Current
I'll be gone for about 3 weeks as of 18/06. I might see your message, but I also probably won't be keeping up like I usually do.
5 mos ago
As someone who lost a parent before their time... It's never a bad time to give your folks a call and see how they're doing. One day you're going to say goodbye for the last time.
5
likes
6 mos ago
I think it's also just a sad fact that forum RP has been undergoing a slow but consistent decline for the best part of a decade now. Games that once would have thrived can no longer get the numbers.
1
like
6 mos ago
NRPs are also usually advanced level with tons of writing per post. I co-GM'd one that ended up being the length of one and a half LotR books. That not only takes time, but also makes them fragile.
2
likes
9 mos ago
Bought Helldivers 2 because of the online hype, didn't expect that much. Ended up putting 5 hours into it on my first session. For Super-Earth and Managed Democracy! Oorah!
The date is July 24th, 2009. The location is Hildon, New Hampshire. The temperature is 23 degrees farenheit and dropping. Hildon is a small town in northern New Hampshire, with less than 5000 permanent residences. It's most 'famous,' if you can even call Hildon famous, for its year-round sporting activities, be they snowsports in the winter or hiking in the spring, and for being utterly unremarkable in every other way, shape, and form. The last murder in Hildon was in 1995. The last burglary was 2002. Normally, people don't even bother to lock their doors when they go to bed at night, but the last year and a half has changed all of that.
Nationwide, businesses and people go bankrupt from the Great Recession. In Hildon, a much smaller tragedy has begun to play out. Christian Charles, a 18 year old high school male and star of the school hockey team, went missing a week ago. Three weeks before that, Nittawosew, a 20 year old Algonquian native woman from the nearby Little Lake reservation also went missing. Both dissapearances have put the sherriff's office into overdrive, whilst the reservation has isolated themselves as much as they could, refusing to interact with non-law enforcement. Then, only a day after Christian Charles went missing, the temperatures started dropping.
At first, it could have been considered merely a cold patch, a few degrees here and there, but soon it became clear that things were getting much colder than was reasonable. Two days ago, it started snowing, and twenty four hours later Hildon's roads were so clogged with snow that driving became dangerous for those without snowmobiles. Panic-buying stripped Hildon's two stores clean of essentials like food and toilet paper. With the weather worsening, uncovering just what is truly happening in Hildon might be the only way of making it out alive.
Name A Picture, if Desired. No anime please. | Like | Fear | Like | Fear |
Physical Description: Height. Weight. Hair colour. The usual. Age: Relationship with Hildon: Are you a local? A visitor? Do you have any connections to the reservation? Occupation: What did you do, before the snow came down? Useful Supplies: Between one to three items likely to assist you in this suddenly-frigid town. If you're unsure of what counts, ask me. Sample items might be winter clothing, firearms and cross-country skis. Backstory: What brings you to Hildon, if you're an out-of-towner? How long have you lived here if you're a local? Has anything interesting happened in your life so far?
For a town of less than 5,000 people, Hildon actually maintains quite a few different locations of note.
Haggarty's Clinic: A need to rapidly treat winter sporting injuries has kept Haggarty's in business for close to thirty years. John Haggarty, the founder, still works there to this day, alongside his wife Melinda and his daughter Alice. Haggarty's is well equipped to handle almost anything that can happen on the slopes or the hiking trail, up to and including a bear attack, as rare as those are. The unusual cold has had them treating multiple cases of frostbite.
Exxon Station: Gas and diesel. There was a convenience store here too, but it's been stripped barren by panic buying. You'd be lucky to find a lollipop here, let alone anything actually worth eating. Has a specialised area around the back for snowmobiles, which has astonished staff by seeing use in the middle of July.
Jeremy's Groceries: Jeremy Shaw's own business, fifty-six years in the running. Despite being in his seventies, Jeremy still mans the cash register four days a week, although lately he's taken to hiring local teens to do a lot of the work for him. The store has been cleaned out- their delivery on the 22nd was cleaned out less than an hour after the delivery van pulled up. The only thing left to be bought here is coffee, which there is ample of because nobody who has spent any amount of time in Hildon is foolish enough to drink Jeremy's coffee.
Gentle Winter Bed and Breakfast: Gentle Winter's now rather ironic name implies a smaller business than it really is. Originally a revolutionary war era stable, the place has been built up and renovated several times into its current state. The Gentle Winter is the only place for out-of-towners to stay within Hildon, and has twenty-nine rooms. Recently came under the ownership of Max and Emerald Beech. The Gentle Winter is honouring previously made bookings with their usual catering fair and dinners for the same price, but has stopped serving lunch and has dramatically increased the price for dinner for non-guests.
Hampshire Hiking, Skiing and Sporting: The premiere sporting goods shop in Hildon, fully outfitted with all your summer sport needs! Hiking shoes! Moisture-wicking shirts! Sunglasses! Hiking poles! Unfortunately for everyone involved, it sold off all of its winter equipment in its end-of-season sale back in April. All that's left were a few ancient jackets and socks, which the staff took first dibs on. Any item that might have been remotely useful in the cold have also sold out almost immediately.
Hildon School Exactly what it says on the tin. School's out for summer.
Sherriff’s Office: Sherriff Tina Mercer and Deputy Walter Grey do their business here, in the sheriff’s office. Relatively unremarkable, with several offices, three cells, a cupboard-sized armoury and a fleet containing two ten-year-old trucks.
Ranger Station Sequoia: Halfway between Hildon and the Little Lake Reservation squats Ranger Station Sequoia. The rangers haven't been seen for several days, but considering their training, experience and vehicles, they're likely the best equipped to weather the storm.
Little Lake Reservation: A Wabanaki Confederacy reservation populated by Algonquian-speaking Native Americans. There is also a small Iroquois presence in the area, largely distinct from the Wabanaki groups: a sure way to annoy everyone is to conflate the two. The reservation was suffering tremendously even before the credit crunch, and in the global economic catastrophe that followed, only fell further. Although the recent disappearance of Nittawosew has caused the community to isolate itself further, few outsiders visiting were welcome prior.
It is July 24th, 2009. The place is Hildon, New Hampshire. Population: 4,536. Located directly next to the Second Conneticut Lake, Hildon is a little known holiday resort for those that enjoy long hikes, lazy fishing, and a peaceful atmosphere in the summer months. Alas, the Great Recession has put an end to much of that. Although a few holidaymakers have still ventured forth to Hildon, the town is unusually quiet, and something has been wrong as of late. The local sherrif's office is persuing not one, but two missing person's cases, and the normally welcoming Algonquian reservation has gone quiet, refusing most guests outright. Worse yet, for some inexplicable reason the weather has been growing far colder than it has any right to. A bitter cold has gusted down, blanketing this tip of New Hampshire with summer snow, harsh enough to isolate some of the smaller communities. Something is badly wrong in this small New Hampshire town, and as a blizzard rolls in and the arteries to and from Hildon are squeezed shut, seeing the weather warm again has gone from a guarentee to a tenuous prospect indeed.
You take the role of someone in the small community of Hildon this unfortuante summer. Be you a local, a holidaymaker, or something else entirely, you have had the poor fortune to be here now. The last opportunity to leave was two days ago, and panic-buying has stripped the shop and the convenience store that service the community bare of supplies. Something is wrong, and uncovering what it is might just be the only way you'll avoid ending up buried beneath the rapidly-descending snow.
This will be a small group of hopefully dedicated players who want to stick out the slow points, uncover the mysteries beneath Hildon, and make it out of this town alive.
"I DON'T KNOW BUT I'VE BEEN TOLD!" A single voice screamed through a megaphone.
"I DON'T KNOW BUT I'VE BEEN TOLD." Came the reply, barked out by far more people.
"LIFE OFFWORLD CAN GET REAL OLD." The back-and-forth continued.
"LIFE OFFWORLD CAN GET REAL OLD." Again came the response.
"OUR ALLIES CALLED US SAID TO COME!" Crackled the megaphone.
"OUR ALLIES CALLED US SAID TO COME!" Echoed the response.
"TO KICK THE ASS OF REBEL SCUM!" This line was said with some relish, even through the megaphone's distortion.
"TO KICK THE ASS OF REBEL SCUM!" The reply was equally as enthusiastic.
"MATUVISTAN VOLUNTEER CORPS!" Shouted the drill sergeant.
"OOOOOOOORAH!" Rippled out from the crowd of uniformed soldiers, rifles held high.
"I CAN'T HEAR YOU. IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT? TO NOT BE HEARD? PUT SOME EFFORT INTO IT!" Spittle flew from the drill sergeant's mouth.
"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORAH!" Came the second response, so loud that it threatened the integrity of nearby windows.
"THAT'S MORE LIKE IT!" The soldiers continued marching, another cadence call starting up as they did so. The Matuvistan Volunteer Expeditionary Corps were prepared and ready, drawn predominantly from the army, but a few men-at-arms and marines had also joined the crew, being formed into auxiliary units. It wasn't a large force: only a few thousand soldiers, but they were here to assist, not to steal all the glory. This was the final batch of the Expeditionary Corps to be sent to New Hollywood, the soldiers marching their way towards the spaceport that would carry them into the stars. For many, this was their first time ever leaving Matuvista, and for some, it was their last time ever seeing their homeworld.
But the saints could ferry a soldier to the afterlife no matter where they fell, and so they ventured forth, confident and ready to keep another oligarchic nation from losing its way. They were put under the command of an up-and-coming young jetknight: one Isabella de Lobasla, the person to propose the alliance to her politically influential father. Comporting herself well on this task, regardless on its actual success, could springboard her political career... Or relegate her to being just another jetknight commander without a future. Still aboard the Santa De Angelo, the young woman took on her new duties with the taste and decorum required by a patrician, no matter how much she wanted to stay and continue to indulge with her new oligarch friends.
If there was one thing the Zetan Consciousness was good at doing, it was learning from its mistakes. For too long, they had allowed others to control the narrative. Now, despite the gala actively ongoing, they were not about to let another opportunity slip past them. Sigma-Devi was currently occupied with the gala, but Alpha-Newton was not. There was the small problem that Alpha-Newton was not a diplomat, but this was such a small problem that it hadn't even occurred to the Collective. They were now regretting this.
Still, he was the only person available to respond to this 'New Haven Directorate' from Zeta, and they needed to hit the ground running. Once the music was done, the various communications beacons aboard the Zetan part of the meeting space turned towards this new craft, and Alpha-Newton's monotone voice sounded out.
"The song was rather... Enjoyable to listen to. My name is Alpha-Newton, representative of the Zetan Consciousness, a nation dedicated to furthering mankind's understanding of the universe. You have arrived at the Meeting Place, an international neutral zone for the various galactic nations to interact with each other. I am afraid you've caught us at a slightly awkward time: much of our diplomatic staff are currently aboard the rather large vessel you can see in orbit some distance away from us for a gala." He paused for a moment.
"However, we are both happy and available to take guests at this time. Should you desire to meet face to face, we can supply directions and docking instructions to our section of the Meeting Place."
Isaque paused. The jungle was quiet. Far too quiet. That was to be expected though. Yyasums could do a lot to hide their bases from detection. Sensor jamming, old-fashioned camouflage, murdering recon teams that drew too near, but ultimately, they were intruders on this planet, and it was impossible to linger in someone else’s home indefinitely without drawing their attention. When their presence had been confirmed, ISOC teams had been dispatched to eliminate them. They were dug in hard; intelligence suggested this settlement had been here for a few years as they built up strength, a remnant from a previously-shattered base. A jetbike assault could have worked, or it could have been suicide: there was no way to tell. If the ISOCs could remove any countermeasures though, jetknight reinforcements could hurtle in to take care of the remaining survivors.
It was a simple operation, but simple didn’t mean easy. Xenos-busts were a staple of most military branches, but the Yyasum were never pushovers. Turning to his left, Isaque nodded towards another soldier, who locked eyes with him, nodded back, then pressed a figure of Santa Jorge against her lips for good luck. Moving in single-file now, the group crept through the undergrowth, each footfall carefully chosen to minimise their presence.
The camp unveiled itself slowly.
Isaque had seen similar structures before. Yyasum engineering was a peculiar beast. Squat, barrel-shaped buildings jutted up from the ground like a collection of malformed teeth. Between them, Yyasum could be seen- some patrolling, some clearly carrying out tasks of some kind, others, perhaps, at leisure.
All, however, plotting the downfall of Matuvistan society. That was the simple matter of the Yyasum presence here. There could be no compromise, no peace, no mercy. The planet may have been large, but humanity’s continual existence demanded that they stay the only, unquestioned master of this world. This was why, as Isaque took up position behind a rocky outcropping, he felt no mercy towards the creature on the wrong end of his gun barrel. It would do the same to him.
The shooting began with a single word issued over their closed communications. The ISOCs, having spread out to provide overlapping fields of fire, caught any of the Yyasum in the open in a devastating fusillade of lead. Isaque knew, of course, that it would never be that easy. These villages weren’t just what you saw on the surface- Yyasum built down too. As he relinquished his pressure on the trigger and let his gun cool off, he looked about for the next foe.
He didn’t have to wait long. One minute the camp was silent but for the dripping of foreign ichor, the next, Yyasum warriors burst out in a counter-attack. The air was filled with the crackle of ozone, the Yyasum guns conducting their lethal charges through the moisture in the air. Isaque watched as one of the unfortunate ISOC’s nearest to one of the aliens was caught by the blast, body twisting and twitching in unnatural ways.
His training instincts kicked in. Focus. He dumped his magazine, slotted a fresh one in, and sighted his next target. His rifle rattled and barked under his firm grips, one of the gangly figures spasming as bullets rent holes in its form. As a figure turned towards him he ducked down behind the cluster of rocks he was using as cover.
He had managed it just soon enough. He heard the sound of a Yyasum gun firing up, but with him out of the way it was conducted harmlessly down and away from his body.
Not harmlessly enough. By now the gunfire, explosions and electricity had caused the damp underbrush to catch on fire despite itself. Smoke began drifting up into the air, even as the muffled detonation of an HE charge sent vibrations rattling through his teeth. Peeking back up and out of cover, Isaque was met with a hellish scene.
Blood. Fire. Corpses lying on the ground. Explosions rocking the tiny fraction of the universe that his world had been compressed into. Alpha-Amundsen pressed himself against the subterranean rock, gun lying forgotten on the floor, a tear streaming down his face. Then, the Undefeated soldier, unmerciful, uncaring, unforgiving, stomped through the tunnel. Its armoured form barely even turned to acknowledge him, instead merely pointing its gun down towards him and muttering ‘fucking Clanker.’ Then, it pulled the trigger, and…
Alpha-Amundsen was violently pulled out of his sleep cycle. Electronic neurons fired violently, wrestling this way and that, until at last they settled and he felt himself able to exert control once more. If he still had a body, he knew his lungs would be heaving, his face slick with sweat and clammy, but instead, the room was deadly silent, the military grade chassis’ cooling systems naught but a whisper, and he didn’t need to glance down at his articulated, artificial fingers to know that no sweat beaded across his skin.
Wordlessly, Amundsen let out a scream of exhaustion and frustration, stopping himself from putting a fist through a nearby wall with some effort. Every time he slept, the nightmares tore through him. Always the same. The same place, the same people he was fighting, the same result. No matter who or what he tried to do to stop them. Speaking of who though, Alpha-Agnesi had been roused by his violent awakening.
The feeling of warm skin against his metallic shell brought some sense of relief to Amundsen. His fingers searched for hers and squeezed down, hard, a drowning man clutching at the first thing that could be found.
Of the half a billion people that lived on Zeta-5, not a single one was a psychiatrist. Oh yes, there were people who academically studied the discipline of psychology to learn about it, but when intimate thoughts were shared and everyone was united in a common thread, what need was there for shrinks? Before the war, Amundsen had been of the same mind. Now though… With Eta-Theta roaming around and acting more independently than anyone else before had, and with so many shaken by the fighting, he could only wish that there were people around who could help him.
Eta-Theta looked up at the raindrops falling from the sky.
They had never felt rain before. They never would, the android supposed. They could sense it now, of course, water dripping down, soaking the oversized clothes they had draped themselves in to help conceal their form if it was glimpsed in an alleyway or slipping through a doorway, ran down their metallic face, spilled out onto the concrete beneath them…
But they would never feel it with flesh. The thought… Eta-Theta scoured themselves for any sign of what that thought meant to them, and came up blank. Oh well. They pressed on, through the abandoned alleyways, the sound of marching feet sending vibrations up and through their carefully-engineered form. Then, a voice from the crowd catches them. Holds them still.
They recognise that voice.
They move through the alleyway and lean against a filthy wall, tugging their collar up to give themselves the best chance of disrupting their inhuman silhouette. "Just more bodies in the ground. Just more dead people. Stop, everyone, stop. Walk away. Go home."
Oh Yun. They had listened. Listened to Eta’s proclamation in the desert, with blood and snot running down their nose. But, Eta-Theta knew something. Sometimes, it didn’t take many bullets to kill many people. Sometimes, all it took was just one, placed well.
Their chest holster pulled open, and Eta-Theta removed their handgun. They examined it carefully, then eased back the slide. The crowds are silent. Ashamed. The fate of this night, perhaps the fate of the entire ECU regime, hangs in the balance created by a single ex-protector.
And that balance will be destroyed by a set of mechanical hands.
The gun twitches a little as Eta-Theta pulls the trigger. The suppressor’s ability to… Well, suppress had been somewhat compromised during their time here on this planet, and the resulting bang, is muffled, yes, but still distinctive enough that everyone knows what has happened. A neck-shot is a little too good for the people that turned Eta into this form, but it will do, the android watching as Hollywoodite blood spills out onto the street.
They don’t stick around to see how much havoc one well-placed bullet has caused.
Lambada-Röntgen was led down into a meeting room. The Zetan was a fairly archetypal example of his kind… If one was to take the time to look underneath the friendly frontal presentation. Although skin was stretched across his body, he was much closer to Eta-Theta than he was to any of the men and women around him.
He thumbed the emergency button of the briefcase idly, making sure not to depress it. The name of the project was a challenge for the ECU (although the Zetans doubted they had been infiltrated,) the exact specifications were not. Should at any point he be compromised, that button would detonate the datapad within the briefcase instantaneously, and it was done manually, not through electricity.
Before he began, he wanted to make sure such secrecy was appreciated by Lorne. “Know this,” he said, simply. “The briefcase I am currently carrying holds extremely sensitive documents to the Zetan Consciousness. Exposure of these documents by the Lorne Administration will not be appreciated.” ‘Tolerated’ had been deemed too harsh. “They are not to go further than this room until explicit permission has been provided.”
Mackenzie nodded along to the new Zetan sat across from her. The hour was late, and having been recently promoted to the man in charge of the Endurance she had spent all day designing the refurbishments. The Endurance now sat apart from the rest of the meeting place, with free shuttles to and from the meeting place. Various suites and executive lounges… were being worked on. As well as monitoring stations, exchange rooms, and demo rooms to show off what was on offer.
It wasn’t finished yet, but once it was it would be a true marvel. All she had to do was somehow convince each nation, other than the Zetans, to allow Lorne to make individual business deals with the various companies that existed within their nations.
That however was an issue for another time.
“We believe very strongly in client confidentiality, especially with our new neighbours.” She flashed her brightest, and yet genuine, smile. “What have you got for us?”
Röntgen unlocked the suitcase and took out the datapad carefully. He opened the datapad, opened up the Battleship Archimedes blueprints, and set them down.
It was big. Long, primarily, with vast amounts of space for the reactor (which had been erased from these plans,) and the Macrocannon (which didn’t feature, only the tremendous amount of empty space it was to fill.)
He handed it over slowly, analysing Mackenzie’s expression as she looked at it.
Mackenzie wasn’t a technician or an engineer. She didn’t know the exact requirements looking over the plan, she didn’t know how it would go together, what pieces would attach where and what kind of resources would be required.
What she did understand was that it was big. Really big on par with the size of Arcadius back home, possibly even bigger. The difference was that it was all built around something central, something that was absent from these plans. “So, I assume you’d like to contract us to build the frame for this-” she looked at the name of the blueprint “-Battleship Archimedes?”
“Indeed. As it stands, Zetan heavy industry has been decimated by the war, and we’re dedicating effort towards the Arks in order to leave Zeta for good.” This was the one place he could openly mention that. “But, we still would like certain things constructed. We also have plans for a new set of defensive systems that we’d likely require your help with to construct, but… For now…” He gestured towards the tablet.
“Project Archimedes.”
Mackenzie nodded along to the Zetan. “I’m sure we can accommodate the request; we certainly have the capabilities. Now, since we have yet to try and implement some form of universal currency, now comes the bartering, what can you do for us?” She flashed her kindest smile.
“From what we’ve heard, you rely heavily on automated systems for much of your work, and have a strong reliance on robots. Without slighting the no-doubt fantastic work you have come up with over the years, Zetan computing technology is superlative- nobody in the meeting place has been able to come close, from what we can ascertain. We’d be happy to assist you in any way you require when it comes to that field of expertise. In addition, should anyone in your nation require or desire cybernetics, we can arrange for a facility to be sent to your system.”
Mackenzie crossed her arms, a look of contemplation upon her face. “We’ll come back to the computing aspect momentarily. Talking about cybernetics, would it be possible to somehow reinforce bone and muscle structure? Say, allow our people to comfortably be on a planet with normal gravity for prolonged periods of time?”
Röntgen smiled. “Reinforced bone lattices. Muscle-density enhancers. Organ enhancers, to make sure your heart and lungs can keep up with all that extra demand. Spinal replacements. Zetan cybernetic development is intimately tied with the need to overcome mankind’s relatively fragile limitations. There’s no reason why we couldn’t do the same with you.”
Mackenzie smiled politely back, scribbling a note on her tablet. “We won’t consider this part of our official negotiations for now but it's certainly something we may look at establishing in the future. There are some of us who would relish the opportunity to go down to a planet's surface and breathe real air for a change.” She handed over a tablet. “If you could transfer some specifications for the systems and networks you could help us implement onto this device it would be appreciated, at which point we can come to a formal agreement. In the meantime-” She sealed up the Project Archimedes blueprints. “-I’ll have these transferred back to the Ring so our engineers can start preparing the facilities required.”
And with that, the largest part of Project Archimedes was underway.
Project Archimedes was what it had been named. It was a challenge, partially. Normally one didn't name projects so... Blatantly. So openly, but this was supposed to be open. An invitation to Hollywodite spies, if such things even existed, to piece together the meaning of a reference to a past they claimed to know.
The Zetans had considered the nature of how, exactly, to penetrate a massive hardpoint like the Aegis. Surely they were not the only ones with the idea. Having dispensed with the idea of military subtleness then, Project Archimedes was a set of designs and concepts, to be implemented with the heavy lifting done by their new compatriots in the Lorne Administration. It was, to be frank, slightly ludicrous. If the Oistos had been overkill, Archimedes was its larger brother. A capital ship shield-smasher, discarding the ability to defend itself with its armaments to instead rend hardpoints asunder.
At the heart of it all was the uncreatively named Maiman Macrocannon. Alas, no Zetan Maimans had participated in its construction, but its name still rang true- the father of LASER would have been proud of this creation, no doubt. The truly prodigious batteries that had been pioneered with the Oistos prototype design thrown up before the ECU's invasion had uses other than giant electromagnets. It turned out that other weapons could be powered with such a design too, and the Maiman was the next one to be realised.
Really, it wasn't quite as fancy as 'macrocannon' implied. Take a LASER gun, and then keep scaling it up. And then up. And then up some more. Up further. Once you had done that several more times, you were left with a weapon that could turn a ship’s armour plating into plasma frighteningly quick. Of course, as previously mentioned, the disadvantage was that the colossi that the macrocannon was mounted on would be basically defenceless. The power required to fire the macrocannon meant that almost nothing else could be spared. Shields? Barely, yes, and engines, those as well, but mounting additional weapons? Almost impossible. It was a battering ram, essentially- good for one thing, and one thing only. Hells, the weapon wasn't even particularly good against planetary targets either: atmospheric dispersion would diffuse a lot of the impact, rendering the weapon merely powerful rather than apocalyptic.
That being said though, there was usage against non-static targets too. The beam was so large and moved as quick as light (obviously, as it was a LASER,) that it was actually theoretically possible to use it against ships. There was some theorising that a new Oistos system could also use this weaponry, but that was not within the remit of Project Archimedes.
Lastly, there was one additional issue. The only even vaguely portable battery that could produce enough energy to power the macrocannon- fission. How bitterly Zeta wished it had managed to realise fusion power. Technically, this would not have been an issue in and of itself, but the fact was that there was no way to mount the batteries (being named the 'wave motion' batteries for the fact that the wave motion of particles could actually become visible within the batteries) and sufficient radiological protection to keep the crew safe.
It was good then that the Zetan population was freshly flush with military-minded individuals capable of ignoring radiation.
A Zetan ship sailed in to dock at the Meeting Place. This was the first Zetan ship since the beginning of the blockade, and it brought with it several new staff for the ambassadors and staff aboard the station. One, though, beelined his way towards the Lorne Administration's offices, carrying a briefcase. He looked deceptively human, but underneath his skin he was much more metal than many of his kind.
Lambada-Röntgen made a simple request. "May we speak with a high-ranking member of your company? We come bearing certain... Unusual and top-secret plans that the Collective would like to discuss with you." He held up the metal briefcase and gave it a little shake to emphasise his point.
The crew aboard the small shuttle were not prepared for what they found. Not even remotely. Skin and bone draped about like they had been catapulted back in time, and a gaggle of identical clones greeting them. The Consciousness might have just met the one nation that was more unusual than themselves.
"Greetings," the leading member of the expedition said, blinking rapidly. "I am Tau-Kao, of the Zetan Consciousness. We are... Very... Pleased? To meet more fellow humans." There was a long pause as the crew considered if these newcomers were even humans, or merely looked quite similar to humans. "We must say, you've already managed to surprise us a great deal."
Kelsie wriggled her body, trying to get the dress into a more comfortable and less revealing position. When it was just hanging flat on the cloth hanger the split on the side didn’t seem to go that high, but when she was actually wearing it, it felt a bit too revealing for her liking. Along with the moderately-heeled shoes, she didn’t even recognize herself in the mirror. It made her body look hot though.
Worse thing than her naked legs was the fact she was unarmed. Weapons were not allowed at the gala, and even if they were, she had no idea where she would hide one wearing this ridiculous attire. As she watched her people in formal uniforms wiggling uncomfortably, she knew they felt the same. All of them had years of training in hand-to-hand combat, but a gun is a gun, it is always good to have one at hand.
“Alright, guys, it’s almost time.” Trying her best to ignore them staring at her in such unusual clothes, she turned to the Reapers. “You. Don’t you dare to cause some diplomatic incident. You are under strict orders to avoid Zetans. If they approach you for whatever reason, you smile politely and walk away. Do not respond to any provocation. You can drink, but in moderation, don’t you dare get wasted and cause some scene. If you fuck this up, I will personally cut you into little pieces and space each one through a different airlock, is that clear?”
The squad stood at attention. “Yes, ma’am!” six voices sounded in unison.
“Lieutenant Rodriguez, Sergeant Springer,” she turned to Alfonso and Janice, “you two are personally responsible for the squad’s conduct on this mission. Make sure you represent us well. Now go get ready.” The Reapers saluted her and left the room, leaving her alone with David and Julianna. The young scientist was wearing a dull grey outfit, uninteresting and hopefully unnoticeable. David was in the same uniform as the Reapers, plain black jacket and pants, with subtle silver embroidery on his shoulder, showing the Undefeated symbol and his rank. “I hope I don’t have to tell you two not to get drunk.”
Julianna just smiled and shook her head. “I think it’s not us who has had some problems with drinking too much,” David added, smirking.
“Oh, shut up, will you stop reminding me of that?” David threw his hands in the air in the surrendering motion but kept quiet. “Fine. You know what to do. You go in, try to be invisible, and spy on their technology. If they are willing to talk about it, get as much information as you can.” Julianna nodded; they had discussed this earlier. “And your job...” Kelsie turned to David.
“Is to make sure you don’t break a leg in these ridiculous shoes,” he interrupted her, sending a disapproving look down to her feet.
“What, you don’t like my shoes?”
“Oh, I love them, they just don’t seem very… practical,” he shrugged and leaned towards her to whisper directly into her ear. “In fact, I like them so much that I can imagine you wearing them when we get back. Just the shoes and nothing else.”
Kelsie giggled and blushed. Dammit, wasn’t she a bit too old for this? “Let’s focus on the mission now, Major.”
“Yes, ma’am!” His attention position and salute were exactly by the book. The grin that appeared on his face was definitely not in any of the military books.
Even the shuttles from the Meeting Place to the Santa De Angelo had been fancified for the grand gala. Guests stepping aboard either the Marengo or the Palomo would find themselves treated to a cushy trip. Matuvistan Marines and ISOCs stood as silent sentinels, the former in their shiny grey uniforms and perfectly fitted berets, and the latter with their Mesoamerican-style patterns and face paint gave a wonderful contrast and introduction to the differences one could find in Matuvistan society. Both the Marengo and the Palomo also contained a small dispatch of mathetes, should scientists from foreign nations come aboard, as well as a staff of patricians and plebeians both.
With maté, the second most popular (but official) beverage of the Republic, both shuttles contained small cafes dedicated to the drink, including its traditional gourd and with a silver bombilla. For those that wanted something more familiar, or, perhaps more desired, several blends of Matuvistan coffee were also available, along with tasters of wine and rum. For children and those disinclined to drink, a host of juices were also on offer, and canapes were regularly carried around, allowing individuals to unwind before they arrived on the Santa De Angelo.
When they did though... The Matuvistans weren't messing around with their propaganda barrage. Docking aboard the De Angelo, guests were immediately met with a long hallway totally encompassed by a vast mural, showing a sanitised version of Matuvista's history. Plaques on the walls spoke of the greatness of De Angelo, the evils of the Yyassum, and the bravery of the patrician jet-knights, seen at the end of the hallway blasting off, into an unknown future.
At the end of the hallway had been stationed young patricians to hand out programmes and act as tour guides. Ranging from twelve to sixteen, they were all dressed in proper military wear, familiar to those who had met with Alfonso. The programme was vast and all-encompassing. An art gallery, a concert hall, cocktail lounge with jazz band, a euphemistically named 'indulgences room,' a theatre and even a ballroom were all on offer, and a steady train of waiters and waitresses topped up glasses and filled up stomachs.
“I’ve never really liked art,” was the first thing an ECU diplomat said. But the second was “How could you say that? It’s beautiful!”
The first was from Abadi and the second from Tanaka, walking through the mural-engraved hallway together. Both were still technically Liaisons, sent by their government to meet up with a promising- or, hopeful- new contact. All they had heard about the Matuvistans spoke of a strong, mostly Old Earth culture, seemingly very Hispanic (or Latin?) in inspiration. As Abadi spoke some Spanish, her assignment to greet them was a natural choice.
On the other hand, Tanaka knew nothing of Hispanic anything except what little bit could be gleaned from old Western cowboy stories, and spoke no Spanish or Portuguese whatsoever. But he simply refused not to be brought along. It was common knowledge that he would soon be pushed aside as the main Liaison in favour of Abadi, but the young man seemed determined to ignore that fact until the very instant it was official. He showed up in his old office the day they were scheduled to meet the Matuvistans, all smiles, and nobody had the heart to shake him off.
“It’s gorgeous here,” Tanaka spoke first, to the nearest young patrician tour guide. “We from New Hollywood always appreciate artistic flair,” Abadi finished for him.
“We’re very glad to hear it,” the young woman said, with a beaming smile across her face. “We’ve heard lots of fantastic things about the Cultural Union as well! That your leadership is the most cultured of the nation, just like our Senate!” She held out two of the brochures, then launched into a quick spiel.
“You’ll have a few hours to enjoy the various exhibits, and then we’ll be asking all guests to arrive at the main auditorium for a short speech by Diplomat Alfonso, and then it’s back to a free enjoyment. If you’re looking for specific events to attend, we have several!” She paused for a moment.
“We have a performance by the Desembarco Youth Choir starting in just a few minutes, an official tasting of various Matuvistan liquors starting in fifteen minutes, a book signing by an up-and-coming author in twenty-five minutes… Oh, I’m sure you’ll be able to find something that’ll interest you! If you’d like me to escort you around the Santa De Angelo, I’d be more than happy to! My name is Maria, I’m thirteen cycles, three quarters and five days old, and I’m studying fashion design alongside my military training!”
There were mixed reactions from the ECU two. Both of them had grown up fairly comfortable with the idea of assuming responsibility at a young age- Abadi herself was still a student, only nineteen years, when she first met Sigma-Devi and Kelsie. (She had a birthday and two promotions since, but still felt uncomfortably young among the various old diplomats of the Meeting Place.) But military training? For a child? That was a rare and new idea.
"So, I'm curious," Abadi asked the patrician child, having all this in mind, "your mural had a lot of figures on it that looked, at least to me, like aliens. Is..." she wasn't sure how to phrase the question for someone so young, but Tanaka jumped in on her behalf: "Are these creatures the reason you need military training?"
“Ah yes,” Maria nodded. “The Yyasum. My great-grand-uncle died fighting them.” She paused for a moment, as what could only be described as patriotic fervour swelled her voice. “But he died resisting the xenos invaders, and protecting our people. He might be gone, but we’ll never forget him.” Her back had straightened out a little as she said that. “The Yyassum are our biggest enemy. They’ve been threats to honourable humans for centuries now, and it’s the duty of all patricians to be able to resist their incursions.” She beamed.
“I started on my training jetbike when I turned twelve, although it was my brother’s originally. When I turn sixteen I get my own. I can’t wait!”
At this point, Tanaka started thinking about how heroic it all sounds, and how cool jetbikes must be, and so simply nodded along. “I am glad for you people, then,” he said, “that they have not fallen to alien influence. It’s vital that humanity remains who we are. Some forget that.”
Abadi didn’t add anything, this time; she felt disturbed by the whole idea. And the last time she was disturbed by a foreign culture, it started an intergalactic war. She smiled curtly.
Besides, another part of her was still busy thinking about their outfits. After her conversation with Kelsie, Abadi had thought more about clothes than she usually would, and realized how odd most ECU dress habits must seem to other cultures. Like, what was the word one foreigner used- like ‘costumes.’ She’d given that advice to Tanaka, and they both agreed to wear something more expected.
The only issue was, of course, that they had no idea what was expected. There was no point-of-reference, no intergalactic standard for formal dress. After an hour of arguing and debating and some fairly disastrous try-ons, they landed on Abadi in a somewhat decorated abaya, and Tanaka in a montsuki. It was the only time anyone had seen him wear something stereotypically Japanese, and it took the combined persuasion of seven people to convince him not to bring the cowboy hat.
Luckily for the ECU, there were plenty of oddly-dressed people walking about the Santa De Angelo. Of particular note, of course, was Sigma-Devi, who was also currently immersed in talking to one of the young patricians, wearing her now-iconic sari. For their part though, the Matuvistans were united in military uniforms.
The young patricians all wore junior infantry fatigues- a lighter, more jungle-y green than the typical khaki, combined with a black beret, a single golden star pinned to it. The marines on guard contrasted with them slightly: their uniforms were blue, and their berets silver, but the overall appearances were the same. It was only the ISOCs that looked demonstrably different thanks to their usage of their full-dress uniform, including all the patterning. It helped draw attention away from their firepower.
“We’ve made sure of that!” She said with a smile. “We also have problems with the moons sometimes. My dad says that the criminal elements there keep undermining faith in our government, which is why we need to enforce law and order there properly. My brother’s been deployed there, actually.”
At the mention of criminal elements- and ones that undermine faith in a good government, at that- Abadi and Tanaka both had to glance at each other. The parallels here were strong. The anti-protector movements back on New Hollywood were very quickly becoming anti-Oligarch as well, and the government had yet to scramble together a real response to this wildfire of a cultural shift. With the protectors momentarily gone, all the pent-up rage and mistrust the non-Oligarchs had built up over centuries of abuse was pouring, flooding out. And it was too late to put the cap back on the bottle.
Maria paused for a moment, cocking her head.
“But we should go and see some of the exhibits! Which would you like to visit first?”
Whichever one Sigma-Devi isn’t at, Abadi thinks, while Tanaka decides “I daresay, ‘various Matuvistan liquors’ won’t compare to what we can grow on New Hollywood. But we may as well check out our competition.” He smirked.
“Alright! To our distillery it is!” She beamed, then began walking, rattling off facts as she did so. “The first distillery on Matuvista was founded just three weeks after initial landfall from colonisation. After we discovered that we could grow sugarcane on Matuvista, the Zamorano brothers established their ‘New World Distillery,’ and began to produce rum. Apparently at first it was so strong that it could be used to power trucks!” She giggled.
“With the Zamorano brothers opening the doors, lots of other distilleries and breweries opened up too, although they had plenty of competition from other substances.” She continued to lead the duo through the Gala, past guests milling about and soldiers politely nodding. Every now and again a trickle of music or poetry or a film could be heard from one of the rooms, until at last they arrived by a large, open-plan bar area. Barrels were artisanally stacked so that their various labels were prominently displayed, and a tremendous bar area constructed out of heavy, dark hardwood dominated most of the space. Behind it stood bottles, casks, flasks, flagons, jugs and mugs of all shapes and sizes.
“If you need any more assistance, feel free to ask one of the soldiers, or one of the greeters located conveniently about the ship! Thank you very much for attending our gala!” With that, Maria was off, and the duo had quite the choice of drinks.
Obviously, the Matuvistans were proud of their rum. It was easily the most varied type of drink on display, from golden to white, spiced to dark, of every possible flavour and combination. Nuevo Porto was also prominently displayed, with plenty of varieties on offer. For those of a less discerning taste, beers and ales of all kinds could be found, with plenty of exotic names for them, and the selection was rounded out by tequila, schnapps, vodka, whisky and more.
“Got any Ellaryian whiskey?” Abadi asked.
They did not.
So she settled for one of infinite rums, this bottle of a golden hue. Picked purely for its colour. She didn’t drink as often as a more stereotypical New Hollywoodite, but loved gold as much as they’re meant to. (A lot.)
She noticed her colleague drinking his own choice of rum- one so dark it almost looks black. Pitch black. Tanaka has been drinking like that often lately, always going for the darker end of the spectrum, and his other habits are starting to match. Ever since he was released from the Zetans; it’s getting worrying.
But then he turns to glance at her, and a familiar glint in his eye makes Abadi feel completely relieved. He’s just drinking that to feel like a pirate.
Eventually, the pair decide it would be a poor idea to get drunk at a fancy gala, and twist each other’s arms into going to one of the other rooms. He wanted music, she wanted theatre, neither could agree, neither wanted to make a scene, and their subtle tug-of-war ended them up- somehow- at a poetry reading. This turned out not to be so bad for Abadi, who recognized the words as William Shakespeare’s. But then she recognized them a little too well, and-
A woman’s face with nature’s own hand painted Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion; A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted With shifting change as is false women’s fashion;
“Oh, by Earth,” she groans aloud, “they’re reading from his Fair Youth poems. Of course. Sonnet Twenty.”
The Matuvistans were show-offs, that was for sure. The beauty and wealth they put on display for everyone at the Meeting Place to see were astonishing, especially to the practical Undefeated used to plain and simple things. The extravagant luxury was almost intimidating - how can you just sit on a sofa that probably took months to make and cost a fortune?
Kelsie tried to ignore the decorations on the Matuvistan shuttle and focused on the people instead, her eyes naturally drawn towards the soldiers standing guard. Despite all the shiny decor, fancy uniforms, or even ridiculous paint markings some of them had on their faces for some reason, she could tell they were professionals and well-trained fighters, nothing like the ECU protectors. ‘This is not someone we want to go to war with,’ Kelsie made a mental note. Not that the Undefeated wanted to go to war with anyone at this point, it was just an acknowledgment that this would be a tough enemy to beat.
She moved around the ship, tasting some of the offered beverages, avoiding any alcohol for now. Coffee was never her thing; the smell made her nauseous and she couldn’t understand how someone could actually enjoy the horrible taste. But even she had to admit that what they served here seemed way better than the swill the Undefeated cooked in dirty kettles over campfires while on missions. The maté was interesting, finally something worth trading. She would have to talk to someone about sending them a small shipment to try it out.
After a short trip, the delegation moved over to the Santa De Angelo, only to be welcomed by even more wealth and luxury. Kelsie and Julianna took their time to walk by the murals on the walls, carefully studying the depicted historical events. David followed them around like a silent bodyguard. The Reapers were much less interested in displays of wealth and even less in history and headed straight towards the party. Kelsie soon lost sight of them and just prayed they wouldn't make a mess.
The look at the offered program made her swallow a quiet moan. Art, music, theatre, even dancing? Kelsie only knew one dance which included a lot of stomping and clapping and required a sturdy table and some very drunk people. It was definitely not something one should show in a company like this.
She looked around, hoping to see Abadi’s friendly face somewhere. Hopefully she won’t have to visit the theatre to find her.
Luckily for Kelsie, although Abadi was not present, another individual was. Dressed in the Marine uniforms seen elsewhere, this particular individual had a few interesting differences that set him apart from his comrades. A set of silver epaulettes, several medals clipped onto his breast, and no less than three badges pinned to his blue beret. “Officer Kelsie, of the Undefeated?” He inquired, then extended his hand quite formally.
“Wonderful to see you here. Major Luciano de Medivaine, of the Matuvistan Marine Corps. We’ve heard much about your martial nature, and I wish to extend to you an apology that Alfonso has not yet contacted you. As I’m sure you can imagine, things have been busy ever since the portal opened.”
Kelsie turned to the man that addressed her. “Yes, I’m Guardian Kelsie Blackwood, representative of the Undefeated. This is Major David Parker.” David nodded respectfully, still standing silently behind her. Julianna had disappeared somewhere in the crowd earlier. “It’s an honour to be here.” She wondered whether Luciano’s medals were from actual combat situations, or just some honorary commendations. Was this man simply a diplomat and a bureaucrat, or was there a tough soldier hiding under the flashy exterior? From the way he moved, Kelsie would guess the latter.
“I completely understand you haven’t had time to contact us, new arrivals always get swarmed by eager diplomats from all nations. You must have also heard a lot of bad things about us due to the recent events, so it is understandable you would be a bit tentative to establish diplomatic relations.” Alright, enough of the indirect apologizing. “I’m not really an expert on the matter, but it surely seems you know how to throw a party,” she smiled, attempting to lighten the mood a little. “I have only tasted a small selection of the offered beverages so far, but I have to say some of them are very interesting, especially the ‘maté’, am I saying that correctly? I think the people of my nation would appreciate it; we have to talk about some sample shipments later. If you are willing to sell such treasures that is,” she laughed and sipped something bubbly from a tall glass the waitresses were offering to everyone.
“On the contrary.” Luciano shook Kelsie’s hand once, then pressed the back of her hand to his lips before releasing it. “From what we’ve heard about the war, you comported yourself excellently. Summoned to the front by an ally, you gave your assistance with professionalism and grace despite overwhelming resistance. We tip our hats to you.” He reached up and tugged ever-so slightly at the rim of his beret.
“I am so glad to hear that you enjoyed the maté, and we would be more than happy to trade some of it. Hopefully your men enjoy it as much as ours. Now then, would you like me to show you about the Santa De Angelo? I’m sure we’ll have plenty to discuss.”
Kelsie did her best to hide her surprise. Someone was actually commending them for the Zetan war? That was the first time. A bit suspicious if you asked her, but then again, these people were a bit strange. Their obvious endearment of fancy things raised an inevitable comparison with the ECU. But the Matuvistan culture seemed more compact, not a bunch of random things smashed together the way the Hollywoodites did it. The result was way more elegant and incomparably less chaotic.
“Thank you, not many countries share such opinions. I would be happy to see your ship.” She put an empty glass on a tray and acquired a filled one. It was mildly alcoholic, she should probably be careful with it, but for now, it helped her relax and converse, keeping her nervousness to a manageable level. “I have seen the history display in the lobby. It seems like your nation can handle a fight as well. I am sorry that your planet is in constant danger of alien invasion. We have had a lot of dealings with aliens ourselves, it is actually part of the reason our society might seem so militaristic.”
“As ours.” The major spread his arm out to show the hallway again. “War is a part of the tapestry of our history, and we wear it proudly on our chests.” He tugged his shirt, causing his medals to jingle, the effect only adding to his words.
“Where would you like to depart first? Our distillery? A fencing tournament, perhaps?” He bounced on the balls of his feet a little, keeping his back straight and hands behind him.
“Anywhere that’s not a theatre,” Kelsie laughed to make it sound like a joke but was in fact deadly serious. She fully intended to leave this gala just as ignorant about Shakespeare and his plays as she was on arrival. “I would leave the distillery for later, the tournament sounds intriguing.” She had no idea what fencing was, but it must be interesting if they made a tournament in it. Maybe they competed in building fences on time?
“I have to say I am surprised by how highly you value art, music, theatres, and culture in general, I would not expect that from a militaristic nation. Don’t get me wrong,” she added quickly, realizing her words might have sounded a bit rude, “I admire that you still find time and space for it. In my world, everything is strictly practical, and culture hardly has any place there.”
“Fencing it is,” Luciano said with a smile, leading Kelsie through the halls of the Santa De Angelo confidently, then, with a shake of his head, he responded. “It is vital that we find time and space for it. There’s a saying we have, in Matuvista. It takes nothing to be a tyrant, and everything to be a leader. Showing we are more than… Backwater brutes, swinging clubs about to rule over each other is of high priority.” He turned back to smile at her. “Don’t get me wrong though,” he said, clearly referencing her earlier line. “There is art in the pursuit of war.”
They arrived at the fencing tournament mid-match. Matuvistan fencing was a dangerous affair. With sharp swords, competitors wore no shirts and only goggles to protect their eyes, lashing out at each other with practised moves. Just as they entered, both competitors' blades struck true at once, leading one of the judges to declare imperiously. ”Double touch. Point goes to Jessina.” The fighters disengaged for a moment, a drop of blood pattering down, and then began once again.
“Excellent. A fight just in progress.”
Kelsie didn’t comment on Luciano’s passionate proclamation, even though it felt a bit offensive. Surely there were more ways to prove one is a leader than having art exhibitions. Kelsie definitely preferred to be a backwater club-swinging brute.
The sword fighting was impressive, even more so when Kelsie noticed that the weapons are sharp and the fighters bleed from small cuts. “Wow,” she exclaimed when the contestants resumed the fight and exchanged a few fast strikes, the metal ringing loudly as the swords collided. “Isn’t it dangerous? I mean the swords are sharp, and it would just take a tiny mistake…” … to cut that pretty woman’s head off and spray the whole fancy-dressed audience with jugular blood … “... and the fight would result in some serious injuries.”
The woman scored a point again and shook a drop of blood off her sword. Kelsie noticed that she had a small cut on her right breast. Ouch. A competition felt like a silly reason to lose a nipple. Or a life. Fortunately, Jessina wasn’t exactly gifted in the chest area, otherwise she would hardly be able to compete in this strange sport.
“The danger is the point. Medical teams are on hand, but to seriously injure another fencer outside of an accident is tantamount to assault. At this level of competition, you should be able to control your blade better than that.” He paused for a moment. “And, without the blood, without the sharpness, you’re just waving around metal wands.
He turned to face her. “Does it bother you?”
“As long as they aren’t forced to participate...,” Kelsie shrugged. “It just feels like a waste to potentially lose skilled, trained, and experienced fighters just to put on a show.” The swords clanged in a loud parry and the audience cheered and clapped. “Although it is a spectacular show, I will give you that. It’s not like the Undefeated don’t like competitions and tournaments, on the contrary, my people are very competitive. We have yearly Olympics and plenty of smaller events, we compete in pretty much anything. Various versions of shooting and hand-to-hand combat are probably the most popular, but there are also lots of classical athletic and other disciplines involved.” But none of them involves a risk of people accidentally killing each other. Kelsie did not repeat that out loud, not wanting to push the matter any further and potentially causing some diplomatic incident. The Matuvistans, despite all their flashiness, seemed like someone the Undefeated would definitely want to be friends with. Not exactly brothers in arms, but maybe some weird cousins - not the same in every matter, but still a family.
“Of course they aren’t.” He chuckled happily, then indicated towards one of the seats. “It’s a test of courage. Of prowess. Of skill. Of resisting pain, and of pushing through. A good fencer is a good knight, and what higher measure is there?” He paused for a moment. “Or at the least a good soldier. Not many take it up these days”
Kelsie smiled when he mentioned pushing through pain. Every Undefeated would, the memories of relentless drill sergeants with paintball guns shooting anyone whose cover was not good enough, who was too slow or lazy, or whom they just didn’t like, seemed engraved deep into their collective memory. “We might have different ways of showing it, but we definitely share the same values,” she mentioned walking towards the indicated seat. It was soft and incredibly comfortable. As soon as she sat down, a waitress appeared seemingly out of nowhere, offering her a filled glass and a small tray with a wide selection of Matuvistan delicacies.
Kelsie was not the only one smiling. A small one had also appeared at Luciano’s lips, the man glancing at the Undefeated woman next to him. Yes, the Undefeated would be friends to the Republic. They understood each other in ways that the less warlike nations did not.
A lot of Confederacy troops have that base level of 'living off the land' expectance too- it's a requirement of the Turtle Warriors, and because a lot of the Confederacy's soldiers are drawn from its more rural regions and then trained at Bonfire Base, they come with that rough-living experience. Seems like there could be tons of interesting opportunities here. Also, what's Ronto's navy like? I've mentioned that the Confederacy has one for the Great Lakes (since they view themselves as the rightful owners of it,) does Ronto have an equivalent?
And, yeah, the Confederacy is actually against chattal slavery- they know people aren't animals, but equally speaking, there's an element of entitlement. If you're weak enough to be beaten and captured, you're definitely not deserving of the same standing as the Confederacy's citizens.
Tortoise
World Traveler
TokyoPewPew
Timemaster
Sylvan
Fading Memory
X Fiendfyre X
Khandov
Andronicus23
Lucid Dreaming
