the most grotesque sense of the equality that they claimed their empire upheld - grandmothers were incinerated with their infant grandchildren, students with their teachers, whole families huddled in cellars. I worked as a volunteer to help rescue and aid civilian victims: I have seen firsthand the brutality of the Ottoman regime. A bomb is the ultimate equality, or at least in the eyes of the Turkish government.

And so change was desired. Change was needed. Ottoman boots soiled our ground, trampled our crops, crushed the skulls of our friends and family. Dissidents who even suggested that the regime was out of place in any way, shape, or form, were executed in public like the President of the Old Republic in 1970. I am sure that most - save the younger souls - have seen firsthand and know full well about the Ottomans. They treated us like dirt for seven whole years - seven years longer than we deserved. I am positive that the Armenian people did not want to lapse into another hundred years of colonial oppression. Hayk had proven that we were strong, independent people. The Father had created a set of hardy men and women who would continue his legacy. So we honored him when we fought back. We were the morally superior - we have seen what they did to guerrillas in the beginning before we overwhelmed them. They thought that their crimes would never have repercussions - that they could do what they pleased. They did not learn in 1977, when we pushed them to the border. I hope that they have learned now, as we have finally reclaimed our ancestral lands and destroyed their withering husk of a colonial state. Our victory was assured from the beginning - it was only just that we succeed. Surely the Biblical tales of the Jews fighting the Romans for their freedoms have parallels here. God was on our side, and he still is. We were loyal, and he rewarded us.

So the story of the Armenians enters a new chapter - one that we have dreamed of for centuries. We are free. We can spread the wings of the eagle of progress, and soar. Security, well-being... everything anyone can need. And already we have proven ourselves worthy of this victory by sharing with our neighbors in need. Georgians, Russians, Greeks, Syrians: they crossed the border in droves searching for a leader to help them through the dark night. Others would have pushed them away. But Armenians are stronger than that: we have welcomed them with open arms as brothers and sisters. They, too, are Armenians. They, too, embody the spirit of Hayk. They wish to help us, and we will help them as well. They offer us stronger arms to move our newly-created plows, shovels, and hammers. As a collective, we will rebuild from the starved era of poverty and oppression. Already, signs of recovery are emerging rapidly. Our friendships with industrial nations have given us expertise and equipment to build factories and pipelines and roads and railroads. Men returning from the war now have careers in the Recovery Administration, where they toil for days on end to serve their country in a different way. Our swords are being beaten into plowshares, where they will serve us in creating an economy that will sustain us comfortably and in security.

I urge you now to pursue responsibility for this country. The war is over, but the reconstruction has only just begun. Everything you do makes a difference. Sacrificing comforts like pots and pans for scrap metal to build machines to pave our roads - just as you did for the war. Pursue careers in the Recovery Administration - engineers, architects, scientists, economists - there is always a place. We must become the best to succeed. We must be educated, we must be resourceful, and we must persevere. The process will take some time, but we can see the light at the end of the tunnel. This celebration here today is an indication of that. Now, my fellow Armenians, the parades shall begin. Enjoy your victory - the one you fought for with your blood, your sweat, your tears, and your lives. Honor the men and women who gave their lives to make this be, and celebrate your futures. Now, I need not tell you to commence but, seeing as it is only formal for a leader to call the celebrations: let the parades begin!"

Shortly thereafter, the capital erupted into the most joyous celebration that Assanian had ever heard.

Borjomi, Georgia

The night seemed to turn to day as four incendiary bombs impacted in an even row heading up a military camp on the outskirts of the small town of Borjomi. A wall of flame seemed to rise from the ground and shower down, igniting anything and everything. Seconds later, the hiss of rocket pods ensued and the weapons streaked towards the flaming buildings below. A hollow rattle from 20mm cannons completed the ensemble, explosive ammunition raking through thinly armored technicals and battle buses at a vehicle depot. A plane, barely visible as the flames' lights reflected off of its night-fighter-black paint, banked right and towards a mountain shrouded in fog. Its twin engines made a deep thrumming noise, conveying the heaviness of the ground attack craft. Down below, perched on the side of a mountain, was Mikael Gregovyen with four other operatives and a liaison from the local "governor." He watched through a pair of scratched binocular lenses, glare highlighting someone's oily fingerprint that he was mildly annoyed with. Seconds later, the radio box chirped beside him: "Ghost, Leopard. Ordinance expended on target. Seeing a lot of fire. How copy?"

Gregovyen squinted through the binoculars, observing a few men trying to put out the napalm with water - to no avail. "Looks like you clipped them pretty well, Leopard. I'd try coming back for another rocket run because I see little fucks trying to put out the flames."

"Roger, Ghost. Hold on for a minute."

Gregovyen put down the radio's handset and turned back to see the liaison leaning against a pickup truck. On the back, a 12.7mm machine gun was pointed down into the valley. The white offroad seemed to be orange in the glow of the inferno below. "We'll have to search for him manually," the operative explained. "I don't like airstrikes but it was our only option. I hope his face hasn't melted off, because I'm not in the mood to scrounge up dental records from 1969."

"It's risky," pointed out the liaison. "The Dagestanis have curried favor here."

"We'll have to make it quick."

He was interrupted by another stream of rockets and bullets flying in unison towards the camp, followed by rows of explosions where people used to be. Greogvyen reached back for his binoculars to see people being shredded to bits, their flaming limbs cartwheeling in all directions. People were attempting to escape now, headlights illuminating the ground in front of them as they maneuvered to the entrance. The Armenians had anticipated this, and an anti-materiel rifle had been brought along. Now, an NSS sharpshooter had swung down his bipod onto a rock and was tracking the engine block of a technical. The radio chirped again: "That's all I can do, Ghost. I'm all dry. Returning to base: enjoy your night, over."

"You, too, Leopard," replied Gregovyen. A split-second before he put the radio back onto the box, the sniper rifle cracked beside him. The round traveled straight and true into an old pickup truck's engine, stopping the engine immediately. It proceeded to travel, driven by a panicking driver, straight into a tree. A metallic clack accompanied the rifle's bolt action, and the sniper fired again. The cabin was pierced, and the side passenger's shoulder exploded into a thousand globules of meat and bone.

"Dammit. Missed his head," growled the marksman as he clacked another round. Down in the valley, the truck's door flew open and a bruised and bloodied driver stumbled his way out. Tripping over a rock, his upper torso disappeared with another 12.7mm round's entry.

"Sniper team," started Gregovyen before putting his binoculars down. "I want you to stay here and keep the pressure on. I'm taking everyone else down the road and into the camp to ID the leader."

"Got it," absently said the sniper while he proceeded to blast the front tire off of a second truck. It swung a hard right, flipping over in the process.

"Let's go!" called Gregovyen. The liaison nodded quickly, hopping into the bed of the truck while Gregovyen's driver started the engine. The team leader swung into the cabin as the truck began to move. The liaison had mounted the gun, racking the chamber to put a round in the barrel. "Ready, Armenians!" he shouted.

The truck gathered speed as it sped down the dirt road. In the distance, the sniper rounds could be heard cracking. Militiamen in their truck tried to disperse to avoid the sniper, and many found themselves at the mercy of a ruined tire or engine. So far, four trucks had been stopped by the massive sniper's rounds. Behind them, the compound was blazing. Many had abandoned their firefighting to search for escape. They offered no resistance as Gregovyen's technical sped through the gate: many of them either didn't notice or didn't realize that they were the enemy. That is, until the liaison began firing. His bullets cut down militiamen running out of the gates. They were unarmed, having dropped their weapons for buckets of water, and offered no resistance. Gregovyen himself fired out of the window with his semiautomatic pistol. None of his rounds hit anything, of course, but he just wanted to partake. The truck drove through to the camp, and proceeded to stop in front of the field where many had set up their bivouacs. This was where they knew the warlord's personal tent one: obviously the biggest and most elaborate. It lay at the end of this row of flaming tents, itself half on fire. "Get out!" shouted the driver, as the liaison sprayed rounds at anyone he saw.

Gregovyen and the driver reached for their weapons - both of them were old Tsarist drum-fed submachine guns that they had bought from the border guards' confiscated stash in Tsalka. They were loaded and ready, and the driver took the first shot. He sprayed into a row of tents to make sure that nobody was inside. Confident that most of the survivors had run away, the trio sprinted towards the warlord's tent. It wasn't a very far run - only fifty meters - yet it felt like fiction. There they were, blazing through a warlord's camp while surrounded by the fiery walls of napalm that they had dropped minutes earlier. The warlord's tent was on fire: they needed to act quickly. Bursting through the door, they found themselves in the middle of an ornate living quarters. A Persian rug covered in soot was laid across the wooden floor - a luxury upon a luxury for Georgians. A burning bed had a charred corpse on it. The elaborate wood carvings meant that it could only be their target. The Dagestani warlord died, immolated, with an expression of severe pain on his face. Patches of his characteristic light hair still survived, and that was how the liaison could identify him. "That is him!" cried the liaison. "The son of a bitch died in his bed!"

"Good," breathed Gregovyen. "Now we can get out of this shithole."

And then a gun went off. The liaison was hit in the upper chest by a small-caliber pistol round. He collapsed immediately.



"Son of a bitch!" shouted the driver, spinning around to see a burned man crawled into the corner of the tent. His bloody hand held a smoking Tsarist revolver. He pulled the trigger again, wincing in pain, yet only a click sounded. "Fucking shit," muttered the burned man in exasperation. "Fucking piece of shit."

"Holy shit!" shouted Gregovyen, sprinting across the room to push his gun into the man's face. "Goddamn you!"

"Fuckers," spat the burned man. "Did Patarava send you pigs?"

The driver was there, too, to pick up the revolver. "1895 Nagant," he muttered. "Nasty shit. Liaison is dead."

"Patarava?" asked a bewildered Gregovyen. "Who the fuck is he?"

"You have an accent," observed the burned man slyly, ignoring Gregovyen's question. "He sent you, alright. Armenian dogs."

"Who is Patarava?" repeated Gregovyen. Behind him, a flaming timber snapped and fell on top of the bed. The fire was starting to consume the floor as well, and the driver began to get worried. He looked around at the surroundings, afraid of immolation himself.

"You don't know?" cackled the burned man. "Batumi? The fuck who's trying to shimmy himself up to you so he can get rid of us?"

"I don't catch what you mean!" Gregovyen yelled, spittle coating the burned man's face.

"He wants us out, the cunt. He sent you to kill us."

"We've got to go," urged the driver. "Let's go!"

"Batumi," repeated the burned man. "Tell him to suck my huge dick when you can."

Gregovyen lowered his gun and looked back to the driver, then to the burned man. With a slick motion, he raised the submachine gun to spray a burst into the burned man's spiteful face. "Let's go," he told the driver. "We're going to Batumi to find this man. First I've ever heard of him."

Batumi, Georgia

The sky was stained a deep purple, with a bright moon illuminating the streets below. Clouds dotted the horizon but the worst of the rain had ended. All that was left was the biting cold wind and air, that forced temperatures to dip around freezing. On the isolated outskirts of the city, where the warlords forces had a weaker grip, small gangs of teenagers and young men darted across the streets with boxes in their arms, all bundled up in standard Guard Youth uniforms. Brown parkas, scarves covering their faces, heavy boots and stolen khaki trousers. Not a light shined in this suburban part of the city, apart from the occasional battery powered torch of patrolling militia men. On one seemingly abandoned street, the only light came from the dull glow of a cigarette and cracks of lights from one of the doors.

The old woman squinted at the lad who stood at her doorstep, a box in his arms. A smile cracked the wrinkles of her old face. 'Have you brought some food for old me?' she smiled sweetly, showing her cracked and blackened teeth. 'I have, Miss' said Anatoli. 'You've got some bread, a bit of ham, a jar of milk and dozen bottles of water. It should do you for a few days until the next shipment'. The young Russian grinned as the old lady took the small box of foodstuffs and shuffled to put it behind her. 'I'm bleedin' glad that you men are doing this' she said, slightly huffing from the effort. 'I would probably be starving if it weren't for Guards. Thank you.' She shuffled back to the door. Even at full height, she barely stood to Anatoli's shoulders but age had withered her back, her strength and her height. 'Goodbye, young lad. I appreciate it' she shut the door of her ancient home. Anatoli nodded and turned back. Giorgi sat on her wall, a cigarette hanging from his mouth and a several boxes at his feet.

'You're doing the next one' growled the Russian to his casual companion. Giorgi shrugged in agreement and hopped off the wall. 'Have we done this street then?' he asked, a cigarette clenched between his teeth. 'Yeah. Not many still live around this area. We turn right up this road and we've got two families' replied Anatoli, picking up his share of care packages. It was a common job amongst the youth wing to deliver care packages to the isolated people and starving families around the city. It was a part of their job. As well as protecting the people and delivering food, they made sure that all were somewhat comfortable. It was becoming harder and harder seeing as Demir's men had begun increased patrols and began rooting out the team of smugglers Davit had worked had to place in the city. They had to do this during the dusk and dawn to avoid patrols by the heavily armed militia's and Turks that roamed the streets during the day. However, there were still the night patrols to worry about.

'And for fucks sakes, put that cigarette out. I heard Kart's patrol got caught smoking by the Turks and had to give up their packages' hissed Anatoli. 'Jesus, who took a piss in your morning tea?' sighed Giorgi, flicking the lit cigarette to the cracked pavement and stamping it out. It died immediately. As they approached the corner, they stuck to the shadows of a high wall, keeping silent. Anatoli stuck his head around the corner and scanned the street. He saw something he hoped he wouldn't. A powerful beam of light cut through the darkness and the sound of rapid shouting in a language he didn't recognise. The sound of a door being slammed shut and a screaming woman echoed down the street. Shit. They're inspecting homes thought the Russian. He hugged the wall and returned to his partner quickly. 'Fuck. Patrol men. Sound like Dagi's' he whispered rapidly. He didn't see Giorgi's reaction in the darkness. 'How many?' he whispered back. 'I dunno. Too dark. Maybe six or seven. If they're Dagi, they'll be rough as fuck and probably armed. We should get back to Captain Milidani'. Giorgi didn't move. The woman from around the corner was screaming again. It pierced the silence of night like a knife. The Georgian slowly bent to the ground, where he dropped his boxes. He hugged the wall and glanced around the corner. 'What the fuck are you doing?' hissed Anatoli, horrified. Giorgi just motioned for him to shut up.

In the darkness, he could hear the laughter of several Dagi men as they threw the screaming woman to floor. One Dagistani, probably sick of her screaming, pulled out a pistol and shot near her head. He said something in his rough language and the woman took the hint. She quieted down to just a soft whimper. The group of men closed in around her, one cackling slightly. Giorgi's hand slid to his pocket, where he slowly slid a knife from it. It glinted slightly in the moon light. The Dagistani group parted slightly and Giorgi saw, illuminated by torchlight atop one of the guns, one of the men laying on top of the woman, grunting slightly. She just whimpered. Just when it looked like the young Patarava was to jump from around the corner and run at the men, he felt a hand firmly grab his shoulder. Another hand went around his mouth. He struggled slightly. 'Don't you fucking dare, Patarava. We have orders not to go near any patrol men and to come straight back if we see any. You fucking hear me? Put that knife back in your pocket and we're heading back'. Giorgi silently complied, glaring at the taller Russian. Anatoli let go of his companion. He shook his head when he heard the woman give a heart wrenching scream. Giorgi bit his lip. The pair dropped their boxes into the bushes and began a rapid run back to base.

Back at base

The room was empty, par from Zugrab. He sat back in his chair and took a long drag from his cigarette. He was in the living room, that was largely empty apart from a chair and a table. No light shined through the cracks in the boarded up window. The muffled sound of several men enjoying themselves and laughing came through the thick walls. The men were all having a mini-celebration in the kitchen. When I say all the men and mini-celebration, I mean Davit Patarava, Captain Saba Milidani and Elchin drinking alcohol around a table and talking shit. Zagreb had never been much of a heavy drinker but Davit had gotten him on smoking again. He had been in Batumi for almost four days now and already had gotten sick of Elchin's company. The Azeri had taken to wearing the Battle Rifle on a strap around his neck and taking it everywhere with him. It was fully loaded and unlocked, a safety disaster waiting to happen. Zagreb hadn't changed clothes in his whole time here nor had he taken a shower, so the musk of sweat and grubby clothing was beginning to annoy him. Despite all the problems with Elchin, his renewed smoking habit and ripe armpit smell, the spy felt somewhat relaxed. While on his mission to Poti, he had been constantly watching over his shoulder for enemies, dodging through buildings to avoid people who may recognise him and stealing clothing and food just to survive. In this safe house, he felt...well, safe! For the first time in over five months, he could relax, enjoy a cigarette and put his feet up. But work never ends, he thought sadly.

The door clicked open and a man slipped into the room. It was Tamaz, who had spent the last few weeks under Captain Saba Milidani working with Bedros, the smuggler. He had been under orders to watch Bedros and protect him from danger. He was also the last surviving member of Zagreb's 'Watcher's' Unit. A unit dedicated to reconnaissance for the Guard that had once contained up to 10 men at once was now cut down to just Tamaz, a quiet, 20's-something man of Nordic origins. Unlike Saba's youth wing or Elchin's Guard, the Watchers were free to wear and look like they wanted. For protection reasons, only certain men knew Zagreb's real name. And Tamaz wasn't one of them. 'Good evening, Tamaz' nodded Zagreb, dropping his feet from the table. Tamaz nodded and slouched over to the table. 'Your mission went well, I've heard'. Tamaz nodded. 'You gave your report to Davit already, yes?' The blonde man just nodded again. Zagreb grimaced. Tamaz never had been much of a talker unless commanded to. He wore a loose flannel shirt, a pair of thin trousers and boots. It was the first time Zagreb had seen Tamaz in a long time and his mission with Bedros hadn't changed him much. 'Well, I have another mission for you. This time, you shall be with me. I want you up tomorrow morning early and ready. Take that pistol with you. Wear something completely different and meet me in the Tsar and Sultan at the previously agreed spot. Do you understand, Tamaz?'. Tamaz spoke for the first time. 'I do, Pikey'. His voice was significantly deep for a man of such normal stature. 'Good. Now go home, get some rest and set your alarm clock'. Tamaz nodded and slouched out of the room. The door clicked shut and a large guffaw came from the Kitchen. Davit always had too much to drink.

The last of dregs of the cigarettes were collapsing in the spies fingers, so he threw the smoking remains in the ash tray. He fingered his pocket for the box and opened it, dropping the remains into his open palm. A few specks of tobacco floated out of the box and Zagreb swore quietly. He stood from his chair and walked out of the room, his hands in his pockets. One of Elchin's many sons sat on a stool outside the door, half-asleep and a shotgun at his side. He was barely a boy, a teenager at most. Fluff covered his face as a pathetic attempt at a beard. Zagreb gabbed the boys nose and he gasped loudly, waking from his slumber. 'Evening, Sleeping Beauty. I'll ask for our safety that you do not fall asleep again'. The boy nodded, bewildered and grabbed the shotgun in his hands, which he cradled. Zagreb glanced at the end of the hall to the closed door. He considered perhaps going to the kitchen and asking for another cigarette. But then he heard Elchin give a loud, drunken guffaw and decided against it. So he began the quick ascent up the stairs, scratching the beginnings of a beard on his cheeks.

'Devout Muslim my arse' he murmured, rolling his eyes as Elchin began another long roar of drunken laughter.

Sham Shui Po District, Hong Kong, China

Streetlight shone from the far end of the claustrophobic alley way. Their light gleaming on the recently whetted cement as a light rainfall fell over the city. Building droplets fell fat from overhead over hangs, falling to soft splashes in deep puddles in the broken and pitted ground below. An eerie, quiet somberness hung over the alley, and even the sound of the light night traffic felt ghostly in the eerie loneliness.

Even more distant came the echoes of argument and laughter. Angry voices screaming from above. Or deep hawing caws from below. Covens of darkened figures hung back in dark windows.

For the young girl that walked through the alley, it was as troubling as she was unfitted for the area. Her black hair cut short around her ears did as well as she did already to hide the anxiety in her soft youthful face. Was this right place? Or had she been screwed over? The prying eyes she felt from the invisible niches made her uncomfortable, and she for once wished Feng was with her. But she had other things to do, she had said. So she had to sneak out on her own.

She inevitably came to a corner in the alley, cutting herself off from the slowly weakening street lights that had been behind her. She stepped around into total darkness. It had to be this way, she reaffirmed herself. This had to be where she was told.

But all the alley had that she could see were stacks of garbage bins. Overloaded with refuse, dimly illuminated by lights high above. The rain drew out a certain strong stench of detritus that bit her nose. Discarded fruits, meats, papers, and cardboard mingled in the wet air with a distasteful bite like that of old vinegar.

Cardboard and discarded bicycles also lay stacked against the walls. Broken bottles and a shattered rickshaw formed the ground work of an empty lean-to, the concrete padded by a chaotic fan of moldy, soaked cardboard.

The young girl wandered down the dark alleyway, confused, frightened. It was dark, wet, cold. Even for a spring time Hong Kong. She bit her lip nervously as she fretted between the stacks of garbage, trying dearly to not get her clothes dirtied on the way.

Panic struck her with the force of a train as light flickered bright in the corner of her vision. Her heart jumped and held numb in her chest as she turned, expecting with a pale face a police officer looming in the darkness with a flashlight shone into her eyes, ready to question. But the feeling of intense fear did not wash away as she saw the glowing light in the side of a building. Its sickly, putrid yellow light glowing to fill the concrete canyon and to highlight the metal door it hung over, the blue paint that had covered it peeling back in rusted curls and fragile, jagged teeth.

Her breathing was tense and sparse as she froze, looking into the light. Like a moth caught in the hypnotizing dance of the flame. She was glued to the spot. Too afraid to move. Too afraid to turn back down the dark, wet alley.

With a low groan the door opened. The guttural groan of the worn hinges soliciting a stark shudder and a sudden jump back from the girl as it swung slowly open, followed by a heavy boot.

Out through the door stepped a large black man. His dark skin blacker than the night, even in the light above his head. He was a large man, his clothes seeing well to highlight this fact. Large engorged muscles shone through a tight black tanktop. His legs filled well a pair of foreign military fatigues, some drab jungle green.

The man's eyes were drawn up to the nervous Chinese youth standing at the edge of the circle of light that filled the alley. He rose a lighter from his pants to a cigarette clutched between his lips, watching her as he lit it.

“Whad can I help you wid?” he asked, his Chinese thickly accented as he addressed the girl, “You dun look like someone who'd be around here.” he added, puffing on his cigarete.

“I-I'm looking for the Catina de Madrid.” she said nervously.

The door man looked at her up and down. His eyes sharp and measuring. Taking a draw from his cigarette he asked, “Whad's your name girl?”

“Mei...” she said hesitantly, “Mei Hsiu Mei.”

“Preddy name,” the man smiled, “Lod'sa preddy girls here. Don'd sday preddy long. Whad's a girl like you looking for the Catina?”

“I-I... It's complicated...” she muttered quietly.

“You bugged?” the man asked.

Well, no!” Mei shouted, flustered, “Why would you ask that?”

“Can'd be too safe.” the man laughed, “How old you be?” he asked.

“Seventeen.” Mei replied, offended.

The black man smiled wide, “You ain'd dressed like any yellow woman.” he sneered. It was true, the turtle-necked sweater and long skirt was more American than anything, and the leather hand bag, “Did you get losd on da way do some youth club d'ing?”

“I didn't. Now will you tell me where the Catina de Madrid is? A friend of mine told me it was here!”

The man nodded with a wry smile, lifting his head up to exhale a stream of smoke. “I see.” he said, giving her a crooked smile, “How about I get a hundred Ren and I'll tell you.”

“A-a hundred?” Mei said aghast.

“You look like you're good off, girl.” the African protested, “And a hundred is enough for me to eat for a week.”

Mei's face glowed red with anger. Sighing bitterly, she dug into her handbag, tearing out a number of 20 Ren notes. Walking over to the man she held out the fistful of red credit notes. “Here!” she said tensly, “A hundred!”

The man smiled as he took the cash. Flipping through it with fat fingers he counted the notes. “Alright comrade,” he started, nodding happily and stepping aside, “Welcome to the Catina de Madrid.”

“What!?” Mei said.

Pocketing the handful of Ren the man looked up at her with a distant smile, “Welcome to the Catina.” he repeated, gesturing into the door.

Mei shot him a sour expression as she followed through, stepping into the darkened corridor within. Flickering light illuminated a grungy, if yet immaculate stair well that marched down into the bowls of the building. A familiar instance in many of the underground clubs of Hong Kong, that made the definition more literal than need-be. And walking in from the rain brought to her ears the soft drifting sound of music from the depths of the building. It was a strange music.

With careful tentative steps Mei followed the sounds of slow and long drawn notes down the flight of the cement stairs. Much unlike the music that had been imported from the United States during their short partnership with China that had introduced to the nation the fast-paced, up-beat party anthems that filled many youth clubs this was something softer, distorted maybe. In the distance she heard the sounds of convention, playing in subtle partnership to instruments more unconventional than she had known.

It was not like that of Chen Yiaolang, who had begun the popularity of the new sound into China. This was something newer. Niche even. Drums gave a slow, soft tribal air. Plucked strings sung out in a duality of sounds. Representing both the Yangtze and something darker, more distant. It was hardly music that Mei thought she could dance to, or anyone. It had been no secret that as with the Americans, Africans had fled to the coastal metropolises of China, or immigrated there through trade, setting up small scattered communities through Hong Kong.

She had heard of veterans of the Congolese rebellion seeking refuge in places like Hong Kong and Shanghai. Often establishing communities far different from the isolated pockets of American negroes who had came over to the country ten years prior. These were facts of trivia, and brought up regularly on late-night radio programing.

Her feet landed on the final flight of steps at the bottom of the well. Here a small alcove formed the final landing, set with a plain door. The sound of the music was most pronounced here, this had to be the Catina was.

With a careful hand, she placed herself on the door and gently pushed it open. It creaked softly on its hinges as it let out into a large, dimly lit room. It took a moment for her eyes to readjust to the lighting, and the soft orange color that dominated the catina within.

Blinking, Mei's eyes slowly adjusted. The décor and furnishings of the greater room coming to view. And here she found to be no chairs. Instead, large pillows and cushions torn from old couches or chairs littered the floor, tucked in the corners of where lay crates or where the floor met the wall. The whole middle of the room was devoid, save the slowly dancing figures clothed in the dull murky haze of a sweet smelling smoke.

A band sat in the far corner, without a bandstand. Foreign drums sat between their legs, leading in tow a band of random men and random instruments. They sounded as if they played with no plan, no real direction in their song. It was a straight improvised melody they carried like water, much as the smoke that filled the room bellowed and swirled in the cool underground air.

The patrons - if they were not in the center of the room dancing in a trance – reclined lazily around the edge of the room. There was a lax, strange atmosphere. A cooler, calmer practice as opposed to the raunchy, beer-fueled romps she had been familiar with.

Walking to the bar-counter on the farside of the room she look down confused, and hypnotized at the sleeping men and women. Or the docile patrons who stared off into the near and far space around them. Light snacks sat on forgotten plates around them. Simple items, apples, fruits, crackers.

“Good evening, miss.” a man said as Mei stepped up to the counter. He was a gaunt figure, his dark Africa skin pressed flat against well defined bones. Dreadlocks fell down about him like vines from the tree. His appearance took Mei by surprise.

“Oh, good evening...” she said nervously, “This is the Catina de Madrid?” she asked.

“It is.” the bartender said with a smile, he spoke Chinese better than the doorman out front, and had a polite air to him. “Name's Biniam.” he smiled.

“Mei...” Mei replied, “But why do you care?” she asked.

“I have a small patrimony.” he said with a polite smile, “And, it helps should a trip go bad.” he added.

“Trip?” Mei asked.

“You must be a truly rich girl then!” he laughed, “Don't get down to the dark streets often do you?”

“No...”

Biniam smiled as he reached under the counter, “Just tell me if you have any mental issues.” he grinned as he pulled his hand from under the table, putting it on the table. Drawing it back, he revealed a small tab, a small portrait on its face. “If you don't, it's on the house. For first time visitors.” he smiled.

“W-what is it?” Mei asked.

“LSD.” said Biniam, “The best exploration of your inner self you'll ever have!” he exclaimed.

Mei looked down at the tablet. Though tiny, she could make out the small image of a well suited black man. A man crowned with a messy afro. With a raised thumb, he held out his hand affirmatively. “Try me”. Was printed in English under the portrait.

“I don't think I do...” Mei said nervously.

“Then try it.”

Yekaterinburg, Russia

With a crash the metal plate fell from the ceiling. The rattle echoed up and down the empty corridor as it was followed be a pair of men, dropping in through the air vents.

“It could not be louder, comrade!” swore the Russian as he dropped to the floor. The hall was dark, and glowed only with the eerie red of emergency lighting.

“No body is here.” Jun cracked, “They locked it up and went home.”

“True, but they still had a guard out front.”

“It still won't be an issue.” the Chinese agent said, getting to his feet.

“Do you even know where you're going?” the Russian asked.

Jun didn't bother him with a reply as he pulled from his coat a flashlight. With a click he flipped the light on and shone it on the signs hanging overhead. The faded Russian matched well with the dingy, fading walls of the city morgue.

“This way.” Jun said, finding a sign pointing down the hall declaring the autopsy lab to be down that route. He didn't miss a beat as he followed the arrow, holding his light ahead as he moved. His partner followed.

Their foot falls echoed in the emptiness of the mortuary offices. Barren sterile walls and equally formless doors passed them by as they marched on. The signs ahead giving direction. Offices, archives, lounge, lobby, autopsy.

It wasn't like the two needed a map, and in due time they came to the door they were looking for. Along the wall next to it stood a large glass window, looking into the darkened surgical room inside. Shining his light inside, Jun scanned the room through the glass. A thin layer of frost coated the glass, distorting the light as it glazed across racks of stainless steel drawers, tables, and tools. There were still bodies laying out at rest across the operating tables, covered in sheets.

“Which one is he?” Jun's Russian partner asked, “And how do we get in?”

“Let me worry about getting in.” Jun said flatly as he looked at the chamber beyond, “Just get his photo and name out.”

“Yes, comrade.” he said, reaching into his pocket. Jun stepped around him, reaching into his coat for his pistol.

It was a heavy revolver. Finished in nickle and polished over. It shone in the weak light of Jun's flashlight as he swung it about. Turning the handle around to serve as a club. The Chinese Changu pistol was a heavy beast for sure.

Stepping along the door he reached out and tapped the glass with the butt of the pistol. Testing the glass. It was thin, unreinforced. He had to be careful he didn't swing through it, for sure a piece could fall over his hand. But he wasn't concerned for the pain, just the possibility of a large pane dropping over his wrist.

The Russian watched him as Jun rose his hand, griping the barrel rough in his hand as with a long arc he struck the window.

With a loud crash the pistol crashed through it. The cracks spider webbing from the central contact point exploding quickly outward and falling apart as the glass cleared from the pane in a shower of crystal. Tiny shards falling to the floor.

Jun cleared out the glass before he reached around inside, finding the inside knob and flipping the bolt to unlock it.

“That's one way to open a door.” his partner commented as they stepped in. Glass ground underfoot as the walked into the refrigerated autopsy room.

“Let's find our body then.”

Undisclosed Location, Brazil

The sweat on his brow reached the very edge of his hair and slipped smacking the smooth, hard, concrete surface that his chair rested on. His hands were bound behind the chair itself and cuffed again to a pole that erected from the ground up to the ceiling. As he looked from one side of the room to the other, he found nothing in it except the remaining concrete walls and ceiling. His concentration was broke to the sound of a heavy door opening and then slamming shut, boots could be heard making their way closer to where he was cuffed. A large man came around his side and the man touched his chin lifting his gaze into the eyes of the man.

"Felix Martinez I presume, weapons smuggler extraordinaire, and a murderer...but I guess that comes with the territory eh Felix?"

Felix still being forced to look up could only smile at being called an extraordinaire. He understood who had him, he understood that the man he was looking at was of military importance. Even the way the man spoke would identify him as military, his accent could be compared to a Brazilian which gave Felix the idea that he was now a prisoner of Brazil.

"I never did such things!"

The large man never entertained the thought and took the words that escaped Felix's mouth only to send them back with a palm to the side of the face. The chair would have fell over from the contact and Felix would have went with it if it were not for the fact he was connected to a pole.

"Save me time Felix...I want to know who you are buying from...that's it, if you can give me this, I may be able to give you something in return."

Felix reached back for spit and conjured it up using his throat, creating one big ball of spit and flem he spat at the mans shoes. A fist came speeding toward his face with no warning and immediately Felix's vision went black. His body sat limp in a chair with a jaw swelling to the size of a baseball, a cut was created and blood was now sliding down his cheek, whenever Felix decided to wake up it would feel as if he were hit by a freight train and the interrogation would resume.

Right Outside One of Allen Ramos' Drug Factories, Colombia

Jaco had felt at ease since he had left the meeting and although he had a variety of weapons in his vehicle, he did not feel as though he was watched or followed. Once again, another successful transaction, his vehicle arrived at the location he was told to drop off the weapons at. It was a drug factory for Allen Ramos who was just below the head of the Blanco Cartel. Allen Ramos had been former Colombian Military and when his service was up, Andres Blanco convinced his childhood friend to join the business of making money illegally.

Jaco made it to the top of the driveway and when he exited the car, two armed men approached his vehicle.

"Were you followed?"

Jaco let out a laugh as his ego inflated and waved his head back and forth from side to side, "Nonsense!"

The armed men waved him through and gates opened to the facility, Jaco's car entered passed the gates and his car was no longer visible to Charlie and his teammate who were occupying the beat up compact car that followed him from the meeting in Yopal.

Charlie reached for a map inside the glove compartment and asked his teammate for a pen. Quickly he jotted down the coordinates of the building and to the side of the map he wrote down a quick description of the location and what they were observing. He needed to radio this information in and then ask for permission to perform further reconnaissance. As of now it was just him and his teammate surveying the area, he needed his team here to begin surveying every bit of the outside perimeter.

Undisclosed Location, Brazil

A cold sensation rushed over Felix's head and his eyes began to spark life, his vision at first was a little hazy but soon slipped back into normalcy after a few moments passed. His face was sore and he had felt as though he was hit by a train.

Another cold rush hit his face and then draped over his body, water from a second bucket was thrown at him by what seemed to of been a young man dressed in military attire. Felix tried shaking off the throbbing pain in his head and also attempted to shut out the warm pulsing in his jaw from the punch to the face.

The young soldier stepped back after emptying the bucket and walked out of the room, a large uniformed man came out from the corner of the room and approached the seat that Felix was sitting in.

"Felix Martinez...you have been sleeping for quite a bit now, unfortunately I no longer have the patience for you anymore. Things will move rather quickly now and for that...you will be sad, and angry at me."

A rod was presented by the large man and at the end of it was an overwhelming number of volts surging through the tip. Without hesitation the large figure jammed it into Felix as electricity shot through his body all Felix could do was take it and bite down on his lip. When the electricity ceased moving through his body Felix could taste the iron in his blood as he realized his lip had almost been chewed in two.

Brasilia, Brazil

Evelyn had already been a few days into her term, it was on the third day from approving Operation Cutthroat, that she heard from Thiago Delgado of the BAF. She had been going over documents that congress wished for her to address at the next meeting and to be honest, making sense of these documents was near impossible. Her receptionist opened the door and said it was urgent for her to take line 1.

Evelyn picked up her phone and opened up line one with her index finger pressing the button next to the one.

"Good Afternoon Delgado, may I ask why I have been graced with your phone call?"

"Ma'am...the first phase of Operation Cutthroat was a success, I'd like to meet with you in private and discuss further what we are going to do."

"I will make time for you...but this means that you must be in my office within the next hour."

Evelyn hung up the phone so that a response could not be given, she wanted him in her office ASAP. Her future as the President of Brazil was riding on the success of this operation and at anytime it could go south, she needed to make quick decisions and end this hunt for good.

Marsaxlokk, Malta

Pencil lead ground softly against a crisp leaf of white stationery. With a raspy murmur it twitched across the paper supported against the cover of a bound manual sporting Técnicas y métodos de la guerra moderna printed in plain, bold letterhead, leaving a trail of sloppily-written Castillian cursive as it did. Upon completing another handful of lines, he released the pencil from his grasp, letting it fall to the wrinkles of the sheets atop his cot as his eyes scanned the hopefully-complete letter he had finished drafting.

Dear Mother,

I hope that this letter finds you and Father well. I am sorry I have not written you sooner; things for us have been quite busy lately! I haven't had a moment to collect my thoughts and put them to pen and paper until now. Since I enlisted I have never been so busy - even during basic training I had more free time to rest and keep up with both of you.

I am sorry to hear about Hugo. I can't see why the Health Ministry would ever think that he of all people would be at risk for contracting the disease they worry so much about. For God's sake, he and Felicia were to be married in August, weren't they? As sorry as I am for her and Father, I wouldn't worry too much about it. There has to be some mistake and I'm sure the Ministry is going to realize that as long as Father keeps trying to get through to them. Even if not, the Ministry has to find a cure for this condition sooner than later. They have quarantined so many people for fear of it - they have to be working on some kind of solution. God willing, Hugo will be released well before his wedding. I'm sure of that.

Malta has been busy ever since the 3rd Mechanized arrived here. General Ponferrada has found no shortage of ways to occupy our time and has seen that we are constantly alert. It is difficult to get five hours of sound rest on any given night - less if the Coronela has planned a drill for deployment during the night. The 3rd Mechanized is ready for anything at any given moment, but nobody is quite sure just what we are getting ready for. Officially, our division had been posted to Malta to protect the territories from the Ottomans after what happened in East Africa. But now the Ottoman Empire has ended, and we are redoubling our efforts now when it seems safest. I do not understand and I don't care to. I only hope that Ponferrada gets tired of tormenting us - and soon!

I'm afraid I don't have time for much more at the moment. I hope that things back home continue to go well, and that Father eventually manages to have the Ministry release Hugo from quarantine. I look forward to hearing back from both of you.

With Love,

Luis Morazan

Content with his finished letter and upon finding no errors, he folded the letter into thirds and gingerly stuffed it into a waiting envelope. As he did, the young soldier was taken by surprise as the canvas flap of the entrance of the tent burst open with the swish of disturbed fabric, forcing him to involuntarily crush the envelope in his clenched palm. The fresh recruit dressed only in uniform khakis and a white tanktop flew across the tent with a face drawn into an anxious frown, shooting only a momentary glance at the man laying upon his bed.

"Luis, what the fuck are you still doing in here?" The tentmate demanded as he feverishly unbuttoned the folded uniform top upon his own cot. His eyes flitted over to his idle tentmate and fell upon the envelope in his hand. "Jesus, are you seriously writing a letter to mommy right now?"

"N-no!" Luis stuttered unconvincingly, stuffing the wrinkled envelope underneath his pillow once his tentmate had reverted his view to the shirt he was unbuttoning. "Why have you returned so soon, Héctor? What's going on?"

"Fucking Ponferrada..."

"Oh God... What's he up to now?"

"Addressing the whole goddamn division." The tentmate spat as he threw the unbuttoned uniform shirt over shit shoulders and slipped the bottom two buttons in. "I should have known there was a reason the taskmaster had eased up on on the yoke this afternoon. I'd finish up jerking off or whatever it is your doing - the coronela's going to rip your balls off when he finds out you weren't there. Now come on, I don't want to be the only one showing up late for this thing."

Without further comment Luis bolted out of bed and followed his companion out into the sprawling field of canvas tents that the Ejercito had assembled on the outskirts of Marsaxlokk to house the thousands of soldiers and servicemen pertaining to the 3rd Mechanized Division. His stomach turned as he looked about the tent city and found it perfectly vacant. On the dirt trail through the camp where hundreds of Ejercito soldados could typically be seen milling about at any given time, Luis saw nary a soul. Above the expanse of tent roofs and the twin cupolas of the Church of Marsaxlokk in the distance were the yellow-red forms of two Spanish flags hanging limply from a pair of flagpoles. In between them, at the assembly ground a half-kilometer away, Luis knew General Ponferrada was preparing to address the whole of the division at that very moment. Héctor took off down the gravel trail to the source of the orders echoing through the apertures of bullhorns. Luis followed closely behind him.

"Hope to Christ the coronelas are all down there already." Héctor called back the Luis as they jogged past identical canvas pentagons. "We're fairly-well boned if someone of rank finds us skipping out on the general's debriefing."

"I'm more worried about Ponferrada myself. He's hardly an understanding man." Luis added in between pants.

"That's the fucking truth if ever I've heard it spoken. But he'll never notice two grunts missing out of six thousand. As long as we can slip in, I think we'll manage."

Luis nodded in agreement, though in truth his worries had scarcely been assuaged. It was no secret amongst the men beneath him that General Victor Ponferrada was a brutal, unforgiving man. He had made a name for himself during Spain's intervention against Batista's Italian regime as the captain of a column of Spanish tanks by merit of his speed and savagery against the Batistan loyalists. The rumors that circulated of what became of those hapless Italian prisoners who found their way into Ponferrada's possession were generally accepted to be more than rumors. Where more humane leadership would have opted to reprimand or perhaps even court-martial then-Captain Ponferrada for his questionable use of shock against the loyalist forces, Prime Minister Sotelo himself groomed Ponferrada for rapid placement in the Ejercito's general corps. Suffice to say, the general was not a man to irritate - even with trivial matters.

"We're not going to get there in time going this way." Héctor huffed, turning into the narrow space between two tents. Luis hesitated for a moment before following his companion into the alleyways between the tents. "This way, Luis. It's a shortcut."

As the two made their way through the maze of tents, Luis patted down his head in an effort to even out the mussed mop of hair upon his scalp. After a mere four months since entering basic training for the Ejercito where his head was shaven down to the regulation length of 2.5 cm, a dense mat of wavy hair had already returned to the top of his head and once again had a proclivity to frizzle out of control. The patted-down hair matted against globs of sweat secreted partially due to the midday heat, though most was the result of the circumstances at hand. Luis wiped some of the beads from the forehead and his smooth, hairless face.

Luis Morazan had been subjected to more than a little taunting on the account of his lack of facial hair and his smooth, infantile features. Indeed, the baby-faced young man hardly seemed the kind of young man cut out for a life of soldiering - an unfortunate fact that had elicited all manner of torment from his drill instructors. Luis seemed more at home in a climate-controlled office high above downtown Madrid than amongst these muscle-bound brutes; Luis would much prefer the former were it an option. But economic uncertainty back in Spain triggered by the drying-up of the Murzuq oil fields, coupled with stiff foreign competition for positions on the mammoth Gibraltar Dam had left Luis with no better prospects. But within the Spanish Ejercito, consistently bloated with funding by Sotelo's fascination with a powerful military, Luis found no such shortage of work. He had hoped his military career would be no more adventurous than five years of idle guard duty at a base in Spanish Algeria. The powers that be, however, had other plans.

Héctor came to a stop and held his palm out behind him, halting Luis just before he could bump into him. The sea of tents ended abruptly before Héctor, giving way to several acres of dusty open field upon which a makeshift parade ground had been established. Upon this island of open space within the sea of tents, thousands of soldiers stood in rigid rank and file. Perfect columns and boxes of stoic soldiers in khaki olive uniform stared on across the field to a raised wooden platform flanked on either side by two flagpoles.

"He's not begun, has he?" Luis asked anxiously.

"No." Héctor confirmed upon a sigh of relief. "No, I don't see anyone on the stand. But I do see our company from here. Come on..."

Héctor and Luis slinked in from the tents and quickly melted into the rest of their own company alongside their platoon sergeant, who shot the two a knowing, reassuring glance. If one of the captains or other officers had witnessed the two slipping into formation, they did nothing about it - perhaps because they themselves were afraid to step out of rank before General Ponferrada, even if he was still nowhere to be found.

No sooner than the two had settled in, the crested form of a general's cap could be seen bobbing up ominously from underneath the floor of the wooden platform. General Ponferrada had arrived. With astounding synchrony, the entire army locked their boots together and threw extended palms to their brows in rigid, uniform salute. Every step the general took to the top of the platform could be heard clearly even from where Luis and Héctor stood.

Hawklike eyes scanned over the assembled army as the general assumed his position atop the wooden platform. For several moments, Ponferrada looked back and forth across the soldiers locked in stoic salute, savoring each second before finally putting them at ease with a downward wave of his fingers. With the precision of automatons, the soldiers retracted their arms and stowed them at their sides. The sound of a thousand shirts brushing against themselves, and silence again resumed.

"Men of the Third Mechanized Division. Without doubt, you are aware of the measures of preparedness that this division has undertaken since its arrival here in Malta. I will not deny that I have expected a tremendous expenditure of effort from each and every one of you during our time on this island. I have no illusions - I understand full well that a great many of you see these recent efforts to maintain a constant state of readiness to be a waste of time and effort. If our purpose was to assure the security of the Western Mediterranean from the perils of the imploding Ottoman Empire - as it has been until recently - I would agree that I have demanded a tremendous deal of wasted effort from every last one of you. This, however is not the case."

Only locusts buzzing in the scrubland beyond the tents responded.

"I am not a man to mince words and I eschew dishonesty whenever possible. In this game of geopolitics and strategy, one can only be so honest. And so it was with the noblest meaning that I have withheld the intent behind these recent operations from this division until this moment. Let it be known to all of you the purpose of our presence in Malta these past weeks: Before this week is out, this division will participate in a military intervention into the Empire of Ethiopia to depose the Yohannes Dynasty and oust all traces of socialist sympathy from the African Continent. On the points of your bayonets, we will drive Hou's sympathizers from the West and carve a line in the sand. We shall send a message written in the blood of their co-conspirators to the Communist lords in Peking: the fighting men of the Republic will burn them and their supporters from every hole they find them. The day of reckoning for Marx's followers draws nigh.

"As I said, I am not one to mince words. The battle to destroy the Chinese pawns in Ethiopia will not be simple. We fight against a seasoned adversary on a homeland they have fought to preserve for many centuries. Arabs, Italians, and Turks alike have tried and failed to dominate the Ethiopians. They are a brave, hardy people, but even they will quail against the horrifying might of the Ejercito and the Armada. Against the ferocity of Spain's fighting men, not even Ethiope shall withstand. The world will bear witness to the truth that there will be no safe haven for the Communists."

Not a soul among the entire division even thought to follow the debriefing with applause or cheering. In solemn silence, the 3rd Mechanized stood by rigidly as General Ponferrada descended from the platform.

"Jesus Christ, Luis." Héctor mumbled into his companion's ear. "We are going to war. Can you fucking believe it?"

Luis wanted to vomit.

"Brother, the man saw it with his own eyes." Marc said, giggling in between words.

"This other man saw it?" Yared replied in a sleepy tone. "You know, friend, other men can lie sometimes."

"Why would he lie? He said you have to, like, give a special request. You pay for your hooker like you would, then you go to the desk all smooth and say 'Hey brother, I would like a room with bed service.' And they give you the keys..."

"And you go to your room and you find a midget?"

"No, friend." Marc chuckled. "You go an it is a normal looking room, but the hooker knows what is going down. They get naked, and they go to the bed and lay down, and then they knock on the backboard like..." he tapped one of Sahle's drums twice, softly so that only a weak echo played through the hollow of the instrument. "And then, wham! The backboard, like, opens up and..."

"A midget roles out?"

Marc grinned as wide as he was high. "Yeh, brother! Exactly!"...

Sevan, Armenia

...Sahle had only half-way paid attention to his band-mate's conversation as they stood backstage preparing. They had been talking about the other clubs for days, visiting them every time they got a night off. The other ones sounded a world away from the damp, smoke filled bar they had found work in. The others had casinos that stretched across several floors, and music blaring from bands that had more members than The Dead Soldier's Den had patrons on any given night. There was steak dinners that sizzled on their platters, and shows that involved actual nudity. And they paid their gigs in stacks of crisp new Armenian dram.

The Den was none of that. It was dark and cramped. The carpeting always seemed wet, and there was no ceiling between the floor and the shell of the roof. On some days it was too hot, and on others it was too cold, but it was never comfortable. It always smells like piss here. And not healthy piss. Sahle had feared, at first, that Aaliyah would not be able to take it. It was nothing like she was used to. Cairo had dripped with wine and gold, and their club had been alive. The Den felt like a tomb on buried on the edge of the real life. It even had a corpse.

The shriveled remains of the long-dead soldier - or whatever he had been - stood behind glass on the wall above the bar. It was on the opposite side of the stage, and during the rehearsal the pits where its eyes had been seemed to watch. At night, when it was showtime, the shadows of the darkened bar hid it. It is still out there. Watching. The thought made Sahle paranoid. The Acid is kicking in...

Aailyah had not left, but he was still worried. He worried about their job, and about her health. On the back of his mind, he worried about his identity. I am Samel now. The drummer, and her man. The rest is behind me. In many ways, it was. His royal birth, his throne, his downfall... it all felt like a different world. Some nights, he looked up at the darkness and it all flooded him at once. Yaqob. Hassan. Baruti. His mother...

But during the day, he forgot. His new world buried the old. That, and chemicals. Marc still managed to find them when others would clearly not be able to. Even as they fled, he had somehow managed to discover hard drugs in monasteries and rebel camps. It was his greatest, if not his only, skill. He had brought them a handful of acid tablets from Africa. They were little and flat, the size of a finger nail and with the appearance of paper. On them, the tiny image of an African man with a wild bush of hair and well kept suit smiled with approval. 'Try me'. It read. And he did. He could fill it pulsing in his veins and pounding in his ears, and a rainbow sheen was starting to whirl where once there had only been moist surfaces.

On the other side of the curtain, where the stage looked out across the crowd, an elderly voice belted out a somber song in heavy Armenian. It was long, and stiff, and full of consonants. These people really love their country to sit through that for it. Sahle thought. When national anthems and parade songs had played in Ethiopia, Sahle had nodded off. Samel simply ignored it. He only noticed when the voice started to dip, and he felt time slow down like craters in the flow of his life.

"How is my tie." A little man with fluffy hair and rosy cheeks asked. He almost seemed to speak like a child, and watching him fidget with the bow of cloth at his neck was funny in its own way. He was a comedian - a man who just went on stage and told jokes. A showgirl dressed in a short red sequin dress helped him. "Hold still Darcho." she said in frustration. "You're making it worse." The impatience in her voice made Sahle feel as if he was naked and under attack. He watched them from the corner of his eye, nervous. Was she talking to me? He couldn't be sure. He could never be sure. There were always vultures hiding behind the surfaces, waiting to buzz over and steal him from his life.

Aaliyah came from a hallway, and the ground fluttered beneath her feet. She was angelic - and it wasn't just how she dressed. It was her essence. Light emanated from her skin, and her clothes glowed with colors that did not exist on and three dimensional plain. Below, the cloth was white. She wore a silk veil that covered the upper half of her face - and the bandage that hid her damaged eye from the world. Her shoulders were bare, however, and the dress hugged her cleavage. Her breasts are glittering with rainbows and gold The world around the embattled comedian and his helper now seemed like a demonic dark splotch on reality - pulsing fire and breathing smoke held in check by the divine light that Aaliyah brought with her.

"You're high." she said in several voices, and Sahle felt like his heart had been punched behind the ribs. Is this how I am to be judged? Sahle worried. She saw through him, however, and a loving smile shined through. She wiped his brow with a small cloth and he stared at the wet geometry playing across the surface of her breasts.

"We at the Den welcome our next guest, Darcho!" A female shout came from everywhere. Sahle deduced it had been from the other side of the curtain, but the voice still rang in his head. It had made him feel small, like a man shrunk to the size of a mole in threat of being stepped on. Another voice replaced the giant's echo, but this one was different. It was playful, clown-like, and childish. "

"Friends! Armenians! Lend me your beers!" the voice made him jump, and he did his best to ignore it. I'm just in a different place right now, and I have done this all before. Sahle was fighting the forces of anxiety in the dark red of his very own veins, but it was a fight he knew.

"We go up next." the deep string-like voice of their Clarinetist reverberated through across the soft wet wood of the ground below them. He was an Armenian, Sahle recalled. And he was possibly a wrongness. His voice made Sahle uncomfortable, and it kicked up the smell of mold and bones in the wood below. That reminded him of the corpse above the bar. He will be watching tonight, but will he like me?

"I went fishing in the lake the other day. I went fishing, and I was very satisfied. I had a very good haul. I pulled up a plump trout, a juuuuiiicy whitefish, and a Georgian."

That voice. It was evil. Sahle recoiled and his mind broke in two, one to protect while the other marveled. The curtains rustled to the beat of footsteps, like two instruments playing in harmony. It made Sahle hungry for his drums.

The roof popped into place. It often did that, and every time it felt like it was going to fall. For a split second, Sahle thought a midget was going to roll out of the rafters and smash into him like a bomb from above.

"Are you okay to play?" Aaliyah asked, and he felt like she had become his mother. Or was she? Those memories were beginning to weave. Suddenly, Sahle felt like he was in the gardens again, throwing rocks at Yaqob and Azima as they climbed a tree. And he had been caught, but his mother still loved him. She loved him and she wanted him to be able to play.

"Don't worry, sister." Yaqob said in a deep, sleepy voice. "He plays best when he is in the sky."

"The President asked in his speech that Armenians give up 'Comforts like pots and pans.' When word came to Sevan that the President wanted some pot, our patriotic young people put their stashes in envelopes. You can see the smoke going down the highway."

Will that man stop threatening me?! Sahle shivered. I should send Aaliyah out there to vanquish it. She can do it. She can save me. Before he could muster up the courage to ask, the sea hit the Den. Wave upon wave of crashing force echoed through the main room, and Sahle felt the floor shake. The waves had their own rhythm, and their constant patter reminded Sahle of the sound of his own drums. Before he could contemplate that, the waves subsided and another voice boomed across the stage on the other side of the curtain.

"We have here in the Den a new Abyssinian Blues Band from the darkness of Africa itself. Give it up!"

Sahle heard the roaring waves again, and he watched the curtain anxiously, afraid that water would break through at any moment. He was froze in place, and every slight sway of the curtain caused his heart to skip.

"Come on." Aaliyah tugged on his arm. They were moving his drums out onto the stage. No! They will drown! He thought, but the words did not come out.

"It is time, brother." Yared called out. The waves died down, and Sahle suddenly felt like he had been a fool to be afraid. He followed Aaliyah a meek as a child, and they passed through the curtain to the other side. She will protect me. Mother always did.

The room was dark, except for the blaring light that hung like a sun above their heads. Sahle was now in his element. He saw his drums, and he saw the long stretching dark beyond the set, and he knew what he had to do. He had to play - play for universe, and for Aaliyah, so they would still accept him into this world. He positioned himself, listening to the music of his every breath. The deep patter, with its wet rhythm And then a slow whine woke the music of the instruments. A slow, tropical twang. It was only a moment until the others joined. The pleasant hum of the clarinet, the lively song of a trumpet, and his own drums joined the lonely Krar. Whatever hateful words or doom-filled waves had sounded across the stage before, it was no replaced with a solidarity of rhythm and meaning. Sahle could feel the strings of the universe itself being plucked in his muscles, and his hands danced across the drums to match it.

And they played. Sahle heard the bubbling sound the brother instruments made. They warped and whinnied, but they met with something so elemental to the cosmos that, for a second, he felt like he had spied the source of all its power. And then the voice started, sorrowful and strong and angelic. It gave him that power. The paranoia and anxiety which had fought throughout his pulsing blood fell back like an army broken against another. It was only him, and the drumsticks in his hand, and the sound that they made, and the sound that the brother instruments made. That was it. The rest of the world was blackness, left to imagination. The dead man is watching, and he is smiling now.

Intertwined were the colors of multiple universes, and their past and present and future. The clarinet solo is fine. He is no wrongness. He will make them dance. The place they were in had seen sadness, and so had the other places. The ocean bubbled into the ground, and revealed a cracked earth below riddled with smashed galleys and skeletons in bronze. They weren't supposed to be there, and they knew it. They felt it, somehow, in their absent flesh, and Sahle felt it too. Or am I Samel? Those were too distinct people. The musician and the prince. A past life and a present.

The Russians have reclaimed Volgograd and the Americans have rebuilt. He now felt like the world was transforming around him. There are men living in space and that trumpet is tight tonight.

A moment stole him back to the stage. It is the voice. She has stopped singing and now it is just...

There was a commotion in the darkness. A sun-tanned man held light in his hand, and it flickered as he pointed hatefully toward the stage. It is as warm as a star... no, it is as cold as steel. Someone screamed, and thunder filled the room with it's primal power. Then more screams. Sahle panicked within, but he froze on the outside. He had watched as a flash of fire came from the tanned man. His eyes had went white, and he fell too his knees. The smiling soldier has a new friend. A man stood the tanned man and watched as blood pooled on the ground, rich and red. I know that man. Sahle remembered. He had told them how women had kept his cockadoodle warm. And he had told him, secretly one night, that the old man did not hate Aaliyah. 'See that man down there? The old man.' He had pointed one night during rehearsal. The dancing girls had just taken the stage, and Sanos Horasian was slipping his hand down into his pants and began to... move. 'I am thinking this is why the old man is no liking womens having jobs. Someday he will be walking into a bank, and he will be seeing the girl behind the counter, and he will be.' Vasily had made a crude move then. Vasily? What world am I in now?

There were screams everywhere. The screams of demons and of angels, and of shades who did not matter. They grated at his nerve, and he felt like he should move.

"Do not be worrying." He heard faintly amongst the cacophony in a familiar sing-songy Russian voice. "He is dead now." The speaker kicked the paling tanned man for emphasis, and Sahle thought he heard him cry.

In a different world, maybe.

West of Novosibirisk, Russia

A dim sort of lumbering fog hung over the countryside. Hiding it in a cloud of gray matte that shrouded every shape and figure that walked throughout it. In the hazy mist only the echoes of sound boomed. The only sensation in the thick early-morning spring mist. The low rumble of tanks roared distantly and near, loosing themselves to each other in a ghostly chant as above air traffic continued west.

Over the radios, the idle crews and columns listened in to the chatter and reports from the west on the thus-far endless skirmishes that had marched on over the past several weeks. Those skirmishes they waited idle to join. Those skirmishes they were held back from because a general felt they had inadequate backing.

Between the codes and the signaling, the crews gleaned out what was going on. Air support was needed east of Omsk. Someone buckled down in a farmhouse having been surrounded by Republican soldiers. Reports of communist rioting in the city itself, but no formal confirmation on their status, just glazed reports from pilots when the crews surfed the airforce's waves.

For Li Tsung, the nearly unintelligible net of reports punctuated occasionally by the dull throb of explosions was his first taste of combat. A sick churning sensation swam through his stomach. It felt like he was full of eels. Locusts crawled over his heart, and his head swam drunkenly in a lake of anxiety. It was happening, and he balanced tentatively on the brink of it. Teetered on the thin edge of a knife.

Not even sitting inside the confined shell of the TG1980 could bring him balance and comfort. It was more than anything a catalyst, the barely muffled roar of the engine echoed in the pipes and steel shell and a gaseous smell twisted in through his nose. Maybe it was just him though. Maybe it was him. The soldiers he shared the cabin with seemed unfazed or only mildly disinterested with the radio. To them it seemed it was only a minor distraction.

Tsi Lin lay sat in an attempted curl on her aluminum seat just below the turret, the controls propping up her side as she sat wrapped around the inside block of the gun with a tattered comic book in her lap. The gunner's tank-top and unbuttoned uniform did little to hide the soft curve of her breasts. Something that held the young soldier in an uncomfortable spell from his driver's seat.

“Where'd you get the book?” Tsun asked, trying to ignore the fact he was staring up at one of his crew mates.

Lin looked up from the page she was reading, her expression effectively disinterested. “I won it.” she said dryly.

“Won it?” Tsun asked.

“In a game of cards.” Lin nodded, returning to her reading.

“Cards? Isn't that illegal!?” a shocked Tsun said.

“And I like detective comics.” Lin sneered, “Besides, who's going to tell.”

“She's right, you know?” Hui piped up from alongside her, peering into a small mirror as he shaved his head. The loader looked over at the young man, adding with an indifferent shrug: “It could be a worse thing to trade for. I know she's gotten us some spare ammo from the ranks in back.”

“We could always use a few more.” Lin said flatly.

“As long as I don't hear about opium being traded around here I don't feel a need to report.” said the voice of their commanding officer as he leaned over the hatch. “And if no one's coming up here shouting and threatening to gun her down then we're not at a significant enough issue.”

“Oh- well...” Tsun stammered. The thought was uncomfortable to him. On base, he had always been swiftly reminded of the sins, the inequalities associated with it. Now sitting on the field, that seems to have been ignored. A policy forgotten.

“You'll get used to it.” Hui said warmly from his corner.

Tsun sat silenced, stunned, at the driver's seat. Looking between his companions, he didn't know what to think. Shame that they would cheat the army's most honored system? Appreciation for their camaraderie to hide the fact it was going on? Horrified that somewhere in the system, the army could be corrupt? It had always been presented to him to be the purest service.

He could of posed his question. Asked it, but outside the homely, cramped vehicle a commotion arose. Sun Song turned from his crew, distracted by what was going on. There was shouting, chatter. Something even seemed to change in the rumble of the column itself as Song peeled away from the top hatch.

The crew fell into a tense silence with the departure of their commander. Shutting the magazine Lin pulled herself up through the hatch. “Shit, it's the Shaoxiao.” she said, pulling herself back in.

“Kao Hong is here?” Hui said.

Lin pulled herself back up and peeked over the turret again. “Yeah.” she said, falling back in: “And he's got flags.”

A feeling of tensity rose in Tsun's throat, constricting him. Turning in his chair he peered out the narrow block of reinforced glass he was given as a window. Along the edge of the faded and dirty window he could just make out hazy, dark figures on the edge of his viewing range. Barely present shades, with a hint of color. Other forms crossed his path, joining up with the growing assembly.

Curiosity came to Tsun as he reached over and threw open the forward hatch alongside him.

As Tsun pulled himself out, he met eyes with the Shaoxiao Kao Hong. Five meters off, and with an entourage of officers gathering around him the towering officer stood in the nexus of the assembly, looking out over the heads on his men. Flat, broad eyes gazed out to past them to Tsun. The driver felt his skin turn cold. Not just from the steel-cold gaze of the general, but the bundles of red flags, wrapped around aluminum polls tied in bundles, held in the arms of helmeted soldiers at attention.

Kao Hong's face was as powerful as he was tall. An uncany heavy chin supported a long set of lips and a thick flattened nose. His eyes had a coldness to them, if as well a sharp attentive quality.

The two exchanged a brief stare, answered as Hong rose a gloved hand to the brim of his olive-green cap and tipped it to the young private.

“Comrades, it's about time.” he started, turning to the officer and commander corp circled at attention around him, “Huei Wen has given us the time to sit and wait long enough, and he's feeling confident to put a move.

“We're driving into Omsk, comrades. We're going to make good on what we didn't do five years ago.”

Addis Ababa, Capital of the Seven Kingdoms African Empire

Malta.

There had been something in the air when Dr. Sisi left the Hassan's offices in the government's Imperial Palace. Walinzi agents were there, dressed in black knee-length greatcoats and sunglasses. They looked like reapers, skulking in the corner and talking in hushed voices about something Sisi could not understand. Malta. I am absolute on this matter. One of the phantomed operatives made mention of that knighted isle.

He sat in the back of an air-conditioned limousine, the noontime Addis Ababa sun darkened by the tint of his windows so much that it looked like dawn. The seats were slick black leather, and the plush lining of the frame was an eggshell white. Sisi rested royally with his leg on one cheek, his body turned so that one pressed firmly ahead of the other. A gold tipped cane rested next to him, holding down a perfectly folded oil-black coat.

From the outside, his ride looked out of place among the weighed down sedans and ill-repaired trucks with their chipping paint and make-shift parts. His was a Maybach - an old symbol of German luxury from a generation ago when the last of the true European aristocrats began to fade away . White-wall tires, washed tirelessly by those in his service and protected by polished black fenders. The nose of the car was long and thing, ending in a silver grill and impeccable raised round headlights. The cab was more than any simple four-door sedan - it was smooth and rounded, like something designed by artisans rather than engineers. It was what any gentleman such as Sisi would prefer. Sisi had traveled Europe in his youth, and he had fell in love with the ruins that existed behind the modern reconstructions. Old castles hugging hilltops, velvet carpets and silk sleepwear. He discovered western learning and western speech. He loved it all, and it defined him.

But he had never been to Malta. He knew little about the island, save for its Christian past. The Knights of St. John - crusader knights that had harried the Holy Land as the Knights Hospitaller - held the island against Turks and ruled it as their sovereign land through the European golden age, until Napoleon took it. And then it was British. And then it was Spanish.

Hispania. There is that heinous name label again. How they vex my employers. The image of Sotelo made newspapers and television broadcasts more often than any other world leader. He was a well dressed man, with slicked back hair and pointed features. There was a charisma too him that was difficult to nail - different from Yaqob's young warmth. It was stone, solid and certain. But there was also something else. I am scholar of the mind and an abiding student of the brain. Sotelo is concealing a truth with... those eyes.

Spain was a unique customer from the perspective of Sisi's... other ventures. The Spanish had money - more money than there was in Africa, there was no doubt - but there was some obstacle in the way of Sisi's custom. It was not simply borders - smugglers always found a way, even into the supposedly impregnable China. Spain had simply not warmed up in the way he would have liked.

Psychedelics were a unique sort of drug. Uppers and downers had ruled the market for ages, with the more hallucinogenic narcotics hiding in monasteries and sweat lodges. Someone had once told him that psychedelic mushrooms had been found to be relatively abundant on Sinai, where God was said to have given Moses the laws of the land. It was blasphemous, surely, but it was hard for Sisi to pretend that it wasn't an amusing fact at least. When he had heard it, he had smirked and done the sign of the cross lazily - but sincerely - over his chest.

Malta

Sisi thought of knights again, and he thought of Sotelo. It brought an image of the later to mind, dressed in silvery steel with a surcoat displaying the Spanish flag. I imagine that is how he sees himself.

They reached one of the centers of the city, where three of the capitol's main arteries met in a single turnabout. In the center was the statue of a lion carved in stained dark granite - some of the stains coming from the rock, while others were simply the white smear of bird droppings. It was a true enough depiction of a lions form, but there was something square about the design. The folds of its mane, the shape of its paws against the flat top of its base, and it's sturdy jaw... it was all square in some vague way. In it's left paw, it held a long sceptre and on it's head it wore a crown topped by the Ethiopian cross - a cross whom's branches flared out into three ornately designed diamond shapes.

And behind him, a panorama of the city spun around.

Addis Ababa was small. White-wash buildings stood next to egg-shell blue and pale pink, each one heavily plastered. There were a few buildings that could truly be called skyscrapers. Few of them reached even twenty floors, and even fewer - a small handful of towers built from dull concrete and glass - reached thirty or forty.

Sisi reached for a small manila folder sitting neatly next to his coat. The label on top of it read "Project Think." What a ghastly title. He opened it and flipped several pages in.

It was all updates on the discoveries of his laboratory in the depths of the Congo. The subjects there had been acquired from the Germans during their invasion six years prior, and they had mostly been used up. The few remaining - a few hundred at best - had been moved to a new facility in the jungle interior. If Sisi had been given a choice, he would have managed them completely alone - a subsidiary of the school he operated in Kinshasa. Those students who rose to the very top of his classes were given the privilege of working on his prized subjects. With exception of the one who protested so indignantly. That was ugly business.

But the rest of his manpower came from the Walinzi, and Sisi's friendship with Ras Hassan. They had met during that war, when Sisi fed Hassan the basic materials he needed to win. Food, clothing, ammo... Hassan had found himself trapped in the African interior, and Sisi's supplies were the lifeblood of his war effort.

Sisi flipped a few more pages.



A peculier choice for experimentation. Sisi wondered. He had preferred surgical matters to these more chemical ones, but he was proud to admit that his students had discovered interesting bits of information as well. Still, the Congo lab was no longer interesting. Too much had been done there already, and even their remaining subjects had nearly reached the point of being so often used that there were too many confounding factors working against their experiments.

"Doctor." the driver called back. Sisi looked up and recognized where they were immediately. "We have arrived. Your plane is ready on the tarmac."

"Pleasant. Marvelous." Sisi answered. He scooped up his cane and folded his jacket under his arm.

Enough of Africa. I have a better laboratory to revel in.

(GLITCH POSTED OOC IN IC, WILL PUT POST HERE I GUESS)

Pais Vasco, Spain

Muffled tapping sounded from without the bus. A soft, intermittent rapping against the riveted metal sheeting that comprised the roof increased in pitch gradually until a steady pitter-pattering could be heard reverberating into the bus. Outside it had started to rain, Julio concluded. For the first time since he had stepped aboard the vehicle some three hours ago, he had some indication of what was happening outside the bus on which he found himself.

He had been flown from Madrid to the smaller regional airport at Bilbao. It was there that Julio had been joined with a group of prisoners of some fashion hidden from sight within the interior of another hangar. There, he and his new companions were herded aboard what had once been a prison or school bus. Regardless of whoever it was originally built to transport, the vehicle had been requisitioned by Spain's Ministry of Health obviously enough as the ministry's name had been stenciled in bold, black Castillian for all to see. Save for for the foreboding lettering and the windshield, every surface of the vehicle had been painted over a uniform, drab gray. Even the windows had been covered with the same coat of thick gray, allowing only a faint glow to shine in from the outside.

Though Julio could see nothing outside the bus, he had some idea of where he was. For much of the drive, he was pressed into the backrest of the minimally-padded bench that passed for his seating and the engine could be heard rumbling angrily beneath the corrugated metal flooring as the bus crawled up a seemingly endless number of inclines. The bus moved slowly and he felt himself being forced out into the aisle or pushed into the shoulders of the neighbor he had been seated with as the vehicle negotiated what could only be switchback turns. They were driving east into the Basque County - the rural foothills of the Pyrenees Mountains - to Arratzu.

Julio could recall the senatorial hearing that had given the Ministry of Health free reign to do what they wished with their new facility at Arratzu. The Instituto Arrazua, as the senatorial paper-pushers had called it, had been built in the late 1930s as an insane asylum. The crisp, clean air of the remote Basque hill country, the psychiatrists concluded, would have palliative qualities that would ease the misery of the irreparably deranged and retarded. Within two decades however, the Institute was abandoned and sat vacant for nearly thirty years. By 1977, Spain's Ministry of Health decided that giant brick edifice, being so far removed from any centers of large population, would be a safe place to quarantine the victims of the disease that destroyed the immune systems of all those it infected - the plague brought back from the barbarous heart of the Dark Continent in the bodies of Spanish soldiers returning home from the Rio Niger Intervention.

Julio Zuraban was swollen and bruised from the preliminary "interrogation" meted out upon him by the Oficina de Inteligencia Militar, but he was no sick man and the 30 odd people he shared this bus with appeared no more ill than he. From underneath a lump of his swollen, purple eyebrow, the exiled senator's eyes flitted about the interior of the bus in what dim, gray light could make it through the windows. It was a diverse group - a sizable minority of them dressed in black business slacks and wrinkled button up shirts. Some among them might had been working in offices in the glittering canopy of Madrid's Distrito Manzanares just hours before. Others still were of blue collar persuasion, perhaps a doctor and nurses still clad in their scrubs; Julio was almost certain he had seen a priest dressed in a plain black clerical suit. Indeed they came from all walks of life, but among them all there was but one thing that united them.

Hushed, worried murmurs floated through the stuffy and uncomfortably warm air amongst the patter of raindrops and and the whine of the engine. Snippets of conversations found their way to Julio's ears.

"This must all be a great misunderstanding", he had heard numerous times.

"Our names must have been swapped with the infected or something to that effect. We will simply tell them that they have the wrong ones."

"So help me God, the Ministry will be hearing from my attorneys!"

In this way the other passengers kept themselves reasonably quieted. Though worry manifested itself as trembling in their voices, their assurance that this entire affair was a colossal mistake kept the passengers from erupting into complete panic. Julio, however, heard no such denial from the man seated beside him. In a dejected torpor he sat, staring listlessly at the raised bumps pressed into the metal floor. It was Julio's suspicion that he too knew why he found himself on a bus bound for a remote stretch of the Basque Country; that there had been no mistake in his sequestration. The benchmate, like Julio Zuraban and every other person seated on this bus, had somehow vexed Alfonso Sotelo. Arratzu now served to contain a new infection: dissent.

The patter of raindrops against the roof of the bus had intensified into a constant din as what little light passed through the paint-obfuscated windows all but died out as the skies outside darkened. A distant, rolling thunder distracted the passengers for long enough to forget that the bus had slowed to a crawl. Their murmuring was silenced briefly as they felt the vehicle jerk to a stop. With a pneumatic hiss, the bus had at last come to a halt. No sooner, the inside of the bus erupted into uproarious chatter as the passengers demanded to be let off as many struggled to their feet. The driver, hidden away in his separate cabin of one-way mirrors at the fore of the vehicle, offered no response.

((Suggested listening))

It was then that the handle on the back door of the bus began to rattle loudly - immediately muting all aboard and drawing their undivided attention to the back of the vehicle. The rear exit of the bus was drawn open and a snarling doberman leaped into the center aisle from outside. Frothy spittles dribbled from the hound's sneering maw as it let forth a savage volley of growling barks. The passengers quailed at the attack dog and pushed themselves as far away from the beast as they could humanly get and Julio and his neighbor both bolted to their feet.

A humanoid figure wearing a variation of the Great War gas mask, dripping from the pouring rain outside the bus clambered up into the rear of the bus after the hound. With a short leash in one hand and a long, cylindrical cattleprod in the other, the guard stole the attention from even the growling doberman bouncing against the taut leash.

"Get off!" The masked figure ordered, no less authoritative for being muffled by his headgear. The retractile door at the front of the bus slid open, offering an outlet for the passengers that they took with gusto. Even with the passengers nearly climbing over one another to get off the bus, the masked guard was not satisfied with their pace and jabbed the diodes of his cattleprod into the back a white-collar office worker unlucky enough to find himself at the back of the bus. An anguished yelp and the smell of ozode filled the bus, providing Julio that much more motivation as he pressed his way into the current of panicked passengers scrambling for the front exit.

The passengers forced themselves violently through the door of the bus, expulsing Julio out into the world and face-first into a gravelly puddle at the foot of the bus. Immediately, a gas mask-donning guard armed with a cattleprod descended upon him.

"On your feet!" Julio heard over the fat drops of rain falling down upon his body and the puddle he was half-submerged within. Before he could regain his footing, a burning, stinging sensation on his asscheek sent his entire body flailing about like a beached fish.

"On your feet, damnit!" The guard demanded, stabbing the diodes into the puddle this time. With an arc and a popping buzz, the entire puddle was electrified and Julio screamed and floundered about as the water turned into a million burning needles.

"Carajo!" Julio rasped. "Fucking stop it already!"

A powerful gloved fist yanked Julio out of the puddle by the collar and dragged him onto his feet after the other arrivals. His gait was floppy and uneven, as his muscles still quivered from the jolt of electricity. Even so, he moved as quickly to avoid another round from the electron baton.

Rising up from the wooded hills surrounding it was a massive, featureless building built of red brick and mortar. No windows or architectural frivolities were to be found on its facade. One might have mistaken it for an oversized and misplaced warehouse were it not for the guard towers, spotlights, and double perimeter of fencing crowned in razorwire. One would be challenged to find a prison as well equipped or defended as Arratzu was; flashes of rumbling thunder only served to make the structure that much more imposing.

The new arrivals were herded through a wide double door flanked on either side by guards accompanied by growling attack dogs - the only feature of note on its frontal exterior. Like cattle, Julio and the other thirty or so were directed into a holding room where a cadre of masked guards pressed them all against a cinderblock wall. With their backs to the door and their palms on the wall, the guards took boxcutting knives and sliced through the back of their garments. Julio felt a deft tug on his collar followed by a loud, rip just behind his ears before his shirt fell off his body in a sopping, muddy heap. Another slice against the hem of his pants sent those too falling around his ankles, leaving Julio in his underwear, socks, and a muddied pair of pants hanging limply at his feet. It was apparent that several a handful of the other arrivals had soiled their undergarments. The arrivals were then instructed to remove the rest of their clothing. Those who tarried felt the sting of an electric baton.

A jet of freezing water lanced into Julio's back, eliciting a welp and a grimace as icy water poured down his exposed back . His hair matted into a curled, stringy mop of frigid water and dripped with each shiver. As the rest of the newcomers were hosed down and deloused, a gloved hand seized the former senator by his quivering arm and dragged him away from the others to the corridors within the heart of the cavernous building. Julio's head spun and the world was becoming darker and fuzzier around him; the cold had sent him tumbling into shock.

"Senator Zuraban." A softer-tongued man addressed him as he was led away from the others into a nebulous haze. Julio was in no position to respond - he could do little more than keep his head upright and his eyelids open. "We have some questions we would have you answer..."

He descended from consciousness as his captor spoke again.

Chinese Armor Staging grounds, west of Novosibirsk

“We're driving into Omsk, comrades. We're going to make good on what we didn't do five years ago.” Kao Hong boomed above the idling grumble of Chinese armor. Their guttural rumbling throbbed through the air with the whetted throat of dragons. If the carved and angled blocks of steel had the faces of beasts, there would be without a doubt that blood was craved. Even as stoically hidden by his officers, the Shaoxiao could see into their souls. They were looking for blood as much as their boats were. Many were fresh and the virgin desire to prove themselves was full throttle. Those who has tasted the bitterness of gun powder stood on the cusp of preparedness, their desire more than infantile blood lust, like a young boy craves wet pussy; they were men of reason in this, they knew it was coming and they only wished to see it to the end.

“Our armed forces may have been taken by surprise on the first dive,” he continued, “But we will not! The mustered strength of our foes have not carried on for this long and they have broken their own spirits! Let me re-affirm the briefings, those that we have all been given.

“The Republic is broken. It has begun its death when they so cowardly surrendered their president to us! And when the weak coward was found dead in his cell!” he continued to shout, only half-lying. For the weakened will of the former president Dimitriov did not resign his life to death's grip. It was what came unromantically, in the lunch line, with kuàizi shoved deep into his belly over a dispute with fruit. But if the Intelligence Bureau had ever needed a cleaner, accidental assassination it was then. “Their country is over run with criminals and whores prostituting themselves on the decay and deception cast on their people, throwing them headfirst into a world of putrid decadence eating their very bodies from the inside out!

“Our course is not a curse on them, comrades! It is a blessing we bestow on them. To enter into a protective fold where their cancers may be purged from their bodies with a hot iron and every man and woman there can live the lives their parents and grand parents intended. Not at the yoke of some other man's greed but the social unity they will find in Revolution! The physical spirituality of a society set on the road to communism!

“This is what we are here for. Let them not tell you otherwise! We are here for freedom. Freedom for the yokes of the mafia class and the tzarist vampires that duck the proud working man alive. And we will achieve. By the sweet of our brows we will achieve and I shall not have failure! And neither will Hue Wen. Neither will China be shamed!”

“Come on, where we rolling!?” shouted a commander, his voice was jovial and excited. Impatient at the same time.

Kao Hong smiled, his unphased and indifferent face alighting with a sort of fatherly admiration. “A man after my heart!” he boomed, laughing, “It is why I love you all as brothers.” he laughed, “But if we are already motivated, I won't let it go any further than it needs to go.

“We're riding on the city of Omsk, on the trial of the 1st Sibirian People's Guard to bolster their ranks with our fresh armor. On our tails the 12th Heilongjiang corp will be traveling with the assistance of 3rd Manchurian engineers who will assist our Russian brethren skirmishing against the enemy to hold a central position and establish for our needs a forward operating position.

“We will not hold our ground for any long than one hour and ten minutes. In which time you shall designate yourselves to defend the designated forward operations base or seek mechanical or medical attention where need be. Reports from the front have yet to report that the Russians have in their armory any mobilized armor. I am thus operating on the aerial and field reports that their armored divisions are currently out of commission or too far behind enemy lines to make full use of themselves.

“There is word of light re-purposed civilian vehicles in the region. But I don't fear them. Their harassment will only be like bees to the shell of a tortoise! Grind them up like paper and leave them to burn when you encounter them.

“I am not holding out on the possibility they have it deployed but inactive until we have dispatched our own armor. But I am not ordering the advanced deployment of the TG1980 columns. For this purpose on this first day those old veterans in the old TG1965 columns will be running point to conceal the new armor. But if there is any large-scale fire on you, then pull back and call for the assistance of the closest newer model boat. And those of you in the new toys will respond!

“Failure to comply on my orders will face punitive action. I will revoke commander privileges and write the papers for dishonorable discharge. For this reason, stay on the radio to give regular status updates. I expect your status to be confirmed by your neighbors.

“As soon as a forward operations is established I and the 13th Heilongjiang and the 3rd Liaoning Cannon will set up fire positions on Omsk itself. For you men wait for order confirmation on establishment of the forward base.

“Are we clear, comrades?”

“Yes, sir!” the officer corp saluted.

“Very well brothers, man your stations. We're going in hot. Mark your targets, and leave none of our blood on our hands.”

Russian Far North

Snow still covered the ground, whipping through the desolate open landscape. Howling between gnarled twisted trees stripped of their needles. The desolate landscape rolled through the hills with sparse wooden groves to block the wind. On the cusp between the living world and a frozen hell to the north a secluded camp of wrought scrap iron stood. Banks of snow had drifted up to and clung to the side of the protective walls, creating less a barrier for entry and more a hole to guard against bombing raids. But the inert dismay of the post's garrison betrayed any sense of danger that would be had at the line between nations.

Though the mercury declared the day to be a balmy zero degrees centigrade, the wind was a whole other matter. Here, it tore from the south and drove cold knives into the men who opted to stand around fires, or the open engines of grumbling bar-framed buggies. The scene spoke in its own way, seemingly suggesting the world had succumbed to a chemical winter. The silence of the garrison cursed the settlement. A curse spoken with no incantation.

Ragged tarpaulin tents and sheet-iron barracks made for temporary shelter that leaked comfort.

“We've got the orders.” grumbled a comm officer. A scraggly beard grew from his chin. His already squinted eyes were pressed harder against the cold that wafted through the command post in sharp biting drafts, “We can finally fucking move!”

“I am as cold as you are, brother.” a senior officer said. His rank suggested he could be older than the bearded officer. But the collar of his coat parted back from his face showed a man of equal age to him. In his late thirties, Quan Yun-qi could hardly claim the physical scars of war that his older contemporaries or his superiors would so proudly boast about. Tokens forced on them from the Revolution, or the excursions into Taiwan and Korea. But it was not to say he was any less ample for the role of a colonel.

The dark combed back hair of Yun-qi had seen the Philippines many times over. He was sharp in training, and regarded well by the drill staff there who made sure to push him harder and further than his contemporaries. And his brown eyes had seen the crucifixions and the man-bombs of Mindanao.

“So are you eager to move?” the comm officer said, “Because if we stay here long I imagine Tsien Huang won't ever use that flamethrower of his to keep anything warm, at least not in a good way.”

“I understand.” Yun-qi said distantly. He did sorely wish to be home in the south again, although he never thought to describe Manchuria as being 'south'. But the warmth of his wife and child was as good as any summer sun, and here in Russia it seems the concept of “spring” never reached anyone's ears. Not even the sun, which was beginning to linger too long in the sky. Could he tell what time it was anymore? How early in the morning was it?

“I'll take it that the buggies are chained up and ready to roll? And the six-wheelers?”

“I imagine so.” the comm officer grumbled, looking over towards the radio he kept tucked in the corner. He had a small barrel near by that burned with wood-fed fire. Next to it a stack of wood rose on the table like some sort of cold, dreary cairn.

“We've been waiting on this for just short of a month after all.” he added as an afterthought.

“Then to say we're leaving will be a morale booster enough for the unit.” Yun-qi smiled, digging through some briefing papers, looking for something.

“Yeah, and where are we going?” the comm officer asked.

“If I can find it, I would tell y-” he started, pausing abruptly as he paused mid-way, “here it is!” he laughed, pulling out a folded map.

Closing the brief folder he unfolded the map on his desk over it. Between the seams was a faded portrait of Russia. Criss crossing lines over top it traced coordinate sectors over top Northern Siberia, which lay warped from one corner to wrap curved to the other, the lines following and accentuating this curve more.

“There's an installation there that intelligence dubs as site 62-69.” Yun-qi said, pointing to a small black X, “We're a long march behind, but we won't have any interference. The Russians attention is to the south where our own Russian allies have been trying to pull the countryside apart from Surgut to Omsk. They've opened for us a black hole we're using to hit along a few other units.

“We're going to take Site 62-69, which is believed to be Imperial prison, but there's indication it's being used to house soldiers now. I've been told if it's gone it'll destabilize Republican ability in Khanty-Mansi and we can overrun the area once we shut down radio communication and cut their distribution network.”

“And why are you telling me this?” the communications officer asked, baffled.

“Because you handle enough of my outward and inward communications I don't care.” he said, “And you'll be far enough in the back it won't matter. I'd also like someone else here to know what we're doing.”

“It'll only take five minutes at most to go, so let's go tell the boys.”

Southern Urals

“So the man returns!” a booming voice shouts in the large fire-lit office. A warm comfort fills the room, as with warm late-spring sun. Gold and amber light filled the office, which resembled more a living room. And its head, dressed in an Imperial uniform was the home's resident. His features dramatic and handsome, if strongly indifferent to the agents' presence. If anything, his sharp blue eyes shone with a interest in the potential information the ears would hear. He rested the whole of his wait on a single powerful hand as he leaned on the back of a chair.

Jun gave the blonde general no empathy or apathy. He had been ringing around long enough to convince him to the Chinese side of the current conflict, but his adventures weren't lighting the kind of fire his superiors wanted. Not the kind that burned in the fire-place, warm and healthy.

At the same time, he had warmed and a few of the lower ranks had come to respect Jun, or fear him. Which ever it was.

Jun wasn't alone. The partner appointed to him by the general was with him on one side. On the other, a smaller less physical sort of central Asian stood. Ulanhu, a Mongolian. He was enough to impress a man while in his uniform, but that was only in the realm of political courtesy. He was short, even by Asiatic standards. His eyes mousey and nose broad. He wore thick glasses and his hair was starting to thin early. He was an unlikely accomplice to Jun, who was tall and better built; a man without pain.

“I am ready to give the debrief, Makulov sir.” Jun said.

Makulov nodded, his lips neither curling in a frown or a smile.

“Upon being issued this mission April 20th, I and Ivan tracked the target Vladimir Peterovisk to his residence in a central-city apartment in the Republic capitol of Yekaterinburg. On April 24th upon locating his apartments I discovered a security guard tracks the traffic in and out of the building On April 25th I managed to seize a copy of the entrance and exit notes kept by him. I and Ivan ascertained his movements and stacked out a firing position from an abandoned project a block down from Mr. Peterovisk's residence and we set up a firing position.

“We dropped him in his bathroom on the first of May, scrounged his apartments the night after, and broke into the morgue to confirm the kill.” Jun continued, “Well searching his apartments I located a cache of weapons that suggest his association with the Mafiya, and Ivan located his address book and a telegram addressed to him.”

“Do you have these papers?” Makulov asked, “And the photos?”

Jun stepped aside, giving Ulanhu room as he stepped forward and pulled a file from his coat. “Comrade Ivan, can you confirm our allies story on this?” the general asked as he received Ulanhu's debriefing work.

“I can, sir.” Ivan said, “And what the China man says is true to the word. If I might say, scarily to date.”

“Thank you.” Makulov said to both the Mongol and his subordinate as he looked down into the paper work.

“Going through the address book I was able to find correct matches to the currently known names for several Mafiya aliases.” the Mongol said uncomfortably as he stepped back from the general, “Or at least what information your unit had written down. This- this all having been done yesterday as we prepared this.”

“I see.” Makulov grumbled. “Child of the Devil?” he crooned curious as he lifted up the small telegram from the folder, “Do any of you have any idea on who this is?” he asked, ample curiosity showed itself on his words.

“No.” Jun said.

“I- I don't have any ideas myself.” Ulanhu stuttered, “It could be anyone I think. Perhaps they don't like a politician in the Republican government and are looking to kill their kid. But it shouldn't be that hard to find a kid, can it?”

“Not unless they're being protected by a rival Mafiya faction.” Makulov grumbled, “But you have the names confirmed to some known leads then?”

“I do.” Ulanu mumbled, biting his tongue, “Peter Veshenko, Adrian Nikov, Arkady Bishko...”

“What about the rest?” Makulov interrupted.

“I don't think they're all Mafiya.” Ulanhu said, “It would be dangerous to assume they are, after all. We might kill someone who isn't even relevant. Even as tight-knit these men come.”

“I see.” Makulov grumbled, “Well, we got names, so we can weed them out.” he added with finality, closing the briefing folder, “And I would say we got our next move.” he continued, handing the folder back, “I want you to copy the names and addresses of every person in that book, comrade. Jun, you earned yourself some rest until your friend finishes his job. When he is done, speak with me.”

“Understood.” Jun said plainly.

“Good.” Makulov sighed, “You're all dismissed, thank you comrades.”

Addis Ababa

Even in the pale morning sun, Queen Azima's skin felt cold. Numb. The air was cool and wet from the mist running off the marble fountain in the center of the garden, and the green grass was weighed down by dew protected from the sun by the shade of the palace itself. The building was smooth brownstone, with pearly white arches protecting the collonade. Birds sung peacefully in the trees, and the calm babble of the fountain should have made her feel comfortable, if not happy.

But it didn't.

Her mother-in-law - the Queen Dowager Elani - was one of the kindest women she had met. She had become her mother, in a way, in law and in her mind. My real mother was taken away. Now i'm losing another...

She had be raised with the royal children, spending her childhood playing in the gardens with Yaqob and pining over his older brother while her father, Ras Hassan, discussed politics. Hassan was a cold man, and fatherhood had not warmed him. She had learned later that he had not wanted to take her from her mother at all - the decision had been made by Yohannes. 'My fathers men don't want a Somali upstart to come before them' Yohannes had argued. He had not been the Emperor yet - just the governor of Wollo, with grand plans for the future that would follow his ailing father's passing. Hassan had risen fast, and his popularity with the Prince annoyed those who he threatened to replace. Old names, those that had followed Iyasu when his reign was still uncertain. They argued that Hassan was a thug, and the allegation that he had raped a woman in his home country of Somalia only fueled their campaign against him. Yohannes told him to marry the woman and adopt the child she claimed was his, but he proved to stubborn too marry. He took Azima and left her mother behind.

But Elani had filled that gap. She had always been a sweet woman, willing to treat the lost little girl from the shanties of Mogadishu with the same care she gave her own children. She had heard the homesick little girl when she was frightened and helped in any way she could as that same little girl grew into a headstrong, but lost, adult. Sadly, the world did not repay her kindness. A bullet ended her marriage, and the threat of war caused her oldest son to disappear - a disappearance that only Azima understood, but even to her seemed to have ended in death. A second bullet had nearly taken her second son from her, and even though he lived it had left him scarred and surly. She had lost so much, but now she was losing her self.

The doctor was young - hardly twenty five if he was that old at all. His skin was the color of coffee and his eyes brown pearls behind a pair of glasses with circular frames. Too young. What could he possibly know? He had came recommended by Dr. Sisi himself - the wealthy psychiatrist who had surprised the medical establishment across the world when he presented them with advances Azima didn't quite understand. He had spent the better part of a week interviewing Elani privately, and his diagnosis came as no surprise. Early onset Dementia. Her brain was dying and she was fading away.

"We can make her comfortable, of course." the doctor explained. "She will be aware of it at times, and it will distress her. But I can prepare a small team to help her cope."

"Will she need to be moved." Yaqob asked. He held Tewodros in his arms as the child slept. To Azima, it looked like he was holding him close to himself for comfort. This bothers him more than it bothers me. This is his mother, and the last of his family besides Taytu. Taytu had meant to be there for the diagnosis, but work had taken her. There were reports of suspicious action being taken by the Spanish forces in the Mediterranean. An informant had sold information to several agencies that a Spanish commander had made his troops aware that they were planning to invade Africa.

A warm gust caught the doctors coat, sending its open sides flaring like two white flags hanging from his shoulders. Underneath, he wore an orange sweater with a student's identification tag pinned to the chest Dr. Malcolm Orji. He was charismatic in a soothing kind of way, but there was a subtle hint of distance in his eyes. Was she just thinking of Sisi? The Good Doctor - or so his students seemed to call him - was ice hidden a smile. He spoke like a thesaurus who's understanding of the world had came from reading a dictionary, but that wasn't what his ice was. It was hidden in his face. His smile was always the same, more condescending than warm, as if everything around him was a joke. And his eyes... he looked at people with the same focus he used to stare at a piece of art or a plate of food. He had done a lot for them, but what he truly felt was... Azima didn't like to think of it.

"Your home is large enough for us to take care of her here." the young doctor assured. There was a tenderness in his voice that made her comparisons to Sisi fade away. "And it will be better for her"

10 Downing Street, London, England

Owen Pyke sat in his office within Number 10, gently tapping a black pen against an old oak desk, while staring down at a piece of paper. He brought a heavy hand up to his face, covering his eyes, and slowly pulling the hand down until he reached his beard, which he gave a slight tug before releasing. With a sudden stop of the pen tapping, the prime minister stood up and walked to a book case, hovering his finger over the titles as he looked for something in particular.

Just then, there was a knock on the door, and Pyke looked up from his search just long enough to motion for his bodyguard to open the door. The young man nodded, and pulled open the door without taking one step out of his position. Once opened, a tall, lanky man entered the room carrying a folder.

“Sir, today's mail.” said the man.

“Yes, yes, just leave it on the desk. I'll get to it soon.” Pyke replied, still not looking away from the book shelf.

“I'm sorry sir, I may be crossing the line here, but... You should read it now. There is something in it that you would very much like to see.”

Raising an eyebrow, Pyke slowly turned and eyed the man up and down. He really was a twig of a man. His short black hair was slicked back, and his blue eyes hidden under a large pair of round glasses. A sharp, pointed nose jutted out from under them, which created a shadow over a thin pair of lips. In comparison to Pyke, who was a bit on the heavier side, this man looked like he would be knocked over by the smallest gust of wind, which Pyke swears he has seen happen before.

Slowly making his way back to the desk, Pyke gave the man a slightly concerned and confused look. “You can take a seat, Thomas. The mail isn't going to go anywhere. You know that, right?”

As Pyke said the last words, Thomas snapped out of whatever trance of excitement he was in, and nodded. “Yes sir, of course!” Taking a seat across the desk from the Prime Minister, Thomas sat up straight, and stared at the Prime Minister, awaiting his response.

Getting concerned now, Pyke picked up the mail and sorted through it all.

“Junk, garbage, a letter from my sister, more junk, an invitation, a letter from Aus-”

Pyke cut off after reaching the letter in the back, and slowly raised it closer to his face, taking a better look. After confirming it is what he thought it was, Pyke grabbed a letter opener, and slowly opened the envelope, taking extra care not to hurt the letter within. After gently pulling the paper out of it's travel case, Pyke began to read it aloud.

By the time he had finished, the look of worry on his face turned into a look of pure enjoyment.

“Thomas. I... I don't... Can you believe this?”

The young aid simply shook his head. He had assumed the letter would have some sort of good news in it, but this was far from what he had expected.

“Sir... Shall I write up a response?”

“No, no.” Pyke said, taking a seat himself now. “I will reply to this one personally. I want you to go make as many preparations as we need. I am going to invite the Australian Governor-General here. I want this to be a huge event. Get the news people riled up, and make a big deal out of this. The picture of him signing the agreement and us shaking hands should be something for the history books. We've pretty much been given exactly what we wanted, and all I did was give one speech.”

Sitting and smiling proudly, Pyke pulled out a fresh piece of paper, and a special pen out form his desk, as Thomas left the room. The Prime Minister quickly got to work on a reply.

“Dear Governor-General Mark Chapman,

Your letter was honestly inspiring to read. I had never thought anything like this would have happened so soon, so you can imagine the look on my face as I read your letter. I hereby would like to invite you to Britain for an official ceremony, where we will both sign an agreement, and acknowledge the official re institution of the commonwealth, and even better, of the British Empire. We can be ready for your arrival within the week, with the signing taking place two days after.

Thank you once again for your awe-inspiring letter. I look forward to the cooperation and unity our two nations shall share from here on out.

Sincerely,

Prime Minister Owen Pyke

Addis Ababa

Her head was clouded by wine by the time they reached the highest floor. What the hell am I doing? He doesn't want to talk business. He wants something else. Ita Thabiti had been Taytu's right hand since the days of the Katanga rebellion. At that he was unparalleled. He could follow up on her meetings, entertain foreign advisers, and dictate her wishes to subordinates in a way that was rare in an assistant. He thinks like me. He knows me. And...

She had considered him. He was an adult - not like Yaqob's marriage to his childhood crush, or Sahle's pursuit of whichever girl was the most inappropriate to chase in that moment. Ita Thabiti was old than her by ten years, and more experienced than she was. He had been in the background of Ethiopian foreign relations when she was a teenage girl flirtatiously skiing after boys in the Austrian Alps. He had lost his hair, keeping only a ring of black fuzz around his temples and a close-cropped beard to draw attention from the shining brown skin at the top of his head. His eyes had began to weaken, and he oftentimes wore thick frame glasses to read.

He's solid. The type of man I should consider for marriage. Sahle had left no known children, and Yaqob had only one. Her adopted son - the maimed little boy from the Congo - was not considered a legitimate heir to the line of Solomon. He did not have their blood. Their family needed more issue if it was going to continue past the turbulence that seemed inevitable. But he's not... he's not who I would want. The thought shamed her. She was her brother's sister, no matter how much she fought it. Their father had left only children to rule his dream of a unified Africa.

Wordlessly, Thabiti fumbled with the keys and pushed the door to his penthouse open. He stumbled in. Taytu minded her feet as she crossed the threshold. It would not be seemly to look drunk in front of her assistant. It was only two glasses.

They turned the corner and her eyes drifted up from her feet. She paused, her head buzzing as she let out a slight gasp. It's beautiful. He did not tell me that.

He had, of course. The week after he had bought this place, he had bragged about the view any chance he got. It was on the top of one of the taller towers in the capital, and the farthest wall in the main room was nothing but a long window bubbling out past the ceiling. Night had fell on Addis Ababa, leaving the city awash in scattered twinkling lights that blended with the stars beyond. In the north, in the far right of the scene beyond the window, the mountains of the Ethiopian highlands stood silent and dark - a cloud of black-purple rolling from the north.

To the north is Egypt. Past those mountains...

"It's lovely." she slurred. Only two glasses. She found a set in front of a round ironwood table with vines carved along its rim. Thabiti fumbled in the open kitchen, and she immediately recognized the sound of clanking glass. Only two...

She looked around. It was not the laconic space she had expected. Potted plants hung from the ceiling, some flowering now that it was spring. A set of chairs dominated a far corner of the room. They were backless, made up of what looked like thick sagging pillows propped up by crossed darkwood legs. The cloth was intricately patterned with earthen colors zig-zagging into geometric patterns that reminded her of a tribal blanket. A frightening long mask with a grainy wooden face bent in an expression of evil rage dominated one wall, while a circular canvas painting of a baboon sitting erect against a few stones and blades of grass centered the other. The room smelled of flowers and cologne and something else...

Cannabis? That is a surprise. She hadn't partaken since she left Europe. The thought of Ita laying back and smoking a green cigarette...

Maybe he is fun...

Her thoughts returned to a cabin in the mountains near Innsbruck. The earthy smell of the weed filled the room and they spent the night listening to some old French "Youth Music". She could remember the eldest boy, the one who owned the cabin... Gustav, his name had been. When he told them they called this type of Cannabis "Jamaican Lettuce", she had giggled at the thought of some poor island family eating it for supper.

Thabiti came to the table with freshly poured glassed of wine, and she remembered Egypt. She took the glass and held it to her lip. Just two...

She took a sip.

"We should try again tomorrow." she said, sniffing.

"Try what, Princess?" Ita questioned. The flashing lights from a passing ambulance danced across his baldness.

"Egypt." she said, taking another sip.

Thabiti's shoulders sunk. That's not what he hoped to talk about.

"We've tried the Beylerbey, and we've tried Aswan. Neither seem to want to think about it." He said.

The Beylerbey in Cairo was the closest the nation had to an official government. His office was the last remnants of Ottoman power in Egypt, but their only true army was the police. Everything else was ruled by militias. Turks and their supporters fought against those who wished to drive out all Turkish influence. Some wished to find their old Sultan and restore him, while at least three others claimed to be the Sultan themselves. There was no organization there. No real government.

Aswan was the next best thing. A small army of Bedouin rebels had taken control of much of the south, gaining support from the numerous Arabs in the south. They had declared themselves the "Sheikdom of the Nile." Whether or not that government would even last a week was yet to be determined.

Both have called us enemies in the recent past. The Turks just lost a war against us, and the Bedouins will remember how we helped those same Turks conquer and divide their homeland. Taytu had hoped that they would see the newest threat as a reason to unify and align themselves with their African neighbor, but it hadn't worked out that way.

"Is there any other factions we might ask?" Taytu asked desperately. I know this answer. Any others at all?

"Thousands." Thabiti said coldly, gently rocking his glass back and forth before he took a sip. "None that mean anything though. You're asking them to help us against a world power."

"Help themselves." Taytu corrected. "If the Walinzi aren't mistaken and there is a Spanish invasion imminent, North Africa is threatened as a whole." It made the most sense. The Empire that Ethiopia commanded was immense, dominated by poorly roaded jungles and swamps, deserts and mountains, long rivers ruled by tribes who had learned to hate whites at the cost of their hands, and diseases that would make a man from the glass apartments of Madrid shit himself until he died. To approach from the west would mean the Congo, and the Spanish already had bad memories about the first venture into the heart of darkness. The east was another problem. The east was deserts and mountains. The east had broken the Turks, and it had broken the Germans, and a century before that it had broken Italy. If the Spanish were to succeed in taming Africa where the Germans had failed, they would have to keep their approaches open, and neither Libya nor Egypt had the ability to withstand them on their own.

"We have no evidence, no real evidence, that Spain means to invade." Thabiti said. He tried to sound comforting, but Taytu could hear his intentions in his voice. "We have allies in China, and in the middle east. We are in the best position we could wish to be. Sotelo would be a fool to try us."

The Middle East... what was that? Armenia and Palestine barely had enough men to successfully pop a zit. They had proved themselves capable when fighting on their own turf against an enemy with one foot in the grave, but Spain was something else. Spain was all that Europe had ever been and more.

And China... perhaps if they tried, China could fight Spain, but China was a lone wolf in a pit of lions. Spain and their allies could control every border around the Communist superpower before the Chinese understood the value of allies. Her father had considered the Chinese alliance his crowning achievement, but when the Germans feigned to make Africa theirs, China had stared from across the sea. Sahle had offended them to be sure... but Taytu felt certain that they wouldn't have came regardless.

"Maybe." Taytu took a sip. "But if they do come... We don't know what they have."

Thabiti put his hand on hers. Too familar...

"We don't have to worry. You should worry."

"It is my job to worry, Ita." she said, withdrawing her hand. "The last war nearly killed your Emperor. My brother. I don't think his mind could handle a second. He has a gentle heart, but somebody shot at that heart and now it's surrounded by scar tissue. This entire country is balanced like a see-saw. We try to guide it one way and it slides to the other. If we add an invasion to the pot... i'm not sure what would happen."

She stood up, but the wine made her head flutter. She looked at her glass and noticed that it was nearly empty. Just three. She pressed her hand against the table to steady herself.

"Sotelo couldn't lead the Spanish into such a destructive war... the people would undo him." Thabiti argued. He looked at her nervously. He wants me to sit back down. He is afraid I will leave before...

"Spain is full of..." she lost her train of thought. When she thought of Spain, she thought of a cold European city full of glass and concrete. Her head swam as she went to form a sentence. "Concrete... built of..." Dammit, how did I get this drunk? She remembered again. Hate. "Spain is built with hate and... concrete."

"You need to sit down and stop worrying." Thabiti said. He reached out for her arm, but she pulled away.

How can I not worry? War means killing and I don't want to lose anybody else.

She plucked her glass from the table and stared into the clear purple remnants of the liquid.

"If Sotelo causes a war, the Spaniards will rip him a new asshole. It will happen.

Taytu drank the last sip and raised her glass with a nervous smile. "Rest in Peace Sotelo's ass." she said drunkenly. I need to go home...

Miguel Saavedra Tejero, Marsaxlokk, Malta

Telecall screens glowed with a warm light within the bridge, casting a faint bluish glow upon General Victor Ponferrada's jacket as he stood before the bridge's camera live feed camera. Glassy medals and buttons affixed to his lapels and breast shimmered with a quivering rainbow band as the equipment acquired the video feed from the other parties. As the muted tone of the idle audio hummed through the destroyer - christened after the beloved statesman who had been slain nearly five years prior - the general took a moment to dust off any stubborn motes of lint that might yet cling to his shoulders and sides. With an obsessive diligence he scanned over the remainder of his uniform and swatted away imaginary flecks of debris. Even so, General Ponferrada was not content that his outfit was entirely in order, and so he turned to his output camera and pressed a button on the nearest screen's monitor that switched channels over to what his own camera could see.

He had hoped to use the camera as a mirror to spot any errant strands of fluff upon his immaculately pressed uniform, but upon seeing himself on the screen, he was reminded that this was a futile effort. Cutting edge technology though it was, the telecall system remained in its infancy. The visual resolution was abhorrent; the compression required to make a live feed transmissible through telephone lines reduced his flawless suit into a vaguely torso-shaped mass of bluish gray speckled with fuzzy, multicolored dots. Almost indistinguishable from the fluorescent-illuminated surroundings was a peach-colored mass that passed for the general's face capped with an equally fuzzy general's cap. The tufts of curly black locks poking through from underneath the general's cap were totally lost to the compression, as was his gaunt, pointed visage. It was as if Ponferrada was looking upon himself with the eyes of a nearly-blind man.

Though Ponferrada had little in the way of enthusiasm for this marvel of modern technology, Alfonso Sotelo had fully embraced this breakthrough in telecommunications. It had become his preferred means of conference with his far-flung advisers and as such, the general had little choice but to participate in these video calls. What's more, Madrid - upon notifying General Ponferrada of Sotelo's intention to conduct a telecall this evening - had hinted that the matter was of the utmost urgency.

The two television screens flickered with a rainbow band of colors, then erupted into waves of static. Materializing from the flickering specks came two faces; the man appearing on the screen to his right would have been unrecognizable even if it weren't for the terrible picture quality. The figure to his left was unmistakable. Both the general and the figure on the screen to his right brought their arms to their brows in rigid salute as the image of Alfonso Sotelo manifested before them.

"Your Excellency, it is always a pleasure to speak with you." Ponferrada acknowledged.

"At ease." Sotelo ordered, waving his hand across the screen to dismiss their salutes. "We have little time for such pleasantries, the fate of this African enterprise may yet be in jeopardy. I understand that you, General, may not yet be privy to these details that have come to light of late. I will allow Head Commissioner Desjardin to share with us the findings of the Oficina."

"Thank you, Excellency." The raspy voiced head on the other screen chimed in.

Even with the poor resolution, General Ponferrada could make out the bust of a jowel-chinned man with a mouth wreathed by a thin goatee. Even upon hearing his name, the general still did not recognize him. Ponferrada had never before heard of the Oficina de Inteligencia Militar's newest leader, nor would he make any effort to commit the man's name to memory. The previous Head Commissioner - like so many of Sotelo's early advisers and older generals - had been purged from his position. The Prime Minister's incessant paranoia had played a major role in the massive turnover that had taken place throughout the whole of the Second Republic's government. A failed attempt on the Prime Minister's life two years before had only served to rationalize his mistrust of those whose role it was to advise him on various matters. As a result, Spain's prime minister typically refused to accept or follow the suggestions his advisory committees provided. It was becoming apparent that the Prime Minister was more interested in accumulating a cabinet of docile yes-men than qualified assistants.

"Allow me to debrief you as to the situation at hand, General." The Head Commissioner's screen graveled on. "Approximately seven hours ago, a task force of Oficina agents in Armenia apprehended an individual of Maltese nationality - one Sergio Espalazanni. In a sting operation our operatives found that he and his affiliates had offered the sale of sensitive information concerning tactical movements of Spanish military assets in the Mediterranean Sea." A concerned frown drew across the general's face.

"Sensitive information concerning what exactly?"

"What do you think, General?" Sotelo responded in snotty condescension. "The fact that the Third Mechanized division is mobilizing is for sale to every espionage organization in the West!"

"We do not yet know the extent of his knowledge." Head Commissioner Desjardin droned. "But until we can extract the full scope and veracity of the informant and the information he and his affiliates had been peddling, we must assume the worst. We have known for some time that the Chinese possess a powerful and well-organized intelligence network and our suspicion is such that the Chinese are at least nominally active within the Armenian state. We must assume that the Chinese are aware of the coming incursion into Africa."

"And that they had forwarded their findings to the Ethiopian government!" Sotelo groaned, slapping his palm into the surface of the desk. "A lapse in security of this magnitude is a monstrous failure! Inexcusable! I will know who is responsible for allowing this information to leak! Be it by treason or incompetence, those responsible will be held accountable!"

"And they will, Excellency." The Oficina head reassured. "As we speak, Espalazanni and three of his associates are in our custody and are being transported across the border into the Anatolian state, where they will undergo preliminary interrogation. More thorough processing will occur at the Arratzu facility. Needless to say, they will shortly come to regret their actions."

"I should hope so." The Prime Minister sighed, seeming somewhat relieved by suffering that awaited the captive informants.

"Unfortunately, we must also discuss the implications of these findings on the Ethiopian... Intervention. Knowing that both the Chinese and Ethiopian governments are aware of the Republic's intentions in Africa, the Ejercito may expect an enemy that is better prepared to repel them - potentially with Chinese support. It would be most prudent to postpone any action in the Mediterranean for a period of perhaps six months to allow the preparedness of the socialists to wane once."

"Absolutely not! This operation has been postponed for too long as it already is - I will not allow allow them more time!" Sotelo demanded. "Every single day that the Chinese shill sits upon the throne of Ethiopia is an affront to the Second Republic! I will abide the Chinese puppet state on our periphery no longer!"

General Ponferrada rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment before entering the exchange again. "I am in agreement with his Excellency. The Ethiopian military has fought a hard-won conflict with the Ottoman Empire and their military is spent. They are at their weakest now and any time we waste will only afford them time to recoup. Even if they are aware of our intentions - a possibility that is just that: merely possible - their preparation will mean little.Their army is at its weakest at this moment and the Chinese are half a world away. It will take their military a considerable time to mobilize, and even then their fleets must sail nearly nine to ten thousand kilometers to reach Eastern Africa. If they attempt to come to Africa's aid they will arrive far too late to be of any assistance."

"We must strike now."

"Indeed." Sotelo agreed, winding down. "I wish to speak with General Ponferrada with some privacy. Head Commissioner, you are dismissed."

"As you wish, Excellency." As he was ordered, Desjardin's visual feed cut out in a blink of static as he left the telecall. The familiar color bar returned to the general's right screen, leaving only Alfonso Sotelo on the line.

"I have issued orders to the Armada" Sotelo spoke up once he was content that Desjardin could no longer hear them. "Admiral Santin and the Mediterranean Fleet are bound for the Suez. I trust that your forces are adequately prepared for combat."

"Naturally."

"Then you are to mobilize. Join with the Mediterranean Fleet, and make for the Ethiopian coast. Proceed toward Addis Ababa and engage any hostile elements that might attempt to obstruct you."

"Understood, your Excellency."

Sotelo's visual feed melted away in a froth of static which gave way to a flickering color bar and the muted tone. The general turned the screens off and made his way to the fore of the bridge. Speckles of light and the illuminated cupolas of the Church of Marsaxlokk shone in from the inky night beyond, leaving a rippling mirror image in the harbor below. In the hills beyond the town, white floodlights illuminated another settlement of sprawling tents and Quonset huts. It was there, six thousand infantrymen of the Third Mechanized settled down for the night, unaware of the rude awakening that would be disturbing them shortly. The general drew a chunky telephone tethered to a bridge console by a coiled wire to his mouth.

"Wake them."

Eastern Russia/Western Siberian Republic

The roar of the tank engine churning behind Li Tsung echoed in the iron can as it sped along through the muddy, spring field. The guttural growl rattling through the shell. His seat vibrated underneath him, tuned to the rotation of the engine block. Distant and soft, the clattering of the dozens of shells just behind his seat shook and rattled in their containment. Alongside the seat the dials and gauges rattled back and forth in the tank's whole body shaking. And outside through the mud and dust foamed porthole the Russian countryside sped towards them.

The young driver felt a rising sense of dread as his machine barreled through the countryside. He was held in the tensity of the moment. The realization, the confirmation he was to arrive to the battlefield. He had heard stories of the Revolution, the liberation of Taiwan. They had seemed so distant, even while in training. And even the campaign in Tibet had seemed to make joke of war, a couple handful of short weeks of Chinese boots tromping over Tibetan steppe and raising flags.

He had been afraid of going into the field. There was a noxious fearful association. Where at any moment the seat on which you sit could erupt like a flower in a spray of fire and gunpowder; evidenced by the cache of ammo just at his back. But for the two years of his service, he was kept back far enough that the probability had been slim. Up until the end he hadn't expected to see combat.

And here he was, driving them right to the black billowing clouds. As hazy as they were through the clouded bullet-proof glass the were deeper and darker than anything he had seen. A herald and signal to the times to come.

His face felt pale, weak. Stomach churned. He couldn't tell if it was from the butterflies in his stomach, or the noxious fumes irregularly kicked back into the tank from the motor; somewhere there was a minor exhaust leak. Or perhaps it was both that made him want to vomit.

He held back his tongue. His eyes shutting tight as he breathed deep to stabilize his composure. The rocking of the road wasn't helping. Uneasily he stole a view outside the side-port. Alongside him a driving force of armor flew across the field like an arrow to the sky. The moment was very much real.

Tsung turned from the window. Exhaling deep. He felt cold.

The chair under him rattled and rumbled. An uncomfortable numbing sensation was beginning to wear over his ass. His back felt bumped against the chair as the tank began to roll over rougher terrain. He felt the clay in his stomach stiffen, and he dared to lean over to look out the front porthole. Odd dark shapes lay mis matched in the way. He held his breath, biting on the tip of his tongue, afraid to know what they were.

“They're just trees!” a voice shouted in his ears. A heavy hand propped itself against his shoulder and Tsung jumped, shocked. Stiffly he turned. Hui's face was stuffed up against his ear. He could smell his sour breath as he breathed, he was so close.

“What?” Tsung shouted, over the cacophony in the cabin.

“Trees!” Hui shouted back, “My guess is someone dropped them on the road that was supposed to be here, hoping to stop trucks! Not us!”

The consolation may have been minor, but it didn't make him feel any better as they climbed and dropped over the mismatched stacks of timbers.

“Why so many!?” Tsung called back.

“Fuck if I care to know!” Hui yelled, pushing himself away and back to his part of the tank.

Tsung turned to watch as he carefully crawled over the magazine of rounds and into his chair opposite of Lin. Built tight into the side of the turret where he rested was a large box of dials and knobs. Tsung recognized the deformed gray block as the barrel's ranging computer. The driver didn't claim to be an expert at it, and with its angle and position it was too hard to read the dials and gauges as they were. Hui would be using it blind no doubt, relying on its feel to put the numbers in right for his partner to manage.

Perched over top the gun, almost straddling it like a horse was their Sun. His legs and tail of his officer's coat just visible under the pipes and claustrophobic mess of a turret hull. And given he was hardly sitting in his seat, Tsung figured he was standing outside of the hatch.

The driver's hatch was still firmly shut.

The rocking of bobbing felt as they drove on softened and petered out. The road opened up, and through the hazy view hole the debri that had littered the road had been cleared, and darkened figures stood along the edge as the armor passed. The last sticks crunched under the treads, and smooth driving returned. In the relative sense. Growling down the rough Siberian road they continued, passing the rear-most line of the current front.

Northern Russia

“I can't say I'm happy it took so long!” the soldier laughed loudly over the mechanical ambiance of several hundred small engines running at once. The combined storm was about one would expect from a handful of Tei Gui. But the size that the combined buggies and six-wheeled personal vehicles had was a much more depressing sight. Most of the vehicles no larger than a small car on the street of Beijing, and far uglier.

“But I can't blame you either.” the soldier snickered as he pulled himself to the caged roof of a buggy. On his back rested a pair of large aluminum tanks, painted in drab white-grey. A white-cloth wrapped hose ran from a valve that bled the two tanks together at the bottom, to the stock of a gun strapped to the side.

The owner was a large man, sturdy in his build. And his face none the prettier. He mean over-bite and flattened face could let any man pass him off as being a pit-bull. He was deeply Mongolian in this respect, and his heavy high-brow complimented his barbarian features like the first Neanderthal visitor to the Asiatic continent.

He was brave to disregard the cold. The scarf that would otherwise shield his face hung around his neck in a dense wrapped clump of cloth. So his twisted smile could be shone to the cold sun. “But this will be for sure a wild ride.”

“It will, Tsien Huang.” chipped Yun-Qi, standing alongside buggy the man had climbed on top of. It wasn't a vehicle of Chinese design, and it showed. It was Russian, which shown even harder. Its spartan frame lacked such luxuries as a solid chassis. Much of it was framed with crisscrossed bars of steel and iron, welded unceremoniously to the conduit and pipe that had been hammered to build the shape. The only thing that could be counted as a luxury was the wind-shield, was no doubt the minimum in terms of bullet-proof quality.

Even the engine wasn't covered, and the heat it produced rolled off the top in shimmering bands of quick-silver or smokey-silver tongues of gray smoke and steam. It was probably the warmest thing on the vehicle, making the driver's seat it sat behind the best seating on the buggy. “I regret us having to camp out her longer than need be, but Hue Wen obviously had other ideas.” Yun-qi added with a reserved tone.

“Permission to speak a private opinion?” Huang grumbled as he found a nested little copula on the top of the buggy. It had obviously been added as an after-thought between the dirty factory floor the Siberians pushed this out of and when they got it. A wooden chair and beaten bi-pod marked where a gun would be. The soldier went about with moving the tank of the flame-thrower into the nest and making himself at home.

“Is it going to get my command revoked?” Yun-qi asked bitterly.

“Only if you tell someone higher up yourself.” Huang smirked. His smile was long and impish.

“Very well.” the colonel said reservedly.

“Fuck the general!” Huang laughed, “We should have just driven ourselves into that Republic years ago and burned it out while it was just a small tumor. Fucked it like the cheap whore it is.

“Not let it fester like an open wound. All this waiting around is shit.”

“Thank you for your concern.” Yun-qi moaned with a deep breath.

“So, sir.” Huang said, sitting himself in his new position. The flamethrower mounted on the roof, “Any special words when we move?”

“No, not until we get to where we need to go.” said Yun-qi.

“Which'd be?”

“It's on a need to know basis. You'll need to know when we get there.”

“Surprises!” Huang cheered happily, “I love them.”

Quan Yun-qi nodded, looking back around him at his assembling unit. The six-wheeled vehicles – something brought in from China – had the room and space to support two men if they hugged up against each other. The solid chassis and armor around the legs was a greater luxury than the empty frames of the Russian buggies, and more given the black semi-padded seating. Many – or all – had been buckled up with sleds, strapped heavily up with the soldier's gear. Most of the heavy equipment will be left behind to be tackled by the air-force. Swept up and carried in after Yun-qi establishes a base, or takes the installation.

Most of the regiment had established themselves. His lieutenant officers – his Zhong Xiao – were standing by. The distinctive long great coats of the Chinese officer corp fluttering in the cold northern wind. Faces guarded by scarves, and thickly gloved hands at their sides, like many of the men.

“We're ready.” Quan said, his voice deep as he stepped into the passenger seat of the buggy.

Green Island Launch Facility

The ticking of the air conditioning was just as relevant as the ticking of the clock on the wall. The soft bubbling of a large pot of tea in the corner signaled that the pot was still being kept warm as a tired looking engineer drifted alongside the counter. Sleepless nights and the constant need for dodging a hundred questions kept the man on his toes, and he needed a place to rest. His quality of health tugging down on him like a one ton weight. His shoulders sagged, his back drooped, and his entire demeanor hung off of him like the coat he wore.

His hair was a scraggly, messy nest, barely clinging to his scalp as it thinned prematurely. His shallow cheeks were traced with faint scratch marks, as well as his hands.

He hovered over the tea. A cup half held in his hands as he stood over the tables in a tired daze.

Fuck Green Island.

He drifted in and out of a fog. Just reveling in the peace and quiet of the break room. Perhaps he'd skip the tea and throw himself down in a chair by the corner. Surely he had worked hard these passed few months checking and double checking systems and system tests until command was satisfied with safety, or they felt they had a window free of distractions to perform a public display of the programs of the Ministry of Space and Science.

He hoped he could get a window for himself to jump off this rock and keep out of the light on Hainan. Because fuck Green Island.

He knew he wouldn't be able to watch the rocket launch. But it didn't matter. He'd see footage later. He already watched more dummy rockets launch that he cared for. But the solace that he wouldn't be missing anything was a hallow comfort.

Shit, maybe he could just go and join an anti-materialist commune and spend the rest of his days shitting into a muddy hole. So long as the police decided to not take offense and sweep them up out of some farmer's field.

“Fuck Green Island.” he mumbled to himself. His voice strained and rattled. He shut his eyes. He really just needed a break. Maybe he wouldn't fall over if he fell asleep here. Someone'd wake him up when they wanted tea anyways.

Slowly, Shen Tzen drifted off to doze from his standing position. The weight of his long days gently rolling down his eyes.

But the peace could not last forever.

“Shen?” a voice said, it sounded distant and watery. Effeminate. “OH SHEEEEeeeENNN!” it screeched gayly, violently pulling Tzen out of his sleeping state. The force of a thousand flowery winds sweeping him back into reality. The tone bringing him to land with a violent jump back. Flinching and throwing the tea cup where it smashed against the wall.

The sharp shattering of the cup against brick drove a sharper nail into Shen's ears and he recoiled against that. Flinching and throwing his arms up around his head and crouching down. Was it an explosion?

“Day-um sugar, you're tight.” the voice crooned flirtingly. Wide-eyed, Tzen turned about. Standing at the door way was a tall spindly built man. Hair combed clean across his head to come to a youthful duck tail at the back. A rosy smile curled across his face.

“Hue, what the fuck?” Shen swore bitterly as he turned.

“Well hello to you!” Hue said in his distinctive effeminate tone. “I was just looking for you, but I figured I would stop in for some tea and cookies! Didn't think I'd find you at all.”

“Well, you did.” the disgruntled engineer spat as he straightened up. Reaching for his collar and pulling it out straight, “And what do you need me for?” he asked.

“Well I got a call from the engineering floor looking for you. Apparently someone thought I was the last person to have seen you since this morning.”

Tzen rubbed his temples, groaning. “I haven't even been near you until now.”

“Well I did stop by your quarters to say hello to your cat.” Hue laughed, walking over to fill a cup for of tea for himself, “I figure someone saw me then and had the idea.”

“First of all,” Tzen began, he held back bitter anger, “that isn't my cat. It's my boss's cat. The one in Mongolia. The one we're sending up into space.

“It should be be in a cage in storage. Not in my office!” Of course, if this happened he knew he would have more to deal with than sleepless nights. Even if it was a tempting alternative to now.

“Oh sure.” Hue smiled, pouring warm amber tea into his cup, “But I don't think it could work.” he smiled.

“I like cats, you know.” Hue giggled, “I used to have seven.”

“I imagine it was a thrill.” Tzen mumbled under his breath, sarcastic.

“It was.” Smiled Hue, “Now let's get you to engineering so they can show you what ever it is they want to show you.”

“Fine! Fine!” Shen Tzen waved. Hue smiled wide as he walked off with a tea cup held gingerly between his two hands.

“Alright, follow me.” he said. Even if Tzen didn't have to.

The Engineering floor was at a lower point in the entire Green Island facility, largely itself carved into the flesh of the mountain interior of the island. The concrete and steel cavern set into the hills. On one side a rail track ran through a wide tunnel. Tracks to carry the heavy equipment from here to the rocker hanger, then to the ultimate destination: the launch pad. The tracks ended with the dock yard in the opposite direction, the sea itself could be smelled distantly as a warm breeze wafted through the supply corridor.

Arranged throughout the massive chamber were the discombobulated parts for any number of things. Smaller parts of the rocket lay out on metal tables as post graduates and military engineers went through, performing the degree of attention demanded in military protocol; though such demands could go on forever, given the still unknown stresses in orbital launches.

And at the room's zenith, hanging half suspended by chains was the nose cone of the rocket, and the launch pod under it.

“I've seen this a hundred times.” Tzen shouted unhappily to the team around the pod, “What is it?”

“A few small modifications we've decided to make with your comrades in Ullanbator.” shouted a large man.

“And you didn't include me?” Tzen spat.

“You're here to observe the launch and make sure things go well,” the large man said again, the team's leader. Middle aged man. Deeply Cantonese. “And ahead of materials.”

“And you still didn't?” Tzen advanced. He met the beady eyes of the engineer with a frown.

“We didn't use anything new, so we didn't think we needed your presence.” the Cantonese engineer shot back, “But given you're doing the reports you'll need to know about what we did.”

“Alright, alright.” Tzen said impatiently, turning to the launch capsule.

The capsul wasn't anything impressive, if anything a large metal sphere. A nodule on the back contained the parachutes and flotation it'd no doubt need on its return. Pencil thin lines in its shell marking the only changes in its surface, the welds smoothed out in it and the hatch. The whole pod was hardly big enough to seat a small child in.

Except, it had been changed.

Guided by a couple engineers, they turned the pod as it hung by its crane netting. Over the course of the past month waiting a small, four centimeter diameter window had been added. “We included a mounted camera and a window into the final design,” the large, chubby man said. His voice restrained as he addressed Tzen, “If the coming launch is to make a physical comparison between pre and post launch stresses on a living creature we thought it best to install a small camera to later observe how a body moves in a beyond-Earth environment.

“The window we feel is for integrity purposes.”

“Integrity? You know I'm supposed to bring this cat back and if there's any suggestion it'll kill it then I've lost my head.” Tzen scoffed.

“And as I said earlier, we've been speaking with members of your original team in Mongolia over this. We got plexi glass in there that's at least half the times thicker than the neighboring steel. If there's anything most likely to break, it's the hull itself.

“So, you're thoughts?”

Tzen looked up at a long time. He had no opinion either way, and still wanted to find somewhere to nap. “Fine, fine. Whatever.” he mumbled.

Fuck Green Island.