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The Königreich of The Ruby Ranch Republic

This is part of the Invictus project

Cairo, Egypt

The cigarette fell into the ashtray, as smoke continued to rise out of it. Dmitry Igornov sighed and grabbed the box of cigarettes out of the shirt pocket of his white polo. As soon as he took the box, a waiter walked over to his table and placed a cup of coffee in front of him. Igornov put the cigarettes back in the pocket and looked at the waiter.

“Thank you.” Dmitry said in Arabic. The waiter nodded and went back into the coffeehouse. Igornov was sitting outside, watching the cars fly past him on the busy Cairo streets. The city had been ravaged by war 30 years ago, but you could never tell by how bustling and busy it had become after the 2nd Throne War. Egypt had made great haste in rebuilding after securing independence from Kafair, with Cairo being its main focus. It took a long while, but the city had regained its former glory, becoming a premiere spot for tourists and other such vacationers, but Dmitry Igornov was not here on vacation.

Assignments from the agency were rarely carried out outside of Europe, but this posting wasn’t contracted by the agency; not officially anyway. Dmitry remembered being told that this assignment was off the books, and the government couldn’t find out, or else there would be major outrage in the capital. He understood, these kinds of jobs couldn’t be known to the wider public, just because the agenda was just, didn’t mean they would find it that way. They would tell you that you can’t just go around the world and shoot people just because you don’t like them. If only they knew why.

The target was an officer who served in the Reichsprotektorate. He had razed and butchered the citizens of many towns he passed through during the invasion. After the war had ended, he was assigned to be the military governor of the Nocanne military district by the then-Reichsprotektor Lycus Cato. Dmitry had been following him around for a few weeks, memorizing his daily routine enough to where he would know where the target was at a specific time. Igornov was still missing one piece of information, where the target was hiding out. He knew the target lived in the area, he never left this part of the city, possibly out of fear for his own safety. Men like him have made many enemies over the years, it wasn’t unlikely that he had another assassin after him. Igornov hadn’t been able to pin him down, as the weasel managed to integrate with the crowd before Igornov could get to him. Today was another chance for Igornov to follow the target to where he was living.

Dmitry checked his watch, it was 13:00. He finished his coffee and took a newspaper from a vending box. He pretended to read, as the target made his daily visit to the coffee house. After a few minutes the target left the shop and began to walk away. Igornov took out some money and placed it down on the table. He got up and began to follow the target. The streets weren’t as busy as they had been the past few weeks, as Igornov kept his distance, but managed to keep up with the target. Eventually, the target reached an apartment complex and entered the building. Dmitry took a picture of the building, and left.

A few hours later

The sun began to set, as Dmitry grabbed the holster he was keeping in the hotel room closet. He put his silenced pistol in the holster, as he grabbed his jacket. He put the jacket on, concealing the weapon. He also took tools with him, in case he needed to break into something. He left the hotel he was staying at and retraced his steps back to the apartment complex he saw the target enter. He walked into the reception area and went up to the front desk. He took a picture of the target he was given out. The receptionist smiled at him as he walked up to her.

“Hello sir, how might I help you?” She asked in Arabic.

“I’m fine.” Igornov responded. He showed the picture of the target to the receptionist. “You know this man? I was told he lives here.”

The receptionist nodded. Igornov gave a quick smile.

“You can find him on the third floor, 315 I think. We’ve had a lot of visitors who speak Latin come to visit him, so I had to memorize the floor and number.” She explained. Igornov smiled and nodded, as he left the desk and headed to the elevator. He went inside and pressed the button taking him up to the third floor of the building.

After a few minutes of searching for the room, Igornov came upon it. Room 315, the room where his target was supposedly hiding out. He knocked on the door of the room. He reached for the pistol holstered in his jacket.

“I’ll be there in a minute!” A voice responded from the other side of the door. Igornov could hear footsteps from inside the room, each step becoming more audible as the man made his way over to the door.

“Alright.” Igornov responded. He took his hand off of the pistol. He straightened himself up and took a card out of his jacket pocket. The door creaked open, though not enough that Igornov could walk through. A man’s face appeared in the opening, seeming to look Igornov up and down. After about a few seconds, he would redirect his attention directly at the Ruban.

“So what brings you here from Europe?”

"Oh, I'm sorry, I assumed you were Egyptian. I've been in Egypt for a while, and haven't had to use my mother tongue a lot." Igornov said, smiling. "I represent Prometheus Arms Company; we've been attempting to expand into different markets. Me and a few of my colleagues were sent to Egypt. I was wondering if you would be interested in purchasing some small arms. The city's very dangerous, and you have the right to protect yourself."

He handed the man the card he was holding. It's a Prometheus card, with its main Ruban headquarters phone number on it. The Castelian examines the card, then glances suspiciously at Igornov.

“I appreciate the offer sir, but I already have a sidearm. Now, if you’ll excuse me," he makes a move to close the door. As the Castelian was about to close the door, he felt something pushing into his ribcage. He looked down and saw a silenced pistol aimed at him.

"I think we should have a talk, Generalmajor." He tells the Castelian, as the friendly demeanor had disappeared from his face. The cold feeling of a pistol on his stomach snaps Marcus to his senses.

“Very well.” He lets go of the door, slowly lifting both of his hands to his head. Igornov kept the pistol pressed against Marcus' rib cage, as he opened the door. He entered the apartment, his gun still pointed at the Castelian. He motioned him to turn around and put the gun to his back.

"Sit down." He spoke. Keeping the gun trained on Marcus, Igornov closed the door behind him. Marcus obliges, and takes a seat at a chair adjacent to the living room sofa.
"Generalmajor Marcus Vergil, what a surprise to find you here in Cairo. Been hiding here since Cyrus kicked the bucket I assume?" Igornov keeps the gun trained on the former military governor of Nocanne. The Castelian offers no reply, and simply glares at Igornov. The Ruban smiles

"I thought you might say that." He says as he shoots Marcus in the right leg. The Generalmajor stumbles to the floor, stifling a scream. He grips the chair behind him and lifts himself back to his feet. He looks down at his leg and sees a stream of blood flowing from his thigh. Marcus looks back up at the Ruban.

“What do you want?”

"I want to know where the rest of your buddies fled to, especially that bastard Lycus. Me and my benefactor would greatly appreciate the information. You could either give me what I want, or you are going to be in a lot more trouble than you are now. It's going to end the same either way, you'd just be delaying the inevitable." Igornov warned. A hint of anger could be heard in Marcus’ voice as he spoke.

“How the hell am I supposed to know where that bastard ran to? Cato abandoned the Reichsprotektorate as soon as the insurgents began marching on the capital! I tried to hold my position for as long as possible, but eventually the situation became totally untenable," Marcus sighs, "I'm sorry, but at this point, the Reichsprotektor could be anywhere.”

The Ruban chuckles and shakes his head.

"You know, I don't believe you." Another shot fires out of the pistol, and lands in Marcus's other leg. "Because the lady at the desk said you've had visitors. Latin speaking visitors."

The Generalmajor cried out in pain, both of his knees buckling as he fell back down to the floor.

"You're making this worse for yourself Vergil, just give me what I want and I can end this quickly." Igornov said, as Marcus attempted to get up. The Castelian looked up at Igornov.

“Even if I did know his whereabouts, why would I tell you? This all has the same outcome anyway.” Marcus scowled. It was clear that Marcus wouldn’t give up without a fight. Drastic measures were needed. Igornov sighed.

"I wish it didn't have to come to this Marcus. You know, you pissed off a lot of powerful people when you invaded Eihlagonia. Just because the island is gone, doesn't mean the Order is too." The Ruban's hand flashes a bright orange, as he places it on Marcus's face. The Castelian's face begins to burn. For a moment, the Castelian was simply too dumbfounded to act. For all of his time in Eihlagonia, he had never seen Austore magic in person. Then his face began to melt. Marcus’ steely resolve shattered, and desperation overtook the Castelian. Mustering his remaining strength, he swung at Igornov. The Ruban dodged out of the way of the partially blinded Castelian’s punch and let him fall to the floor. Dmitry picked the man up and punched him in the face, sending him back on the couch, a literal shell of his former self. He gave a satisfied smirk, as he aimed the pistol back at the Castelian.

“Now, are we ready to talk?”

Marcus wipes the blood from his mouth.
“Three million…” he began in sporadic huffs, “three million, and yet you vermin still roam the Earth… You’ll get nothing out of me, Austorischer.

The smirk quickly vanishes, as Dmitry scowls. His anger is visible, as Marcus smiles at the mental pain he surely caused to him. Dmitry’s teeth begin to grit.

"Fine, have it your way. I will have avenged some of my people at least with your death. The Grandmaster sends his regards." He says. Marcus’s eyes widen at the mention of a grandmaster, but the realization is cut short as a bullet goes through the Generalmajors head. Dmitry put the gun back in the holster. His fists began to clench, as anger took over his body. He began to punch the wall of the apartment room viscously, as his knuckles began to bleed. After his outburst was finished, he placed his head on the wall and began to weep. He wiped the tears from his face, remembering the mission.

He began to ransack the apartment, looking for anything useful to bring back to Rubis. He searched every nook and cranny of the apartment, but nothing came out of it. As he began his search of the closet, he found something hidden behind the bed sheets. It was a safe. He took the safe out of the closet and inspected it. It was an electronic safe with a four digit code. Dmitry took out the blacklight and scanned the safe for fingerprints. Four prints were on the safe, and after trying every possible combination, he unlocked the safe. Inside were documents labeled “confidential”. Dmitry smiled.

Finally, a lead.” He thought as he took the documents out of the safe and tucked them into his jacket. He placed the safe back in its original position in the closet and prepared to move the body of Marcus Vergil. He took the Generalmajor to the bathroom and locked the door from the inside. As he left the room, he placed the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the handle leading into the room.

Big thanks to The Castelian Federation for writing the dialogue section with me

Long Live the Commonwealth

The Republic of Bozhava

KMI Headquarters, Zavtra

Berislav sat at his desk, watching as his computer continued to decrypt the files from the raid in Arkgrad Central Penitentiary a few months back. The encryption on these files was extremely difficult to crack, and it still hasn’t been cracked. Berislav has gotten used to just sitting there, watching as his computer did pretty much all the work, for hours on end. It's a boring job, but it sure beats being a part of the SCD. Berislav sighed to himself as he watched the bar on his screen move up ever so slightly, then gasped as the bar suddenly shot from 65.7% to 97.8%. Such a shot up was unprecedented. As Berislav scrambled to get the landline phone on his desk, the door to his office opened behind him. He whirled around in his chair, and saw that he had guests, important ones at that; his boss, Valentin Petrić, and his boss, Lucijan Kovač. Berislav shot to his feet to salute the two, dropping the phone as he did so. Petrić returned the salute, while Kovač simply nodded at him.

“Well Berislav, it's been a few months. How goes the decryption?”

“Chief Commander, I was actually about to call in. It appears tha-”

The computer beeped, and Berislav turned around to look at what it was doing. His eyes widened slightly, as he saw that the bar on the screen now was completely colored in. The decryption had finished. Berislav gulped as he turned back around to face Petrić and Kovač.

“Well… it seems you two have come at the perfect time. The decryption is done.”

Petrić raises an eyebrow.

“Really now?”

“Yes sir, see for yourselves.”

Berislav moved out of the way of the two executives, who peered at the computer. The bar disappeared, being replaced by a flood of various documents, each marked as “confidential” and bearing a blue bird silhouette in the top right. Kovač turned to look at Petrić.

“It appears we have much to go over.’

Petrić nodded. Kovač turned to Berislav, his single blue eye practically glaring at him.

“Well done.”

With that, he grabbed the flash drive from the computer and left, Petrić right behind him. In the hallway, Kovač turned to Petrić.

“We should begin reading through these documents as soon as possible.”

“You know we’re going to have to tell the other executives about this, right?”

“I know. It won’t be fun, but I know…”

With that, the two of them continued on…

Long Live the Commonwealth

The United States of Great Usonia

!This post is for Invictus!

Sacramento Capital District, American Republic

It is 10:16 PM, and the President of the American Republic, James Lee Powell, sits in his office at the former California State Capitol which is now used to house the Government of the American Republic.

In front of the President is a camera and a film crew who await for the President to begin his address to the nation.

"Mr. President, are you sure about this? This is an extremely risky decision." An Advisor whispers into Powell's ear.

"I've never been more god-damn sure in my entire life... today we take back this country." The President responds, it is clear that his mind is made and he is determined to finish his business.

The Advisor can only nod in response and move out of the shot.

President Powell took a deep breath before giving a thumbs-up gesture to the crew, signaling that he was ready to begin the Presidential address.

"Alright, Mr. President... we're going live in ten... nine... eight..." The clock counts down, and across the American Republic, television programs are interrupted.

"Three..."

"Two..."

"One..."

President Powell began his speech. "Good morning my fellow Americans, at this hour, I interrupt your daily programs to address the people of this nation."

"For decades, America has been divided by the forces of evil, which have violated our constitutional rights and tore this nation apart. However, today, I have decided to take a great step to put an end to this nightmare."

"Under my orders, the forces of our great nation have been completely mobilized and deployed to the eastern frontlines in preparation for a military operation that will bring about the liberation of our oppressed brothers and sisters to the east of the Rockies."

"I place my trust in the men and women of the American Armed Forces to bring down the swift hammer of justice, and to ensure that our nation will not yield in the face of danger."

"My fellow citizens, the dangers to our country and the world will be overcome. We will pass through this time of peril and carry on the work of peace. We will defend our freedom. We will bring freedom to others and we will prevail."

"May God bless our country and all who defend her."

Long Live the Commonwealth!

The Confederacy of The Floridias

This post is part of Invictus

President Keegan returns from his whaling trip with and holds a grand feast on whale meat for him and all of his friends and as the fun and drink begins he learns hat while he was gone the USA was attacked on all fronts and as a beam of passion and his own love for adventure enters his eyes he declared that he will dominate the American south in the name of the Floridas declaring it Jackson's Ambition they would begin their plan and in the following days the Floridian Private Military Contractors and the militias would be alerted of the upcoming war and sent north

one of the most storied Floridian Private Military Companies are the Gator Marines a swamp trained military group dedicating to crossing rivers and wetlands and known for their deadly efficiency these Gator Marines would immediately be deployed to secure the mouth of the Mississippi River and capture the Bayou
Airstrikes would attack the city of Lafayette as the Brownbeard Pirates would raid up and down the Mississippi River and the Gulf Coast allowing for an easier crossing of the river by the Marines as they push through the bayou obliterating American troops in several minor skirmishes until reaching a true battle at the city of Lafayette the Battle of Lafayette will be a victory for the Gator Marines capturing the city and Solidifying Floridian control of the Mississippi river with Louisiana native Jase Robertson veteran of the Gator Marines would govern the Bayou on behalf of the Floridians in order to secure it for them

A large Group of Panhandle Militiamen would march north up the Georgian coast passing through several small towns before a quick crushing defeat in the outskirts of Savannah the militia was crushed being pushed back and completely destroyed the complete failure would be embarrassing but would be quickly overshadowed by the next success of the war entering in Macon

With the Savannah front being an embarrassment and a failure the Militias and Private Military companies would unite as a force and march deep into Georgia going after the City of Macon from the south coming back and fighting a large American force south of the city and though they were losing at first they eventually take the city raising the flag of Florida above the city

Long live the commonwealth



The Republic of Bozhava

Secrets Revealed

Lucijan and Valentin walk into Lucijan’s office, closing the door behind them. Lucijan makes a motion with his hand and the office window’s darken. He sits at his desk, and inserts the drive into his computer. Valentin stands behind him, watching. After a few seconds, the computer boots up, and the files from the raid pop up. As they read, Lucijan takes note that many of these files are linked to the National Intelligence Service, Bozhava’s former intelligence agency. That made sense; what little they knew of Project Bluebird was that it was started by a proposal from the NIS. What surprised Lucijan was the mention of Kamen Group, a name that was… surprisingly familiar to Kovač. He turned to Valentin.

“Kamen Group… wasn’t that a company that we dealt with before?”

“Not directly. The Bozhavian Land Management and Development Company had a contract with them back in 2019, before they were acquired by us.”

“Hmm… how interesting.”

As they continue to read the document, it reveals that Kamen Group was a shell company made by the NIS for Project Bluebird. The Group was to find a plot of land for the placement of “the Nest”, which was to be the main facility for Project Bluebird, and to construct it. The document continues, with Kamen Group buying land on the outskirts of Lovar from… the Bozhavian Land Management and Development Company. The land was bought in January, 2019. A few months later, the Nest, also known by its shell name “the Ivar Wellness Center”, became operational. The next day, testing on death row inmates began.

After a few months, the experimental drugs Project Bluebird gave to the subjects result in universal side effects such as bleeding from the eyes and strange dreams. The document ends before revealing what happens, but it was enough to confirm to Lucijan what he had thought; that Project Bluebird was the cause of the Leech. The symptoms of the side effects was all the evidence that Lucijan needed. He turned back to Valentin.

“Well then… let’s get the executives together. I especially want to talk with Marijan…”

Lucijan leans forward, folding his hands into a tent.

“Perhaps he can enlighten us further about what the Land Management and Development Company’s dealings with Kamen Group entailed.”

Valentin looked at the director, stony faced.

“You know that he probably dosen’t know much, right? I doubt anyone in the company does after you basically purged it of anyone you thought was loyal to your bro-“

The glare from Lucijan was enough to make Valentin stop in his tracks.

“I would have no mention of that man in my office, Valentin. You of all people should know why.”

Valentin opened his mouth to say something, but realized before he could that it would be best to remain quiet. So he did. Lucijan opened another document and began to read.

This document was about the various sites of Project Bluebird. The facility underneath Arkgrad Central Penitentiary was used as a processing base for the death row inmates that were used as test subjects. Most interestingly, there appeared to be another facility in the countryside, in the far north. It appeared that this facility was used for the creation of the experimental drug.

“Hmm… this is promising. Perhaps we can find a cure in this facility.”

“It’s in the countryside. Do you really want to risk squads encountering a Leech horde?”

Lucijan shuffles in his chair slightly.

“Even if the facility is in the countryside, I believe it is worth the risk.”

“Sir, please. We lost too many squads from the raid in Arkgrad. Imagine the losses we’d experience with this mission into the countryside!”

Lucijan glares at Valentin, his mind clearly made up.

“It’s worth the risk, is it not?”

Long Live the Commonwealth



The Commonwealth of Catilinaria

This post is part of the Invictus Project, again

Unacceptable. That was what Catilinaria’s recent acquisitions were. Unacceptable for the fact that Gladstone should be the mastermind behind them, that he should be the one gallivanting in Washington while Caldwell faced mockery for prematurely condemning the operations as a “failure.”

That was the essence of Markus Caldwell’s rants to Joshua Carleton, both during the phone call after the penthouse meltdown, and once more before the meeting with Calloway and Calosso.

There were several ways to tell Carleton and Caldwell apart, both in appearance and in temperament. Whereas Caldwell stood tall, around 6’4”, and with a paunch to match, Carleton stood lean and sinewy, about eight inches shorter than his companion. Caldwell, mid-fifties, was already bereft of hair save for a few gray strands—Carleton, about a decade younger, still had a full head of blonde hair. Both men were ambitious, yet the senior was brash, abrasive, blatant and a blowhard, while Joshua, at least as of late, had grown reserved, patient, quiet in his vengeance, yet aloof. Also, they looked nothing alike.

Carleton decided it was time to put being a wastrel on hold the moment he caught wind of Gladstone’s “Dawn of Revolution,” yet in order to keep up the appearance of an aloof man past his prime, which, Joshua could admit, was partially true, he needed to wait. Wait for Caldwell to do as he always did when something didn’t go his way: throw one of his infamous tantrums and beg Carleton to fix his mess. The weekend of Richmond’s fall, the duo returned to Harrisburg, awaiting the availability of their partners in government. The fact they had to wait at all showed Gladstone’s primacy, something that vexed Caldwell to no end. Carleton was hardly quite so bothered. After the back-to-back deaths of his wife, his son, and his uncle, and the lingering consequence of Calloway’s betrayal a year ago, life had all but run out of shocks for him. All that remained was his ambition, and Gladstone winning a few cities did little to hamper it. Biding his time was simply part of the game, and in moments like these, sat on a bench and waiting to be allowed into the conference room, why bother getting uppity? Better to cherish the few instances of quiet.

“Wow. Been a while, Josh.”

Lifting his gaze from the granite floor, Carleton found none other than Sinnot standing before him. A ballsy introduction, given Sinnot’s complicitness in his backstabbing.
All in the past now. No use holding a grudge. “Kept you waiting too, did they?” Ah, that never worked. He always held a grudge. What separated him from Caldwell, besides a boatload of cash, was his ability to keep such lingering feelings deep within him.

“Yeah,” Sinnot sat beside him, shifting anxiously. “Something big has happened.”

It was almost comedic how the three of them were seated, left-to-right: the scrawny Sinnot, sinewy Carleton, fatass Caldwell, who even now was oblivious to the conversation being held, lost in his seething.

Until Sinnot’s next words brought both men to full attention. “The American Republic has made its move.”

Caldwell’s fat face grew pale. “A-already?”

“They’re…” He gulped. “mobilizing to cross the Rockies as we speak. We’re on the clock now.” Eyes obscured by the shadow of his leather Hadzam, Sinnot adjusted his glasses. “Calloway’s worried, we’re all worried, Gladstone’s making gains in the South, but the West…Ohio’s right there, but at the rate we’re going…”

Before Sinnot even finished speaking, Caldwell had taken the bait. “I—we—we can act. You have the greatest commander in the country right here. Josh here could take Cleveland in half the time Gladsh1t took to reach Washington, trust me! And, and—”

That was where the Ohio Campaign—Caldwell pitched it as “Operation Steel,” had its inception. With the support of Sinnot, the plan was pitched to Calloway and Calosso, and put into motion. In the ensuing days men were reallocated to the Western border, Carleton was flown into Erie, and now here they were—marching through the streets of Cleveland just as news broke of Norfolk’s capture at the hands of a very agitated Gladstone, peeved that, once again, Caldwell had weaseled his way out of humiliation and put the ball in Gladstone’s court.

As for Carleton, again, there wasn’t much rush. For the first time in ages he was back where he belonged, a leader of men, even if it was at all part of another man’s machinations. But even despite that, it wasn’t Caldwell for once—yes, the man technically was the reason for this campaign—but it was obvious who really wanted this.

Caldwell must really be getting sloppy if he couldn’t see what Sinnot was doing. There was little doubt that Dawn of Revolution, like Steel, was a product of the would-be Sura, whether Gladstone was in on it or not, as in on it that someone so single-mindedly bloodthirsty as him could be. Behind the faux stutters and shifting, behind the scrawny exterior and the thin glasses, the indecisive third Catilinarian was suddenly making moves. To what end, besides the obvious of keeping two potential threats preoccupied with one another, was anyone’s guess.

Glory to the Commonwealth!


The Theocracy of Vergintobble

This post is for le invictus

The sun rose in the outskirts of Monterrey, and for just a few moments, the sounds of gunfire ceased. The dew on the grass glimmered in the dim morning light like stars, and, suddenly, a white earthworm bursts out from beneath the soil. The worm wriggles on the dirt for a few moments as if it is searching for something; water, perhaps? The worm stops for a moment at the edge of a red shotgun shell as a shadow hovers over it. Suddenly, a black hawk swoops down from the azure, capturing the worm in its sharp, orange beak before flying back off into the sky.

Then the sound of thunder flourishes throughout the air. The hawk has been shot and it falls to the ground.

"Dumbass bird!" said Private Milton, spitting his chewing tobacco on the ground. "It's going to ruin the flag raising."

"What an inglorious ceremony," Private Stevens laughed bitterly. "Mexico's surrendered to us, and I'm happy for that, but I'm just surprised to see all this," he paused. "Desolation."

"Oh please," Private Milton said, gesturing with his rifle. "It's what they deserve for not surrendering earlier. Even after the 54th took the City of Victoria and the 98th took Hermosillo, they refused to yield until now." Private Milton kicked a rock, and dust filled the air. "This is on them."

Private Stevens looked up at the landscape. Smoke was still rising from the city, and the surrounding area was lifeless. There was the encampment of Castellian and Pennmontese soldiers on the hill nearby, but in between Monterrey and the camps, Stevens struggled to find the proper words with which to describe it.

The only word he could come up with?

"Desolation."

Let it be known, that on this day, his imperial majesty, Emperor Richard IV, has given his royal assent to the Act of Mexican Integration and Reconstruction, which has passed in the Pennmontese parliament. The act relates to the integration and reconstruction of newly-annexed Mexican territories. The following actions will be taken immediately to ensure the good will and compliance of the Mexican people:

1. Mexican citizens will be granted immediate Pennmontese citizenship with the exception of Mexican military and political leaders, who can only be granted citizenship through several tests and affirmations to prove their loyalty to Pennmonte.

2. The newly-conquered territories will be split into several new commonwealths with equal voting power in parliament to Pennmontese commonwealths.

3. Apportionment of Mexican seats in Pennmonte will be based on census data from before the collapse of the Kynor until a new census can be conducted to determine populations in the new commonwealths.

4. Emergency funding will be spent in the newly-annexed commonwealths to restore basic services like running water, electricity, etc. as soon as possible. After this is done, reconstruction efforts will be handed over to commonwealth governments who will have the option of taking subsidized government loans to fund these efforts.

Long live the Commonwealth!

The United Socialist States of Soviet Islamic Republics

This post is a part of Invictus

Astana, Kazakh Soviet Islamic Republic
9:00 PM

Yerzhan Ilyasev is a tall, thin man in his early forties. His signature mirrored sunglasses glinted against the lights of the cameras as he stepped up to his podium. He had joined the State Security Committee (MQK)- formerly known as the KGB- in his twenties and had quickly climbed to the top of the organization. He became chairman of the MQK in 2015, a position he continues to hold, even as Premier of the Soviet Union. After emerging victorious in the 2020 Kazakh SIR presidential election, he rose to the position of Premier in a 2022 snap election. He calmly looks over the crowd, then begins speaking.

"Comrades! We are here to celebrate a great victory: the victory of the Soviet Union over the United States of America! The corrupt, weak nation of imperialists crumbles as we remain strong and united. American brothers blindly fight each other, and for what? The rotten legacy of a nation which never cared for its own citizens. The corrupt American system has collapsed, however, and our glorious Soviet nation stands strong as ever! The failure of America proves the undeniable success of democracy and the socialist revolution over rotten corporatocracy. Although revisionist traitors control Russia, the Soviet Union STANDS STRONG! Our glorious revolution will never falter! The flame of freedom, of revolution, of socialism, burns brighter than ever! Long live the Soviet Union!"

Yerzhan grins as the crowd cheers, filling the stadium with joy. The time has come for the Soviet Union to enter its golden age.

Long Live the Commonwealth



The Theocracy of Vergintobble

This post is part of Invictus

Just as the smoke clears on the Mexican plain, new dust is being kicked up by the treading boots of millions of Pennmontese soldiers advancing towards the border with the United States of America. They are preparing for what Emperor Richard IV privately describes as "the greatest invasion in all of history, surpassing the invasion of Mexico in grandiosity." The army, hardened by its experience in Mexico, is ready for a new conquest. Pennmonte will head north, and liberate their fellow Anglos from the tyranny of the collapsing United States.

Millions of radios are tuned across the nation to the capital. All they know is that the Emperor will soon make an announcement of massive importance. Suddenly, the static stops, and the Emperor's voice is multiplied a million-fold.

"Good evening, citizens of Pennmonte," the Emperor began. "It is on this day, that a state of war exists between the United States of America, and the Empire of Pennmonte. Let it be known that all diplomatic options were broached, but the American government refused to yield to the arrangement that would safeguard the security of the peaceful people of Pennmonte. In order to protect the nation and her people, the army, navy, and airforce have mobilized in defense of our realm. Orders have already been given to march north into Texas."

"Let it be known that this is not a war between English peoples, but it is a war in defense of all English people. The people of the United States have been living in oppression and despair, and, in the wake of their government's clear antagonism towards Pennmonte, the time has come to free them from their misery. May the storm of Pennmonte be a cleansing one over the United States. This is a war for liberty, and it must be decisive."

"With the sword in our hands, may God smile upon Pennmonte!"

Long live the Commonwealth



The Constitutional Monarchy of The Great Norsk

This is for the Great Norskian self-RP Project.

"So.. you're telling me that General Berg spent a million Krone on a soviet-era armored train, which has now broken down, and blocked one of the only two reliable railroad routes to the top of the Plateau?"

"Yes, King Mannerheim. That is correct," Councilman Erik said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Why did he have to be the one that told King Mannerheim? Erik knew the king was busy with important diplomatic matters, and had better things to be doing than sitting here, discussing General berg's incompetence.

Mannerheim leaned forward, resting an arm on the table as he rubbed his forehead. Erik could almost feel the boiling anger diffusing into the icy winter air.

"..and that stupid armored train, has now backed up the ALL of the goods shipments headed for the capitol.. am I right?" King Mannerheim asked, sitting up, both hands on the edge of the table.

"Yes, King Mannerheim.." Erik coughed out, struggling to keep eye contact.

King Mannerheim suddenly stood, nearly knocking over his chair, before beginning to circle the table, his bootsteps audible as he marched.

"So not only has General Berg spent a million Krone on a poor quality, Soviet era RELIC with ZERO AUTHORIZATION, but he has also managed to block and back up one of the only TWO RAIL ROUTES UP THE PLATEAU? Is that what's going on here?" King Mannerheim demanded, face red with anger.

Erik said nothing, as King Mannerheim slammed his fists down on the table, staring directly into Erik's soul.

"FIRE HIM! I WANT BERG OUT OF MY ARMY BY MIDNIGHT!" Mannerheim boomed, voice dripping with rage. "AND GET OUT OF MY OFFICE!"

Erik didn't stay any longer than he had to. He was out the door before the king had even finished speaking.

Long live the Commonwealth!

The Republic of Bozhava

Raid in the Countryside

Despite Valentin’s objections, Lucijan ordered SCD units to head to the Bluebird facility in the northern countryside. They went via helicopter, which, while safer than ground vehicles, was still rather dangerous, especially if a Leech horde noticed them and began throwing objects at them in an attempt to take them down. Luckily for the squads, there were few Leech hordes between the Bluebird facility and Zavtra.

Their luck would only go so far however. When they arrived at the facility, a heavily armed group of men were already there, and a firefight erupted between the two. The SCD managed to force the mysterious group back into the facility, where they gave chase. Eventually, they got to the heart of the facility, which appeared to be a command center. What they found there was rather… unexpected.

The SCD found the remaining members of the armed group, led by a rather small man in a suit. They knew who this was; every Bozhavian did. Stojan Dragić, Director of the National Intelligence Service, stood before them, gun in hand. Black Crown gave the SCD units on the ground new orders; capture Dragić alive. After dispatching his escorts, Dragić surrendered to the SCD.

Their luck ended there however. The firefight attracted a nearby Leech horde, which was moving towards the facility. The SCD were forced to evacuate with their prisoner, without having looked for any possible cure in the facility.

They looked on as the facility was destroyed by the horde

Long Live the Commonwealth

The Königreich of The Ruby Ranch Republic

This is part of the Invictus project

Warschau, Rubis

Good evening Warschau, I’m Tamara Michelska and you’re watching TVN. We continue our coverage of the ongoing War in Romania, as the Ruban army has made significant progress in the operation to pacify the Romanian state. Today marks two weeks since the march into Romania, as the ground forces continue to make headway into the rogue Romanian state. Military officials have confirmed that three major cities have been secured. Braila, Buzau, and Bacau have all been liberated and pacified by the army. We now go to our man on the ground, reporting live from the city of Buzau, Marcus Rastik.

The feed cuts to a man with dark brown hair, behind him the city of Buzau, smoke flying into the air from bombardments, many buildings collapsed or in the process of collapsing. But he is in the relative safety of a military camp in the city.

Thank you Tamara, I’m here in the once beautiful city of Buzau, now unrecognizable. This has become the main camp for ground forces, as its closeness to major cities and targets has made it a prime area to plan and coordinate operations. Although, from what I’ve been told, many of these plans may not see the light of day. The capital city of Bucharest is only more than an hour and a half away from the city, many in high command believe that once the city has fallen, the government of Romania will pursue peace. I talked to General Lyiv Konstantine earlier today, he said that it is likely that the capital will fall if the forces that have taken Braila join them in an assault on the city, but for right now he is being very cautious, possibly out of fear that the battle could be a months long stalemate like it was during the 2nd Throne War. Right now, Romanian military outposts and towns in the vicinity of the city are currently being cleared out under the orders of General Konstantine, in order to make sure that the 2nd Army has a clear path to merge with the 3rd Army, who I am staying with right now. The war could very much be over soon.

Long Live the Commonwealth!



The Dominion of Invictus Information Office

This RP event takes place in the world of Invictus

The Union is in crisis.

For over twenty years, the politics of Washington have been dominated by a single man: Amon Nixon. From obscure origins, he would emerge onto the American political scene during the advent of the Second Throne War, gaining massive popularity among the electorate for his populist rhetoric and promises of domestic reform. By 2020, he would finally have enough support to make a serious bid for the presidency. Entering as an underdog candidate, Amon would go on to win a landslide victory against the other establishment parties, and would be sworn in as president of the United States on January 20, 2021.

Immediately after ascending to the presidency, President Nixon would begin vigorously pursuing his promises of domestic reform. Or so he claimed. Unbeknownst to the American public, a nation-wide clandestine effort had begun, aiming to bring the entirety of America under the control of Washington, and by extension, himself. Yet not everyone was blind. As he continued his centralizing efforts, elements in the government and military were growing concerned about Amon’s increasingly authoritarian tendencies. Discontent was growing, yet it would ultimately be the President’s attempt to remove state governments which would finally cause the American powderkeg to blow.

The West Coast states would be the first to rise up. Headed by James Lee Powell, the new American Republic unilaterally denounced Washington, and declared that President Amon Nixon was illegitimate. As fighting broke out across the Rockies, elements in Pennsylvania would overthrow their state government, taking advantage of the chaos in the west to proclaim Pennsylvanian independence under the moniker “Catilinaria”. Now disconnected from the United States through the proclamation of Catilinarian independence, the state governments in New England and New York would unite to form a greater New England, independent of Washington. The American government managed to fight both forces to a standstill, but would fail in all attempts to retake either territory.

Now in the present day, the United States of America is only in a marginally better position than it was twenty seven years ago. Completely broken after the near total disintegration of the Union, Amon had done little to truly prepare the United States for the looming conflict with the breakaway states of the Union. Under the President’s watch, America grew rife with corruption and complacency, causing the state to fall increasingly behind its enemies, creating doubts about the President’s ability among the upper echelons in Washington. As American weaknesses became more and more evident, it was only a matter of time before an opportunistic nation struck to expand their own power at the expense of Washington.

And that nation would be the Commonwealth of Catilinaria. Seeing the decrepit state of Washington, and wanting to further their own revolution, the Catilinarians would strike south, overrunning their positions in Maryland and Virginia, and even seizing Washington D.C. itself. In league with the Catilinarians, and encouraged by their successes against the United States, the Confederation of Florida would jump into the fray, throwing back American forces from Macon and Lafayette. But just as American forces began to fully redirect their attention east, the West struck. In a public address to the American Republic, President Powell announced the long-awaited grand offensive, which aimed to finally bring the whole of America under him. Though their forces would be halted in the south by the fortified garrison there, the American Republic would make gains in the north, overrunning the United States’ positions along the northern Rockies.

With the United States suffering defeats from all sides, the discontent among Amon’s inner circle finally reached a boiling point. Led by a man known publicly only as “Mr. Christ”, the rest of the government would oust Amon Nixon from power, proclaiming Mr. Christ as the new interim president of the United States. Yet it would not save them. Rather than revitalize the American war effort, the coup d'etat saw what little cohesion there was among the army disintegrated, and America entered open freefall, and states began to be carved out of the collapsing Union. What remained of the American government would relocate to Raleigh, though their position remains precarious.

Now it is up to the remaining states to decide the fate of North America.

Long live the Commonwealth!

The Confederacy of The Floridias

This post is part of Invictus

With the Union collapsed and Warlords taking up the Cause of the nation the Confederation of Florida continues to push the front though the chaos has caused many issues with logistics across the front lines President Keegan has pursued a policy of continues aggression against the Christ a government as well as South Carolina in an attempt to fulfill his territorial ambitions in the Once American South Floridian Private Military Companies have been ordered to continue the fight and Floridian Privateers have continues to capture ships and hostages across the Georgia and carolina Coastlines looting and pillaging with the Brownbeard Pirates making massive amounts of wealth for the Confederation

After the first defeat at Savannah the the Floridian Militias were prepared and confident and with the collapse of the union bringing an extreme level of confidence to Floridian Troops all seemed to be working perfectly until the militias reached the city of Savannah where they would be pushed back by a shockingly cohesive military force for a nation in ruin the battle would be a failure and only show to that this war isn't over just because the nation collapsed

As the fighting continues along the front lines a mad dash towards Atlanta to capture the state of Georgia but as the battle of Savannah continues and ends the push towards Savannah stalls as several small skirmishes are won by the Floridians only for them to be unable to continue pushing as a larger American force shows up to back up the Army near Atlanta

As the front stalls in Georgia itself the push in Alabama and Mississippi proves successful as the Floridian Militias invade forth to Capturing Birmingham hopping to block off Georgia from the Raleigh Governments ability to support it the fighting in the city quickly turns to urban warfare after the capture with Black Liberation fighters along with Mr. Christ Loyalist filling the city center the Floridian Private Military Companies fought against the Resistance Force slighting and executing thousands of citizens of the city and surrounding area with anyone suspected of being resistance fighters in central Alabama cities being subject to Tribunal and Exiled as per the doctrine of forceful removal and they would be Exiled to Haiti

Long live the commonwealth

The Constitutional Monarchy of New England INC

New England INC wrote:Part 2 of the Story

cont

"What have you done...."

"Precisely what the Director had ordered. " Landsteiner said as he stood next to Notorious lifting the goggles off of his eyes, looking upwards to admire his handiwork.

"He ordered you to make a bunch of walking corpses? This is unholy...." Notorious spat out as he gawped upwards at the armoured creatures standing before them.

"Sounds like you've been kept on a 'need-to-know' basis Nicky boy." He could hear that smug voice from Crow right behind him causing him to turn his head slightly to scowl at him, causing the CrowContracts Commander to shuffle his feet slightly and cough awkwardly. "Commander." He corrected himself.

"Why the hell would Director A. need to go through all this crap to get a bunch of walking corpses to begin with? NEIRD practically has a blank cheque as it is, manpower has never been an issue." Commander Notorious still couldn't grapple with what he was witnessing, damn to them if they take his confusion for weakness if he knew this operation was happening he would've personally shut it down before it even came to fruition. The Director has truly lost it this time...

"Do you not understand? These are the perfect specimens....the perfect soldiers! No longer will armies be held back by logistics! They do not feed, they do not sleep, they do not stop even when shot! The unstoppable army that could topple the strongest of mankind's forces." Doctor Crypt spoke up with fanatic enthusiasm. This was this little creep's lifework....this was all their collective lifework each one of these parasitic b*stards had their leeching ambitions, including the Director....no matter the human cost...living or dead. Notorious quietly seethed at the thought as he fought to maintain his composure, as much as he wanted to lunge forward and squeeze the life out of every one of them, he needed to leave this place alive for the sake of man. He turned around calmly, only hesitating briefly at the thought of turning his back towards the cold unfeeling glares of the men-no....monsters behind him.

"...Good work, I'll be sure to report your progress to the Director as soon as possible." Nick could only grimace internally, he had to suck it up and deal with the remaining formalities that the pesky Frenchman was going to put him through. If he left now whilst requesting the briefing files it would draw suspicion upon him. As soon as he can he'll take the next boat to England before it is too late, the Director cannot get his hands on these, Notorious was more than aware of his dark ambitions and vile hatred towards the current status quo....the man was already humiliated once and an ego of that size will not be humiliated again.

end

Governor Snow's Office, New Ponpa.

Head Ambassador Corey Barnes pressed a button on the small device strapped on his wrist and a small drone that was hovering around him beeped once before compressing itself and sliding back into a small slot inside the device. "The wonders of technology, apologies for keeping you waiting Governor these meetings can be such a nightmare and now they've even invented something to keep me on call 24/7 it is a demanding world that is for sure. So Governor, what seems to be the problem? Surely this could have been handled by your guys?"

Governor Snow lit his cigarette on the end of his holder and took a contemplative drag before speaking, the two men were currently in Snow's office. Situated at the heart of New Ponpa, the Governor's office was a hub for complaining, mediating, informing, and dealing....mostly complaining. Snow's office was spacious and well-lit with a large window overlooking the busy Ponpan docks and casinos it truly was a 24/7 city with just as lively activity in the day as it was currently in the night. His office décor complimented the ongoing colonial regime and the Kingdom of Old, with various photos, cultural art, and accolades on display. "For the past couple of months, I have been receiving complaints from various residents, factory owners, and even from the Colonial Office in regard to the on and off power cuts that keep happening up in the Industrial sector of Ponpa. Royal Utilities has been on the case for a while now and they've managed to pinpoint the rough area which seems to be the 'ground zero' culprit for these blackouts. We've already dispatched an officer to interview the usual suspects. Still, I have reasons to believe that they wouldn't be stupid enough or capable enough of causing a consistent disruption of this size."

Barnes rubbed his chin in thought as he looked out of the window toward the docks before turning back around to look at the Governor, despite their differing titles the two men were rather similar in terms of job description the only difference being Snow has to mediate the bad news, and Barnes has to deliver and or cause it. "What exactly are you saying here, Governor? With all matters of respect, what exactly does this have to do with us?" He was a busy and overworked man the last thing he needs is to go about solving puzzles and deciphering riddles.

"What I'm saying Mr. Barnes is that the rough area we've narrowed down is home to various foreign-owned and even 'national' owned buildings and businesses. The New Ponpan Police does not hold enough jurisdiction and power to investigate these buildings without the backing of the Crown and of the New English. Considering how it was a Royal Assent to lease these buildings to the Crown in the first place. Now I know you won't take this accusation lightly and that is why we're covering the last of our bases. But I know how the English bureaucracy works I want you to start acting now before they start doing some serious damage to our grid." Governor Snow took a few light puffs on his holder before putting it down, he watched the Ambassador's metallic arm twitch in contemplation as he mulled through the information provided.

"Whilst your points are justified on paper Snow, what exactly is your evidence to prove that specific area of land is the culprit behind these blackouts?" Barnes shook his head in doubt, this all seemed like a complete waste of time what was the point in giving these people subsidies if they can't even bother to expand their grid to accommodate high loads in the industrial district? All of a sudden the room was shrouded in darkness barring the lit end of Snow's cigarette and the light outside. The Governor stood up cigarette in hand and stood beside Barnes, he simply pointed out the window and said with a smug tone "Is that good enough evidence for you?"

The Ambassador's eyes widened upon looking out the window, all the lights were out in the surrounding districts barring one concentrated beam of light which shot up clear into the air and caused the clouds above it to darken until lightning shot back down into a concentrated blast down below. The beam of light shut off shortly afterwards and all the lights came back on. "I-I'll....I've got to make a few phone calls."

end

NEIRD Headquarters, Head Sector 12 Offices, Deep Underground.

"Steady! Steady! That equipment is more expensive than your life tenfold! Unless you want your Great-Great Grandkids to be paying off the expenses I expect you to put some care into your damn job!" The vast underground labs of New England INC Research and Development were buzzing with life and construction more than usual, they were on tighter deadlines and an even stricter than usual regime. The Director was in a clear rush to accomplish something but it wasn't clear most of the worker drones as the tasks were broken down into the simplest of tasks to get done. Only the higher-ranked personnel had an idea of what Director A wanted but even to them the result was not clear, the man was even more tight-lipped than usual. The security presence was on high alert and the general unspoken consensus was that they were not to leave toward the surface until the work was done.

Doctor Landerfield rubbed her bleary eyes as she looked down at the almost incoherent blueprints that were given to her by the Director himself. Half of it was not even in a language that she could recognise and the blueprints itself was some kind of parchment of skin that she struggled to identify even with her curious attempt at a DNA analysis the other day. She didn't even want to begin to know why it was all etched in with some kind of red ink. At this point she didn't even care to know what she was helping to put together, it roughly resembled one of the portals that they used to travel from one world to the next, but that couldn't be right the technology behind the portals had been notorious among the scientific community with how undesirable the technology was. There were some attempts in the past to reverse engineer the portal but....the result did not end up too well. All she cared about now was to get the damn thing completed so that she could go back to the surface and get some sleep for once, the security presence of Director A's lackeys was almost insufferable. Although most of them have been distracted as of late with butting heads against the NEIRDA branch as Notorious's men operated semi-independently from the Director's men and did not take it lightly that their weapons were to be seized and they were to sit tight. As a result, there has been an ongoing standoff between the two forces, a cold war of sorts, Notorious will have to resolve the issue when he is back from the Raj.

"If you drop that I swear to the science gods themselves that I will come down there and put it together myself!" Landerfield snapped to the hapless scientist and construction workers from her observation deck above. Like usual they just gawked at her, reacting to her uncharacteristic wrath. She pinched the bridge of her nose as she shook her head and turned around only to let out a small scream in surprise and clutched her heart when she saw the Director standing behind her quietly.

"Progress Landerfield? You are not kept alive to scream at serfs all day." Director A responded coldly in his usual fashion but something seemed off about him more than usual. His skin was a sickly white and his hair was unkempt, she noticed a strange leather journal that was tucked into his arm but the stare from the Director was more than enough to refocus.

"T-The work is almost completed Director as per your specifications, engraving the symbols into the Lodestone was not an easy feat but we managed to do it. Although it seems that you have not specified how this....'device' will be powered-" Doctor Landerfield rattled off her usual debriefing report to Director A as the freak in the metal face mask stared ahead blankly. His eyes were bloodshot and dilated, he sharply raised a gloved hand which made her jump and simultaneously cut her off mid-sentence.

"I will handle the power issue myself, just have it done by tonight. I foresee interlopers will be coming to try to stop me very shortly. Time is not a friend of yours Landerfield but it is for me, I see a lot of things more clearly now." The Director said cryptically as he slowly skulked back out of the room, leaving a very dumbfounded Landerfield standing there until she heard a crash from down below.

"I TOLD YOU! THAT IS IT!" she yelled down as she started to march out of the observation deck.

end

Location Unknown

"We've received another spike of unusual activity, Jaeger. From the accursed Isle once again, there is something not right going on...more than usual." A cloaked man piped up from his console as a pair of boots heavily clomped down a metal walkway before coming to a stop above the man.

"Send the data back to the Guild immediately, the Arch-Hunter was right to establish this outpost when we first started to feel these irregularities." The figure plucked up the datasheet from the cloaked man and was silent for a few moments as they read through it. "....I also want you to send a runner to contact Monsignor Franklin as soon as possible, this event may be beyond our current capabilities..."

end

Long Live the Commonwealth!

The Commonwealth of Catilinaria

This post is part of the Invictus Project

Lucas Serge Calloway. Hero, traitor. Catiline, Caesar. Few figures in recent American history who did not reach the Presidency can invoke such divisive opinions. He knows this, he knows that for every man out there singing his praises as a liberator, there are equal amounts decrying him as a tyrant, as a warmonger. Both are roles he embraces; it wouldn’t matter either way. Not anymore.

That is what saving America from itself takes. Doing what is necessary, even if what is necessary is also terrible. That’s what he told himself. It’s what he had to tell himself. How else could someone stomach the constant warring, the total breakdown of the Republic he claims to be fighting for? Dawn of Revolution achieved its goal, shattering the fragile United States, and now various statelets had emerged in a free for all for power. Allies in Florida and Pennmonte made their moves; the American Republic marched East. And Catilinaria continued its march West.

These days, he hardly had a moment to himself. Presiding over the general assembly in Harrisburg, holding confidential meetings with the other members of the Six, conferring with envoys from Catilinaria’s allies, giving speeches, managing a war, anything and everything that he’d be doing his whole life, only now cranked to eleven. Yet for all the people he met, all the crowds who cheered his name, all the folks in the media who cursed him, he’d never been so alone. Sinnot was off scheming in the shadows, Caldwell and Gladstone and Carleton were all embroiled in yet another contest of ego, and even Calosso, perhaps once his only true friend, was off writing that history of his, turned sycophant by success. Cities reduced to rubble, families destroyed. Guilt was a new feeling. New, and crushing.

It didn’t matter what the news was, didn’t matter whether he was informed by a briefing in one of the conference rooms, or a phone-call as he lay as he did now, in the Governor's mansion's master bedroom. Detroit and Fort Wayne still hadn’t fallen, Cincinnati had. The stock market was doing well, his sister’s illness had flared up yet again. The world kept turning, and he was alone. The man in the eye of the storm.

It was almost enough to make him wish for the old days. Before the revolt. Even if they were facing down the ire of the world, the arguments in Congress, the campaigning, the crisis and the tyranny, at least he had people. Sinnot was still a friend, Calosso was around, Caldwell and Carleton and Gladdy were pains in the ass, but at least they made life a spectacle, posed a challenge without any bloodshed. At least his struggles didn’t kill thousands of the people he was fighting for. At least then, fighting for the people was something he could convince himself he was doing, not just as a means to an end. He was still whole. He was still the anti-hero, the American Catiline.

But that was then, and now was the present. If he had to be alone, fine. If this was what it meant. Fine…He’d save America, or conquer it, or ruin it, fine. Fine…

It wasn’t fine.

Whether he wound up swinging from the gallows in San Francisco or addressing a reunited nation from the White House.

It would never be fine

He would never be whole again.

Glory to the Commonwealth!
The Republic of Bozhava

Captive

Kovač Medical University used to be one of the premier medical schools in Bozhava, before the Leech Outbreak. Now, KMI has transformed it into a half-prison, half-laboratory. Leech forms that are captured are dissected in the various anatomy laboratories, and the leadership of other survivor communities that resisted KMI end up in what was once one of the dorm halls. The university is practically a corporate black site, all under the control of its Rector, Paškal Broz, who’s now basically a warden.

The helicopter touched down on the central lawn of the campus. Rector Broz, accompanied by his guards, go to greet the SCD units that have arrived. As they exit the helicopter, Broz stares daggers at Stojan Dragić, then waves for his guards to take the Director away. Dragić grunts as he is forced towards the Temporary Detention Center (formerly Residence Hall B), but does little to resist. Broz watches as Dragić is dragged to the TDC, then turns to the commander of the squad.

“Was there anything else of interest at the facility, or just Dragić?”

“We didn’t have the time to search for anything else before that Leech horde arrived, sir.”

“Well then, at least we have Dragić. You and your men did well, commander. Get some rest, you’re gonna need it.”

“Yes sir!”

With that, the two men went their separate ways; the commander and his men went back to the helicopter, preparing to return to Zavtra to debrief their superiors, while Broz followed his soldiers to the Temporary Detention Center. He’s going to enjoy watching the interrogation…

A few hours later

The interrogation revealed little that Broz already learned from the meeting Lucijan had with the executives a few days back, but it was quite a sight to see the once mighty and invincible man that was Stojan Dragić get beaten to a pulp. Broz wasn’t a necessarily sadistic individual, but considering the amount of people that were “disappeared” by Dragić’s command, he certainly didn’t sympathize with him.

As Broz walked back to his office, he thought of what he was going to tell Lucijan. Whatever he does say to him, Broz knows that he won’t be happy in the slightest. Broz opens the door to his office, closing it behind him. He sits in his chair, and reaches to grab for the phone, pausing for a second to think. As he thinks, he drums his fingers on the desk slightly, thinking of what to say.

The phone rang, and Broz was snapped out of his thoughts, grabbing for the phone and placing it to his ear.

“Rector Paškal Broz speaking.”

“Rector Broz, what information has Stojan Dragić revealed?”

Even after working for him all these years, hearing Lucijan’s voice still sent a chill down Broz’s spine.

“N-nothing that we haven’t already heard, Director.”

“Is that so? That is very disappointing…”

Broz waited a moment for Lucijan to continue, only to hear the line go dead.

He sighed to himself before putting the phone back.

Long Live the Commonwealth

The Cursed Burning Legions of Hellslayer

East Qurar - 13:00, 9 March 2024

The glaring eye of the sun slid up over the horizon; a vast red ball hanging in the sky. The first rays stretched over the sand, yet the heat was already beginning to bite. Jawad shook her head in concern.

"I don't like the look of that," he muttered. Onyx turned to look at him curiously. He pointed at the sky. "It's an old farmer's belief my father maintained. Red sunrise means a storm is coming. It's probably nothing."

They rode on, but Jawad kept scanning the horizon. It was difficult not to. He kept expecting the army to just appear out of nowhere. The one time they had thought they might have reached a safe place, and it had turned out to be a trap that had very nearly killed him. Killed both of them, probably. Well, that was one advantage of such a bare, featureless land such as this, he reflected. It would be nigh impossible for one man, let alone an army, to sneak up on them. No, they'd know long before they reached them, and would be able to do nothing about it. And it worked both ways - it would be difficult for them to hide too.

As Jawad scanned the horizon, he noticed that there was a thin dark line in the east, at first almost imperceptible, but rapidly growing thicker. In just a couple of minutes, it had grown from a narrow slash of black on the horizon to a thick band that spread as far north and south as he could see. It was a dark brown at the base, almost black. He could now make out the rolling clouds and hear the dull boom of thunder. A storm was approaching. But this one wasn't comprised of rain and water and mist. It was just sand. Lots and lots of sand.

Jawad looked around desperately for any kind of shelter. The landscape was barren and bare. The only chance they had was to make it to the mountains ahead, beyond which lay Hafarah. If they could evade the sandstorm, they'd have made it. It was a matter of metres.

"My god," Onyx said behind him, "look how fast it's moving!"

He looked up. A dirty brown wall of swirling sand now completely blocked their sight to the east. There was nothing but the storm, and now it was clear just how quickly it was advancing on them. It moved like the wind. Of course it did; It was the wind.

"Run, Whiteheart! Run!" he screamed, kicking the horse's flanks. It shot forward like an arrow from a bow, braying in terror. Onyx nearly fell backwards at the sudden movement, only just managing to grab hold of him and find her purchase. He turned to check on her, to reassure her, when the first breath of the storm struck them - unbelievably hot and laden with flying, invisible grains of sand.

Whiteheart plunged nervously as the sand whipped his face and sides. Jawad kept a firm grip on the reins, hoping that the sense of control would help calm the horse.

"Come on, boy," he muttered under his breath. "Come on, it's just sand."

The wind was now a living presence around them, keening horribly. The light was dying. He could barely see more than a couple metres in front of them. He opened his mouth to call to Onyx, but the words were lost in a fit of coughing as he drew in a mouthful of fine flying sand. He doubled over, trying to shield his face with one arm. Whiteheart slowed, foam cropping at his mouth and flanks. He whinnied shrilly and baulked, resisting Jawad's efforts to urge him forwards. He tossed his head, his eyes shut against the dust spinning in the flaying wind.

And the conditions were getting even worse, incredible as that might have seemed. The wind was like a blast from a fire, the air scalding and parching, and the millions of stinging sand particles tore at any exposed flesh. The grains forced their way into their clothing, into their shoes, and into any crevice in the skin - eyelids, ears, nostrils were full of it, causing Jawad to cough and hack. Even worse, the act of coughing seemed to draw in more sand than he expelled but he couldn't help it. His lungs and throat still ached from where he'd been hung.

He knew they couldn't stay here like this. But the horse's limbs had locked in terror and he wouldn't move. The only option was to dismount and lead Whiteheart by hand, hoping that the sight of them in front of him would calm his fears enough for him to move. He slipped his arm under Whiteheart's neck, caressing and talking to him like he had with the animals on the farm, all the while keeping a firm grip on the reins with the other hand. It seemed to be working. Whiteheart's shivering forelegs relaxed slightly, enough for him to take a few faltering steps forward.

"Come on, boy, it's alright. It's only sand." He tried to croon the words reassuringly, but he could barely hear himself above the howling wind. He doubted the horse could hear him, but he sensed that the contact and sight of him was the only thing keeping Whiteheart under control. Onyx, sitting on his back, was little more than a dim shadow.

The leaned forward, battling against the storm as he led Whiteheart forward, struggling to see the mountains. It was all he could do to make out the ground itself amid the flying debris. He glanced up at the horse's face. He had shut his eyes tight against the wind, fine sand and dusting crusting over the moisture around the eye sockets and nostrils.

Where the hell was the ridge? Jawad stumbled forward, awkwardly pulling against the weight of Whiteheart's reluctant body. He pulled on the reins firmly, and the horse yielded a little, taking three more hesitant steps forward. He realised that the stallion's instinct was to turn away from the wind, protecting his face from the whipping sand. But he had to keep forcing him forwards towards the protection of the mountainside. Somehow, he knew that the storm had not yet reached a climax.

Then, miraculously, he saw a shadow looming out of the dark mass of wind and sand and debris. He staggered towards it, dragging the horse behind him. Somehow, by some great fortune, they had stumbled upon a narrow cavern right at the base of the mountainside, just large enough for all three of them to squeeze inside, once Onyx had dismounted at least.

They moved a little further inside. Jawad glanced at Onyx's face. It was coated and crusted with clinging yellow sand. Her eyes, red-rimmed and sore, stared out of it like holes in some grotesque mask. He realised that he probably looked no better. He shook his head wearily, and tried to clear away some of the clogged sand, but he soon realised it was a hopeless task.

"Jawad," Onyx said slowly. He turned to look at her. "Jawad, we're not alone."

Kneeling at the back of the cave, cross-legged, was a man dressed entirely in dark robes, which, much like Onyx and Jawad, were caked in sand. His face was hidden behind folds of cloth that shifted and creased as his lips moved silently behind them. His eyes were closed, almost like he was praying. Onyx cleared her throat. The man looked up slowly.

"Ah, I see the storm has brought in more than just sand. Welcome, friends! Please, make yourself right at home." The man laughed awkwardly. Onyx and Jawad slumped to the floor, exhausted.

"Thanks," Onyx said wearily. "We didn't expect to find anyone else here."

"I was also seeking refuge," the man replied. "The storm is unforgiving."

There was a brief moment of silence before Onyx spoke again.

"So… um, what were you praying for, if you don't mind me asking?" she said curiously. The man looked at her sharply, then sighed.

"A better future, in a place far away from this," he said wistfully. "And that this alien land might be willing and open to the one true path."

Jawad raised an eyebrow. "You're not from around here?"

The man shook his head. "I was born in Talgerria. It is not so far, but that land, it is now tainted. We strayed, perhaps. Maybe we did not appease the Ancients, and they sent a plague, such a plague as you would not believe. And then the North Men came, yes, pale skinned devils. So, I saw that the only path was to reach out, to spread the word of the Dreamer in a foreign place. If only the whole world… Ah, though the last town I was in, hmm, they were not too accepting. I was forced to flee. And that," he said, gesturing about him. "That is how I ended up here."

The man reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out a long, curved dagger. He scraped it along the edge of a small whetstone. The sound rang in the small cavern, echoing. Whiteheart stepped back nervously. The entrance to the cave was blocked; the storm was an impenetrable wall of wind and sand.

"Ah, well. It's been pleasant speaking to you, short though it was," the man went on. His eyes glinted with a barely concealed fervour. "But, you see, the sandstorm, in Al'haqiqa belief, it is known as the Breath of Samia. And what did he spit out but two young lambs for slaughter to test my devotion?"

He stepped forwards, almost leisurely, swinging the blade from side to side in a mesmerising fashion. He did not charge at them, as Jawad expected, but walked slowly, knowing that there was nowhere that they could escape to.

"I assure you, this is nothing personal. I even think I might quite like you. But the Dreamer cannot be denied," he said sadly. "So please, don't make this more difficult than it has to be."

Jawad and Onyx backed away, until they felt the stone wall behind them. They shifted to the side, circling away from the robed man.

"Wait," Jawad called, thinking fast. "Wait! You are misinterpreting the signs! The Breath of Samia… it did not bring you sacrifices. It brought you… disciples! You came to this land to preach, right? Then preach! Tell us about your belief! If you kill everyone you meet, how can you ever spread your religion?"

The man paused, thinking about it. He weighed them in his eyes. Then he seemed to come to a decision.

"Very well," he said. Jawad let out a shivering breath of relief. "One. I have room for one pupil. The other… well, the other must be the sacrifice. The, ah, what is the word here… hmm, yes, the initiation rites, is that correct?"

He tossed the dagger forwards. It skidded over the stone floor and stopped, right in front of Jawad and Onyx. The cloth covering the man's face crinkled as he smiled.

"Pick it up. Whoever will live, whoever will become an apostle of the Ancients, pick it up. Show me now your dedication."

Jawad bent down and picked up the dirk. It was heavier than he'd expected. The edge gleamed faintly in the half-light. He turned back to the man, and pointed the blade at him.

"And what if I don't?"

The man stared at him for a moment. His eyes were slightly unfocused, as if not looking directly at Jawad, but through him, at something just behind him. And then he sighed. As if he were disappointed. He shook his head.

"Then I make two sacrifices to the Dreamer today."

And he leapt forward.

"Jawad!" Onyx cried out.

"Run!" he screamed back. But he didn't move.

The man threw himself forward at Jawad, and Jawad in turn charged at him, swinging the dagger, but at the last second, dodged away, letting the fanatic slam into the wall behind him.

The man whirled around, his face contorted into a snarl behind folds of dark cloth, swinging an arm round to hit Jawad about his head. Jawad slashed at it with the blade, leaving a deep cut along the forearm, but it didn't seem to faze him or slow him at all.

And then he swung his other arm, catching Jawad on the side of the face, right on the jaw, knocking him back.

"Jawad!" Onyx called again.

He fell to the ground in a heap, landing awkwardly. He glanced up, and the man had turned to Onyx, who had made her way towards the back of the cave.

"No! Run!" he yelled.

But instead, she grabbed a large rock and threw it at the man with a scream of anger. He tried to duck, but it glanced off of his head, causing him to stumble away from both of them.

"Come on!" she yelled to Jawad, as he scrambled to his feet.

But the man turned. His face coverings had been knocked askew by the blow. Blood and some other viscous, transparent fluid flowed from a nasty cut on his head. It must have been a more serious hit than it had seemed.

It didn't impede him at all as he scurried forward like some sort of insect, seizing Onyx's arm. She punched him in the face with her left, hitting the wound again and again, her fist growing more and more bloodied. But he didn't let go.

And then Jawad crashed into them, dagger aimed straight at the man's back. But inexplicably, unwillingly, he turned the point away at the last moment, just slamming into them. The three of them fell to the ground in a tangle: Onyx tumbling to the side, Jawad falling on top of the man. Everything seemed to pause for a moment, and the man looked right into Jawad's eyes, and smiled. As if to say that he knew he couldn't do it. And then he leaned up and bit into Jawad's neck, tearing a chunk of flesh away.

Jawad roared in pain and astonishment, jerking back, and darting away from him, clutching his bleeding neck. The man got to his feet. Blood streamed down his face, but he walked forward as calmly and casually as ever, his expression ecstatic.

Jawad tried to get into some sort of stance, raising his fist and the weapon like he'd seen the fighters do on television. It didn't matter. The man's clenched hand came out of nowhere, hitting him directly in the nose. He felt it crumple. His eyes watered involuntarily, making his vision go blurry for a moment.

Another punch made him stagger backwards. He raised the dagger, waving it blindly in a vain attempt to ward off the attacks. A third punch crashed into his face, from the other side this time. He felt two teeth rip from their roots and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. He stumbled, dizzy, and fell to the floor.

He dropped the dagger. It clattered to the ground, purposeless.

"You have no place in the City of Thorns," the man screamed. He stepped forwards, standing over Jawad. "Great Samia, do you see this? Afeal hadha min 'ajlik ya rabi!" The man's words trailed into some other language - his native tongue or an alien script of his religion, Jawad did not know.

He spotted Onyx out of the corner of his eye, frantically searching for more stones in this empty stone tomb. Clenching his loose teeth, forcing his injured body to move, he began to pull himself to his feet.

"Come on then!" he muttered. "Make your bloody sacrifice, but I won't just stand around for it."

The man smiled, and stepped forward, arms reaching out to grab him.

Their eyes met.

And then Onyx slammed a rock so massive that she could barely lift it right into the side of his head.

He stumbled, half fell, and then recovered himself. He reached out and steadied himself on the wall of the cavern. But he didn't fall. Blood poured freely over his face and down his robes, drenching them red. His face was once again concealed, this time behind a veil of carmine liquid. He was something straight out of a nightmare.

"You ain't human," Jawad murmured. "You just ain't."

"No," the man agreed. "I am something more. An apostle. A prophet. A saint."

He thrust out an arm without even looking, seizing Onyx by the throat and tossing her aside like little more than a sack of flour. Her head cracked against the stone wall and slid down, leaving a little smear of blood.

"Onyx!" Jawad cried, and he ran forward. The zealot laughed as he ran past, making no effort to stop him.

"Ah, I was wrong," he said. "You will follow in my footsteps. That is the saying, yes?"

"Shut up!" Jawad howled, spittle and blood flying from his mouth.

"You know why?" the man continued, as if nothing had happened. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "All along, I thought that you were the sacrifices. But Samia, in his eternal humour, showed me the truth. It's me. I'm the sacrifice. Everything that led me here, to this land, to this desert, to this cave, was to make you my successor."

A shiver ran through Jawad's body at the man's voice.

"Yes," the man hissed. "So, let this be my first lesson… and last, my young disciple. Hate is the key. Hate is the whip on our backs, compelling us. Hate… cleanses us of our sins. You do hate me, don't you?"

Jawad looked at the dagger, lying in the sand just behind the man.

The fanatic opened his arms wide, eyes closed, as if for an embrace.

And Jawad ran forward, slamming into him. The man didn't resist. Jawad screamed, punching his face over and over and over and over. Bone broke, gristle crunched and ground together, an eyeball popped, and he kept on hitting the face. And the man, all throughout, was laughing, laughing through his ruined features.

"Yes," he gurgled through a mouth filled with broken teeth and blood. "Go on."

He looked over at the dagger. Just a few metres. A few small metres. He squeezed his eyes tight shut and reached for it. But there was nothing. His hand scrabbled at loose dust and sand. He opened his eyes.

Onyx.

Jawad gasped in relief at seeing her alive. She held the dagger tightly, both hands on the hilt. She paused for a moment, as if deciding where to aim. And then she swung it down, right into the man's chest, so hard that the point poked out the other side, grinding against the stone floor. He tried to rise, his mouth open wide in surprise. His hands fumbled at his chest, trying to pull out the blade, trying to stop the blood from bubbling up. And then he slumped back, unmoving. Dead.

Onyx sat down on the ground, staring at the body. The storm outside begins to quell, the wind growing quieter.

"He's dead," she said. Blandly matter of factly. Jawad just nodded.

"I would have done it. I should have done it," he said. "He wanted me to."

Onyx sat down. Her shoulders shook convulsively, and her face was pale, as if she were dangerously ill. She rocked back and forth for a while, just breaking shakily. Finally, she spoke.

"You know, I killed someone before. In Hellslayer, before I met you."

Jawad shook his head, but said nothing. What was there to say?

"He was young. I don't know. He had nothing to do with anything. Wrong place, wrong time. There was no reason for it either. When will it end? What's the point of life if it's filled with death?"

Her voice was pleading.

"I feel sick," she said. She staggered to the entrance to the cave, and threw up profusely into the sand. "I couldn't let you," she said quietly, turning back. "He wanted you to. He would have won."

The storm had all but dissipated now. Whiteheart was a little way outside, his eyes wide and fearful. He must have fled the cave after the fight broke out. He started as they approached, unnerved by the scent of the blood covering almost every inch of them. Jawad caught his rein and pulled him in, patting him and speaking to him reassuringly. The sun was out in full heat, and the air above the path shimmered. There was a narrow paved road leading between the mountains. The tops of the tower blocks and tenements were just visible on the other side. The city. Hafarah. It wasn't far now.

"Just the last little bit," he murmured. "Come on."

They clambered wearily up onto Whiteheart, and began trotting down the winding path towards the city. Onyx peered into Jawad's face, frowning.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

Jawad felt around his mouth with his tongue and noticed a gap where a couple of teeth had been knocked out. There was a dull ache, but it was much less painful than he expected.

"Not too bad," he replied. "You?"

Onyx felt the back of her head cautiously.

"Well, it's not bleeding anymore, at least. I'm sure we can find a doctor in Hafarah once we get there," she said, finally smiling, if only a little. They'd spent so long on the trail that it was almost unreal that they were now just within touching distance of their destination.

And then the air in front of Jawad vibrated, buzzing, like an angry wasp. Onyx gave a slight gasp of surprise. She blinked heavily. There was blood on her front, mingling with the blood already staining her shirt. New blood. And a small hole just below her breastbone. She dabbed her fingers in the liquid, holding up her red-stained fingertips in surprise. Then, slowly, she slid sideways off the horse, sending up a great puff of dust as she hit the ground.

"Oh," she said softly. "Jawad?"

Approaching slowly, a rifle pointed directly at Jawad's head, was a soldier, one of the ones from the army that had been just behind them, but up close. At first glance they appeared human, like anyone else, but a spidery web of cracks snaked over their skin. Cracks that glowed, if very faintly. What had Onyx called them before? Demons? A fitting name.

"Jawad?" Onyx repeated, calling out his name desperately. "Jawad, I think I've been shot."

Jawad could say nothing. Every single time. Every single bloody time. Whenever they thought that maybe, just maybe, things might be going right, that things might be getting better, the world beat them back down. Who was he to fight back if the world told him again and again that it would be better off without them? Who was he to say otherwise in a world filled with nothing but blood and death and violence?

The soldier advanced, calling to him. Saying something. It took Jawad a moment to realise he was even speaking Azaraan.

"Hands up," he said, slowly, sounding out each word carefully. "I am taking you to my commander."

Jawad looked at him for a moment, then deliberately turned away and knelt next to Onyx on the road. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out an old shirt and pressed it on top of the wound.

"Press that down, alright?" he said, as calmly as he could. "You keep that as tight as possible, even if it hurts."

He looked up at the soldier.

"Put your hands up," the demon spat. "I will shoot! I will!"

Jawad straightened up. Then charged right at him. The demon's eyes widened. His finger tightened on the trigger, letting off a second shot with a loud bang. It zipped through the air, just nicking Jawad's ear. Then he pressed the barrel right up into Jawad's face. Their eyes met briefly; the moment before death.

But he hadn't accounted for the horse. Whiteheart, who had been led through a sandstorm and frightened from the cavern by a fight, had reached the end of his tether with the two gunshots. He stampeded forwards, rearing and braying in terror. Whether he realised that Jawad was in danger, and acted to save him, or whether it was pure fluke that he hit the soldier, Jawad had no idea. All he knew was that Whiteheart's hooves came down on the demon's skull with a nasty crack, knocking him down the slope. The stallion snorted and bolted off down the mountain after him. Something gleamed in the sunlight; the rifle lay half buried in the dust. Jawad moved towards it.

"Jawad?"

The voice called out from behind him weakly. He turned back immediately, leaving the gun where it was. There was no time.

"I think I'm dying, Jawad," Onyx said.

"You're not dying. I promise you, you're not dying," Jawad said, shaking his head. He hooked an arm under her shoulders, hoisting her to her feet. She cried out in agony.

"No! Stop! Just, stop. It burns. And… I'm tired."

Her voice was dim, as if coming through several layers of paper and wrapping.

"You're not dying! Not today!" Jawad snarled, baring his teeth.

The city was just below. There had to be a doctor. The path snaked back and forth down the mountainside. It wouldn't be fast enough. Carrying her weight, Jawad plunged forward, tearing a path straight through the dry brush and scrub. Clods of dirt flew up and a cloud of dust followed in his wake. He leapt over bushes and tripped over a root, stumbling, his momentum almost causing him to lose his balance, before regaining his footing and stumbling on. Onyx moaned in pain at every bump and jolt, pleading for him to let her down. He refused to listen, ploughing on.

The road reappeared as it twisted back around, and he skidded on the dusty path. His legs ached from the steepness, his knees jerking with each stride. They reached the bottom, and Jawad kept running. Onyx felt strangely light, as if all the weight was being drained out of her. It took him a moment to realise that that wasn't so far from the truth. He risked a glance behind him, his legs still carrying them forwards, and saw a stream of blood running down the mountainside, following their path. Not droplets or splashes, but one continuous streak of red.

"Help!" he cried out, as the first houses appeared on the outskirts of the city. "Come on! Help us!"

He kept running.

"I don't think-" Onyx began, her voice bubbling through her lungs.

"Stop thinking. Just don't give up!" Jawad shouted, praying, praying that someone would come.

He kept running.

And he was into the city proper now, built-up urban space, with shops and houses and office blocks. And yet, it was so quiet. So… empty. There was nobody there.

He paused, just long enough to glance around.

There was no one.

"Jawad?"

"We're almost there," he said, reassuring her.

"I can't see you anymore," Onyx said quietly. Her head rolled back.

"No. No, no, no!" Jawad shouted at her. "No, you wake up! Keep those eyes open! Keep those bloody eyes open, you hear me?"

She tried. Her eyes fluttered open, just a little, barely.

"Help!"

And Jawad kept running. Even faster, maybe, though his legs felt like they were moving through liquid concrete.

"Help!"

Nobody, absolutely no one. The shops were all shut up and empty. The masjid was silent. He ran on, following the signs for the city centre, bursting into a large open square. And there was no one there either. He stopped in the middle, listening. Nothing. There was no sign of another living soul. He spun around again.

"Help!" he cried out. It echoed around the square, a million invisible voices mocking him. Hafarah was completely empty. There was no hope here. Onyx began to slip from his grip, and he sank to the floor alongside her. At some point the shirt had fallen. He simply pressed his hands over the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood. But there was so much of it, and it just kept seeping through the cracks in his fingers.

"Please," Jawad cried out, his eyes welling up and his voice cracking. "Please, please, please."

And then a voice rang out across the square, barely even above a shout.

"Well, since you asked so nicely."

Strolling around the corner, into the square, was a figure that he had only ever seen at distance before, yet he recognised him immediately.

"No," Jawad whispered. "It's not possible."

"Oh, yes," the figure said, his Azaraan as precise and immaculate as his uniform. "I'm afraid so."

"How? How can you even be here?" Jawad said, his voice rising in anger. "How-?"

The demon shook his head, looking completely calm and unruffled. His clothes were completely unmarked, his boots gleaming, he even had gloves on.

"A dust storm? I imagine on foot that could be quite a problem," he said, his voice silky and conciliatory, like that of a victor offering a handshake to a worthy opponent. "But no obstacle to our convoy of course."

"But how?" Jawad repeated, stunned. "I saw you attack Sel-Talud. You don't have enough troops to take the city. It's not possible."

"You know," the demon said. "Sometimes the rumour of an army is just as effective as an army itself. The terms of surrender were most favourable. And don't think I forgot about you. Burning that bridge - most inconvenient. And then, again at Sel-Talud. Quite remarkable. I sent my son to find you and bring you in." He glanced up at the mountains. "Though, of course, that doesn't seem to have panned out."

Jawad looked around the square. He spotted eyes here and there, peering out through blinds or from behind curtains. Four more soldiers entered the square.

"Oh, I am sorry," the demon said apologetically. "Where are my manners? I am Lord-Secretariat Lares. I am here to manage the acquisition of new lands and peoples for Hellslayer."

Onyx's blood had made Jawad's grip slippery, and she fell from his arms with a pained gasp.

"Save her! Please," Jawad said. "I'll do whatever you want! I swear! Just please, save her life."

"Come now. Fortune favours the patient," the demon said, finally sounding a little annoyed.

And Jawad knew at that moment that they had lost. Everything was over. The demon pulled off a glove, revealing a hand covered in a network of cracks, and extended it towards him.

"As the newly appointed Governor of this region," he said, as if showing Jawad the world for the first time. "Let me be the first to welcome you to its capital city."

"Jawad?" Onyx whispered, her eyes closed.

He held her tightly.

"I am so sorry," he whispered back. "So sorry."

"Welcome," said the demon. "To New Inferneum."

Northern Hellslayer - 10:00, 10 October 2020

The manor house stood on a lone hill in the remote reaches of the north. Actually, it had been a derelict old fort not too long ago, a remnant from Augeri's first invasion of Halus Ayer. It was only recently that Alecto had bought the place and renovated, fixing it up to a reasonable standard. Well, it wasn't like he was going to be living here, anyway. He'd simply found the place, and realised it was the perfect location for his needs, far enough away from prying eyes while close enough to civilisation to collect any materials.

Alecto pulled out the letter again and read over it. The last letter from his old friend before the… unpleasantness. It held the details of a machine he'd built a little while before his death. It was uncanny, really, Alecto reflected. The man had had the foresight to build such a thing in the months, if not days, leading up to his murder; he must have known what was going to happen, or at least had an inkling. Well, that was neither here nor there, now.

A machine whirred away in the middle of the room. Hundreds of wires and cables and tubes stuck out of the thing, creating a giant web of electronics. At the centre, there was a large tank filled with some kind of liquid, and, floating inside, was an unclothed middle-aged man with white hair and a beard, the strands drifting like the tendrils on some strange fish. The man had been picked up in Hellslayer, and had simply disappeared. Nobody knew what had happened to him.

Quite why the process required a human, a living human, and not a demon was something that Alecto could not say. All he knew was that the letter had been very clear. He glanced at the man, and he pulled a very strange expression. His lip curled in disdain at the same time the corners twitched into a smile. Rosk rat. Almost anything would be better than that. Frankly, it would be a just penance for Jax, being trapped in that body, for what he had done to this country. Not the demonification, of course. That, Alecto approved of. No, it was what he had done afterwards. Or rather, what he hadn't done. With all this power, with all this strength in their grasp, why had they not utterly crushed the rest of humanity under their heel? At least the new fellow, Sturm, would understand that. He'd been a soldier. A general even.

Still, Alecto wasn't one to betray his Grand Architect. After all, Jax had brought them the power in the first place. He was still the rightful ruler. He just needed some… guidance. And once Alecto followed the instructions he'd been given, he could offer that guidance. Jax would rule, of course, but with Alecto at his side, his right-hand man. Or demon. Whatever.

An engineer hurried over to Alecto and bowed.

"The machine is ready when you are, my Lord," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.

"Thank you," Alecto said, strolling over, peering at this section and that, comparing it to the paper in his hand and nodding as if he understood the diagrams in the slightest. "You may go now," he added, flicking a hand dismissively.

"Right then," he muttered to himself, checking the letter again. His tongue stuck out between his teeth as he read through the instructions and flicked the switches in order. When setting up the machine, he had had to install an entirely new generator within the fort's walls just to power the thing, and it was evident now why. The entire thing shook violently, causing the manor's walls to shudder and the ceiling to rain dust. The glass tube seemed to glow, or rather, a light seemed to shine onto it, though no source of light was visible. The body inside convulsed forcefully, as if having a fit, slamming against the sides of the tank. The whirring grew louder and sharper, becoming a high-pitched screech that deafened Alecto. He covered his ears, stumbled around foolishly, and then ducked into a doorway, half expecting the entire thing to explode. Instead, it simply… stopped. It did not seem to power down or come to a stop, but instead just cut off abruptly.

Alecto peered around the corner curiously. Everything looked much the same as it had a few minutes ago. Had it worked? And then the man inside the tube opened his eyes. He raised a fist and thumped on the glass. Alecto approached cautiously, and opened the tank, letting all the fluid inside rush out, pulling the man with it. The thing, the living corpse, stood up slowly, wet and dripping and naked. It took a few shaky breaths and got to its feet.

"I have returned," said Jax Arcanic.

His mind ached. It was both his mind, his thoughts, his memories, and yet sitting atop them, like oil resting on water, was the mind of this creature he inhabited. Every time he tried to dip into his own past memories, he had to foul his mind with this detestable grease resting on top. He could remember an apple orchard in a small farm in a cold land far north. Somewhere he'd never been. His memory, yet not his memory. He shook his head and roared in anger. He was vaguely aware of someone he'd never met, someone he knew well, Alecto, that stranger, step back warily.

"Are you… well, my Lord?"

Jax did not know how to respond. Was this what it was to be well? It felt like one moment he had been weightless, light as a breeze, and then the next cloaked in lead. This body felt clumsy and cumbersome. He could not think properly, not with another man's memories cluttering his own.

"I am well," he said, as convincingly as he could. And another voice rose, unbidden in his mind. Lord? I am no lord. We were once, yes, before the usurpers killed us. Before they stole our land. Reclaim it.

What on earth was happening? What was that? Or rather, who was that? He reached out cautiously in his mind, but came across nothing but that oil slick over his mind. No voice. No other presence. Just a clump of memories that were not his.

"I think this procedure may have resulted in a temporary malaise," he said, barely holding himself together. "I will have to run some tests later. Now, please, Alecto, if you don't mind, I'd like to lay down a while and collect myself. Such an operation has had some effects on me. We can speak more later."

Alecto glanced at him with barely concealed disgust, but had enough presence of mind to bow, if little more than a bob of the head.

"Of course… Jax?" Alecto asked, questioningly. "What should I call you?"

"Jax will do fine," he replied. He paused, waiting for that voice to come back. There was nothing but silence. Had he imagined it? "I will take my leave now. Thank you."

Alecto clapped, and a servant ran forward.

"Show Mr. Jax here to one of the guest rooms, will you? Show him every courtesy."

Long Live the Commonwealth!
Vivat Reip!

The Commonwealth of Edmontona

Report: Edmontinian socialist nation formed in Canada: Small state of size of Netherlands.

The Commonwealth of Edmontona

Long live the Commonwealth of us and England!

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