Dark Cloud
Lunamaria Hawke
Dog
Fish of Oblivion
RBYDark
SleepyWrites
Chronic
Izurich
NoctisMarch 13th, 2014
Luqa, Malta, the Mediterranean
She would do anything for her family, and as far as requests went, checking in every now and again was pretty doable. International calls weren't cheap, but it wasn't like Fuka did very much with her paychecks anyway. No, what made her hesitate was not money but pride. Every time she got in contact with her relatives the same infernal question would be asked, a landmine nestled beneath the peaceful path of conversation. And what made it particularly annoying was that they never meant to needle her, they simply did not know how much their inquiry offended her. Fuka had often thought about explaining herself but could never muster up the courage, resigned to bearing her weight in silence.
It was early as all hell in Malta, the sun just beginning its ascent over the little republic, but in Japan the day was well underway. Thus Fuka could ring up her sister without guilt, leaning up against an old church dedicated to a saint whose name she could not read. The signage was faded to the point of near illegibility, the provenance of the place known to the locals and uncared for by anyone else. Fuka's run had taken her to the town of Luqa, a scant half-hour away from the airport but seemingly transported from another time. Densely packed with buildings constructed by the grandfathers and great-grandfathers of those living in them, it was archetypally European in that way. So much history and yet so abandoned by modernity, a pocket dimension where people still lived in villages and relied on the tolling of church bells to mark time.
She was out of place in her running shoes and tracksuit, and the mechanical limb holding a high-grade satphone to her ear may as well have been artifacts from aliens.
The phone rang only once before someone picked up, a familiar voice filling her. It was Japan's Minister of Defense and the right-hand woman of the Prime Minister, the second most prominent voice in the JDSF and thus one of the most powerful people in the Pacific. Yōko was a born and bred war hawk, her long and successful career built off the back of military service and a vocal interest in making Japan not just a power player but the ultimate force in its sphere of influence. She was cunning, crafty, and at times domineering-, but Fuka still remembered her as the awkward teen she had watched grapple with high school romances and nightly curfews.
"Fuka! It's been a while."
"Yeah, I guess so. I didn't want to bother you; I know you've been busy."
"Not too busy for a phone call, or just a text."
Yōko laughed lightly as she said it, but her politician's mask didn't hold up under familial scrutiny. The lack of contact hurt her and Fuka didn't know how to apologize for it or even explain herself. So she didn't bother, the sisters letting the moment pass in favor of other topics.
"I got a call from another contractor, this one claimed they can deliver rifle optics for twenty percent less than what you pay now."
"Mhm. Sounds great...if I could believe it."
"I told them you'd say that, but they wanted me to come out to their factory and get the grand tour, see the setup so I could relay the good word."
"And how'd that go?"
"It didn't. I told them you had a secretary and it's not me."
More laughter from a hemisphere away, and this time it was genuine.
"Keep fielding calls for me and we might have to make it official."
At this point they might as well have. All sorts of suit-wearing strangers kept seeking Fuka out, ranging from slick Madison Avenue types representing this or that weapons firm to sweaty-faced, shabby-suited engineers looking for a trial run of their newest gadget. When every single member of your immediate family held influence in military or political affairs, plenty of suitors sought favors and friendship. Put in a good word for us with your father, ask your sister if she could listen to a proposal, hey doesn't your brother know people in the Ordinance Department, do you think you could drop our name to them?
No one ever wanted to talk to Fuka because of what Fuka did. She didn't get callers who wanted to grill her on her career path, no one ever sent emails inquiring if they could ask about the amazing journey from elite soldier to fighter pilot. Nope, she was just a stepping stone to the more important Astor-Nakanos. It was funny and irritating in equal measure, her wounded warrior status getting plenty of cred in bars and on dating apps but no love in the world her family occupied.
"But really," Yōko said dismissively, her shrug almost audible. "I'm not sure why they'd want to talk to me. The administration's hardly been the most interested in expanding our arsenal."
"Yeah, and everyone knows that won't be the case if you and Chieko get your way. They're saying you're looking at the PM position yourself."
"Oh my, I didn't realize I was speaking to the kingmaker. Tell me, Miss Backroom Dealer, who's saying that?"
Fuka snorted, watching an Egyptian goose hunt for crumbs on the church lawn.
"Mama and Papa, for starters. Your partner-in-crime Chieko for another, every pundit that mentions your name these days, and also anyone paying any fucking attention at all."
"...maybe I'm considering it."
Oh she was considering it alright, like the rooster considered whether or not to crow at the sun. Her boss was well-liked but considered to be too high-strung to keep the job for much longer, an assessment he seemed to agree with if the rumors were true. If he stepped down it was all but guaranteed that Yōko would be going to every Diet member she could reach to cajole them into giving her the okay, all while Chieko beat the war drums and Ayako would be off to the side in Arizona, waving a banner in support.
The question was whether Japan was ready for them.
"I guess you're going to have to campaign on a military platform, at this point no one would believe you if you said anything else was your main focus. That and the birthrate I suppose."
"Guilty as charged." the presumptive PM said, the pop of a beer top telling Fuka that her sister had gotten out of work for the day. "People know me and my credentials, and they know what I stand for."
An old-school warlord in the modern fashion, interested in strengthing Japan's position and undercutting anything that would threaten it. That's what Yōko was, and she was more popular now than she would have been twenty years ago.
"I mean, your odds are probably pretty good. You're not a shoe-in or anything, don't get a big head, but people like that kind of talk now. Fuck China, fuck their cronies; the Soviet Union doesn't exist anymore so maybe we can be friends with Russia so we have an ally that isn't a million miles away, expand the JSDF and put it to use offensively; it's a new age now."
"That's what I told Mama yesterday, but she's more conservative in her outlook. Hell, she was saying I'd be dead in the water because of the-"
"-nuke question, yeah. I mean, she's not entirely wrong is she? Asking Japan to jump into the proliferation pool seems a bit like asking an arson victim to buy lots of gasoline."
"It's more like asking someone who's been mugged to take up self-defense courses."
Yōko cut her off with an intensity that was uncharacteristic of her in private conversation but very reminiscent of when she held a press conference or stood at the podium. There was a dangerous sort of enthusiasm in her voice, a kind of controlled mania wherein she could acknowledge that someone disagreed with her but was sure she could make them see reason.
"Mama's from an older generation. Her brother was conscripted to fight in Manchuria, and she had a pen pal whose dad helped rebuild Hiroshima. In her time, the bomb was a no-go, totally verboten. But I don't know if you remember, a decade ago the sky fell on us and shattered everything. It's like you said, we're in a new age. People want security, and right now? We're not secure. The N/UN is a stopgap, and we need to be fearsome in our own right. We shouldn't have to ask for help from the Americans to deal with enemy planes poking at our airspace."
"Fuck me then, I guess." Fuka muttered, Yōko blithely ignoring the comment.
"-the enemy should be terrified of even accidentally crossing us. The people want security, and they want respect. This is how we get it."
Fuka pinched the phone between her head and shoulder, holding her hands up to the receiver so it could pick up a sarcastic round of applause.
"Is that the speech you'll give when you announce your candidacy? You practice it in the shower?"
"Ha ha, very droll. What about you? You have anything exciting in your life right now?"
There it was, the damnable question. Her parents and siblings, full or half-blooded, all asked her in various wordings and tones but it meant the same thing every time: Are you still pretending to be an action figure, or do you plan on settling down and stepping up in the world?
"I'm still flying planes. Now I just do it for a mercenary outfit."
"Right, Evan mentioned that. How's that compare to military life?"
"The pay is better, the gear is a mixed bag, the coworkers are a mix of laidback, greedy, and bloodthirsty. But overall, it's a lot of the same."
"Well, at least you adjusted easily."
"I guess I did."
"You deployed anywhere interesting?"
"I can't give you a location, obviously, but as far as deployment zones go this sure beats Juarez. It's a vacation spot usually."
"Lucky you!"
Lucky her indeed. Fuka eyed the early morning sun to estimate how much time she had before needing to leave, and mercifully it was almost none. If she hung up now she could make it back to the barracks with enough time to shower and grab breakfast before the meeting.
"Alright, I need to head out. Enjoy your evening."
"You too, and stay safe."
—----
Malta Defence Forces HQ
Luqa International Airport
Malta, The Mediterranean
Fuka sipped her soda as Scott gave the run-down, finding the situation about as bad as she had expected. Malta's defense forces remained a joke in the wake of the Heavenstrike, a few ragtag ceremonial troops with outdated weapons and absolutely no artillery or aircraft worth speaking of. The closest thing to a real country was fifty miles away by water, and it was too busy dealing with its own concerns to have a fulltime contigent guarding the archipelago. That meant that the ragtag pirates or terrorists or whatever they were had free reign save for Shattered Steel, mercenaries and renegades duking it out with the fate of the islands hanging in the balance.
It was a bad time to be Maltese, but people usually didn't hire mercenaries when things were going well.
Peacenik visibly slumped in her seat when Scott gave the bad news, rather dissapointed that she was going to be on babysitting duty while the others got to have fun. Shooting in self-defense and at high value targets marked out for her was fine, but if most of the flight was going to be recon she was going to be very bored. There was nothing she could do about it except hope that the mysterious bad guys were feeling ornery by the time she made it to them.
She noted Sokolov's entrance of empathy, glad to see that she wasn't the only one who showed up to the squad late for a briefing. Another Slavic on the team, and hopefully not a Russian. Myk was liable to do or say something stupid if so.
"Heartbreak, question: How long have the Italians known about this? It seems hard to believe that'd they just miss some airports and harbors being taken over, unless there was literally no contact between them and the mainland."
Luqa, Malta, the Mediterranean
She would do anything for her family, and as far as requests went, checking in every now and again was pretty doable. International calls weren't cheap, but it wasn't like Fuka did very much with her paychecks anyway. No, what made her hesitate was not money but pride. Every time she got in contact with her relatives the same infernal question would be asked, a landmine nestled beneath the peaceful path of conversation. And what made it particularly annoying was that they never meant to needle her, they simply did not know how much their inquiry offended her. Fuka had often thought about explaining herself but could never muster up the courage, resigned to bearing her weight in silence.
It was early as all hell in Malta, the sun just beginning its ascent over the little republic, but in Japan the day was well underway. Thus Fuka could ring up her sister without guilt, leaning up against an old church dedicated to a saint whose name she could not read. The signage was faded to the point of near illegibility, the provenance of the place known to the locals and uncared for by anyone else. Fuka's run had taken her to the town of Luqa, a scant half-hour away from the airport but seemingly transported from another time. Densely packed with buildings constructed by the grandfathers and great-grandfathers of those living in them, it was archetypally European in that way. So much history and yet so abandoned by modernity, a pocket dimension where people still lived in villages and relied on the tolling of church bells to mark time.
She was out of place in her running shoes and tracksuit, and the mechanical limb holding a high-grade satphone to her ear may as well have been artifacts from aliens.
The phone rang only once before someone picked up, a familiar voice filling her. It was Japan's Minister of Defense and the right-hand woman of the Prime Minister, the second most prominent voice in the JDSF and thus one of the most powerful people in the Pacific. Yōko was a born and bred war hawk, her long and successful career built off the back of military service and a vocal interest in making Japan not just a power player but the ultimate force in its sphere of influence. She was cunning, crafty, and at times domineering-, but Fuka still remembered her as the awkward teen she had watched grapple with high school romances and nightly curfews.
"Fuka! It's been a while."
"Yeah, I guess so. I didn't want to bother you; I know you've been busy."
"Not too busy for a phone call, or just a text."
Yōko laughed lightly as she said it, but her politician's mask didn't hold up under familial scrutiny. The lack of contact hurt her and Fuka didn't know how to apologize for it or even explain herself. So she didn't bother, the sisters letting the moment pass in favor of other topics.
"I got a call from another contractor, this one claimed they can deliver rifle optics for twenty percent less than what you pay now."
"Mhm. Sounds great...if I could believe it."
"I told them you'd say that, but they wanted me to come out to their factory and get the grand tour, see the setup so I could relay the good word."
"And how'd that go?"
"It didn't. I told them you had a secretary and it's not me."
More laughter from a hemisphere away, and this time it was genuine.
"Keep fielding calls for me and we might have to make it official."
At this point they might as well have. All sorts of suit-wearing strangers kept seeking Fuka out, ranging from slick Madison Avenue types representing this or that weapons firm to sweaty-faced, shabby-suited engineers looking for a trial run of their newest gadget. When every single member of your immediate family held influence in military or political affairs, plenty of suitors sought favors and friendship. Put in a good word for us with your father, ask your sister if she could listen to a proposal, hey doesn't your brother know people in the Ordinance Department, do you think you could drop our name to them?
No one ever wanted to talk to Fuka because of what Fuka did. She didn't get callers who wanted to grill her on her career path, no one ever sent emails inquiring if they could ask about the amazing journey from elite soldier to fighter pilot. Nope, she was just a stepping stone to the more important Astor-Nakanos. It was funny and irritating in equal measure, her wounded warrior status getting plenty of cred in bars and on dating apps but no love in the world her family occupied.
"But really," Yōko said dismissively, her shrug almost audible. "I'm not sure why they'd want to talk to me. The administration's hardly been the most interested in expanding our arsenal."
"Yeah, and everyone knows that won't be the case if you and Chieko get your way. They're saying you're looking at the PM position yourself."
"Oh my, I didn't realize I was speaking to the kingmaker. Tell me, Miss Backroom Dealer, who's saying that?"
Fuka snorted, watching an Egyptian goose hunt for crumbs on the church lawn.
"Mama and Papa, for starters. Your partner-in-crime Chieko for another, every pundit that mentions your name these days, and also anyone paying any fucking attention at all."
"...maybe I'm considering it."
Oh she was considering it alright, like the rooster considered whether or not to crow at the sun. Her boss was well-liked but considered to be too high-strung to keep the job for much longer, an assessment he seemed to agree with if the rumors were true. If he stepped down it was all but guaranteed that Yōko would be going to every Diet member she could reach to cajole them into giving her the okay, all while Chieko beat the war drums and Ayako would be off to the side in Arizona, waving a banner in support.
The question was whether Japan was ready for them.
"I guess you're going to have to campaign on a military platform, at this point no one would believe you if you said anything else was your main focus. That and the birthrate I suppose."
"Guilty as charged." the presumptive PM said, the pop of a beer top telling Fuka that her sister had gotten out of work for the day. "People know me and my credentials, and they know what I stand for."
An old-school warlord in the modern fashion, interested in strengthing Japan's position and undercutting anything that would threaten it. That's what Yōko was, and she was more popular now than she would have been twenty years ago.
"I mean, your odds are probably pretty good. You're not a shoe-in or anything, don't get a big head, but people like that kind of talk now. Fuck China, fuck their cronies; the Soviet Union doesn't exist anymore so maybe we can be friends with Russia so we have an ally that isn't a million miles away, expand the JSDF and put it to use offensively; it's a new age now."
"That's what I told Mama yesterday, but she's more conservative in her outlook. Hell, she was saying I'd be dead in the water because of the-"
"-nuke question, yeah. I mean, she's not entirely wrong is she? Asking Japan to jump into the proliferation pool seems a bit like asking an arson victim to buy lots of gasoline."
"It's more like asking someone who's been mugged to take up self-defense courses."
Yōko cut her off with an intensity that was uncharacteristic of her in private conversation but very reminiscent of when she held a press conference or stood at the podium. There was a dangerous sort of enthusiasm in her voice, a kind of controlled mania wherein she could acknowledge that someone disagreed with her but was sure she could make them see reason.
"Mama's from an older generation. Her brother was conscripted to fight in Manchuria, and she had a pen pal whose dad helped rebuild Hiroshima. In her time, the bomb was a no-go, totally verboten. But I don't know if you remember, a decade ago the sky fell on us and shattered everything. It's like you said, we're in a new age. People want security, and right now? We're not secure. The N/UN is a stopgap, and we need to be fearsome in our own right. We shouldn't have to ask for help from the Americans to deal with enemy planes poking at our airspace."
"Fuck me then, I guess." Fuka muttered, Yōko blithely ignoring the comment.
"-the enemy should be terrified of even accidentally crossing us. The people want security, and they want respect. This is how we get it."
Fuka pinched the phone between her head and shoulder, holding her hands up to the receiver so it could pick up a sarcastic round of applause.
"Is that the speech you'll give when you announce your candidacy? You practice it in the shower?"
"Ha ha, very droll. What about you? You have anything exciting in your life right now?"
There it was, the damnable question. Her parents and siblings, full or half-blooded, all asked her in various wordings and tones but it meant the same thing every time: Are you still pretending to be an action figure, or do you plan on settling down and stepping up in the world?
"I'm still flying planes. Now I just do it for a mercenary outfit."
"Right, Evan mentioned that. How's that compare to military life?"
"The pay is better, the gear is a mixed bag, the coworkers are a mix of laidback, greedy, and bloodthirsty. But overall, it's a lot of the same."
"Well, at least you adjusted easily."
"I guess I did."
"You deployed anywhere interesting?"
"I can't give you a location, obviously, but as far as deployment zones go this sure beats Juarez. It's a vacation spot usually."
"Lucky you!"
Lucky her indeed. Fuka eyed the early morning sun to estimate how much time she had before needing to leave, and mercifully it was almost none. If she hung up now she could make it back to the barracks with enough time to shower and grab breakfast before the meeting.
"Alright, I need to head out. Enjoy your evening."
"You too, and stay safe."
—----
Malta Defence Forces HQ
Luqa International Airport
Malta, The Mediterranean
Fuka sipped her soda as Scott gave the run-down, finding the situation about as bad as she had expected. Malta's defense forces remained a joke in the wake of the Heavenstrike, a few ragtag ceremonial troops with outdated weapons and absolutely no artillery or aircraft worth speaking of. The closest thing to a real country was fifty miles away by water, and it was too busy dealing with its own concerns to have a fulltime contigent guarding the archipelago. That meant that the ragtag pirates or terrorists or whatever they were had free reign save for Shattered Steel, mercenaries and renegades duking it out with the fate of the islands hanging in the balance.
It was a bad time to be Maltese, but people usually didn't hire mercenaries when things were going well.
Peacenik visibly slumped in her seat when Scott gave the bad news, rather dissapointed that she was going to be on babysitting duty while the others got to have fun. Shooting in self-defense and at high value targets marked out for her was fine, but if most of the flight was going to be recon she was going to be very bored. There was nothing she could do about it except hope that the mysterious bad guys were feeling ornery by the time she made it to them.
She noted Sokolov's entrance of empathy, glad to see that she wasn't the only one who showed up to the squad late for a briefing. Another Slavic on the team, and hopefully not a Russian. Myk was liable to do or say something stupid if so.
"Heartbreak, question: How long have the Italians known about this? It seems hard to believe that'd they just miss some airports and harbors being taken over, unless there was literally no contact between them and the mainland."
