▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇
 ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ | IFAN "ZEMAT" FRANKS — BELLFORT — 08:00AM — @nodogs
Travel had left Ifan in sour spirits. It had been easier to get the overnight ferry into Cetra, docking at Bellfort where he was currently crouched by the water, observing its ebb and flow while the dank air settled on his skin. Travelling on such short notice was inconvenient, but necessary; there was a meeting to be held at Cetra East regarding the Special Warfare and Reconnaissance Group, attendance heavily advised. A faint relief washed over him. Ifan was not as recognised in Cetra as he was in his home continent, and the people here were seemingly less objectified to Spierans than those who would cry 'fucking Spid!' at him on the streets of Anatolian countries. He was far beyond used to the vitriol, but as the war grew longer and tensions rose he found it tiring, even despite his limited time actually spent amongst civilians. UDF soldiers who shared a similar predisposition had quickly learned not to voice them publicly, and the idiocy was filtered out in most departments.
He inhaled deeply to clear his mind and rose to his feet, swinging an overnight bag over his shoulders and securing it tight against his back. The meeting was not until tomorrow, but his station in Telos had lasted longer than was first anticipated and he welcomed a change of scenery. It also gave him time to indulge in some vices, as he approached a street vendor with 'FRESHLY PLUCKED OILIES' painted onto a wooden A-board. The queue was moderately long yet moved quickly. Ifan was next up to order in no time, credits at the ready as he felt the warmth of the enclosed grill radiating from the window frame.
"I'll have the juiveng."
"Skin?" yapped the vendor.
"Skin." He counted thirty seven seconds between the exchange and a disposable container being thrust in his face. He left his credits on the countertop and returned to the waterfront, sitting on a bench and breaching the encasing of his meal.
Juiveng was one of many street food dishes involving grilled oilbird, a species native to the mainland surrounding the Sauraine. This dish in particular was several whole wings of the bird, marinated in a sweet, tarty sauce and sometimes served with a crushed leaf of the Ceonise plant, adding a spicy kick. Ifan tore into a wing, now woefully hungry from 11 hours on a public ferry and a month of UDF meal kits. Thoughts of what this new mission might be mulled about his mind whilst he savoured the cooked bird. The issued list contained several others Ifan recognised, and their roles and achievements in the UDF telegraphed something big—not that there could ever be a small task assigned to such a specialised group. He did wonder as to the discretion of the mission, however. Some of these Aeons were, simply put, celebrities; some of them legends.
Finishing his meal, Ifan relinquished his overnight bag to the seat beside him, rooting through for a bottle of water. He received an empty, crushed plastic bottle for his effort. A sigh rumbled in his chest, and he secured the bag back in place before setting off in search of a store. He wasn't strapped for credits, per se, but he couldn't help his frugal nature causing him to be irked by the situation. He hoped whichever grunt had appropriated his water flask a few days prior was enjoying it to its fullest use.
There was a modest-looking store close enough to the train station: the type where the door chimed a little electronic jingle as it swung open. Ifan examined the aisles, observing all manner of dehydrated and rehydrated meat and vegetables, packaged snack foods and various drinks lined up in fridges under flickering lights. He salvaged through the colourful bottles and labels advertising various added minerals and electrolytes to find the unbranded water. Considering the journey ahead and his prior mishap, he picked up six bottles to be safe, three balanced in each hand. There was one other person in the store besides him; a punk, who upon noticing Ifan had fixed him with a stare from the lottery machine. Amongst the plethora of imagery on his jacket, most recognisable was the stripes of thread in the colours of the Spieran flag—white, gold and blue—on his right breast pocket. A subtle calling to home.
Ifan approached the shopkeeper and placed the bottles on the counter, swinging his bag around to pack them as the elderly man totalled the items. His eyes were creased with worry at the young man burning a hole in Ifan's back.
"That will be... six credits, sir." His voice wobbled with the stress of age, though his words were enunciated clearly with the pride of a generation that had flourished.
"Thank you." Ifan paid with a firm nod. He zipped his bag up and swung it back around, turning to leave. The punk's attention quickly turned to the lottery machine as Ifan made his way past, which gave a view of the words 'COUNTER KULTURE' written vertically on the back of his jacket. Ifan walked out the door, the jingle chiming behind him. A few paces down the street he heard the jingle once more and his jaw clenched. He didn't want to deal with this right now.
National pride was a double-edged sword. Apart from the anti-military punk groups, there were many in Spiera who did not appreciate the image of having their own Aeon, being a more pragmatic peoples than most. In his four years as part of Warfare, Ifan, in his naivete, had contributed to a few of the advertisement pieces suggested to him. They were nothing too involved, just some photographs for posters and flyers, and in the years since he had politely asked to be left out of them, but for some they had stuck. It didn't help he had changed very little from the material except in age.
The train station was soon in reach, a wall of UDF soldiers manning the checkpoint. As Ifan stepped closer, he barely had time to register something flying at him before he span out of the way, a brick shattering against the pavement. He stalled a step and dropped his bag to the floor, charging at the source of the projectile. His body made contact with the punk from the store, tackling him to the ground. He raised his fist, feinting a punch to the youth's head to quell him. UDF soldiers were on the both of them in a second. Ifan rolled off the punk, who was promptly seized by one of the soldiers, quickly producing his identification from his pocket.
"Oh shit," he heard the nearest soldier mutter. The other one turned towards the checkpoint and signalled the all clear. "It's Corporal Franks!" Ifan grabbed his bag and walked with them to the gate, open in waiting.
"You're the worst of them!" The punk started screaming, arms pinned behind him as he was arrested. "You're not one of us! Cursed bastard! You're scum! All of you are scum!"
Ifan disappeared onto the main platform, the punk's obscenities fading into the background behind the rumble of the idle trains. His train was already waiting and he boarded, righteously hydrating in a seat by the window, bag beside him. Cetra East was just a little further away.
Lore
★ Spieran flag — It looks like this. Many Spierans will find subtle ways of representing their country's flag than having it emblazoned on them for fear of persecution. Spiera is the face of such hostility in the western region due to various military efforts from the Spieran government to obtain natural resources in neighbouring regions. The formation of the UDF has not helped matters, with many countries being imposed upon by military personnel from the same country that occupied their lands.
★ Juiveng — The history behind many oilbird dishes comes from the sailors of the old days. Oilbirds tend to float in packs on the water's surface like oil, hence their name, and it was therefore easy to catch at least one or two if you had a big enough net. As a result, oilbird of various preparation methods is a popular dish in Cetra's port cities and inland ones nearby. For juiveng (pronounced hwee-ven) in particular, it was a dish enjoyed by ships transporting fresh produce, from which they made the delicious sauce. The modern iteration keeps to the traditional recipe, with a few additions thanks to the importation of certain produce, and tastes twice as good for it. |
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