Commonwealth of Sovereign States

Jocospor, 4 days ago

Andreas Bombardone lay strapped against a chair, confronted with a news feed of many Imperial Senators in mourning of his presumed death, this just moments after being informed that he had been sentenced to die.

Bombardone queried in stunned disbelief, “Then it is so?” The cold reply of the executioner resounded in the padded room, “It is.” Steeling his will as he met his end, Bombardone spoke henceforth, “Very well… Then it is so.” A needle pierced his chest, and for an instant, there was a flash of pain unlike anything Bombardone had ever imagined.

They say that in the moment of one’s death that one’s life flashes before one’s eyes. Instead, Bombardone, in the frozen millisecond between life and the world beyond, was suspended in an infinite void of ebon darkness. “Andreas Bombardone,” a deep, gravelly, masculine voice called out through the abyss, “Your life has been spent on wickedness and violence… The orchestration of untold human misery… Children forever separated from their fathers and mothers… Grieving parents eternally separated from their departed children… Thousands of thousands, millions of millions, have been cruelly sacrificed for your evil bloodlust… How do you account for these crimes?” Bombardone’s discorporated consciousness struggled to process what was happening. He spat out defiantly, “Who… Who are you? Show yourself, coward!”

Suddenly, Bombardone perceived as the void transformed into a rocky shore at sunset. Another powerful, booming voice accused, this time belonging to a woman, “In the annals of the history of Ridnez, though kingdoms have clashes… Though our followers have filled us with grief by centuries of cyclical bloodshed… There has been no butcher, no tyrant to emerge from these shores…” The male voice continued the sentence, “…or from this soil… No son or daughter of Ridnez who has hated the precepts of justice and mercy…” The female voice interjected, “…To blatantly disregard the time-old laws of gods and nature… To have ruined the country and twisted the hearts of his countrymen…” The male voice concluded, “As you have, Andreas Bombardone.” Two figures, appearing in the garb of a great king and queen of antiquity, materialized before Bombardone, the king standing upon the ground and the lady hovering over the gently lapping waves. Bombardone’s mind recognized the significance of these representations instantly, “Unreal! It can’t be…” The lady of the ocean spoke once more, “What have you to say in your defense, errant son of Ridnez?”

Bombardone was faintly insulted by the insinuation of guilt, “Defense? What do I have to defend myself for? Saving my home which I love from squalor and decay? Restoring the pride of the fatherland’s progeny, so we no longer have to hang our heads in shame? Bringing Ridnez out of poverty and raising us to the status of one of the first great powers in the world?” The spirit of the earth responded with sheer disgust, “One of the first great powers? Is this how you describe this vast, untamed war machine, which indifferently swallows entire generations and produces naught but carnage and dishonor?” Bombardone rebuffed the accusation, “Is that all you see in our New State? Is that all you yet understand? Senseless criminality? Your paltry dismissal offends me… It is good then that I have done away with your impotent and reactionary creeds!” The spirit of the waters replied, “You are a vainglorious man, Andreas Bombardone. You believe that you can usurp the gods and rule as a god yourself!” Bombardone scoffed, “Fah! Not a god… Not even a king… Let us go back to the beginning, shall we? Back to the Era of Chaos…”

A window opened before Bombardone and the two nature spirits, peering back over 20 years… A younger, very much different Andreas Bombardone stood revealed through the portal. “It was a different country… A different time, back then. In some ways, Ridnez had not even been born yet…,” Bombardone reminisced. In the scene of the past, the younger Bombardone stood in the middle of a large circular chamber, delivering a speech before hundreds of delegates. “Ladies and gentlemen of the National Assembly… On behalf of the Il Sole Chamber of Commerce, I have in my hand a report containing distressing reports concerning the solvency of near all local businesses… In just the past two weeks alone, 4,980 sole proprietors in this city have been forced to close up shop for good… In the category of middle-sized businesses, 1,352 firms… in sectors as varied as accounting, real estate, information technology, retail, wholesale… have gone belly-up, as failing banks foreclose on their assets and liquidate them… And even then, the finance industry is just barely staying above the rising tide of insolvency… Literally tens of thousands of small banks and credit unions have catastrophically collapsed from outstanding liabilities… A small circle of large central bankers is intent to swallow the entire country in a death-spiral of debt and bankruptcy. Ladies and gentlemen, I have acquired this speaking opportunity before you to ask, on behalf of those many businesses, and on behalf of the countless more workers and consumers who depend upon them… What do you plan to do about this?”

A member of the Chamber of Delegates, a 40-something woman, folded her fingers in obvious consternation. She spoke through reluctance, “Mr. Bombardone… Please understand that the government is hard at work doing everything it can to resolve this crisis as soon as possible.” Bombardone sneered in contempt at this rehearsed reply. “I did not jump through so much red tape to arrange my appearance here, to go away satisfied with stock phrases. I know how the government has been endeavoring to ‘help’… Which is by intervening to subsidize and restructure the large financial institutions at the bottom of the current crisis… But I came here to ask about where the rest of us enter the picture, Delegate Drakos. Even as we speak, entire city blocks are seized by the big banks and sold piecemeal to foreign corporations and land speculators. Over a hundred years of material history and culture are being wiped out by greedy incompetents… Soon enough, the common Ridnezite citizen will be fleeced by slumlords for the basic right to live in his own country! And his son, and his grandson, will wind up paying off the debts of the irresponsible people who caused this mess!” The Speaker of the Chamber, Benjamin Richter, interrupted, “Mr. Bombardone… We are well-aware that you filed for Chapter 7 Bankruptcy earlier this week... We appreciate that your own fortune was at stake behind your appearance here… To you, and to the Chamber of Commerce which you represent, the Chamber of Delegates can only offer its condolences that you wasted your time here....” Bombardone stood silent for several moments. “I… see,” he finally said. Without another word, Bombardone crumpled the report in his hand and threw it on the floor before leaving the room, his feet dragging with the enormous weight of his disappointment.

The scene faded out, and the Bombardone of the present returned to face the spirits. “So… That is your defense? You overthrow the moral order which was established from time immemorial, because you stood to lose your wealth. How upsettingly petty,” the lady of the sea exclaimed. Bombardone aimed to justify himself in response, “You still fail to grasp the point, don’t you? When the last king lost his head… What did the hero of the nation, Pasquale Amalfi, proclaim to the masses… The wise statement that adorns the preamble of the Constitution? ‘Hereafter, this Republic shall be ordained, to last forevermore a testament to public virtue…’ Public virtue, then, is the heart of the Republic… But where was this virtue in evidence among the servants of the public then? Mired in a tangle of democratic confusion… Confounded by the despotism of private interests… Private interests, all in conflict over the same pool of common resources entrusted to the stewardship of the state… All chasing after scarce goods, so that the few grow fat and the many starve. What else did Amalfi proclaim that day, when the remnants of feudality were cast asunder? ‘The Republic shall rest upon the bedrock of the three principles of natural law: Liberty, Fraternity, Equality…’ But this was always a chimera that the prophets of democracy had conjured up… These three values have and will always be fated to destroy each other… Liberty is the ode to caprice and selfishness abound, each man unto himself a king over his destiny, whether to his ruin or to that of all of society… Equality is the ode to mediocrity, to lack of responsibility and gormless cowardice, so that no one can be faulted for his stupidity or his lack of forethought once everyone else is held to the same pitiful standard… Fraternity is the only of these values worth preserving… It was fraternity that built Ridnez. One-thousand years of learning to be civilized… Trials and tribulations… Famines and wars… It was only the common brotherhood of the people and their resounding faith in the fatherland, that it would sustain them, that allowed them to endure! Generation after generation, fathers and daughters, mothers and sons… Working together, striving together… But always under the leadership, under the ultimate guidance of a great man who is capable of mustering that spirit of public virtue and channeling it into the masses so that all might march in lockstep, with a single will… A single destination! How dare you condemn me for that? How dare you condemn the New State for being nothing more nor less than the consummation of the republican spirit thusly elaborated? All the potentialities of state power matured to their finest point with the final objective of heightening public virtue and bolstering a united discipline!”

The lord of the earth heard Bombardone’s rant, “You speak of public virtue and enlightening the masses, but how can this be so when you patently destroy the masses for demonstrating any capacity for individual moral attainment? You speak of leading the children of Ridnez to a better future, but then how to you account for the enslavement of tens of millions of those entrusted to your care?” Bombardone scoffed again, “I would like you to back up your outlandish claims, figment!” “Gladly!,” replied the earth spirit, while opening another portal, this time to the present state affairs in Centro Nuovo. Hundreds of people clothed and ready for work picked up The People of Ridnez from the newsstand as they bustled into the train station. Several large screens hanging overhead broadcast the WRSMC evening news, “Negotiations in Vocryae between the Hierarch and the leadership of the cartel known as the ‘League of Prosperous Nations’ are reportedly still underway… In other news, the Directorate of State Security is increasing its personnel by several hundred thousand…” Two white-collar workers boarded a Maglev train and sat across from each other. The news broadcast continued inside the train cars, using an experimental holographic technology, “…Chief of Police warns against potential danger from Tertanian-state-sponsored terrorism in the heart of the country and urges all citizens to do their patriotic duty by reporting any and all suspicious individuals.” One of the two men unfurls the paper and points at a photo of a military parade from the previous day, “Fine weather we’ve been having, isn’t it?” His inane water-cooler talk stood to distract from what his finger indicated: the number of cars representing the Cabinet of the Hierarch at the center of the motorcade. Two were down from the expected number. The other man subtlely nodded and replied, “It’s been fair so far. Let’s hope that there are only sunnier days ahead.” Bombardone quizzically demanded answers, “What is the point of this scene? I see that my loyal officials have spared the populace the enormous sorrow of knowing my ignominious end… Should this not please me that I have my people’s love?” The lord of the earth shouted, “Ignorant fool! Those men were celebrating your disappearance… and that of the man called Ludovico Tetra… in the only way made possible by the horrible machine of oppression you’ve constructed! You pay attention to the facile statements of those instruments of your design, your 'official media' organs, seeing only the reflected false glory of your leviathan institutions… You care nothing for the actual sons and daughters of Ridnez, and are less still capable of comprehending the emptiness of the sterile, passionless world you’ve consigned them to inhabit!”

Bombardone reacted with offense, “Preposterous! That mere exchange need not have implied anything!” The lady of the waters interjected, “Oh? Then what about this?,” changing the portal to depict another present-day scene, in a Fulmine Rosso apartment block. “Get out here, Gianni, and face the music,” shouted the leader of a mob through a megaphone, “You and your woman haven’t been joining the rest of us at the bar, we never see you at the cinema to watch the latest SocPol picture, you always find some convenient excuse to avoid picking up the newspaper lately… You don’t even join us in our recreations… And since we caught that those loathsome rat who was scurrying around this apartment block… Now we know why, don’t we, Gianni?” In the apartment, Gianni whispered to his girlfriend Carla, “Hurry out the back exit and I’ll try to hold them up at the front…” As Carla turned to leave, Gianni grabbed her arm. “Wait!,” Gianni urged, “Take this…” He placed a revolver into her hands. “Now go!” Gianni emerged from the front and faced the mob, “I’ll come with you… Just please… Don’t hurt Carla, please spare her…” In his heart, Gianni knew that Carla would be met with no mercy if they caught her; this was a delaying tactic. But then… Sound of a gunshot came from the alley out in back of the building. Gianni’s blood ran cold. Moments later, a muscular gang of brutes emerged from the alleyway, one of them dragging Carla by the hair and having disarmed her. “You thought that you could save your prize slut by sending her out back while you blathered on up here, eh?,” spoke the leader of the mob, “…First she dies, then you!” Gianni screamed out in a howl of despair, tears in eyes, “No!” But it was for naught, the mob brutally beat Carla with fists and clubs until what was left was near-unrecognizable. Fear and sadness drowning his mind, Gianni barely managed to notice a hanging body from a lamppost down the street. “E-Erich…?,” Gianni muttered out, recognizing him as the escaped Heisenian slave that he and Carla had sheltered after the Civil War ended. “Now, it’s your turn,” the leader of the mob said, turning back to Gianni, placing the barrel of the revolver he previously gave to Carla against his head. “K-kill me…,” Gianni begged. And one second later, so he received, his bleeding corpse lying in the street.

“See here how you have turned dignified sons of Ridnez into depraved beasts! Not even your government can claim responsibility for these hideous acts… The mob formed spontaneously… You’ve not just subjugated your people, but reduced them morally to a lower level… You’ve given free reign to the most criminal tendencies in the human spirit, and criminalized the simple want to live rightfully by one’s neighbors… How can you abide this atrocity? How can you call this ’public virtue’?,” speaks the spirit of the ocean. Bombardone folded his arms… or at least the representation of Bombardone’s body within his dying mind did, “But this is public virtue laid bare and manifest for all to behold, figment. The people, arrayed in militant configuration against the enemies of the people. It is simple as that…” The lady of the waters changes the scene to Designated Resettlement Camp Mu-Theta in the Outer Sector, “Enemies of the people? The Book of Maris had always said that those delivered by the waves upon Ridnezite shores ought to be treated with hospitality and understanding… As all of your ancestors were delivered by the waves…” The lord of the earth spoke in turn, “And while the Book of Terrae does not agree with such openness towards outsiders, it states that those whose lines have seeded the soil with their sweat and blood for generations, do become children of the soil with time… But look at this abomination…” The image through the portal flashed through images of Ziconean families huddled in showers as gas fills the room… Ziconeans being forced to put other Ziconeans through crematoriums at gunpoint… Ziconeans, starving to death, being forced to shovel their own people… some, their own relatives… into ungodly mass graves. All accompanied by screams of torment, cries of agony, the filtered sound of millions of broken lives and destroyed souls, all in one cacophony. Bombardone stood unimpressed and merely remarked, “Hmph… Director Del Tuono was always a little… over-enthusiastic…” The earth spirit’s booming voice roused in anger, “How can you have such little appreciation for human life? Even if you refuse to consider those people as your own, it does not excuse such wanton cruelty! Those voices… those souls… have returned to the earth… And they demand your punishment!” Bombardone turned away with cool indifference, “Let us take another jaunt into the past, shall we? It will be necessary… to explain the facts of reality…”

The view through the portal returned to the Era of Chaos, 25 years ago. A younger Andreas Bombardone stood, fists thrust against the desk of his office as President of the Quattro Elementi Chemical Company. The building was barren of almost all other employees; all operations at corporate facilities had been shut down. A man came through the door of the office and introduced himself, “Mr. Bombardone? I’m Adrian Roth with the Ridnez First National Bank, here to serve you this notice of foreclosure…” Bombardone threw himself into his seat, exhausted almost beyond words, “Why is it… That I keep on encountering you people now…?” Roth inquired, pushing upon the bridge of his glasses, “I… beg your pardon?” Bombardone continued to explain, less addressing Roth than venting for his own sake, “My business license was revoked today… The government is so strapped with debt from parasites like you that I can’t even file for bankruptcy proceedings. You’re foreclosing on my assets, not the company’s. The company doesn’t even exist anymore…” Roth placed the notice on the desk and shoved it towards Bombardone, ignoring him, “You have 30 days, sir. I’m sorry.” As he walked out, Bombardone retreated into his mind, “The tax bureau, it’s you people… The banks, you people… The law firms, you people… The media, you people… You wash up on our shores 50, 100 years ago like plastic pollution cast into the Golden Sea from Usea and now you try to strangle us all… People with your last names, your facial features… Who built this country, anyway?” Bombardone stood up, suddenly possessed by a wild fury, and slammed his fists against the table. He then collapsed back into his seat, head in his hands, and cried to himself in silence.

The scene fades out and moves to a few hours later, at a hospital. Bombardone sat out in a waiting room, when a doctor emerged. Looking back and forth from a chart, the doctor summoned, “Er, Mr. Bombardone…? Your mother…” Bombardone solemnly rose from the chair in the waiting room and followed the doctor to his mother’s hospital room. The doctor explained on the way, “We’ve tried everything, Mr. Bombardone. Chemo. Radiation. But it seems hopeless… Your mother… She has only maybe a few more weeks to live at most…” Bombardone pleaded in desperation, “But-but what about surgery?” The doctor looked Bombardone in the eyes, “…Mr. Bombardone, this is glioblastoma… Even if we debulked the tumor, the chances are that it would grow back in a matter of months… And we believe that it’s metastasized more than previously believed… I’m sorry.” Bombardone’s mother Andrea yelled out from the hospital room, “I-I want to see my son! W-where is Andreas?” Bombardone rushed into the room, as the doctor tried to hold him up, “Mr. Bombardone! Wait!” Bombardone kneeled by his mother’s side in the hospital room, “It’s me, mother! I’m here now…!” Andrea looked her son in the eyes as her lower lip quivered slightly, “Y-you… You aren’t my son! Get out! Get out I want to see Andreas!” In a single moment, Bombardone’s concern turned to despair. He rose and left the hospital room without another word. The doctor approached cautiously, “I… I was trying to tell you. Your mother is experiencing long-term retrograde amnesia in her… decline. I’m… sorry.” Bombardone faced the wall for several minutes, stiff as granite, simmering in his own bitterness-turned-to-anger. “Why… why do I keep getting told that… ’I’m sorry’? Does anyone think it makes a difference?” Bombardone thrust his fists against the wall, once more in utter futility.

The portal into the past flashes forward to days after this event, to one of Bombardone’s later memories of the Era of Chaos. “I’ve figured it out, Vincenzo. I’ve figured it out…,” Bombardone muttered to himself. He was sitting with his old friend and fellow businessman Vincenzo Borrelli at a dive bar; their previous casual meeting place, the Il Sole Acme Club, closed its doors earlier that month. Borrelli looked up from his drink, “Excuse me?” Bombardone grumbled, “I’ve figured out something for the first time in my life… It doesn’t matter a damn.” Borrelli struggled to comprehend, “I’m sorry, Andreas, but I don’t follow…” Bombardone stirred his drink desultorily, “Remember when we were young and naïve, Vincenzo. When we said that we would go places, meet interesting people, get married, change the future… It was a fool’s errand, Vincenzo… Neither god nor nature cares anything for any of us… Our lives, Vincenzo. They don’t mean anything… They amount to a half-hearted apology, so that the rest of the world can quit feeling bad about you as soon as possible and move on to forgetting you… Along with the rest of the garbage.” Bombardone looks around the bar and the seedy-looking assortment of customers he found himself sorted among. Borrelli processed this, “Hm, indulging in self-pity, are we?” Bombardone continued, “My house got foreclosed on today… I have virtually nothing left. Nothing… I’ve not even credit-worthy enough to rent out apartment space. Everything I dedicated my life to making now belongs to some Heisenian vulture someplace.”

Borrelli raised an eyebrow, “Heisenian?” Bombardone fired back indignantly, “Oh, come on! You must have noticed it like the rest… Every step of the way in the parade of indignity I’ve been made to bear, there’s been some rat with a Heisenian last name. We let them come here to escape the regime of that Victor Watson person, only for them to come here and pillage us… Protected by our own laws! Secured by the bounty of our own labor and industry! It’s… obscene!… There are even rumors that our “esteemed President” Napolitano had a Heisenian grandmother… Now another foreign freak, that Ziconean Delegate Ophelia Drakos, is in charge.” Borrelli speaks his part, “Hm, well, General Ridnez Petrochemical has been doing… better than most… mostly due to land values. After all, once you have the wells and the pipelines laid down, no one can really compete with you for that space, and if the oil there is higher-quality and can be transported at less cost… But even then, land values overall have been dropping, and so has demand… I’ve been trying to protect our workers from this economic catastrophe by paying for their lodgings and increasing their benefits… But it hasn’t been easy.” Bombardone stopped listening by now, “…I have to get out of here… Get some air…” Borrelli called out, “Do you have anywhere to go? You said you lost your house… Andreas, please, old friend!” Bombardone left the bar and wandered through the streets aimlessly, owning nothing more than the clothes on his back… But for some, that was enough.

Bombardone was grabbed by two young-seeming gangbangers and dragged into the nearest alley without warning. “Hey, you got some nice shoes on you. Nice shirt, nice coat, nice tie… Are you a rich man or what?,” asked one of the muggers, pulling a switchblade in Bombardone’s face. Bombardone looked at his assailants and recognized them as Ziconeans, “No, please… I-I don’t have any money on me… I don’t have anything I can give-“ The other mugger removed Bombardone’s wallet and flipped removed a wad of cash from it, “Hey, look what I got here!” The mugger with the switchblade threatened, “Looks like you were lying to us, rich guy. I hear that rich guys like you have been doing a lot of lying around… Heard that’s why Ridnez is so poor nowadays…” He slashes Bombardone across the face, “Heard that’s why my mom got cheated out of her little floral shop…” The other mugger punches Bombardone in the gut, taking the wind out of him. “…Heard that’s why I’ve got to rummage through the freaking dumpster some nights to feed my little brother… You deserve what’s coming to you…,” continued the first mugger. The second mugger strikes Bombardone over the head, rendering him unconscious. “Quick, take his shoes and jacket and let’s get out of here!,” urges the first mugger. Those words are the last thing that Bombardone picks up as his mind fades into inky blackness.

The nature spirits judge Bombardone as the vision in the portal fades to black with the recollections of the younger Bombardone. The water spirit goes first, “So you believe that because many of those who have wronged you were Heisenian or of some other foreign race, that you have the right to negate the lives of untold people belonging to those races? You are no better than a barbarian! Your pain does not excuse the pain you have inflicted on others! Your despair does not justify the despair you have inflicted on the nation of Ridnez!” The Bombardone of the present retorts, “How little you yet comprehend, so-called spirit of the waves! Maybe petty hate was how it began, but it is not where it ended! Observe!” The vision resumes of the past Bombardone, awakening in a dream world of his own. He perceives a medieval battlefield with death and slaughter all around him. “Hark, faithful subject! You have been blessed with this revelation to awaken you to your destiny!,” speaks a mysterious voice in the dream. The past Bombardone, in his mind’s eye, perceived none other than… “King Amulius of Magnifico! But… But this is impossible!,” thinks the Bombardone of the past in his vision. Amulius replies, “Maybe it is! Maybe it is not! What matters is the circumstance that entraps you and subjects you to the torrents of ruin! Will you let the world disintegrate around you, or will you step up and take control of the world?” Bombardone fails to understand, “W-what? Where…?” He looks around at the illusory battlefield, “This is the field where the King’s loyal armies fought the brigands! Where you…” Amulius completed Bombardone’s thought, “Died? Yes, I died on this field. I was also responsible for much death. I slew my useless brother Numitor to save the kingdom from depredation and decay. I besieged Nimbus Nuvoloso for 77 days so that great Magnifico would reign supreme… Only for accursed Il Sole to steal the privilege… And here, on the field of battle, surrounded by mine enemies, I made the ultimate sacrifice… In the upholding of royal prestige and honor!” Bombardone struggled to remember his history lessons, “You… were surrounded… Not wanting to allow common robber-barons to control your fate… you…” Amulius appeared again before Bombardone, bleeding from the mouth and knife embedded in his neck. Nevertheless, as this was but a hallucinatory vision, Amulius continued to speak nevertheless, “I took my own life… And my last words were-“ Bombardone cut Amulius off as his admittedly clouded mind made a sort of a breakthrough, “They were, ‘Qualis artifex pereo’ – ‘What an artist the world loses in me.’” Amulius continued to speak, now restored to his original “living” appearance in Bombardone’s mind’s eye, “I killed, and in the end, I was killed, surrounded by my enemies… But because of the field laid bare by my sacrifice, the Kingdom of Magnifico saw a golden age… My son, my beautiful son, Consus, led the kingdom into it… Do you understand now?” Bombardone awakened, still bleeding from the head and reeling from concussion, and gave his reply to the long-dead monarch, “I… understand.”

The vision fades out again, returning to the present Bombardone and his supernatural accusers. “I realized then the iron law of history that has guided Ridnez from the birth of her civilization through her darkest hour. I realized the sacrifice that true adherence to the natural law… to the natural religion… would require. I spoke before of scarce resources being divided among squabbling factions of private interest as the hapless ‘little people’ are defrauded by bread and circuses. Such is the fraud of democracy. But now here is the fraud of your degenerate slave morality: There are teeming billions spread across the face of Avaris. Billions! And billions are born each day, and billions more die each day! No one’s life matters, taken by itself, much less their death. Not even mine. What does matter? The things that last are what retain their moral significance then! Generation after generation, 1000 years of learning to be civilized! Mothers and fathers, daughters and sons! The great chain that connects it all, the ties that bind, they are the only essential thing! Avaris has limited resources; the population of the world cannot increase without limit. From this fact emerges an inevitability: The war for life, the war to fight against the dark! Not of worthless, meaningless individuals, but of nations, races, and civilizations. Shall we see a future where culture has been destroyed, poverty is the universal condition, and creative sterility has united humanity in mediocrity—That is, the appointed course of the current mode of history, under the leadership of insipid humanists! Or, shall we see the birth of a new humanity, one that stewards the resources of Avaris in common interest, that abolishes strife and misfortune, that subsidizes the arts and the sciences, reaches new heights in technology, enjoys the comforts of spiritual community and material prosperity?! I say new humanity must replace the old, but a builder cannot make a building with substandard materials or shoddy tools. Ridnez stands as a pinnacle of civilization in all its forms – art, theater, engineering, business, literature, chemical and biological sciences – Ergo, pure-blooded Ridnezite stock shall comprise the building materials for the genesis of the new man! From our towering metropolises to our productive fields, none of it was created by any human power other than that which was originally that of our kind. Ridnezite hands and Ridnezite brains built it all; Heisenians and other inferior races detect signs of decay and exploit them like maggots infesting a wound. I had to stand up and take the first step of orchestrating a mass movement so that the whole people would be educated to these truths and never forget them!” The lord of the earth rebuked Bombardone, “Your madness which passes for philosophy reaches levels of convolution yet unanticipated! What then, of the holy texts, and their immortal commands to venerate all life… The followers of these texts have conquered, murdered, pillaged, abused, and dominated in our names, thusly insulting us… But none have endeavored to overthrow the basic moral order of Ridnez, much less called it ‘the natural religion’!”

Bombardone fired back, his fading consciousness virtually screaming now, “Where were you when the people of Ridnez needed guidance? All you were good for is entertaining superstitious imbeciles with the fiction of your existence. I’ll tell you the real evidence of god in nature: The state! What else has such power to project as to give life to millions, or to strip it all away at once! The state alone is the aegis of development for everything in life… The infrastructure was only planned and built because of the state, the masses are only ordered and kept in line because of the state, the children of Ridnez at educated at the state’s expense, and by this means also are capital and labor kept in harmony in the corporative system. The state alone has power to change the world in full evidence for all to see, miracles to convert the disbelievers, justice for the wicked, and salvation for the downtrodden… And it is only in the New State that the iron law of society is realized, where every man lives, works, and suffers to sustain the whole, which in turn sustains every man under the banner of the nation. Only the New State can grant meaning and purpose to the paltry, insignificant lives of the masses, by binding them in a common faith and directing them in a common will! So the people of Ridnez, in their lives and deaths, may know they contribute to the march throughout the world of a living god, and not a dead one like you!” The lady of the waters charges Bombardone one final time, “Beyond all your platitudes, is there nothing left to say for conscience? Why are you so utterly devoid… of conscience?” Bombardone’s mind continued to assert its beliefs in the face of eternity, “Conscience is a Heisenian invention! The only ‘conscience’ that I, or any of my people need, is total conviction in the New State… Conviction that a better world will be left for our posterity beyond the struggle, if we sacrifice everything… our lives, our deaths, our sentimental attachments to the decomposed remnants of your bankrupt religious morality… to believe in the New State and empower us to conquer nature and destroy our enemies for us! If the New State decrees its necessity, who among those mediocre individuals may dare dissent?!” The earth spirit spoke with finality on Bombardone’s fate, “Enough of this farce! You may offer all the rationalizations in the world, but all you have left in your wake is death and destitution! You shall return to the earth like the rest and be forgotten!” Bombardone shouted as the world of his mind blanked out into white, “Not a chance! Because of my actions, I have surpassed my individuality and achieved that sanctified transcendence that only the New State makes possible! Hear me, figment! I am a great man of history! I am the great man of history! And when I pass beyond that veil from man to myth, I will become indestructible… The kernel of the idea of Zendirism itself… Like the people of Ridnez through our New State, I shall live forever! But what sadness that the people must lose me to make it all possible… Qualis artifex pereo!”

Bombardone’s heart stopped, and the last breath left his lifeless body on the table.

Monto, New England INC Raj

“Yes, this will do nicely… Quite nicely indeed. I’ll take it!”

The impudent young man in the white suit and tie gazed upon the gates to the rather grand estate spread out before him. It would take a 10-minute walk along a brick path through a picturesque, flower-speckled meadow before he could reach the front door. The realtor looked at his client askew, as if skeptical about something, “Are you sure this is within your present means, Mr. Oberto? I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m aware that your government wouldn’t skimp on the budget for its diplomatic missions, but you’ve been buying up large tracts of valuable land for the past two months like it’s no tomorrow! Surely even your expense account can’t run that deep… sir?” Oberto chuckled to himself and grabbed the realtor by the shoulder, “Hahahaha! Expense account! Surely Mr. Richardson, you kid… The present owner can name his price. I’ll meet it, I guarantee you. And don’t forget that the generous commission I’m paying you isn’t for asking questions… Or for being indiscreet about the unconventional nature of my business here.” As these words were spoken, Hugo Hunt hauled a large briefcase from the trunk of Oberto’s sports car, set it down on top of the trunk, and opened it. Stacks of notes in very high denominations of the local currency stood revealed, barely managing to keep packed into the cramped space of the briefcase. One look at it nearly made the realtor’s mouth water with anticipation, “The estate will be yours by the end of the week, Mr. Oberto, sir.” Oberto put his arm around Richardson’s shoulder in a jovial display, “Hahahaha! Now that’s what I like to hear… A can-do attitude! But don’t stress yourself out for tonight… Take your lady out to dinner! Have a few drinks, a few laughs… Enjoy yourself! After all, it’s like I’m practically footing the bill! Ha!” Hunt shoved the briefcase against Richardson’s chest, his stern manner contrasting disconcertingly with Oberto’s almost effusive pretense of affability. Either way, Richardson knew that so long as his firm had Dominic Oberto as a client, he would be the company’s rising star… Not to mention making quite the pretty penny on the side for maintaining his “discretion” about the client’s identity.

Hours later

Oberto kicked his feet up against a polished mahogany desk in another one of his seaside properties, scuffing it in the process. He had been on the phone since the early afternoon, while Hunt sat lazily against a leather couch in the adjacent room, watching the news program Usea Today. Oberto starts in, “Yes, idiot… I need the money transferred over now… Time is of the essence here. Reports have been coming in every day for the past week of the whole damn New Ponpa strip being closed down by the army because of the war… Housing prices did go down because of the war; that’s the point, you absolute dolt… What do you think happens in a few months when the market recovers? Hundreds, maybe thousands, of forcibly displaced people… Many of them scared tourists… Trapped in the country without a roof over their heads… I didn’t go through all the effort of hiring the best team of corporate lawyers in Ridnez just so that stupid accountants like you can worry about the ‘legal implications’… Get it done!” Oberto hangs up angrily and dials another number, “Yes, hello, I would like to make a wire transfer payment on an invoice… Bank account number is 284665219. Recipient is Richardson Real Estate Services… Their routing number is 476531802… Yes, I’m aware that the number I provided is for a corporate account. And yes… I have the authentication codes. Just give me a minute…”

Meanwhile, on the high-def TV screen hung upon the wall in the living room, the news broadcast cut away to an anchorwoman reporting on a rather fascinating subject matter, “…In total, four fighter wings of the Raj Air Force were obliterated earlier this week by volleys from anti-air batteries in the heavily fortified Rex Mountain Range of southwest Ridnez. Nevertheless, the front line has made steady progress in the direction of Centro Nuovo overall, with officials predicting an end to the war before the end of the year. In other news, fluctuating property values due to anxiety among some sectors of the public about the timing and feasibility of the invasion has apparently spurred an increase in activity among land speculators. One such entity accused of such, a real estate developer registered under the name Buonasera Luxury Residences, has begun to face controversy within certain circles due to questionable practices. Footage plays of a random citizen-on-the-street interview, “This company… It just sprung out of nowhere overnight and begins buying up some of the most attractive villas along the whole riviera… This is before the war, understand… And now they’re expanding out from the resort towns into the suburbs. I know people who lost their homes because of Governor Snow’s order. Do I think it’s a coincidence? No, I think whoever owns Buonasera has friends in high places… Was In the know… How else do you explain it? Housing prices crash, company shows up with seemingly unlimited resources, land scarcity is increased… Housing prices will inevitably be driven up, and long before this war is over, at that. And I mean, where are they getting all this money? It’s a scam, I say. The Governor’s office is colluding with corporate bigwigs to scam the public!” Hunt chuckled to himself and hollered to Oberto, “Heh… Get a load of this. These big moves you’ve been makin’ earned you a spot on the 6 o’clock talking heads’ hour.”

Oberto responded by making a dismissive gesture with one hand while talking on the phone in the other room, “Uh… Yes, funds are pending. The transaction can still go through though, right? Yes, good.” The anchorwoman continued, “But perhaps the most mysterious fact about this controversial real estate develop is that the owner and majority shareholder Roderick Fullerton has never been seen in public. Conspiracy theorists allege that birth certificate, passport, and social security number have been forged, but the majority remain convinced that Mr. Fullerton is merely one in a long line of eccentric, but affluent, businessmen to have made waves in the modern history of the Raj. A Buonasera representative had this to say—" The screen switches to video of the representative, a rather typical PR man with rather typical rhetoric, “Allegations that Buonasera is involved in any unethical exploitation of the ongoing conflict with Ridnez are entirely unfounded in objective fact. Our firm was incorporated weeks prior to the open declaration of war by His Majesty King Powers… In any event, the company’s position is that deliberate speculation on housing prices runs contrary to our philosophy of furnishing the highest-quality facilities for our clients in good faith. Nevertheless, Buonasera proudly supports the armed forces in the ongoing conflict and sincerely hopes that the hostile state of Ridnez can be capitulated with minimal loss of life on both sides.” The feed returned to the anchorwoman, “So there you have it, both sides to the story. More in Ridnez-related developments, the Free Ridnez Patriotic Society is holding their annual émigré ball in 2 days. The chairperson of the committee organizing the event, Talia Oberto, was approached for comment on her brother Dominic’s meteoric rise to become the first legitimate head of state of the Republic of Ridnez in over 2 decades. However, Ms. Oberto declined an interview at this time…”

Hunt’s jaw nearly hit the floor as he registered the words that were spoken, “Hey, boss! I mean, Mr. Oberto, sir!” Oberto ignored Hunt, his face contorted in a scowl of clear consternation, “Huh? What do you mean the codes were changed three days ago?! I’m the Mayor-Protector of Magnifico, goddamnit! Who had the authorization to change the codes on all public unit accounts? Who?!” Hunt entered the adjoining room to get Oberto’s attention, “You never told me you had a sister, Mr. Oberto!” Oberto sat still, dumbfounded and silent, for several seconds. “…I’ll call back later about this.” After hanging up, Oberto took his feet off the desk and leaned forward, “…How do you know about Talia, Captain?” Hunt pointed at the TV in the living room, “She was brought up on Usea Today. She’s the head of some Ridnezite group that’s arranging one of those high-society flings.” Oberto’s grimace slowly and eerily turned into a catlike smirk, “Captain, I think it’s time I reconnected with family. After all, family is so very… important. So where was this ‘high-society event’ again?”

2 days later, a semi-urban municipality 40 miles from Monto

A host of different people and personalities mingled in the ballroom that night. Each of them came from different lives and backgrounds, different occupations and religions, different political beliefs and social classes. In spite of Hugo Hunt’s description of the event as a “high-society” affair, in truth, families of all types converged to meet one another at the annual Ridnezite émigré ball, including some of Heisenian extraction and even a couple Ziconean-Ridnezites. They all had one thing in common: The world they knew was shattered and replaced by a regime they risked their very lives to flee. That shared experience, of being alienated from their homes and detached from their former lives and livelihoods, united them in a way that few outside their circle could imagine. And for that reason exactly, the event was usually an invitation-only occasion, key word being “usually.”

The cacophony and clamor pervading the spacious ballroom died down slowly but surely as the host of the event, Talia Oberto herself, tapped on a champagne glass with her spoon in front of a microphone, announcing the night’s main attraction – the bequeathment of the King Consus Philanthropic Award to the year’s biggest donor to the Free Ridnez Patriotic Society. Talia started into her speech, “Friends, you are all here tonight for the same purpose and the same cause: To keep the culture and traditions of the old Ridnez alive until the cancer eating at the heart of our nation can be expunged and the true Ridnez be allowed to arise once again! Many of you have been eagerly following the news concerning the League of Prosperous Nations’ laudable effort to take joint military action against the criminal butchers who defile Ridnez’s national treasures and crush her people under the jackboot of tyranny, and who have been doing so for many years now… Whether you worship the spirit of the earth or the lady of the waves, I think I can speak for us all when I say that our prayers go out to His Majesty, King Maximus Powers, to President Allison Lane of Tertania, and for the countless brave souls who have put their lives on the line for the sake of liberating our countrymen and putting a stop to the persecution of our Heisenian brothers and sisters. With that being said, I have in my hand here a slip prepared by the committee containing the name of the greatest donor to our organization, and to that lucky man or woman, I give a deeply heartfelt thanks for helping to keep out customs alive.”

Talia unfurled the slip and was taken aback in confusion, “This year’s recipient of the award is… erm… Do we have a ‘Roderick Fullerton’ among our party tonight? I can’t recall-“ Hugo Hunt stepped up to the podium as if on cue, looking completely out of place in his trenchcoat and fatigues. “Um, I presume that you are ‘Mr. Fullerton’?” Hunt bowed slightly and spoke with wry amusement in his voice, “No, ma’am, I’m merely a humble messenger, here to receive the trophy and all.” Hunt passed an envelope directly into Talia’s hand, winked, and walked nonchalantly out of the room. After Hunt’s departure, the crowd occupying the room went back to furious chattering, this time in a somewhat more perturbed tone, about the odd disruption of the Society’s annual ceremony. Meanwhile, Talia stepped off the podium and tore open the envelope. “OVER AT THE BAR COUNTER,” the letter read in large black block lettering. Talia turned her head towards the counter, and who else should have met her gaze but Dominic, raising a glass of absinthe in acknowledgement. Talia determinedly pushed past the crowds towards the counter, as Dominic ladled a sugar cube onto a flattened spoon with an open slot in the center and passed it under an absinthe fountain to dissolve it into the drink. “What in the hell are you doing here?,” were the first words to curtly pass through Talia’s lips. Dominic took a sip from the glass and retorted, “You know, I could ask you the same thing! You never write, you never call… I didn’t even know you still lived in the Raj until happenstance brought your little gala to the attention of my rough-edged compatriot from back there.” Talia talked back through gritted teeth, “There’s a reason I don’t talk about you, you know. Mom knew that you were a bad seed even back then. She knew that you’d do anything to please Father, and guess what? You turned out just like him!” Dominic took another sip from the glass, “Now that’s a laugh. Father showered as much money and attention on you as he did me when we were kids. Hell, we both know that he loved you more, if anything!” Talia recoiled at the statement, “Father was a psychopath… A genocidal monster who perverted everything our family name had once stood for. I left with Mom because I saw that and didn’t want to be that. You, on the other hand, worshipped him! You’d have done anything to please him!”

Dominic turned away for a moment, then returned to meet his sister’s accusatory stare, “Talia… Do you remember when I was 14 and you were 12? That day when Father brought Gianfranco Del Tuono to the house over dinner… To ‘entertain’ him?” Talia’s memory went back to that day upon prompting, yet she remained unable to speak. Dominic continued, “Do you remember how Father demanded us both to play that tricky little number on the grand piano… To show off what ‘prodigies’ we were to the Zendies’ most privileged lackey? Remember how they celebrated what a bright young talent you were when you finished? Remember what happened to me when I hit that note off-key?” Dominic and Talia both thought back to the same moment, in the hazy fog of the distant past. Through the mind’s eye, the deceptively handsome features and soft voice of the late Valentino Oberto were are clear as day, “Dominic, you performed well for our esteemed guest, but you only did ‘well’… One day, you too will be charged to serve the great Hierarch, and the Hierarch does not tolerate ‘well’… He demands perfection, Dominic. Perfection!” Brother and sister both remembered as that day their father, without prompting, fiercely smashed the lid of the piano against Dominic’s phalanges, breaking three of them on each hand. Their mother Angelina stood up and screamed in horror, “Valentino, what are you doing?! That’s our son!” In reply, Del Tuono calmly sipped from his cup of tea and addressed her, “Your husband is teaching your son a very important lesson in morality, Mrs. Oberto… Very important. The New State requires an absolute inner discipline of the whole individual. If that discipline falters in just one person, then the state also drags with them. Especially in my service, death is the appropriate penalty for inadequate discipline. Young Dominic needs to learn to stop idling-“ Angelina Oberto growled with tears in her eyes at Del Tuono, “Oh, to blazes with you and your ‘discipline’… I won’t have any child of mind abide by these insane rules! Such a way to live is not for humans, but robots…” Del Tuono sat motionlessly for a moment, long enough for Angelina to comprehend that talking back to the Director of State Security just may have cost her very life. Instead, Del Tuono merely rose from his seat and talked to Valentino as he exited the house, “You had best get your woman under control, Valentino. Disorder in the household is ill-becoming one of the Hierarch’s most trusted agents.”

Dominic and Talia’s thoughts flashed back to the present moment. “Of course I looked for Father’s favor. Because compared to ‘Ms. Perfect’, I simply didn’t stand a chance. Constantly being outshined, then abused and berated… Finally abandoned when Mom left with you and left me behind, in the end. And you know what, Father only took out his sick obsessions even harder on me after you were gone… Do you know why? Because I was the only one left around to inherit the legacy he had built! And for that purpose, I couldn’t be whoever I might have wanted to be. I had to be what he wanted me to be. Do you have any idea how long I had to wait before ‘dearest Daddy’ bought the farm?!” Dominic sighed to himself and took another swig from the glass. Talia found herself unable to say anything to counter her brother’s words. Dominic resumed his speech, “But you know the one valuable thing that Father taught me? He taught me that whoever has the power gets to make the rules… And that this is the all-important, truly vital fact of everything. Right or wrong? Fair or unfair? Makes no difference. You found it easy to abide by the rules that Kingy laid down because Mom gave you everything on a silver platter, so all you ever had to do was pay taxes and hand out worthless awards. Me, on the other hand… I had to live by Father’s rules, then the Zendies’ rules even after Father was killed. I’ve never been able to live my own life… Up until recently. Let Magnifico – damn, let the rest of Ridnez – have their ‘democracy’… Stupid carnival of bread and circuses that it is. All I care about is that, for all intents and purposes, I make the rules and they suit me just fine.” Talia turned away from Dominic and gripped her arms, “…What is it you want here, Dominic? To make me feel useless? Pampered? Privileged? Guilty? Fine, I caught a lucky break and you lived through hell for more than half your life. But I’ve been trying to make a positive impact through my businesses and charities… I’ve heard about your ‘scandals’ as leader of the Restored First Ridnez Republic. The same rebels who helped put you in power now want to overthrow you… Why is that? Might suppression of the press be the reason? Maybe it has to do with those years you continued to profit from the enslavement of innocent people just like Father used do. Did you try to make a difference then? Or did you only rebel because it suited you…? We both know the answer, Dominic. You just admitted it.”

Dominic smirked and shrugged, “Too true, Talia, all too true. Time and geography may have separated us, but I can hardly hope to hide anything from you, sis. It’s about time I’ve been frank about my intentions…” Dominic leaned over Talia’s shoulder and whispered in her ear, “You’re going to help me solve a small problem I’ve been having with my finances lately… Say, how’s the weather in Isonphis this time of year?”

Magnifico, Restored First Ridnez Republic

Alessi Brambilla and Carmine Ravello sat at their respective seats within the conference room at the top floor of the Magnifico Independence Tower. The room looked positively desolated with the absence of Oberto and former members Roberto Giannone and Flavio Zello, the bland chrome interior appearing all the more sterile in contrast. Ravello spoke first, “The government has been locked out of various public accounts we’ve been maintaining through the Second National Bank of Ridnez… The codes have been changed all of a sudden. For all we know, those funds might have already been siphoned by whoever did this!” Brambilla spoke on the matter, “There’s no question it was the Bernardi woman. Months ago, she did something like this to the Zendies’ oil monopoly… Then she took down the electrical grid over the city to facilitate the jailbreak of her terrorist friend, the Ocelot… But things are different now, that woman has… connections… I can’t say what or how, but Andrew Haines, the Director of the Tertanian IAA, has explicitly made her off-limits to us no matter what happens.” Brambilla picks up, “So if we can’t flush out the Ocelotists, then the problem becomes Dominic Oberto himself. If our protection can be guaranteed against reprisals from Oberto’s goon squad, I’m certain… We’ll be willing to publicly admit… Look, Oberto was using… or rather, misusing those public accounts for his own misadventures in the Raj… This cannot stand as it is; the man’s insatiable greed and lust for power will be the death of us all.” Ravello elaborated, “Quite simply, we are planning to stage a coup, hopefully with the cooperation of the LOPN joint-military expedition. We need to be able to show them, and by extension Bernardi and Ocelot, that we can still be trusted to run things… At least, at some level. So that brings you into the picture…” The voice of an unknown individual came in through a speaker mounted on the table, “You have no need to worry, gentlemen. If you’re honest and forthright about this… I’ll be your man. I’m willing to be the next President of Ridnez.”

The Presidential Palace, Centro Nuovo, half past noon

“It’s almost inconceivable… One of the Hierarch’s handpicked directors. I cannot accept the rumors. Hearsay, all of it!”

Alessandro D’Amico sat at a round table, discussing the present situation with his peers over lunch, “The passport… the documents… They must have been planted there by the Heisenians… We know them from experience to be a treacherous yet clever people. It wouldn’t be above them to sow discord amongst us in the country’s most desperate hour.” Interim StateSec Director Vito Bertolini calmly took a sip of his cappuccino before replying, “Well, Director D’Amico… What the local investigation has uncovered – and been willing to divulge to us so far – is far from complete. There’s plenty of blanks left to fill, such as, for instance, the full list of classified documents that Director De Marco had copied… The investigators have, to their credit, promised to respect the confidentiality of our state secrets… If you can believe them.” Renard D’Este piped up, “But nevertheless, Alessandro, old friend, there seems evidence enough to plainly state that Gregorio was involved in some intrigue not to the New State’s benefit.” Bertolini continued, “Exactly, and as any Ridnezite schoolchild can recite at the snap of a teacher’s fingers…” Bertolini snapped demonstratively, “Whatever does not strengthen the state erodes the state. Whoever does not support the state with the whole of their heart and soul… and all of their labors… condemns the virgin flower of Ridnez herself to wither and die. Director De Marco’s labors were rather spent in ferrying sensitive materials to the enemy, so it seems.”

D’Amico grew impatient, “For the sake of the Earth King, listen to yourselves! Andreas Bombardone held Gregorio De Marco in his trust for decades… Whenever the Hierarch needed someone at his side, there De Marco was. And… enemies? Since when did the Utopians become our enemies? Both the Utopians and De Marco were murdered by Heisenian rubbish! The Heisenians are the enemy… Acting through their pawns Powers, Lane, and Oberto… And that blinkered buffoon from Feuraxia, ‘Ooflus’ or whatever. Besides, you don’t see me traffic in innuendos and hearsay about the ‘suggested proclivities’ of the Director of StateSec in absentia… The man whose place in the General Directorate, I need not remind you, you are merely filling in for.” Bertolini clammed up tight and put his cup down on its plate, “I may be a placeholder for Director Tetra, yes… But the day Is fast arriving when he will resume his occupancy of this seat. And given the inestimable value that StateSec has redeemed before the New State in times past… and the sweeping prerogative entrusted to it through the Hierarch’s executive orders… You would do best to show greater respect to Director Tetra. After all, it’s StateSec that has to defend your positions by keeping LOPN contraband off the market… How much tax revenue has your department lost to Ocelotist smugglers, even disregarding the problem created by the Felons of Magnifico?” D’Amico settled down, “Hrm, I see your point… Still though, there were few on Avaris who could lay claim to having been the Hierarch’s closest confidante. We owe him – and the Hierarch – more respect than to do this to his reputation right now.” Bertolini loosened up slightly, “There is more to this than meets the eye… I agree with you though, insofar as RSMC should keep speculations about Director De Marco’s actions out of the paper until more is established. That’s SocPol’s territory though…” Bertolini finished his drink, “Now if you’ll excuse me, Directors, I have another appointment to keep.” After Bertolini left the room, D’Este vented his private opinions, “Forget about Gregorio… It’s that senile fool Bisogno who’s keeping us from doing what’s necessary to win this war. Always finding some sort of excuse to come to the rescue of the Heisenphyte scum of the-”

“I believe that I heard my name come up…?,” spoke the voice of the aged admiral. D’Amico was momentarily startled, “Oh, er, ah, uh… Admiral Bisogno! What a pleasant surprise! Why don’t you come in and… ah, join us!” D’Este cut through the nervous attempt at making pleasantries, “Please, Alessandro, you’re embarrassing yourself… You heard me, Bisogno, and I’m not withdrawing my statement. Those Heisenians are a cancer upon the planet, and we’d be better off the more of them that are… liquidated.” Bisogno confronted D’Este, “And as I told the press then, that decision is plainly imbecilic… Our economy is already incredibly fragile without destroying a valuable source of human capital. If we want to win this war against the League, then every pair of eyes and hands is needed.”

D’Este scoffed, “Eyes that project only malice and hands that wreak only sabotage are not needed by our or any other nation! The Hierarch was correct when he stated that certain tribes and peoples are fundamentally incompatible with civilization and even the elementary set of emotional attributes that we associate with ‘humanity’… As the most senior administrator of industrial policy in this country, I’ve seen the way these creatures live among themselves in the DRCs… It’s filthy, undignified, barbaric… A state that no full-blooded Ridnezite could be degraded to even if thrown into such conditions. We know because we were, before the Zendirist revolution swept Ridnez back into glory… And do you remember what the Heisenphytes lived like then, Bisogno? They were equally vulgar and crude, except that the wealth of our people was spent upon them to waste so extravagantly!” Bisogno could not help put squint in disgust at the vitriol of D’Este’s tirade and gave the same reply, “I told you once… I’m telling you again… The Heisenian labor is needed for the war economy. Interfere with my orders, Director, and I will have you strung up on charges of sabotage! I know that the General Directorate is conspiring to get around the edicts I’ve issued during this period of martial law… If you push it too far, then I swear upon the lords of earth and water, you will all share your ‘Hierarch’s’ fate, all that much sooner! This is your only warning!” Bisogno slammed the door In silence and slammed the door behind him.

Fulmine Rosso, 4 days later, half past midnight

“It’s been over 6 months now since the last time we’ve heard anything from Network Central… Except unlike most of us, I think I have a fairly good idea as to the ‘why’… In the last couple of weeks of the previous year, I was… recruited, I guess is the word… by Giulio Bisogno, the Grand Admiral of the Ridnez Imperial Navy, to sabotage a project that Andreas Bombardone and Ludovico Tetra devised… a secret military program to flood the central plain of the country and snuff out millions of lives in the event of an enemy occupation, just so that those lives would never see the end of the regime… I wouldn’t be surprised if the psycho-in-chief has some sort of premonition about his fate and decided that if he and his ‘New State’ fell that everyone else deserved to go with it… Anyway, Bisogno, one of those days, gave me… a slightly different assignment. I was to ensure that a classified document from Ridnez Government Archives wound up in the hands of the greatest of our number – in her hands. You know who I’m talking about. So, she went off, on a crazy, haphazard journey to a country she had never been before to thwart a terrorist plot and stop a war… She failed, and no one in the Network has any clue what happened to her. But that’s why this is a network and not strictly a paramilitary force per se… There are no drills, no rigid differentiations of rank, no clearly defined chain of command… We’re expected to operate more or less autonomously, just kick up some share of the revenues, unless Central sends out the red alert… Then, only then, do we truly function as an army. But there's been no red alert; there’s been no ’anything’… Not even from the big-shot admiral, who if you read between the lines of The People seems to be pretty effectively muscling his way into power over the party officials, bureaucrats, and corporatists. So you may ask: ’What do you do now that everyone’s abandoned you?’ And I say: ‘Simple, ace. Rob the transit authority.’”

Giovanni Sforza laid a rolled-up blueprint down on a splintery wooden desk in a hot and stuffy room. Loud, pulsating percussive sounds were audible through the walls, revealing the building as the venue of an illegal nightclub, though not loud enough to stop the rusty ceiling fan from creaking with each full revolution of the fan blades. There were 4 others of similar age – Lucio Andreozzi, Serena Gerloni, Abigail Roth, and Konstantin Pappas – in the room with him. The temperature was visibly getting to everybody. “Listen up, goombahs,” Sforza said while unfurling the blueprint, “Displayed here is the layout of the Fulmine Rosso municipal subway system… You can see maintenance access passageways open up into the tunnels at several points around the established routes.” Sforza indicated three specific points with his finger, “However, only these three specific accessways lead to closed-off and condemned utility corridors… from where we can haul our earnings to the Underground. Understand?” Serena replied in the affirmative, “Crystal, Giovanni. Now what about the train schedules? We need to know when the money train is going to stop off at each station for collections and we need to know the sequence of which line it’s going to take as part of that process."

Sforza smirked at the question, "Nice thinking, but I’ve got us covered there too. Do you know what a policeman’s salary is like in this city? Actually, not that bad, but the commissioner of the transit police is a real piece of work, they say.” Lucio finished Sforza’s meandering thought process, “You bribed one of the transit cops to acquire the needed logistical intel.” Sforza got back on track, “Well, geez, I was going to get around to saying it, but yeah, that’s exactly what I did. And here is exactly where we’re going to strike.” Sforza indicated the station’s location along one of the main transit routes, “This station is far enough along the revenue collection cycle for the operation to still be worthwhile, but the security net isn’t so dense that it’s impossible to hit the money train here.” Serena inquired, “And the money train arrives there when exactly?” Sforza throws himself into the chair behind the desk, “Heh-heh. You’re going to like this. Tomorrow, 10 PM.” The other 4 assembled murmured in shock and discontent among themselves. One of the four who hadn’t spoken prior objected, “10 tomorrow?! That’s in less than 24 hours! How do you expect us to prepare?” Sforza got out of the seat and sat on the edge of the desk, “Gentlemen and ladies… When you involve yourself in this business… this very, very dangerous business… You learn, like I have, to improvise… Play the tune by ear. You four were all the interest I could muster in the available time frame… Sorry. If it makes it any better, drinks are on the house.”

Serena pleads, “But Giovanni, why couldn’t we just plan to do this next week? We need to develop a game-plan, not run off into the operation half-cocked. We’re liable to get killed that way!” Sforza’s self-assured façade melts away, “Serena… Fine, I’ll be honest with you. With all of you. You have a right to know. It has to do with that intel I bought… It wasn’t just the train schedules. It’s… Look, there’s something else on that train tomorrow. Something else, other than just money… I don’t know what it is. The transit police grunts are being kept in the dark about it, but there’s a high-priority cargo being transported under cover of the revenue collection cycle… And anything that the Zendies want to keep so hush-hush over, I figure we have a responsibility to find out for ourselves…” Lucio folded his arms, “You think it has to do with-“ Sforza cut his comrade off, “With the Ocelot’s whereabouts? No idea… Honestly, no clue. But someone’s got to relieve their hands of it, whatever it is, and I’m appointing myself… If any of you want to back out, you’re free to do so now. I realize I should have been more truthful when I went asking around the Network for help… I figured there’d be less reluctance to sign up if you didn’t learn… all the details about the ‘what’ and ‘why.’ Sue me.” The four Ocelotist recruits exchange glances for a few moments. “Well… It’s as you said. This is a dangerous business… A very, very dangerous business,” says Serena. “Aw, what the hell, I’m in,” affirms Lucio. “I know I’m going to regret this… But someone’s got to be willing to act,” says Abigail. “I wasn’t too attached to breathing anyway,” Konstantin sarcastically remarks. Sforza was taken aback by the unanimous response, “Well, then… if we’re all agreed, here’s how we’re going to approach this…”

“I knew him before he was the Hierarch… It’s difficult to imagine such a time for many, but not I. Things were… different back then. There was strife, yes. But there was also hope. We all were very naïve, you know. It required… almost incalculable trauma… to be disabused of our illusions.”

A sunny summer day, Il Sole, 1985

A 24-year-old Vincenzo Borrelli sits at a bench in the open air by Amalfi Square, eating a plain sandwich. “Hey, Vincenzo,” bade a familiar voice, “Is there room on that bench for two?” Vincenzo turned his head, “Ah, Andreas. Please sit down, I need the company.” The young Bombardone took the seat beside his friend, “How have things been going as of late? Any idea what you’re going to do now with your life, Mr. MBA…?” Borrelli shook his head in disapproval, “You aim to flatter me by reminding me of the degree, but that’s just the thing… What am I going to do with it? It’s one thing to write a thesis paper detailing a long-term business plan, but… Did you ever hear that to make a million in petroleum that you need to start with 10 million? Andreas, I’m not a wealthy man. And the petroleum industry… Upkeep costs are insane, the politics surrounding it are exasperating, and the field is already dominated by a few major players. And the government… for all the rhetoric Straccali likes to throw, we both know that the established companies will receive whatever political patronage they lobby for… Especially as the nation’s bulk petroleum supply chain stands to be compromised by Ridnez’s fifth useless war with Shah. It’s the risk, Andreas…” Bombardone chuckled, “A-hah! You know that Pasquale Amalfi probably felt the same way when he got started with the great project of his life…” Borrelli groaned, “sigh… Andreas, you need to get your head unstuck from the past. Great people came and did some great things, yes, yes… But that’s over now. Look around at the public square dedicated in Amalfi’s name… Do you think one of the hundreds of pedestrians clamoring through here every day give a damn about him… No, they don’t. What people care about now is paying their bills, watching the news over a TV dinner, and surviving… I just want to fit into that world!”

Bombardone suddenly rose from the bench, energized by a passionate conviction, “And there is the problem with you, Vincenzo. You think that just because the people of this country have been stultified by their learned complacency that the past isn’t real… That the example of history doesn’t matter anymore… And if there’s no past, then by you, there might as well be no future, is that it?” Borrelli edged to get a word in, “Andreas, it’s not just a matter of…” Bombardone continued to speak, “Well, Vincenzo, I don’t know about you, but I know I was meant for more than to worry about bills and gawk at dolled-up television personalities… I submitted my own thesis today for the record… Detailing the organic synthesis of an industrial-grade biosolvent. If this idea passes muster, and I put the patent on it, I’ll have revolutionized the way that the chemical industry handles consumer product formulations and tackles waste management. I’m willing to take the risk. Because if men like Amalfi… or… or Consus… can teach us anything, it’s that a man with the willpower, intelligence, and vision can change the world. That’s the story of our civilization, Vincenzo… Not to give up on meaning, punch In all the right keys, you know… and die. As Amalfi said, the Republic is a testament to public virtue. Do you know what that means?” Borrelli sunk into the bench, speechless. Bombardone picked up where he left off, “I’ll tell you. It means: Any of us, all of us, have the capacity within ourselves to stand up and make a difference. Ridnez herself only exists because our forefathers gleaned this fact, collectively stood up, and declared before history that we matter!”

Borrelli began to clap very slowly, “Andreas, my man… You should go into politics, not industry. That was the most rousing speech I’ve had forced on me in quite some time. At least now I know what an obsessive hobby of reading old philosophical treatises does to a young and impressionable mind…” Bombardone sat back down, somewhat self-conscious of the scene he might have made, “But… You can’t tell me I’m wrong, can you? Unless you gather up the courage to try, you’ll never know where your destiny lies in this life.” Borrelli sarcastically replied, “…Unless you get religion. In that case, pay 5 florins to the temple diviner and they’ll tell you that your ‘destiny’ is to whatever you want.” Bombardone grew frustrated by his friend’s attitude, “Vincenzo, get serious!” Borrelli continued, “But no, no, I get where you’re coming from. Really, I do. The Entrepreneurial Credit Administration might give me a million to start with if I make a good pitch… And if not, I suppose I could liquidate some personal assets… Look up venture capital firms… Then invest in non-operating interests in producing properties to get my first taste of-“ The large TV monitor hanging over the main building abutting the square switched its feed to that of an emergency news broadcast, as a hastily retrieved anchorwoman began to read her lines in front of the studio camera: “This… Oh, god… ok. This is Melissa Belladonna speaking for SRB News… With a special update on the unfolding situation in the Ridnez-Shah War. Reports coming in… that a ballistic missile carrying what is believed to be a 20-kiloton nuclear device exploded less than an hour ago in the northern frontier zone of Ridnez, claiming… 60,000 lives in a matter of seconds. Excuse me, but I have to… regain my composure.” Bombardone, Borrelli, and just about everyone else on the street stood slack-jawed and horrified, as the anchorwoman clambered off-screen and the words “Technical Difficulties – Please Stand By” flashed up in her place.

The present, General Ridnez Petrochemical HQ, Centro Nuovo, 3:20 AM

The older, even more cynical Borrelli sat behind his office desk and transcribed his thoughts into his journal, “That day… We had gotten an inkling then, but it was well and truly the beginning of the end… For the old Ridnez, at the very least… The First Republic, as it’s called. I followed through with my plan and was reasonably successful in the short term. Then came the Era of Chaos… the 90s… everyone suffered hardship then. I admit, some more than others. I admit further, most more than me. I was the lucky one, because I didn’t finance the company through credit… Well, I took out a loan, but it was a government loan back in the days when at least some of the government was run by actual Ridnezites. I had come to reluctantly admit it… Andreas was right… He was right about everything. He was right about the limitless potential that our people still possess deep within… which simply needed the example of one great man to… unlock… He was right that Ridnez owed her greatness upon the historical stage to the solidarity of her children… and to none other than her jealously guarded children… And even though neither of us knew it back then when that brief, awful exchange decimated what we now call the Outer Sector… Andreas was right about the Heisenians too. Those loathsome, conniving Heisenian finance-capitalists. They infiltrated our financial institutions and political offices… safeguarded themselves against risk at the expense of the people… And when they bled the system so dry that it caved in under its own weight, who was left to pick up the pieces? Not Napolitano, who said he would save the nation, but instead colluded with his cronies… many Heisenian, no doubt… to accelerate the systematic impoverishment of the Ridnezite people. And not that Ziconean wench Drakos, who committed in the last place to rectifying the crisis by doing… absolutely nothing at all. It is for the best that they are both dead now. But where does that leave myself? I am forced to admit in my reflections upon my life… That my timidity, my narrow view of the possible and the probable, my aversion to risk… throughout my life… has condemned me to live in Andreas’s shadow. I… am not worthy to be the Hierarch. Really, no one is. But the New State is upon the precipice once again. Either the semi-civilized gangsters of Usea will flood our country with their own garbage, or we will be led by a senile, impotent admiral down a path into a stagnant, fruitless future. It will have to be me who picks up Andreas’s slack, whether I’m ‘worthy’ to do so or otherwise… The first step will be to repossess the materials that De Marco had with them at the site of his untimely demise… And meanwhile, to comb the archives in case anything went… missing. There’s a reason that Tetra was captured in Tertania, in spite of his operation going off mostly as planned… Someone tried to interfere… It’s so obvious, just connect the dots. But there’s one piece missing from the puzzle. One piece that needs to be identified… and soon!”

Conti University Station, Fulmine Rosso, 9:45 PM

Giovanni Sforza stood against a wall adjacent to the subway platform, obscuring his identity by wearing a pair of shades and pretending to read the late edition of The People of Ridnez, “Six armed policemen, tops… Two guarding each end of the terminal… 2 standing guard over the reception area for the money train. But all spaced far enough apart that amid the civilians coming and going, we should be able to do this… How about the rest of you? Are you in position yet?” Lucio picked the message up on his concealed earpiece and replied, “Affirmative, O1. I guess the transit police figure that this stop is less likely to be hit due to its proximity to a town-and-gown area of the city. O3 and I are ready to move when you are.” Serena jumped into the conversation, “Jeez, what is it about this ‘O1, O2’ stuff… No one’s listening in on this communication. We might as well use our real names.” Sforza interrupted, “No, we don’t know that. And this must be treated as a tactical operation. All of your missions on behalf of the Network must be… I know you’re new, O4, but let’s get with the program, huh?” Abigail jumped in, “Enough of this useless bickering… O2 and I are in position, as he said. We’re squandering valuable time. Do we initiate now or not?” A moment of silence passed as the revenue collection cart wheeled onto the train. Finally, Sforza gave a response, “…Yes, initiate. All of you, initiate.”

A maintenance worker whistled to himself while monitoring a boiler room 50 feet from the subway platform, located off an accessway from the opening of the tunnel. Without warning, Abigail entered the room from a service ladder overhead, dressed in utilitarian clothing essentially matching that of the worker and carrying a small toolbox. “Evening…,” said Abigail as she removed a clipboard from her back pocket and started to scribble something down. The worker squinted at Abigail, “…I’m sorry, but… Who are you? And why are you here? This is my scheduled shift.” Abigail looked up from the clipboard, as if mildly surprised by the reaction, “Hm? Didn’t they tell you? Routine inspections are being done today.” The worker scratched his head in confusion, “…Routine inspections? But… I looked at the calendar they posted the other day! I could’ve sworn…” Abigail continued to ignore the worker’s protests, “Hmm… You’ve draped tarps from the ceiling…” The worker followed Abigail around the boiler room, “…Yeah, some parts of these facilities drip water from the ceiling… With all the money spent on public works, you’d think… Uh, nevermind, I didn’t say anything…” Abigail looked at the ground beneath her feet, “And it seems that you’ve placed wooden planks over the floor for some reason…” The worker tried to justify himself, “Er… Well, seeing as there’s some very sensitive electrical equipment in this room… I don’t want to run the risk of electrocution over somethin’ stupid, y’know?” Abigail scribbled something more down on the clipboard, “Mm-hm… These facilities aren’t up to code standards at all… I want you to call this submit this checklist to your supervisor as soon as possible, and we expect for all the suggestions to be implemented by next inspection.” Abigail handed the clipboard to the flabbergasted worker. “Huh? But-but that’s not how this is supposed to-?,” the worker stammers as he looks down at the clipboard and sees a somewhat offensive caricature of himself on the attached paper, captioned by a single message – “Psych!” The worker turned his attention back to Abigail; the last thing he saw was a roundhouse kick driving his head into the side of the boiler, before everything went black. Abigail put the toolbox on the ground and opened it up, revealing it to contain a small plastic explosive. Abigail attached the explosive to the boiler and set its timer for 10 minutes. “Now to get out of here before the fireworks…,” Abigail thought to herself. But by happenstance of fate, Abigail hesitated to leave after hearing the moaning of the still mostly unconscious maintenance worker, “Ugh… By Jove, I know I’m going to regret this.”

9:50 PM

“Phase Alpha is complete! The next part is up to you, O2 and O4!,” Abigail informed her partners. “We’re 2 minutes behind schedule here, people! Pick up the pace!,” said Sforza, checking his watch. “…’Phase Alpha’… I still think this naming scheme is a little too pretentious. Why does Abi-… Er, why does O3, have to use the tunnel as an exit route when she can be spotted from the platform? Can’t she just go up the way she came?,” complained Serena. Sforza explained, “Negative, O4. Once this begins, the surface will be swarmed with police. The tunnels are a surer route to the Underground… and therefore safety.” As Sforza speaks through their earpieces, Serena and Lucio entered the subway station, dressed like a married couple from the Southern Ridnezite countryside on vacation. After descending to the subway platform, Serena began to loudly act in the part of her role, “I told you, Leo… You’re not reading that map correctly, let me have at it!” Lucio replied appropriately, “I know what I’m doing, woman! Let me guide the way!” Serena and Abigail gravitated towards one end of the subway platform, the end adjacent to the tunnel opening leading to the boiler room. “Excuse me, camerata, but do you think you can settle this little dispute me and my wife are having?,” the disguised Lucio asks of the policemen on guard duty. The policeman responds gruffly, “Hm? Citizen, we are assigned to this terminal to perform guard duty, not to assist tourists…” Lucio lays on the bumpkin act even thicker, “Ah, but, come on, mio compagno! We already tried the friend at the ticket booth, and we’re still mixed up!” The policeman started to grow irate, “Citizen… I said…!” Not letting his partner speak, the other officer nudged him in the elbow and tried handling matters more delicately, “Did you try looking at the transit map?” Serena objected, once more in the guise of her character, “This is the transit map! But Leo thinks that the Primavera Way Line will get us to the Museum of the Zendirist Revolution faster than the 64th Street Line…”

As Serena and Lucio continue to distract and irritate the policemen, Sforza catches glimpse of the shadow-obscured form of Abigail darting away into the tunnel… with the body of the maintenance worker slung over her shoulder. The sight throws Sforza into a mild panic, “O3… Who is that you’re carrying?! Explain yourself, pronto!” Abigail virtually groans to acknowledge her actions, “Argh! Can we discuss this later? Like when we’re not on a timetable?” Sforza remained unfazed, “You’re jeopardizing the whole operation by deviating from the plan! All that extra weight is slowing you down! If one of those policemen guarding the tunnel so much as catch glimpse of you…!” Abigail defends herself, “Come on! I joined up to fight for what’s right, not to be responsible for needless civilian casualties!” Sforza growled in frustration, “Every war is conducted on the premise of accepting some degree of civilian casualties, O3! Certain sacrifices have to be made! Or have you forgotten that?!” Abigail, now nearly out of view entirely, fires back, “You know what, f*ck you, Giovanni! For all I know, this guy has a family to get back to! A life of his own to lead, one that’s being crushed underneath the weight of this d*mned regime! I respect that more than the ‘mission objective’ you’re so fixated on… if you want your ‘acceptable sacrifice,’ then sacrifice the train!” Sforza remained silent for several seconds, as if considering the merits of Abigail’s position, “…We’ll discuss this later. Phase Gamma is about to begin.” Abigail snarked back, “Hey, that’s what I said!” Sforza addressed the final member of their impromptu conspiracy, “O5, get ready to play your part…” Elsewhere, Konstantin sat behind the wheel of an ambulance, with bound-and-gagged paramedics shoved into the back, “Roger that, O1. Knock ‘em dead with your performance.”

9:57 PM

“Phase Gamma is go!,” hollers Sforza through his comrades’ earpieces. The next phase of the group’s carefully choreographed plan is put into action. Lucio turns the transit map 90 degrees and squints at it, feigning confusion, “Hey… Wait a minute…” Serena acts her part, “You see, Leo, you were reading it sideways, like I said!” Lucio muttered under his breath, “Oh yeah… I guess I did.” Serena grabbed the map and smacked Lucio on the head with it, “You bonehead!” The less tolerant of the two policemen stared at this spectacle completely unimpressed, “Citizens.. I am afraid to inform you that you have kept my comrade and I from our duties for over 5 straight minutes… If you insist on wasting any more of our time, I will have to place you under arrest…” Serena and Lucio gave a vacant stare for a couple of seconds, then promptly turned away. “Well, you all have a good night now, capisce?,” teased Lucio in his “Leo” guise. Serena smacked Lucio again over the head with the rolled-up map, this time with some sincerity. “Don’t antagonize them, O2… Or we might blow the lid off this whole thing,” whispers Serena into Lucio’s ear. “Heh, thought I overplayed my part?,” Lucio replied with a slight giggle in his voice. “Whatever… now here comes the genre shift from ‘comedy’ to ‘drama,’ it seems…,” stated Serena. Sforza kicked off the wall he was inconspicuously leaned against before and threw his newspaper in the trash, shoving his right hand afterwards into his coat pocket, “T minus 90 seconds till initiation of Phase Delta,” Sforza said, “O2, O4, try to time this so it seems you’re just the closest civilians available upon Phase Gamma transition to Phase Delta. “What is it that movie critics used to call this role in the First Republic days…? Scream queens?,” asked Serena. “Just your soul into the performance, O4… And considering this leg of the operations bears the greatest risk, that shouldn’t be such a tall order… Ready your earplugs, everyone.”

10:00 PM

While collections begin for the money train by the terminal, a cacophonous blast of sounds resonates throughout the tunnel, deafening and disorienting everyone on the subway platform, policeman and civilian alike… Except for the Ocelotist conspirators. It takes a few moments before most can process what happened. Before long, the cloud of dust and debris emanating from one of the tunnel openings clues most in on the cause of the burst of noise, if it couldn’t be deduced already… And the wall of collapsed tunnel wall cutting off entry to the station confirms it. Policemen instinctively analyze the scene in case the evident terrorist could be spotted attempting to run; what they detect instead is something very different. “Attention, everyone!,” Sforza yells at the top of his lungs, while his words are still barely audible to everyone affected by the blast, “That first explosion was just to prove to the authorities here that I am serious about my demands and about my actions! Somewhere else in this station is another, even more powerful explosive device, ready to detonate the ceiling and bring it crashing down upon all our heads. In my hand is a dead man’s switch… That means if I remove my thumb from the button, the explosive goes off.” By now the guns of all 6 policemen on scene were trained directly on Sforza, carried and wielded by very desperate, and therefore very dangerous, men. Meanwhile, through the apparent terrorist’s mind, only one thought predominated, “In the Tide Queen’s name, I hope this stupid bluff doesn’t get me killed.”

One of the more courageous policemen slowly approached Sforza and shouted, “Who are you? What do you want? Surely, you realize that this foolish course of action only guarantees your death, no one else’s!” Sforza does his best to maintain his cool under pressure and act confident, “You don’t seem so sure about that, do you? Zendirist pig! Shoot me now, and you die with me! You all die!” The policemen backed off a little bit and kept their distance, and the evident leader among them asked for rationale, “…What are your demands? Why are you doing this?” Sforza struggled to keep himself from getting dizzy, now that the operation relied solely on him, “F-first demand: Throw your guns away… Off the subway platform… Onto the tracks! If I get caught, I’m dead anyway, like you said… So I have nothing to lose!” Reluctantly, the transit cops obeyed the demand. Sforza pushed his bargaining power a notch further, “Now all of you… The cops, I mean… Line up and face the wall.” Once more, the demand was obeyed. Sforza yelled at the policemen, “I know what you’re doing, you pigs! Going about my demands as slowly as possible to buy time for a tactical police unit to arrive… But it won’t work! I need a hostage. You there!” Sforza approached and grabbed Serena, who shrieked as loudly as possible in mimicked terror… though in genuine fear for her life, and for all of her friends’ lives if the bluff failed at a crucial moment. Lucio played his part, pretending to confront Sforza, “Hey, scumbag… No one lays hands on my-!” All of a sudden, a red liquid spurted from the front of Lucio’s chest, and he doubled over on the ground as onlookers witnessed the scene in horror from several feet away… and also crucially, from the back. Sforza then backed onto the money train unopposed, with Serena in tow, “And remember, if I let go of this button… You are all dead! So don’t move!” Finally, the money train left the station through the opposite tunnel entrance from the explosion, leaving hundreds of people in the throes of fear.

10:05 PM

Police had changes priorities, from placating the ostensible terrorist to coordinating the evacuation of the subway station in an organized manner. “All right, everyone firstly stay calm and then form three lines… single-file… Two of you walk… not run, walk… up the escalators, which have been deactivated for your safety. The middle line walks up the stairs,” commanded one of the transit cops on scene, “Come on, citizens, let’s demonstrate some of that sublime order which we are so proud of in our New State!” The last element of the Ocelotist plan came into play. “Make way, make way, I’m a paramedic, make way!,” Konstantin shouted over the panicking crowd, doing his best to conceal his subtle Ziconean accent. A policeman stopped Konstantin and questioned him, “Hey, wait a second, where are you going?” Konstantin produced a badge and pointed at the man who had evidently been shot, who was protected from being trampled by the crowd by two of the policemen, “This man is injured, I’m here to bring him to the hospital.” The transit cop waved Konstantin through, not having the luxury to scrutinize his claims, much less seriously examine the body of the supposedly injured man, “Very well then… But you should know that there’s a dedicated stairwell for emergency services personnel that leads back up to the street.” The transit cop pointed to the door of the stairwell. Konstantin then laid down and unfolded a portable stretcher and carried Lucio’s body onto it, hurrying it up the stairwell and to his commandeered ambulance. “Ow!,” said Lucio once safely inside the back of the ambulance, “You know, that really hurt!” Lucio removed his shirt to reveal a layer of red dye packets, and underneath that, a Kevlar vest. Konstantin commented while driving with sirens blaring, “So you’ve never been shot before at point blank range with a Kevlar vest? And Giovanni says that Serena is the amateur…”

“So what now? We’re in control of the train… We just take it up to the accessway that leads to the Underground and we’re home free?,” queries Serena. “Theoretically, yes, that’s exactly how we’re going about it. In practice, however…,” Sforza explains, “…this train can be braked remotely once the Zendy goon squad realize there isn’t going to be an explosion above their heads… In which case, they’ll call this whole thing back up to Mario Revello.” Serena navigated past the bags containing paper money to a steel-rimmed plastic case emblazoned with the following phrase – ARS GOETIA – Project: Nyx Effector Cartridge. “Um, Giovanni?,” called Serena to the front of the train, “You remember talking about that ‘special cargo’ the Zendies were so interested in…?” Sforza half-turned from conducting the train, “Yeah…?” Serena timidly stated the obvious, “…I think I just found it.” Elsewhere, in a dirty, cramped, poorly lit office, a cigar-chomping man in a mussed dress shirt answered his cellphone, “Yeah, Revello here, what is it? Have the guys in the powerful places realized yet that I’m different enough from my stupid brother to be trusted with more than collecting use fees for the d*mn subway? Wait, wait… What?! What?! Tell someone to activate the remote braking system, you moron! I keep a rigorous schedule with that d*mn train, and you meatheads let this happen to it?!” Suddenly, the train began to stall and screech from the friction of the hydraulic brakes, throwing Serena against the ground and Sforza against the front of the train. Sforza grunted from being hurled against the machinery used to operate the train, “Gah! D*mn it! Almost right on cue!” Serena unsteadily clambered to her feet, “W-what do we do now, Giovanni?!” Without another word, Sforza bled the hydraulic fluid of the brakes from inside the conductor’s compartment. Revello paced restlessly back and forth, waiting for an update on the situation. Then after a few minutes came another phone call. “Yes, what is our status now? The train’s still moving?! The train’s still-! Look, you clown, this revenue cycle has never been off-schedule once under my management… E-except for the Civil War, yes, yes, but that was different! Look, you pest, if you can’t do anything on your end… what are you jokers getting paid for?!” Revello hung up angrily and considered his options for a minute or two, “Ah, f*ck it! I’ll hedge my bets…”

Elsewhere in the same city, General Ridnez Petrochemical HQ

A call comes in over the phone system wired into the executive desk of Vincenzo Borrelli. “Yes, who is this?,” inquires Borrelli. “Dirigente, this is Mario Revello speaking… Chief Executive of the Transit Authority…” Borrelli picks up on the man’s nervous tone immediately, “I know who you are. After all, you and I had something of an arrangement, if I recall correctly… Don’t tell me that something has gone… amiss?” Revello stumbled over his words, “I just felt obligated to inform you… Seeing as how it is your interest in this and all… And how you and the dearly departed Hierarch were so close to each other…” Borrelli cuts to the chase, “Er, what are you babbling about? Out with it, man!” Revello pretended to cough several times, “Well, dirigente… cough cough… Yes, something’s gone amiss.” Borrelli closed his eyes momentarily in muted ire, “…Is the cargo unrecoverable at this point?” Revello tugged at his collar, “Erm… Well, we can mobilize militarized police to surround the next train on the line, but knowing what we do about the standard operating procedure of the usual suspects… in these types of crimes.” Borrelli grumbled to himself, “Ocelotists… Like rats, they scurry into the darkness and burrow into the ground, waiting until their target is ripe for surprise ambush… General Ridnez Petrochemical… and the New State… have suffered enormous setbacks because of the cumulative effect of their activities.” Revello cuts to the chase, “To be honest with you, dirigente… Because I am an honest man… Short of switching the tracks at an upcoming junction to set it on a crash-course with another train, there’s little we can do at this point.” Borrelli fell silent for a moment, leaving Revello hanging on the other end of the line. And for one moment – a seemingly unending moment in the subjective passage of time – Borrelli was coaxed, In the darkest recesses of his consciousness, by the voice of a friend… by the voice of a devil: “Do it, Vincenzo… Do it. What are the lives of a hundred or more Ridnezites before the future of the New State? The New State hangs in the liminal space between death and eternity, Vincenzo… It endures in order so that the deaths of those who comprise it can amount to something… That cargo contains a power beyond anything yet known on our world. It alone can win the war, Vincenzo! It alone can put that weak fossil, the admiral, in his place! With it, the future of the Ridnezite people will be secured for 1000 years, Vincenzo! Do it, Vincenzo! It’s destiny… Seize your destiny! Finish what I had left unfinished! Do it, Vincenzo! Do it! Do it! Do it!”

“Dirigente? I’m not picking up anything on your end… Look, I know you’re upset… Does this mean that I don’t get that promotion we talked about… when you become the new Chief of State?,” Revello mewled pathetically over the phone. “Do it…,” commanded Borrelli. “Uh… come again?,” inquired Revello. “I said, ‘Do it!’ Switch the tracks! Do it now!” Revello protested, “B-but dirigente… T-that would cause it to collide with a passenger train… I wasn’t being serious!” Borrelli forced the next words through gritted teeth, “You… are… going to be serious about it… now. Do it now! Now, now! Or by heaven, you won’t only have to forget about the promotion. You won’t be able to get a job cleaning latrines with your tongue, you spineless worm! Stop them from escaping with the cargo!” Revello was left completely mortified by the exchange. After he hung up, Revello found that what horrified him more than Borrelli’s suggestion… was his willingness to go along with it. “He’s going to be the new Chief of State soon… There is no room for argument. Our New State doesn’t afford us the luxury of that… does it?,” Revello commented solemnly to himself. Then he dialed up the number of his subordinates in the switching control station, “Switch the tracks… You heard me, switch the tracks, Lord of the Earth d*mn you!”

A few minutes later

“Giovanni, what… why is there a light coming from the end of the tunnel?!,” asked Serena. “…oh no… They wouldn’t… They couldn’t!,” came the inevitable reply. But Giovanni Sforza’s eyes could not deceive him, “…they did! Serena, quick! Grab the cargo now! We’re going to have to bail…!” Serena fretted at the development, “But-but what about the people in that… Isn’t… Isn’t there anything that can be done?!” Giovanni rushed to the back of the money train and opened the hatch, “…No.” Serena objected more fiercely, “But Giovanni, we can’t just-!” Sforza interrupted the panicked thought, “What can either of us do to stop the collision?! We bled the brakes! The train can’t stop! We’ll be lucky if we survive the jump… grab the cargo and let’s go!” And with that, Serena gave one last look to the approaching light growing larger in her field of vision, grabbed the case, and took a leap of faith.

Hours later

Mario Revello stood at the scene of the disastrous collision, alongside other transit police, “The Ocelotist terrorist must have staged this massacre deliberately… to weaken war morale. At least… that’s the statement that RSMC is going to be publishing about this… fiasco. Cacciatore, are you sure that nothing else other than the money was found in the wreckage.” Inspector Cacciatore rose from a crouching position sitting near a heap of warped metal and broken bodies, as crime scene investigators took pictures of all the carnage, “…No. Why, were you expecting to find anything?” Revello blew a ring of thick smoke from his cigar, “No, not particularly… Just hoping that the bastards who did this got caught up in it by some accident of chance… That we could be so lucky.” Later, another phone call was received in Borrelli’s office. “Anything… Anything at all?,” asked a dejected Borrelli, seemingly already knowing the answer. “Just one thing… From a cross-reference of camera footage with police databases, a name,” replied Revello. Borrelli was struck with a mild curiosity, “A… name?” Revello responded, “Yeah, the perp’s name is Giovanni Sforza… Known Ocelotist, smuggler, gang-banger. But in the process, I came across something of… some potential interest to you.” Borrelli leaned back into his chair, “Oh? And pray tell, what would that be?” Revello chuckled to himself, “Heh-heh-heh. Guess what else they figure this kid was in? The Government Archives robbery… Yeah, you know the one… From last December.” Borrelli steepled his fingers and contemplated, “…The Government Archives… And then we lost Tetra in the Tertanian business… Revello, you have no clue how much you’ve just given me!” Revello wondered out loud, “Yeah, it’s a lead to recovering your stolen cargo, dirigente! Isn’t that good? Doesn’t that mean you’ll promote me out of this sh*thole once you’re…?”

Borrelli hung up on the sycophant mid-sentence, “It means… that I’ve found the last piece of the puzzle.”

Isonphis International Airport, Tertania

12 noon

A private jet lands on the runway of the airstrip. Minutes later, half a dozen armed bodyguards disembark and cross the boarding bridge over to the V.I.P. terminal of the airport. One of the bodyguards, your stereotypical secret service-type agent, adjusts his earpiece, “All’s clear on this end, Mr. Oberto.” Dominic Oberto’s voice comes through seconds later, “Understood, Stavros, I’ll be out to receive my adoring public in a minute.” The bodyguards form a semicircle formation around the opening of the gate as Oberto saunters across the boarding bridge from the jet, “Ah… Isonphis… Like a home away from home, so near and dear to my heart. Methinks that this visit will be for both business and pleasure.” Oberto’s detail drew the attention of the airport security posted at strategic checkpoints throughout the gate, though Oberto’s ostentatious dress sense is what truly transfixed onlookers’ gaze – an expertly tailored white three-piece suit, diamond tie pin, LOPN lapel pin, aviator sunglasses, and alligator loafers. “No need to gawk, my good people. International heads of state are a dime a dozen in this world…,” Oberto addressed the curious eyes in the terminal, “But the champagne I had on my way here… That is the kind of stuff you don’t take for granted, you know?”

“I know it makes no difference now, President Oberto, but I feel obliged to state again for the record that there was no need for you to bring your own security for this official visit. You would have been perfectly safe in the hands of the ONS, I guarantee you,” insisted Jaedan Maxwell. “Maybe so, but in view of the rash of terror incidents across Tertania over the past year or so, I determined that having a personal bodyguard on my private payroll would be a wise decision,” Oberto justified. “It may be taken as an insult to the nation by certain sections of the public, I hope you understand. It deviates from protocol,” Maxwell continued. “There are bigger fish to fry than keeping protocol in these troubled times, Secretary Maxwell. There are fights to be fought and wars to be won…,” Oberto said as he straightened his tie, “But of more imminent importance, speeches to be made, luncheons to be attended, and crowds to be waved to.” Though his expression did not change, Maxwell internally felt like rolling his eyes at his guest’s bravado. “We’re extending the courtesy of an official working visit to this guy? Heads will roll on the floor of the National Assembly next week,” the overworked Secretary of Defense thought to himself.

Elsewhere in the airport, later that day

A Utopian passport gets stamped. A hoarse voice cries out over the bustling sounds of fliers coming and going, “Next!” A long queue moves up one step. In the middle of this line, a familiar, heavily built man in a trenchcoat idly whistles folk songs to himself to pass the time. At his side, a brunette-haired woman, dressed in business casual, buries her head in a magazine, trying her best not to be noticed. Without warning, a spitball smacks him square in the face, “Hey, what the-?” Eyes dart around the aisle to identify the culprit. After a few seconds, the face of a chortling grade-schooler is spotted in the company of his parents several spaces ahead in the line. Shooting the amused child a frustrated look back in turn, Hunt then sighed and groaned to himself, “The shootin’, I can handle. The intrigue, I thrive within. But this tedium… This awful, awful tedium… I don’t get paid enough for that.” Talia Oberto wryly commented, “Oh, please, Mr. Hunt. I’ve been dragged along with you into my brother’s misadventures, and I’m not getting paid anything at all… In fact, I’m the one underwriting all this. So for the love of the Tide Queen, I can’t stand to hear any of your petty complaints.”

Hunt chuckled, “Heh, you have a point. So tell me, what exactly is up between you and Mr. Oberto anyway?” Talia replied, “What’s up between-? We’re siblings, you moron.” Hunt moved forward in line another couple of steps, “No, I mean… There’s obviously some bad blood between you two, and I… I guess I just want to-“ Talia cut him off, “Mr. Hunt, there are certain affairs that are too personal to be pried into. You’re fast approaching the borderline here.” Hunt laughed to himself a second time, “Hah-heh. You know, you’ve got an attitude on you, seein’ as how I’m supposedly under orders to keep you in line.” Talia moved forward a couple steps with the line, “Oh please, if Dominic were actually going to do anything to me, he would have done it already. I’m here under my own will, not due to coercion or your impotent threats…” Hunt appeared confused, “Huh? But if you hate my employer so much, why would you willingly aid him with what he’s about to do?” Talia closed the magazine and stared Hunt in the eyes, “I don’t… hate Dominic. I don’t. I pity Dominic. He’s… a product of his environment. I’m helping Dominic to settle a debt between him and me… And once this is done, he should know… You can go tell him… I don’t owe him anything any longer."

“Next!,” called the passport-stamper at the end of the queue. “Looks like it’s our turn, eh?,” Hunt observed. “So what are you telling me for? I’m ‘just the secretary,’ after all.” Hunt and Talia approach and present their NEI Raj-issued passports. The passport-stamper carries out his duty, “So, what’s your business here in Tertania?” Hunt does his best to repress his accent, “Ahem… Um, advocacy, charity work. See, we’re here on behalf of our organization to raise funds for relief of innocent people in the Ridnez war.” The passport-stamper finished up and handed back the passports, “Ah, philanthropists then! The world could use a few more like you… Mr. Albertson, was it?” Hunt received the passport, “Aye. And this airport could use a few more of you to help these lines go quicker.” The passport-stamper pretended to laugh at the joke, “Well, I hope your stay in Tertania is a pleasant one.” Hunt raised an eyebrow, “I’m certain it will be.”

Cittá d’Oro Dockyards, Ridnez

20 years ago

Under cover of night, six freight trucks pulled up by Pier 26, as a group of dockyard workers scurried about. “Hurry up, don’t you have any concept of how dangerous this is?!,” urged one of the truck drivers. “We’re going as fast as we can! The logistics of getting a 50-meter-tall crane operational in complete darkness and unloading a half-dozen 40-ton freight containers onto an illegal cargo ship… all without drawing prying eyes… isn’t as easy as it sounds,” replied the ostensible leader of the dockyard workers, “What about your side of things? Are you sure this is the whole ‘shipment’…?” The truck driver looked over his shoulder, “Well, it had better be. I have a reputation of reliability to keep concerning these matters.” The dockyard worker commanded, “Well, you had best open those containers up, so we have a better idea of how many ‘units’ we’re really moving here.” The truck driver shrugged his shoulders and obliged the request. Inside each of the freight containers was a huddle of Heisenian-extracted Ridnezites of all ages, many of them wearing tattered clothes, all of them visibly frightened and malnourished. The dockyard worker was taken aback by the sight, “Holy-! What happened to them? Just what the hell is Bombardone doing?!”

“Believe me, you’d be better off not knowing the specifics,” came an unexpected reply. The words came from a man perched atop a pile of crates, clad in a gray-patterned paramilitary uniform and draped out in a Kevlar vest, two ankle holsters, a shoulder holster, a utility belt, and tactical gear, “I’ve seen the conditions in the ghettoes… It’ll keep you up at night. Real Eastern Noskyavia-type stuff.” Both the truck driver and dockyard worker were startled by the interruption; neither had seen or heard this individual come up on them. However, it only took a second for both men to regain their bearings. “I take it that this is your ‘security,’ right?,” queried the truck driver. “Best in the business, as it so happens,” asserted the mercenary, as he dropped from the pile of crates to the ground. “Best in the business? Man, how deep do your pockets got to be to afford that?” The mercenary shot the truck driver an incredulous glance, “How deep? Client confidentiality forbids me to say… But to be honest, knowing what I do now, I’d have offered my services for free…” The mercenary started to turn and walk in another direction, when the dockyard worker held him up with another question, “So… Do you have a name? A handle, I mean…” The mercenary took a second to procure a laminated business card from his pocket, “The name I was born with means nothing to anyone now. The best you’ll ever get…” The mercenary flicked the card at the dockyard worker’s chest, “…is this.” The worker picked up the business card; its only identifying information being a green silhouette of a wild feline against a yellow background.

Minutes later, the freight containers were being sealed back up and lifted onto the cargo ship. Soon after, some of the Heisenian refugees began to exit the containers and clamor about the deck, while the crew tried to direct them to the levels below. “Mom, do you think we’ll really make it this time? Do you think… this is the final stop?,” asked a young woman, seemingly in her teen years. The girl’s mother appeared even more haggard from the trials of their journey. She shot a blank stare into the night sky for a few seconds, unable to muster a response. “Honey, I so badly want… need for this… to be the end of it. Of the viciousness… of the death. But after… your father… Jonathan… I don’t know if I have hope any longer… Every time that I’ve allowed myself to hope, it’s only led to more heartbreak… to more pain.” The girl took a few steps toward her mother and vaguely reached her hand out, as if she wanted to help somehow, but couldn’t, “…Mom.” Her mother turned the other way, “Livia, you’re the world to me. You’re my everything. If I were going to lose you… I’m afraid to hope any longer. I couldn’t take it.” Livia was at a loss for words. After a few tense moments, mother and daughter embraced. After a matter of seconds, both heard a faint, shrill sound in the distance. As the pitch of the whine rapidly increased, Livia and her mother looked over the starboard of the ship and saw moonlight reflect off a darkly colored object rapidly heading towards them from over the sea. In the span of seconds, Livia was reactively thrown out of the way by her mother, but what came next was worse… the most horrific memory in Livia’s life. Livia recalls being sprayed in her mother’s blood as cries of agony and the sounds of gunfire tore through the air. She recalls seeing as a drone with a machine-gun turret rent her mother’s body, not to mention the others on the deck of the ship, to shreds of meat. What came next got hazy; conveniently, that’s the point at which her dreams usually end.

Vocryae, Jocospor

2:52 AM

In an apartment somewhere in the city, Livia Garthwaite awakens from her nightmare in a sweat. Reaching for her glasses, Livia hyperventilates in a state of heightened anxiety for up to a minute, then lifts herself out of bed into her wheelchair with the help of a transfer board. Livia navigates to her restroom and splashes some water on her face, “…Fifth night in a row. Need some fresh air. I just need… need to get out of this… these four walls. This room. Need to breathe.” Livia gets dressed and leaves the building, “I don’t even know where I’m going. Just somewhere, anywhere that I can forget the-“ Livia barely rounds the block when an explosion rocks the building she just exited. Momentarily deafened by the sound of the blast, Livia catches a glimpse of the aftermath of the detonation, “Huh? Hey, wait… That was… That was my floor!”

Before Livia can further gather her thoughts, a man in a dark blue jacket takes the handles of her wheelchair. Livia objects, “Hey, who are you? What do you think you’re doing?!” The man in the jacket offers a curt explanation, “Don’t worry. My name’s Tim Simmons. I’m like you… a Heisenian-Ridnezite. Mr. Albertson sent me.” Livia futilely continues to protest, “You’re with the RHSO then? Sorry, but I’m going to need a bit more than-“ Tim strolls Livia into the back of a black van, “I’m sorry, Ms. Garthwaite, but there really isn’t any time. Your life is in mortal danger.”

The doors shut closed, and the van takes off down the street before the police can arrive.

Cittá d’Oro Dockyards, Ridnez

20 years ago

“No, please, I have kids… Don’t!” Blam!

Another dead body collapses into the murky waters beyond Cittá d’Oro Dockyards. But for the pale light of the moon, the corpses sinking to the bottom of the ocean could barely be made out from miscellaneous hunks of plastic pollution. Livia Garthwaite was only 15, and every impulse in her body told her to do one thing in the moment: Scream. Fortunately, the hand of a strange protector covering her mouth prevented her from letting one out.

A man in black leather jacket took a puff from a cigar and approached a dockyard worker at the end of the pier, “Have you anything to say for yourself?”

The frightened worker, dragged to his knees by two StateSec officers, looks his executioner in the eyes with absolute contempt and spits on his boots. Another split second passes, as cold blue eyes bore an empty stare into their victim. Blam! The worker’s body splashes into the water. Del Tuono flicks the spent cigar into the harbor, “Come on, we’re just about done here with this filth… WRSMC will report tomorrow that another pack of Heisenian jackals has met with the deliverance of Zendirist justice, swift as lightning, fearful as thunder… Valentino will have to be made aware of sympathizers with the vermin within his workforce as well. And get someone down here to clean up the mess left over.”

The pale light of the moon illuminated the wrecked hulk of the cargo ship which was to be the last hope of salvation for Livia and her family. Livia and her protector remained hidden beneath a buoyant fragment of flotsam, each taking turns holding their breath and ducking underneath the water to suck air through a hollow reed. It might have been an hour or more before Del Tuono’s thugs left the scene long enough for them to surface; it might have been even longer. Livia recalls being hauled out of the water and set down on the edge of the pier. She tried to convince herself that the events which had just transpired weren’t real… that she was just in some sort of bad dream. But as she felt and saw her hands uncontrollably trembling, she knew… This was no nightmare. It was reality.

“Hey, kid, are you still with us? Kid!,” urged the man who saved Livia’s life.

Livia tried to speak, but words failed to materialize. She felt the strength leave her as her knees buckled and she collapsed into a heap against the wooden planks of the pier. Gone was the earlier urge to scream; now all that came out were tears. Livia looked out over the harbor and effortfully tried to comprehend the scene before her. The moon’s light shining over the darkened waters of the harbor, a ship rent asunder and its remains left to burn out, dozens of corpses at the bottom of the ocean – some of them friends, others strangers – and one of them, her mother, Livia processed.

The girl’s mouth silently formed the words, “… Mother… why?” Very soon Livia’s whispers of grief were replaced by a sudden wave of tragic realization and a cry for the heavens, “Mother! Mother!” Livia filled the air with a shriek of pain and despair… the pain and despair that can only accompany the destruction of a world, in this case, the private world once uniquely occupied by Livia Garthwaite.

Livia’s rescuer kneeled next to her and took her by the shoulders, “Kid! Hey, kid! Get a hold of yourself! Do you want Del Tuono’s thugs to come back and finish the job?!”

Livia’s teeth clenched together as her eyes began to gush with a new wave of tears, “I… I don’t care! Mom… Mom is dead! Why? Why did it have to happen now? When we were so close… When we were…”

The man next to Livia turned her around slowly to face him, hoping that break her out of her state of shock, “Listen, kid… They’re beyond help now… I know it doesn’t mean much, but I truly am sorry it turned out this way… If we had better intel… Someone working the docks ratted us out. But that’s not important now! What’s your name?”

The girl slowly came to grips, “L-Livia… Livia Garthwaite. We… we were told that this was going to be the end of the running… the end of being hunted…”

The man with Livia tried to maintain her focus on the matter at hand, “Listen to me… There’s- I have a safehouse around 3 kilometers from here. We have to hurry and run. If Del Tuono’s thugs get back here and find us, we’re going to wind up like them…” He pointed at the waterlogged corpses of the other refugees and dockyard workers, “Is that what you want, Livia? You want to wind up like the others?”

The present day

Vocryae, Jocospor

August 8, 2023, 7:45 PM

“You want to wind up like the others, Mrs. Garthwaite?”

A different man throws a newspaper dated last month onto a coffee table. The headline reads Apartment Bombing – 36 Killed, 200 Wounded. A much older Livia Garthwaite hides her face behind steepled fingers, “I’ve been acquainted with death for a long time, Mr. Simmons… If that is your real name. I’ve long since learned to stop fearing the reaper. But my problem isn’t with your ostensible intentions for keeping me here… It’s with you. I’d never heard of any ‘Timothy Simmons’ before, much less one on RHSO payroll.”

Tim turned to the drink bar in the room and began to whip up his favorite cocktail – a mixture of Daulmarkian vodka and coffee liqueur, “And as I’ve already told you, you wouldn’t have heard of me because I’m in Covert Operations Division… You’re from Social Work. Everything in the Organization works on a need-to-know basis.”

Livia adjusted her glasses and shot a skeptical look, “Considering that you loaded me into the back of your van, locked me in this house over a week, and claim to be acting in my interest… I’d say we’ve passed that need-to-know threshold… You say you work for Mr. Albertson as part of some ‘Covert Operations Division’ – not that I know why a legitimate charity, such as I know the RHSO to be, needs such a thing. You even know my ID number within the Organization… But how do I know that you didn’t blow up my apartment yourself and then kidnap me as part of some psy-op or… Or an attempt to get me to give up information? Especially if this is about Gregorio De Marco’s secrets…”

Tim finishes mixing his drink, “Hm, while I’m at the counter, you want me to pour you out a shot of whiskey or something?”

Livia replied tersely, “I don’t drink, thanks.”

Tim sits down in a chair across from Livia and takes a swig from the cocktail, “Alright, so I’ll humor your line of reasoning… If I were trying to deceive you because I believed you had access to De Marco’s documents, why wouldn’t I have interrogated you about anything up until now? All I’ve tried to do… is get you to understand that there are other people who do think you have access to the documents… and are willing to do bad things to you because of that?”

Livia slams her fist against the armrest of her wheelchair, “Alright, so just who are these people? If my life is in danger, I have the right to know.”

Tim finished his drink and paused for a moment before the inevitable reply, “…Need-to-know-“

Livia cut Tim off before he could even finish repeating the tired phrase, “-to-know basis. Classic, now we’re right back at the beginning. Has it occurred to you that I have real responsibilities to the Republic that you’re obstructing me from discharging? I don’t know anything that’s happened in the world since last week! Because you won’t tell me anything!”

Tim stared intensely at Livia for a good few seconds. Inwardly, his thoughts betrayed a certain reluctance, “Lady, if you were aware of the madness that Avaris has been plunged to since this all started, you might just reconsider this whole assignment… It sickens me that our fates depend on support for the Tertanians at present… But it is what it is… At least until Mr. Albertson has pulled whatever strings he has to in Isonphis, to get this mess cleaned up.”

The words that came out of Tim’s mouth were somewhat less explanatory, “…I’ll be out a few hours, Mrs. Garthwaite.” Livia groaned and placed her head in her hands, “sigh More of this mystery then.”

Tim slammed the door behind him and locked the room from the outside.

An hour later…

Timothy Simmons approached a low-rise office building elsewhere in Vocryae and glanced over a list of tenant businesses adjacent to the window. Wordlessly, he enters the lobby and then the elevator, riding up to the 3rd floor. Sauntering down the hallway, Tim arrives at an office space marked by a sign: Crimson Crucible Investigations, Ltd.

Tim hits a doorbell next to a speaker, and a buzzing sound is momentarily heard. After a second, a voice comes through, belonging to a chipper secretary, “Crimson Crucible Investigations, do you have an appointment?”

Tim consciously lowers his pitch to a slight growl, as if expecting to be shadowed by someone, “Ahem, yes, ma’am, I’ve been sent to represent your recent client, Mr. Albertson. Can I come in?”

After a second, the lock on the door audibly disengages; the voice of the secretary again comes through the microphone, “Yes, sir, we’ve been expecting you.”

Tim passes through the gateway of the modest-sized and somewhat cramped office place, nearly bumping into a tall file cabinet. Tim takes notice of the height of the ceiling fan, hanging barely two heads above him. “It’s a miracle that we manage to run a functional detective agency out of here, isn’t it?,” the apparent proprietor of the business says as he stumbles through a door across the other end of the waiting room, “You know how it is… Landlords… pfeh.”

Tim responded to the casual attitude of the man with a stoic manner, “Indeed… But enough chit-chat, there’s business to discuss…” The P.I.’s posture shifts immediately towards the door he just exited, “Of course, of course, I haven’t forgotten.” Waving Tim through the next couple of doorways into his personal office, the P.I. orders his secretary, “Ms. Rawlings, please grab the file on the, um… for the Albertson case.”

Tim and the P.I. let silence in the air hang for a minute as the secretary brought a stuffed manila envelope into the room and dropped it on the desk. Tim finally breaks the silence, speaking in the Heisenian tongue, “Is she…?”

The P.I. chortles to himself and shakes his head, responding to Tim in Heisenian, “No, Ms. Rawlings is a Jocospite and only knows her native language… We can discuss the matter freely like this…”

Tim reaches for the manila envelope and sifts through the documents, “…These …These defensive schematics are over 2 years old. They’re worth next to nothing now!”

The P.I. made excuses, “Well, I’m afraid that I can’t get more recent intel on the building since Jocospor bolstered security measures shortly after then… It was so much easier before the Third Jocospite Civil War, when every political association in the Imperial Senate had their own paramilitary and espionage assets and weren’t timid about putting them to good use… Blueguard detection and response time have been vastly improved since then… As your country’s strongman learned to his lasting regret, eh?”

Tim maintained his serious attitude, “And as you’ll learn to your lasting regret if your intel turns out to be bad and lands me in hot water… After all, ’Comrade’ Captain Bruchmüller, Mr. Albertson is aware of certain indiscretions of yours… related to the Third Jocospite Civil War… And if anything were to happen to me, I can’t guarantee that Mr. Albertson wouldn’t put materials documenting and proving these indiscretions to the best possible use…”

Bruchmüller’s expression changed immediately to one of intense fury and desperation, “It is said that the Shadow Emperor sees all in Jocospor… But as of late, rumors have begun to circulate. Central authority… some say the Confederation itself, is withering… if there were ever a time for you… or them – you know who – to strike… it is now! I’d stake my life on it!”

Tim eyed Bruchmüller skeptically, “I hope you realize that you might very well be! And I’m not talking about Mr. Albertson’s contacts with the local authorities… If the Zendies determine that you’re a key player in what’s about to go down… They have no reason to be merciful… to either of us.” Tim grabbed the file and prepared to get out of his seat.

Bruchmüller hesitates momentarily before interrupting Tim’s departure, “Wait…!” Tim turned back momentarily. Bruchmüller continued, “We may have different origins and loyalties, but we are both sons of West Heisen born! We have a duty… an obligation to repay the indignities and humiliations that the fatherland was made to suffer under the yoke of Jocospite imperialists… of capitalist bosses… of Victor Watson and his cronies. But you’re content to grovel under the booted heel of a failed mogul… to do his errands like some lapdog… and for what?”

Tim tucked the envelope away into his jacket, “Alright, Bruchmüller, let’s compare notes. Let’s see what your willing subjection to the hopeless dream of Karl Veers has gotten you. You were promised to be at the vanguard of a world revolution. You were told that this revolution would enter in upon a new age of enlightenment, a final settlement of mankind’s differences… Are we any closer now than we were then? Avaris is still divided into nations, which only make common cause with one another in the pursuit of war and destruction. The Shadow Emperor, in spite of your innuendos, still rules. The actions of Veers and his dupes… like you… have only brought the fatherland under indefinite occupation by foreign empires. Moreover, your last stand wasn’t even made in defense of the ‘revolution’, but a paltry plot to install a puppet ruler in Jocospor for geostrategic advantage… Yeah, I think I’ve kept track of my priorities better than you.”

Bruchmüller retorted with a bitter note in his voice, “Very well, perhaps Veers lost sight of his original goals… But the goals in themselves cannot be faulted, can they? And as for you… Do you really think this spook… this Albertson… will save our people from the oppression of the Ridnezite dogs? He was one of the old class of robber barons before the era of Bombardone, was he not? Since when does his… category of person… ever do anything aside for the promise of filthy lucre? The exploitation of our people’s misery to leverage into personal financial gain? A tale known well throughout Heisenian history, since the days of John Goldstein!” Bruchmüller took note as those words struck a visible chord with Tim. His lips curled into a humorless smile, “Oh, did that hit a nerve? That’s right… I’ve done some of my own independent investigating of you… I know about your… misadventures in the service of Dominic Oberto – another scion of unearned privilege… another robber baron.”

Tim shot back, “Am I supposed to be impressed than you know my past? It’s not like I disguised myself when I first established contact… Not like you had to do to remain under the notice of Vocryae police for the last 2 years... Yeah, I had my period of buying into the Oberto propaganda, but that time is over now… I see him, we all see him for the snake he is now.”

Bruchmüller raised an eyebrow, “And who are ‘we all’ here? Your friends in Magnifico? Your fellow former ObertoSec bootlickers? The Heisenian diaspora writ large? From my best intelligence, Dominic Oberto still has the faith and the fealty of most of our poor, benighted people throughout Ridnez. They would go to their deaths for him gladly, not knowing how he’s betrayed their best interests behind closed doors… And in the name of the basest greed, no less. But my point was: What makes this Albertson any different? By your own admission, you’ve never ever even seen the man… How can you testify to his fundamental goodness when, in all likelihood, he only opposed Bombardone because he lost materially from the Zendirist coup d’état.”

Tim locked eyes with the older man, “…I don’t have to explain anything to you. Yeah, I messed up once with Oberto… And I’ve learned my lesson not to be so blindly naïve this time around. But Albertson’s different… you wouldn’t understand… you couldn’t understand. Yes, Albertson was a typical politician once upon a time… A man who would speak out both sides of his mouth… make promises to one group for votes and break them to another for money. But things are different now… That time… the entire world which Edgar I. Albertson occupied… is no more! You don’t know what he’s sacrificed since then… What he’s lost in the service of our people… In the service of humanity.”

Bruchmüller sneered, “You talk about humanity in such florid terms, yet you get your way by petty blackmail… The ultimate hypocrisy is, as ever, peddled by the capitalist class! You and I may speak the same tongue, but you know nothing of what it means to be a son of Heisen! What our ancestors have lost… fought for… sacrificed… believed in… You’re nothing more than a paid goon of the fatherland’s refuse… the castoff remnants of our bloodsucking bourgeoisie. And the only reason why your Organization opposes the Zendirists is because the gangster-capitalists of Heisen’s expatriate communities ran into a dispute with the gangster-capitalists rooted in Ridnez! Yet instead of liberation, your Organization seeks only to transfer our brothers and sisters from slavery of one form to another. You…!” Bruchmüller rather dramatically pointed an accusatory finger at his guest, “… are a traitor to your people, and a traitor to the human race!”

Tim muttered under his breath, “How dare you condemn me?” Suddenly, he lunged at Bruchmüller in unrestrained anger, “How dare you?!” Tim grabbed the aged former revolutionary by the collar and pinned him against the wall, “Where were you when our friends… our neighbors… our siblings… our lovers… were penned in like chattel?!” Tim threw Bruchmüller against his desk, “When we were hunted down like stray dogs?! Exterminated like rodents?! You don’t care about Heisen and you don’t care about Heisenians… You’re a victim of ideology… someone who wants to believe that he has all the answers. The Organization… has saved thousands of innocent lives… families! That fact has more power than Karl Veers’ ideology! Your way of doing things… your solutions… they’re finished!”

Tim leaves the office in a hurry, “Good night, Bruchmüller. I hope we’ll have no need to meet again.”

The door slams behind him. After a minute or so, Bruchmüller is visited in his office by his secretary.

“Mr. Bruchmüller, sir,” speaks the concerned Ms. Rawlings, in Jocospite language, “I heard shouting… in what seemed to be some other language… then the crash… Then the young man from earlier… stormed out all of a sudden. Is there something wrong? Should we call the police?”

“Police? No! No police…,” insists a mortified Bruchmüller, “Uh, that is to say that my business with the previous client is presently concluded… We shouldn’t be hearing from him again… I should hope.”

The secretary shoots a querying glance as Bruchmüller settles himself down in the chair behind his desk, “Ah… Alright, sir… Is there anything I can get you? Coffee? Tea?”

“Coffee, Ms. Rawlings. Black, as usual,” comes the response from Bruchmüller, although he isn’t really paying attention to the secretary anymore. Opening a drawer of a file cabinet, Bruchmüller removes a folder and flips through its contents, analyzing black-and-white photos taken from a distance… of Tim Simmons… and of his townhouse.

RHSO Intake Center, Monto, New England INC INC

Around 20 years ago, weeks after the dockyard incident

The faint sounds of young children outside, most no older than 5 or 6, could be heard from the room where Edgar Albertson’s organization had provided Livia to be temporarily quartered. Livia registered the sounds and tried to block them out as she lay supine on her one-person bed. She remained concentrated on the revolutions of her ceiling fan and the tacky sky-blue paint job done on the walls.

The door creaked as someone Livia didn’t recognize opened it. Then came an unfamiliar voice, “Hello, young lady. I’ve heard that you’ve gone through quite the ordeal as of late. Want to talk about it?”

Livia didn’t respond. She didn’t move. She didn’t even sit upright to see what her visitor might look like. Undaunted, the visitor – a 60-something man in informal business dress – took a few steps and sat down on the bed beside her, “And you would be Livia Garthwaite, correct?” No reply came from Livia. The visitor continued after a few seconds, “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Edgar Isidore Albertson. Perhaps you may have heard of me. I’m the…” The old man gesticulated indecisively as his mind searched for the proper term, “…I guess you could say I’m the… er, CEO of this… odd charity here we have running here.”

Livia spoke curtly, “Go away.”

Albertson took no heed and waited another few seconds before continuing to speak, “…You know there are other kids around your age running about outside and elsewhere in this building. It might do you some good to try to… socialize.”

Livia repeated herself with greater emphasis, “I said… Go away!”

Albertson inched closer by a half-inch, “I know it might not mean very much… But you should know I truly am sorry for your-“

Livia rose up all of a sudden and snapped, “That’s right, you’re sorry! The man who saved me at the dockyard was sorry! Everyone I’ve met is sorry! ‘Sorry’ doesn’t put my life back together… or what little would have been left of it had that freighter set sail like it was supposed to! ‘Sorry’ doesn’t bring my mother back… or my brother… or my father. Or any of the rest that those maniacs took from me!”

Livia broke down in a deluge of tears and sobbing. Albertson remained with Livia in the room but tentatively laid his hand on her shoulder, as if to get closer while gauging the reaction.

Livia turned her flushed face, contorted in agony, towards Albertson, “Please… just… just tell me. Tell me how. Tell me why! My father was a veteran! He served 10 years in the wars! The ones with Shah from back when! He was beaten to death by thugs with badges calling themselves cops... to give the rest of us a chance to escape. We later lost Levi anyway… But I held on to a strand of hope… The hope that if Mom and I made it here together… That it would turn out all right! That somehow we’d forge through! Now… I’m left with nothing! Nothing! Tell me why, please, Axon!”

Albertson hardened himself ever so slightly in his tone, “There was a traitor… a rat among the dockyard workers. The entire Magnifico branch of the Labor Guild will fall under suspicion because of this… the dockyard workers’ section will no doubt undergo an extensive purge… We’re trying to pull out our collaborators on the inside before Oberto and Del Tuono get to them, but this is a major setback… As for the rat, well… You met our mutual friend, the Ocelot, by now. He’ll take care of that matter.”

“No, you don’t understand! I couldn’t care any less about the specifics of who betrayed what! I want to know why I lived… Why did I survive when all the others…” Her mind flashed back to that horrific scene under the moonlight – the flaming wreckage, the futile pleas for mercy, and the clockwork rhythm of gunshots and bodies hitting the water, “When all the others…”

Albertson gave a simple answer, “The Church of Axon might teach us that everything happens for a reason, but that reason might be beyond our comprehension… I can’t say why you lived instead of your mother, or your brother, or any of the others senselessly taken from us.”

Livia began to get a handle on herself, “I… I should have died with them. I should be at the bottom of that harbor.”

Albertson removed a photograph from his pocket, “Let me show you something… It’ll maybe put all this into perspective for you. The boy in the picture is my nephew Harvey… This was taken 8 years ago, around the same time that I was up for my presidential bid… He was no more than 12 at the time. In the first few months after the Zendies marched on the capital, I was fortunate enough to get out with my connections… But those connections weren’t good enough to bring Harvey with me. His parents… my brother and his wife… were killed by the Zendies in the months of terror preceding their takeover. I felt it was my responsibility to take care of him after that… I failed.”

Livia turned to Albertson, “Mister…? It… It wasn’t your-”

Albertson went on, “Please, don’t. I had exhausted my political connections to ensure that my money was safe first, waiting to be accessed in ‘discreet’ Raj bank accounts… Then I thought about myself. Only after that did I factor in Harvey, but I had already cashed in every favor anyone had ever owed me. Maybe if my order of priorities was in the reverse, Harvey would still be alive today. Maybe he would be with us. I started the Ridnez-Heisenian Security Organization because… Axon, help me… I’ve committed an unforgivable sin. I left family in the hands of those jackals because I valued material things first. And now I’m paying for it, literally… To use that… that blood money, as it might well now be, to make a difference for those like Harvey. To rescue our people from Andreas Bombardone and his gang of murderers and thieves… So that, when my time comes before Axon, I might be forgiven.”

Livia was left speechless as Albertson tucked the photo away.

Albertson laid his hands gently on Livia’s shoulders and looked her in the eyes, “So I’m going to say to you, Livia, is: You might not know why you survived, or even if there is a reason… But so long as you have your life to live, you can use it to do something for those who died, to make their losses something else other than a senseless tragedy. You can take that anger and grief and channel it into determination… You can live you life for others… For the ones that you’ve lost. And to help make sure that one day, there won’t be any others like them.”

Livia returned Albertson’s weary yet sincere gaze with a look of total astonishment, “Mister… Mr. Albertson… I don’t… I’m not quite sure what to say.”

Vocryae, Jocospor

August 8, 2023, 11:30 PM

“Alright, now shoot the other two. We don’t want to prolong this ugliness for too long.”

BOOM! Livia is awakened from her sleep on a green couch as the memory of a fired shotgun coincides with the crack of thunder to startle her awake, her hands trembling. After a couple of moments, she reaches unsteadily for her glasses on the cocktail table in the living room of Tim Simmons’ townhouse, “Axon damn it…! Livia, it’s not real! Livia… remind yourself! It’s… not…” She looks down at her lower body and recites to herself the mantra of a lifetime, “This life… You no longer lead it for yourself… But for the ones who have left us.”

The television turns on all of a sudden, startling Livia further. The CSB News channel is broadcasting live footage from a bird’s eye view as a rocket fires at the Vocryae Police HQ building from a nearby rooftop. Livia adjusts her glasses as a figure, recognizable as Tim Simmons, passes beneath a police searchlight and reflexively looks upwards, ensuring that the camera captures his visage on live video.

“Simmons?!,” Livia blurts out in shock.

“So I’m not mistaken then? This is that petty gangster’s abode! Not that I left much to chance before I decided to act!," declared a voice from a darkened corner of the room.

Livia’s attention shifted to the intruder, lounging in a chair next to the couch, as she detected the faint click of a pistol aimed directly at her.

The intruder removed his hat and put it in his lap; although Livia would have no way of knowing, this was none other than Detective-cum-Captain Bruchmüller

“If you want to live, you’ll tell me what I need to know about our esteemed would-be terrorist colleague… And you’ll talk fast!”

Vocryae, Jocospor

June 29, 2023, 1:03 AM

“Ever get the feeling that… I don’t know, that you’ve been running from a fate that you can’t escape? That maybe you [i]shouldn’t escape… that you don’t deserve to escape? But you can’t stop running from it anyway… because that fate is so terrible, you just don’t have any choice?”[/i]

There was heavy rainfall as leaden feet trod upon the creaky planks of Heaven’s Gate Wharf. A man in his late-40s, wearing a light black leather jacket over a white dress shirt and blue tie, nervously pushes the bridge of his glasses around, hands in his pockets. Without warning, he trips on a loose nail and plants his face against the splintered wood. His identity is unmistakable.

Another man, younger by around a decade, bald and wearing sunglasses, offers a hand, “Need some help getting to your feet, Senator De Marco? A wharf in the middle of a stormy night can be a treacherous place to fall down.”

“Er, thank you,” replies De Marco as he rises to his feet with the other man’s help, “So what happens now?”

The man in shades points out over the bay, appearing in the darkness like an unending abyss extending out into infinity, “Well, Senator, one of ours is supposed to arrive by speedboat, then a 5-minute ride out to middle of the bay where a helicopter will be waiting to throw down a line.”

“A what? W-what if I lose my grip and fall?!,” asked the desperate De Marco.

The other man elaborated, “The line will be attached to a harness, Senator. You’ll be fastened to it and pulled up into the cockpit. Nothing will be required of you… But something is wrong…” He checks his watch, “The speedboat was supposed to arrive at 1 PM sharp. Unless if something’s gone wrong…”

Suddenly, a subtle sound – sort of like a crackle or pop – was heard by both men.

“Huh?!,” vocalized a confused De Marco.

Before another second could pass in indecision, the man in shades placed his body in front of De Marco, while grabbing him and beginning the rush back to the dockyard. He shouted into a concealed earpiece, “Execute contingency plan delta! I repeat, contingency plan delta! Somehow we’ve been found out! There’s at least one sniper aiming for us! I repeat, at least one sniper![/i]”

De Marco was dragged by the man in shades into a small warehouse, where four other men in similar dress were waiting. De Marco was brought by two of them to an area surrounded by crates in the center of the warehouse, while the other three closed off the entrances to the warehouse and took defensive positions.

One of the two men flanking De Marco forced him down into a crouching position behind him, “Keep your head down, Senator. It’s for your own safety.”

De Marco clutched the briefcase close to his body, “I… I know I’m not a good person. My own weakness… my inability to take a stand… has condemned me to this. I was trusted by poor Madam President Drakos all those years ago. And look what happened to her… In the name of the Tide Queen, I betrayed her to save my own skin… I joined the Zendirists and gave them everything they needed to infiltrate the presidential palace. What other choice did I have? The military had stepped aside and thrown the government to the wolves… They would have won either way, but… Goddess, Gregorio, you’re such a worthless coward!”

The lights in the warehouse sputtered and fizzled out, leaving De Marco and his band of protectors alone… surrounded by the darkness and the sound of the rain.

August 8, 2023, 9:30 PM

“Can’t believe this is all I’ve got to use...”

Tim Simmons flipped through blueprints for the Vocryae municipal police headquarters in the boiler room of an RHSO storage facility, “Yeah, right, like all the systems would be left totally untouched since the Depackyan strategic bombing…”

“Never knew you to be such a complainer,” spoke the voice of an uninvited visitor.

Tim swiveled around and whipped out a 9mm handgun by pure instinct, then re-holstered it once he recognized the man standing before him, “Salvatore Russo, as I live and breathe… What brings you to this den of iniquity?”

Sal smirked, “You mean as opposed to the den of iniquity we came from? Well, it just so happened my people got a bit of intel on your people making a move here… And I figured, ‘What the hey? Might as well catch up with what Tim’s been doing since he signed up with the Organization’… That and, well, you might imagine that Magnifico hasn’t quite been the same since Bombardone and Powers decided to have their war over us…”

Tim leaned against a pillar in the room and shoved his hands in his pockets, leaving the blueprints sitting on a wooden crate on the ground, “I don’t imagine that Magnifico – especially now of all times – is the best place to raise a kid either.”

Sal became self-conscious at the mention of Vivia and rubbed the back of his neck, “Especially if the Zendies… you know, goddess forbid…”

Tim kicked himself off the pillar and went back to perusing the schematics, “Hm, yes, not pretty thoughts… Though it does raise the interesting question of what would happen to SocPol’s ‘Desi Falco Cult’ if the people realized…”

Sal shot Tim a heavily disapproving glance.

Tim instantly recognized his error, “Er, sorry, sore spot, I know. Anyway, all the sociopaths of Avaris might be oh-so-cordially invited to meet in Vocryae, but to the Blueguard’s credit, they’ve traditionally been kept on a short leash. Not like in Magnifico, where Mr. Mayor-Protector involves them in real-estate scams.”

Sal walked over to see what Tim was looking at, “Yes, of course, that was ‘traditional,’ but with De Marco’s assassination, all bets are off where the remnants of the Zendies are concerned… Which is why I assume you’ve been examining these schematics…”

Tim explained without taking his eyes off the blueprints, “You don’t have to be coy about it. I know that you know that I’ve got to beat the Zendies to the damned briefcase… These blueprints indicate the placement of each motion sensor, security camera, laser tripwire, and glass break detector in the Vocryae PD building… But it’s all outdated… Either way, I’ve got to make my move tonight.”

Tim put the blueprints down and passed through a doorway into another room, this one containing a rack of close-quarters and small-arms weapons. He grabbed a combat knife, a couple extra magazines for his semiautomatic, and a double-action revolver as a sidearm.

Sal folded his arms and watched as Tim armed himself.

After finishing Tim turned to Sal, “So are you coming with?”

“Just answer me this one thing: Did your people take out De Marco, or didn’t they?,” asked Sal.

Tim looked away momentarily as the memories of that night rushed into his mind.

June 29, 2023, 1:38 AM

De Marco slid up against the crates behind him and felt the strength leave his knees as he slid to the ground and retreated to his panicked inner thoughts, “I thought… I mean, everyone thought… Bombardone would last forever. He was so charismatic, so… so brilliant in his own way. Never have I met a man who not only exuded confidence in himself, but made those around him feel confident since he was there to make them better than they could be by themselves… I think that was his true appeal in the end. I had never cared for the ideology… but Andreas Bombardone was the first man to make me feel like a valuable part of the world.”

Gunshots reverberated in the distance as De Marco prepared for the inevitable, ”I tried to make up for my sin… The sin of inaction… of complacency! I did! The Tertania Commissariat Protocol… The first piece of the Hierarch’s puzzle, his grand plan to remake Usea… I surrendered it… no, betrayed it to the Grand Admiral. But it’s not enough, is it? Justice can’t be satisfied until…”

One of the men flanking De Marco suddenly grunted in pain and fell to the ground in a heap. De Marco clamored to his feet and ran behind the safety of the other armed agent. De Marco’s prospective protector fired a few shots at a rapidly approaching target, leaping from one stack of crates to the next. De Marco had just time enough to glimpse his pursuer before he scampered off on his own. The assassin returned fire from atop his vantage point. De Marco heard the distant death cry of his last defender behind him as he reached a door in the back leading to a partially gated area containing a forklift and some more loose crates.

“Maybe… Just maybe…,” De Marco thought to himself, making a mad dash for the street.

BLAM! He hardly knew what hit him.

De Marco stumbled backwards against the gate surrounding the warehouse, as he felt his lungs and trachea fill up with blood. He laid eyes upon his executioner and gurgled out, “W-who? W-why…?”

“You’ll die never knowing the reason… Now give up the ghost, old man,” replied the assassin.

De Marco could no longer make vocalizations; he was suffocating in his own blood and could no longer feel his limbs. “Please, goddess, if you’re out there… Have mercy…,” were the last thoughts to race through De Marco’s mind.

Three more close-range shots to the abdomen, and the deed was done.

August 8, 2023, 10:50 PM

“So I take it you’re not going to tell me no matter how much I probe?”

Sal distracted Tim with his line of questioning as the two drove in a rented sedan to a spot a few blocks away from the police HQ building.

As he navigated the streets of Vocryae from behind the wheel, Tim explained to Sal for what must have seemed a dozen plus one times, “It doesn’t matter how you probe or how much, Sal… I’m with the Organization now in a very sensitive role. Now, I’m letting you stick around and help because of our old relationship… But that doesn’t exempt you from the rules… And #1 rule is…”

“Need-to-know frickin’ basis, jeez. You’re really into this ‘espionage role’ now, huh?,” said Sal.

Parking in an unoccupied back alley and engaging the brake of the vehicle, Sal shot back, “And I’d expect you to understand that considering that your boss-lady is in charge of managing the largest non-governmental espionage ring in North Usea! You just like to irritate me at some point, don’t you?”

Sal chuckled, “Heh! Can’t deny that?! But in all seriousness, Ocelot is not my ‘boss’ nor does she ‘manage’ the entire Network. That’s not how the Network is set up to operate.”

“Whatever, we still have the problem of deciding how we’re going to tackle the infiltration stage of this operation, so enough meaningless chit-chat,” stated Tim, getting out of the car.

“Ah, but hardly any infiltration can succeed… without a man on the inside, Mr. Simmons” opined what seemed to be a lowly custodial technician, approaching the two.

Tim interrogated the out-of-place janitor, “Uh… Who are you and how do you know my name?”

The custodian replied in a string of Ziconean characters, “Omicron-delta-alpha-alpha-chi-omicron.”

“Oh, I get it. He’s with me… I think?,” volunteered Sal.

“You actually know this clown?,” asked an incredulous Tim.

“Er, no… But members of the Network have a way of identifying each other based of cell affiliation… Using this system of code,” elucidated Sal.

The janitor went on, “Indeed, and that makes me the solution to all your problems. You see, I couldn’t help but overhear, but the ‘boss-lady’ as one of you put it has stumbled onto a new tier of connections out there in Tertania. And y’see, that comes with certain perks… Like say, maybe this little thing you might have heard of, the International Affairs Agency, wants you to get the briefcase… And for certain others – what you might call Zendies – to not get their greasy paws on it.”

Tim pieced it together, “So you’re expecting us to believe that Tertania sent you to…?”

The janitor’s sole answer was to pull out an IAA badge, seemingly authentic, verifying his identity: “Red King.”

“Well, this is awfully convenient,” Tim commented.

“Right, convenient,” spoke Red King, “And I’ll tell you what else is convenient… If you manage to slip in and out with that briefcase and its contents sometime within the next…” He glanced at his watch to find the hour hand at 11, “…15 minutes or so. Y’see, I took the liberty to… disengage most of the building’s security systems to give you two a way inside.”

“30 minutes?!,” shrieked Tim.

“Better hop to it, it’s now 29 minutes and 30 seconds!,” Red King alerted the duo as they took off. He shouted after the two as they sprinted into the distance, “The evidence locker’s on the third floor, on the west face of the building!”

August 8, 2023, 11:13 PM

If someone were in the evidence room of the Vocryae PD building at the time, they would likely have heard a furious tapping – perhaps more like a thumping – on the edge of one of the two glass windows. As it was, no one remained in the room to hear it when on the fourth or fifth try the glass shattered from the force of being cracked with the butt of a pistol.

“Hey, are you okay up there?!,” shouted Tim from the ground outside of the building.

“Yeah!,” sarcastically remarked Sal, while smashing away more shards of glass to create a larger aperture for his arm to reach through, “Climbing a 12-story building from the outside using the nooks and crannies, hanging on for dear life between the ledge of this window and this drainpipe, and trying to break into the evidence room of the capital of the most powerful nation in the Confederation… All in a day’s work!” He reached through the hole in the glass and unlocked the window on the inside, raising whatever was left of it to make his entrance.

Sal quickly located the evidence lockers and yelled to Tim out the window, “So do you have any clue which locker has whatever was in the briefcase?”

Tim shrugged, “No clue! My intel didn’t go very far on this!”

Sal rolled his eyes, “Has it ever occurred to you that you might have been a little underprepared to undertake this mission?”

Tim replied, “Well, we’ve gotten this far without a hitch-“

As if to tempt fate, a loud alarm suddenly started to blare throughout the building. Mere moments later, heavy steel doors clamped down shut over all the windows, forcing Sal to duck back into the evidence room to avoid being decapitated by one of them.

Sal immediately bolted for the door of the evidence room, but it too was enclosed by a dense sheet of steel. “Great, just wonderful,” Sal remarked to himself.

“…What the hell?! We were supposed to have 30 minutes! Red King… what an idiot I was! He planned this!,” Tim screamed into the wind, only to be drowned out by the cacophony of alarms

On an adjacent rooftop, another observer peers at the scene unfolding through binoculars as the police building is flushed in red lights, “Something is going wrong! It’s not supposed to happen this way! You said that those two clowns would fetch the briefcase with no issue and that we would just jump them for it later!”

The individual being addressed – Red King – took the development more calmly, “Settle down, this was not entirely unexpected… Just allow me to correspond with our mutual employer.” He pulls out a satellite phone and dials in a number, “Röter König, reporting in with news that the bear has fallen into the trap.”

On the other end of the line, the President of the Imperial Senate – Marcus Lanistar – gives his reply over a sumptuous salmon dinner at a haute cuisine restaurant somewhere in the city, “Understood. Go ahead and shoot the bear. Over and out.”

Röter König hung up and conveyed the order, “We have confirmation. Go ahead. Light it up.”

With that statement, the accomplice on the roof loaded a rocket into a bazooka lying on the roof, took aim, and…

BOOM!

The explosion sent a wave of force and heat through the air that knocked Tim Simmons – even at ground level – off his feet. As he regained his bearings, Tim processed the reality of what had happened, “Sal… Sal? Sal!” Even before his hearing could fully clear, Sal half-instinctively follows the quickly dissipating smoke trail of the rocket to the rooftop it was fired from. His suspicions are confirmed as Tim spots the man in custodian’s uniform, “You…!”

The man with the bazooka queried his partner, “So… now what?”

Röter König obliged, “So now we wait for the strike team to be mobilized to move in and seize the objective before the police, the Blueguard, or whatever else can mount an effective counterattack! But if you’ll excuse me…” The enigmatic operative spots Tim running towards the fire escape of the building, “I really must be taking my leave of this wretched place. Give Mr. Simmons my regards…”

No more than 20 seconds after Röter König exits through the rooftop access door, Tim ascends the fire escape and confronts Lanistar’s minion, “Do you have any idea… what you’ve just done?”

The operative drops the bazooka and attempts to pull out his sidearm in self-defense. Tim is quicker to the draw and blows a hole through the hapless goon’s shoulder.

“That… was a decent man you just killed… Moreover he was my friend… And you killed him like he was… like he was some insect to be stepped on,” Tim muttered in fury as he approached his quarry.

“You blew him to bits!,” Tim shouted, punctuating the statement by cracking the butt of his pistol against the operative’s skull, “Why should I give you any better?!” Tim angrily bludgeoned his victim in the head several times with the pistol. It would be all too easy to just shoot him, but Tim needed a vent for his frustrations. He needed to see the man bleed, and just shooting him in the head and killing him instantly wouldn’t suffice. Finally, Tim began to smash the minion’s head against the concrete with his bare hands, then wrapped his fingers around the man’s throat to strangle the life out of him. A minute or more maybe passed, before Tim caught a stirring movement at the periphery of his vision. Looking straight forward at the gaping hole in the police HQ building, Tim was overjoyed to see that Sal, while rendered temporarily unconscious from the blowup of the missile, had not taken the brunt of the force and was gradually reviving.

Tim let up on the man who fired the rocket, who was now completely unconscious himself. Another minute or so passed. Then the operative was shocked awake by the sensation of Tim’s backhand across his face. The balaclava he had worn before to obscure his features had been removed by Tim while he was out.

Tim started with the interrogation, “Alright, start talking. You’re from Centro Nuovo, right? You’re the ones I’ve been sent to beat to the prize. But instead you’ve been watching me all this time…”

After several seconds coughing and regaining his breath, Tim’s captive began to force sounds through a scratchy throat, “Centro Nuovo? Well, from your perspective, I suppose we might as well be.”

“What the hell does that mean, ‘might as well be’? I can detect the hint of an accent in your speech. I know that you’re Ridnezite. Still, why make a huge mess of everything? This way, it’s more likely that neither of us will get what we’re after. It will be put under tighter security protocols if anything… under supervision of the Confederation government!,” argued Tim.

The minion reasoned further, “cough cough And…. why should that come as an inconvenience to you? After all, your… creature has occupied the fatherland’s place in the Senate. Surely when Garthwaite feels safe to re-emerge, she will petition for the disclosure of those materials to the Felons of Magnifico… her people… your people! We only acted in this manner, increasing the stakes, because our strategy of allowing you to front all the risks… blew up in our faces the second your friend proved so incompetent as to set off the security grid!”

Tim shot back, “Wait, hold on a sec here… We set off the grid?! Your ‘man on the inside’ – Red King – pretended to be working with us… He knew clearance codes that he shouldn’t have… He said that he disabled the security grid by himself for 30 minutes… And supposedly gave us that time to break in and take the briefcase… But the grid re-initialized itself in 15! This was your doing. Yours!”

Then, a searchlight from above shined down upon Tim on the roof, startling him and causing him to reflexively look upwards. And Tim took notice of something else hovering off in the night sky, “Is… is that… a news copter?! Great, so much for subtlety… So much for confidentiality!”

Meanwhile, from his private room in his favorite restaurant, Marcus Lanistar watched the scene unfold into a chaotic frenzy on the TV with a satisfied smirk on his face. Picking up the telephone on the table, Lanistar sent another call to his contact on the ground, “It’s quite a circus out there isn’t it?”

Röter König replied on his satellite phone, making paces through a complex series of back alley routes for navigating the city of Vocryae unseen, “I surely hope so. You’re taking quite the gambit here that this will play into your hands, you know. We won’t be able to accomplish our true objective in Ridnez if you miscalculate here… And you know that you need us on your side if you want to retain your comfortable position.”

Lanistar finished chewing on another piece of salmon before making his typical reassurances, “Oh, don’t worry at all! And don’t be so explicit either. It’s not like this line couldn’t be tapped.”

Röter König approached a locker in a bus station only a half-dozen blocks from the scene of the action, “Hm, very well… So it’s your move now.”

“Shoot the bear thrice more,” indicated Lanistar, “Over and out.” He hung up the phone and resumed his dinner, his attention taken once more by the televised coverage of the incident.

Within a matter of seconds, three more rockets shot out from strategic positions around the police HQ, each rocket striking the top floor of the building from a different angle.

With three deafening booms, fire and sound… smoke and debris… filled the air.

Vocryae was thrown into terror.

Vocryae, Jocospor

August 8, 2023, 11:30 PM

“Is… is that… a news copter?! Great, so much for subtlety… So much for confidentiality!”

Tim Simmons stared up into the sky, startled by the searchlight shining down on him from a higher rooftop, “It wasn’t supposed to go like this! No one was supposed to see me here!”

Meanwhile, a gruff voice came in through the earpiece worn by the Ridnezite terrorist Tim had just subdued, “The situation has escalated. We have confirmation to strike again while we still have the element of surprise! That briefcase must be recovered at any cost!”

The downed agent was still bleeding from his nose and mouth and out of a nasty gash on his head. Nevertheless, he heeded the command and unsheathed a machete. The operative rushed at Tim with the knife, and Tim sidestepped.

From the observing news copter, a CSB journalist provided commentary on the scene unfolding below, “It’s unbelievable! Not since the paramilitary occupation of the ISB last December has Vocryae experienced a terrorist incident of this magnitude! However, judging from the action unfolding below, there appears to be more than one faction at play…”

“So you’ve regained your nerve, huh? What’s the matter, you’d rather face me down again than see what the Jocospites have in store?,” mocked Tim.

“You don’t understand what’s at stake… For me or for any of us…,” the Ridnezite muttered in reply. He ran toward Tim and lunged to make another swipe with the machete.

Tim casually drew his sidearm and gunned his desperate assailant down with three shots to the center of mass, “Poor, pathetic sod…”

Suddenly, three missiles shot out from rooftops of varying elevation around the square surrounding the police building, deafening Tim and causing the news copter to hover away for its occupants’ safety.

He then drew his attention to the top floor of the building for a split-second, bearing witness to part of the roof collapsing and the upper levels catching fire, “Dear Axon, Sal’s caught in that mess! Sal’s…!” Tim gripped his skull for a moment in indecision, “Prioritize, Tim… Nothing you can do to help him now. The car… Weapons in the trunk! Gotta get back there fast!”

Tim ducked down the fire escape and into the alleyway behind the building, ”They captured my face on camera… Probably all of Vocryae… hell, maybe all of Jocospor… will recognize it by tomorrow evening. Well, I can say goodbye to any chance of utilizing the anonymity of crowds to my advantage…”

Tim sprinted through the complex maze of back-alleys leading all the way back to where his car was parked, ”Got to make tonight count then. You’ve been played like an idiot, Tim… but there’s still a chance it won’t all have been a waste…” Tim looked down at the tires, “Heh, first mistake on the Zendies’ part… Should’ve slashed the tires when they had the chance!” Tim entered the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition, and within a few seconds, his unimpressive sedan was tearing out of the alleyway onto a congested city street.

[i]August 8, 2023, 11:36 PM

Sal Russo faded in and out of consciousness in the aftermath of the missile strike.

As Sal opened his eyes, the room appeared to cluttered with debris, “Come on, get up… It’s your life at stake! Get up!” But it was no use, Sal did little more than lift his aching torso mere inches off the ground before he collapsed again. Sal’s eyes opened a crack another time, as he perceived his limp body being hauled down a stairwell by a couple of police officers. Their voices registered to him as though transmitted through a sea of molasses, “Come on, get moving faster… We’ve got to move this guy before the entire building comes down around our ears… Not to mention get the hell out ourselves!” Once again, Sal’s eyes closed.

Sal’s eyes opened a third time. Sounds of gunfire could be heard coming from outside, but that wasn’t what woke him up. “What the hell is happening?! Where on Avaris am I?!,” Sal yelled aloud as he made his panicked return to consciousness, “What were those sounds? Those… loud, booming… noises…” The memories came back to Sal in a rush, “Oh, Amadastra save us… It was…” Another explosion rang out and shook the building to its foundations, “…missiles!”

Sal rose to his feet with much exertion, “Agh, my ribs! I think a few might be cracked…” He looked around him and saw two officers crouched around a doorway down the hall.

One of the two turned around to face Sal and turned his gun on him, “Freeze! Don’t move a muscle or I’ll blow you away!”

Sal tried to raise his hands in the air, only to contort in pain at the attempt, “Gah! Don’t… don’t shoot. I’m not the enemy here.”

The officer drew closer and questioned, “Oh yeah? Then why did we find you in the evidence room… Which had just, for some reason, been hit by a rocket launcher?!”

Sal winced in pain, gripping his side with one hand while weakly attempting to raise the other, “It’s… uh, that is… I really can’t say…”

The officer threw Sal against the wall and quickly handcuffed him to the railing beside him, “Either way, you’re under arrest.”

Sal objected while being restrained, “Do I at least get the formality of having my rights read? Whatever those are here…?”

The officer shoved Sal onto the ground, “You’re in Jocospor. You should know better.”

The other cop called out to his partner, “Richards, with me now! I think we have an opening!”

Both officers ran through the doorway. Then the sound of more gunshots and broken glass.

August 8, 2023, 11:42 PM

Tim drives down through maybe a dozen crowded Vocryae streets, breaking several times that number of traffic laws, until returning to the location of the danger: The police department HQ. Or rather, to an alley two blocks away, this one a different location than the previous

Tim lays eyes upon the building in the distance, witnessing as a small cluster of military-style transport vehicles surround the openings. An impromptu group of police officers… most undoubtedly accustomed to desk jobs… attempt to execute a tactical maneuver by outflanking one of the vehicles. Machine gun fire from the back of the truck cuts them all down to a man.

“How could they mobilize so quickly?,” Tim wonders aloud, “They… you idiot… They had been mobilized in advance, lying in wait somewhere... As impressive as this paramilitary force is, they must know that any full-scale response from Vocryae PD would not end well for them…” Tim opens the trunk and slings a belt of grenades and an assault rifle around his person, “They hope to rush the building, wipe everyone out, and grab the briefcase. In and out, before the boys in blue can enact a counter-stratagem.” Tim returns to the driver’s seat and activated the ignition once again, driving the sedan down the street adjacent to the alleyway.

As he approached, an operative with a rocket launcher saw him approach and radioed it in to his unseen supervisor, “Röter König, we have a visual on the Heisenian. He could present a complication.” Seconds pass before an answer is received, “Shoot the boy down, he’s a direct competitor for the mission objective.” The rocketeer responds immediately, “Roger that.” He then took aim up the road and fired another missile.

Tim saw an abrupt flash in his rear-view mirror, “Damn it… This is not what I signed up for!” Tim suddenly crossed the sidewalk onto a patch of grass surrounding the police HQ, barely avoiding the missile as it blasted away a section of the street and resulted in a massive traffic pileup. Tim accelerated down the lawn of the building, budging his ill-suited automobile up to top speed, “Oh, who are you kidding? Of course this is what you signed up for…”

As Tim’s sedan approaches at increasing velocity, the machine-gunner in the back of the transport vehicle takes notice and concentrates fire on the windshield. Tim ducks beneath the hail of bullets, as the windshield shatters above his head, and rolls out of the driver’s seat, leaving the sedan to crash into the military transport propelled by its own momentum.

After the collision, the machine-gunner in back is thrown from the vehicle, stunning him for several seconds. Meanwhile, Tim quickly gains his bearings and rises to his feet, “That was… stupid.” Tim then sees the enemy combatant begin to swivel his machine gun In his direction, but Tim beats him to the trigger first, blasting him away with the assault rifle. The driver then stumbles out of the vehicle with a pistol in hand, but it makes no difference. Tim comes up shooting.

Tim begins to frantically check his environment to ensure there are no other enemies in the vicinity, “You’re hyperventilating, Tim… Get a hang of yourself, Tim! You won’t be good to anyone unless you can get it together!” After calming down somewhat, Tim then turned to the police building in the distance, “At least one of the other teams must already be inside looking for De Marco’s documents… I can’t let them have it! In the name of Axon, I hope Sal’s still alive up in that chaos…”

August 8, 2023, 11:57 PM

“I can’t believe this is happening… That I’m seeing this and yet be so helpless to change how it unfolds.”

Sal remained cuffed to a railing on the second floor of the building, but the invading force was now there with him. “Where is the damnable briefcase? Tell us, now!,” one black-clad thug wearing a balaclava screamed into the ear of a receptionist. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about. Really… Please… Please don’t kill me.”

Another terrorist states with arms folded, “I don’t know about you, but I believe her.” The first aggressor growls in discontent and casually puts a slug in the receptionist’s head. “What about you, pretty boy? You must have some idea of where it went!,” the first and more belligerent of the two shouted off at Sal.

“What makes you think I know anything?,” posed Sal, “Maybe I’m just some drunk the cops took off the streets. After all, as you can plainly see from my present disposition…” Sal rustled his handcuffs against the railing to demonstrate, “…I’m not one of them.”

The first terrorist struck Sal across the face with the butt of his handgun, “Don’t play games with us, Russo… Or should I say, Falco! Yeah, that’s right… We know exactly who you are and why you’re here. So talk…” The terrorist reloaded and placed the barrel of his handgun against Sal’s face, “…while you till have a jaw to speak through!”

“Alright, alright!,” pleaded Sal, “Blast these cuffs loose and I’ll show you!”

“Yeah, right! Like we’d trust you enough to do that!,” snarled the first terrorist. “But he has a point…,” the second terrorist cooly interjected, “If he cuffed to that railing, he can’t very well show us where the objective is location, can he?” The first terrorist barked, keeping his handgun aimed at Sal’s face, “That’s a load of crap! He can tell us where the briefcase is!”

Sal spoke up through the metal object jabbing into his cheek, “If you really know who I am and why I’m here, then you should probably have figured out that my intel on this place isn’t any better than yours! I don’t know the room or locker number, and I was out while the cops dragged me over down here… But I can help point the way to where the case should be if I have free run of the place!”

The first terrorist hesitated, his finger twitching as if wondering whether it wouldn’t be more expedient to kill Sal now and figure the rest out later. The second terrorist intervened again, “We don’t have much time… either before tactical units arrive or the building collapses… either way, we dither any further, and it’s game over for us.”

Sal asserted, “You need me! You need me!”

The first terrorist mumbled beneath his breath, “…should just kill him.” The second terrorist piped up, “No, moron! Blast him loose!”

Reluctantly, the first terrorist complied and broke the tether of the handcuffs with a carefully placed bullet. The second terrorist gestured at Sal, “Your lead… Don’t waste our time.”

Sal looked out the window momentarily, “We’re on the second floor, right?”

The second terrorist brusquely confirmed, “Yes.”

“Alright, then,” Sal sighed, “Follow me.” He marched up the nearest stairwell with the two armed terrorists following on his heels, before swinging open the door to the third floor. Sal looked around at the sheer destruction wrought: walls reduced to rubble and gaping holes in the ceiling revealing electrical wiring. “For the Tide Queen’s sake, could you have made a bigger…,” Sal stopped cold when he saw a row of office cubicles, with the shredded bodies of police and civilians alike splayed across, “Oh, heaven.”

“What is this guy doing here? We were left explicit instructions: Leave no one alive,” spoke a third member of the invading force, accompanied by two others. The first terrorist explained, “I don’t suppose you’ve located the objective, have you?” The third terrorist protested, “N-no, but our mission parameters…” The second terrorist spoke further, “This hostage was part of a rival operation with the same objective as ours… You might say they overlapped. Now he’s going to lead us to the prize. What happens afterwards, well… You know.”

Sal thought to himself, “Lady of the Waves, King of the Earth, grant me a better fate in the next life… I’m going to die, aren’t I?”

August 9, 2023, 12:10 AM

“Just wait for an opening, wait for an…”

Tim heard the gunfire die down, “Now!” Leaping into the open from the corner of a hallway, Tim took out two of the terrorists who had him fenced in, then ran past a row of desks. Another assailant sprung up from behind one of the desks and opened fire with a submachine gun, forcing Tim to slide across the ground behind another desk for cover. Tim then removed one of the grenades from his belt and pulled its pin with his teeth, throwing it several meters away to where he expected the terrorist to be, “…2, 1…”

BOOM!

Tim tentatively rose up from his cover, confirming that the hostile was dead from all appearances before moving on. Locating the stairwell, Tim sprinted up, jumping several steps at a time. Between the second and third floors, Tim was attacked by another terrorist with a submachine gun. Tim fired and nailed his target within the span of a second, but his shoulder was tagged by a ricocheting bullet. “Agh!,” Tim winced and gripped his shoulder. His shaking hand removed itself from the entry site of the bullet, stained with blood. “G-got to…,” Tim gritted his teeth, “…keep it together.” He then resumed his ascent to the third floor.

August 9, 2023, 12:17 AM

“Well, here you go… What was formerly the evidence room… Now so much debris piled on top of itself.”

Sal gestured at the devastated room with a sense of sarcasm and resignation, “Go ahead, you win. It’s right in front of you…”

The first, most irascible operative pistol-whipped Sal across the face and sent him tumbling towards the floor, “What is this? Which locker is it?”

Sal rubbed his sore chin, “Yuh… Your guess is as good as mine. Try all of them, why don’t you?”

The second terrorist lost his patient, “Why don’t…? There is no more time. The original plan was to let you imbeciles take the mission objective, then just jump you and claim it… You’re saying you never even knew which evidence locker they had the briefcase… or… or the documents?!”

Sal shrugged, more nervous than he was letting on, “Uh… ‘Fraid so. We rushed our operation just to beat you to the punch. That is, assuming you report to Centro Nuovo… The new StateSec Director, Bertolini, or whatever his name is… But that isn’t the case at all, is it? That’s just the impression you wanted to give…”

The operatives gave each other knowing glances, before the most aggressive one decided to take action, “Alright, that’s it! You’re dead now punk!” The first terrorist drew and aimed his firearm, but a wave of vibrations distracted him, as a loud crashing noise could be heard from the upper levels. The fifth terrorist in the group elected to speak, “We-we have to get out… We have to get out now!”

Before another word could be spoken between them, Tim entered the scene and let off a few rounds, taking out two of the invading force. Taking cover around the doorway, Tim reloaded as the terrorists returned fire. Charging into the room and sliding across, Tim fired twice more with impeccable aim, killing another two of the remaining hostiles. “One left, no time left to think,” Tim thought to himself, but the next pull of the trigger resulted in only the click indicating an empty chamber.

The remaining assailant pulled his own sidearm, but Sal threw his weight against the man’s body, knocking him to the ground. Afterwards, Sal doubled over, incapacitated in extreme pain. Tim took the opportunity to pounce on his encumbered adversary instead, unsheathing a combat knife and planting it in the man’s chest.

Tim hurried over to Sal and slung Sal’s arm over his shoulder, helping to pick him up. “It… Gracious goddess… It hurts, Tim,” moaned Sal.

Tim replied, “I know, Sal… I know, just help me help you here. Only a couple floors down, maybe if we’re fast enough… We’ll get out of this alive.”

News copters circling the area catch shocking footage as a central accumulation of debris on the top floors breaks through several of the lower levels. The building will never be reused again.

August 9, 2023, 1:34 AM

Tim carried Sal through the entranceway of his modest townhouse, “Just… a few more steps… And we’ll be…”

“Hello, Mr. Simmons,” rang forth a familiar yet unexpected voice, “You’ve made quite the spectacle on the news tonight.”

Tim turned his head to the living room as he lay the now-unconscious Sal on the tile flooring, “Bruchmüller…” Livia remained seated on the couch, apparently gripped with terror.

“Indeed you have, Mr. Simmons… A spectacle enough for your… invalid girlfriend… and all of Vocryae tonight… to witness and behold,” Bruchmüller continued.

“What are you doing here? How did you find me?,” asked Tim.

“Oh, finding you is not so difficult for one of my connections… Yes, you can’t be surprised that I still have connections. Without connections, a private investigator is almost nothing… But you’ve got connections of your own, and tonight’s events…,” Bruchmüller stated as he moved the flap of his jacket to reveal a concealed firearm, “…imply whatever you’re after has greater interest than I had at first realized.”

“You can’t be serious?,” Tim incredulously put forth, “You? You want the briefcase now too?!”

“See there? I didn’t even know it was a briefcase you were after. Now why don’t you tell me more about it… and what it can do for the fatherland?,” said Bruchmüller.

Tim grew impatient, “It can’t do anything for ‘the fatherland’… if by that you mean West Heisen.”

“Oh, but it will yield dividends for your capitalist masters in Ridnez, will it? How unrighteous… how typical,” Bruchmüller sneered.

“No, it won’t do anything for anybody… We don’t have it… I failed the mission,” Tim solemnly admitted.

Livia could not help but interject, “You what? Please tell me you’re lying! You’re lying to try to make this man leave, right? But he won’t leave… He’s… obsessed.”

“Perhaps that’s the way that Ms. Garthwaite sees me, ‘obsessed’… What she means to say is that you and I will be getting very well-acquainted in the near future… Using your connections with this Albertson person… this plutocrat you’ve sold out to… We will liberate the fatherland from the Jocospite-loyalist imperialist scum… we will resume the course of the revolution… as it was destined to proceed by the currents of history![/i],” pronounced Bruchmüller.

“You’re… serious,” said Tim, “Hah! …Heh-heh-ha-ha-ha!”

Bruchmüller rose from his seat, “Is there something… funny about what I have proposed?”

“It’s… heh-ha… just that…,” Tim composed himself, “Do you really think that the Organization will have any use left for me in this town… After that televised disaster you just saw?! I don’t have any more influence left to pull here… Sorry, I guess I screwed things up for both of us.”

“You… you’re not… Dear Axon, you’re right, aren’t you?,” Bruchmüller realized, covering his mouth with his hand.

Livia pleaded, “Simmons, you couldn’t… The Zendies recovered the briefcase! After all the preparation and worrying! After each of us almost got killed several times over! It can’t be…”

“It’s… it’s not over. I… I’ll take the wench. I can only surmise you care for this woman in some way… So long as I have her, you will do anything I ask… Even pull strings with Albertson! You must…!,” insisted Bruchmüller.

Before another word could pass between Bruchmüller’s lips, Tim threw a ceramic decorative piece from the mantle above his unused fireplace at Bruchmüller’s head. Clearing the distance within an instant, Tim rammed into Bruchmüller and pinned him over a table, “No, you’re not… As I told you before, your time is over… You are over. I might not be able to show my face in Vocryae again after this… But I swear, if you harm one hair on Senator Garthwaite’s head, I will make a personal exception to come back and hunt you down… Today alone, at least 15 men have met their deaths because of me… It wouldn’t mean much to me to increase that count to 16, you follow?”

“I…,” Bruchmüller grunted through a compressed trachea, “…follow just fine.”

Tim let Bruchmüller go. Within a few minutes, Bruchmüller had left the townhouse, seemingly shaken by the experience.

In a few hours, it would be dawn.

August 9, 2023, 11:50 AM

Marcus Lanistar stands at the high podium overlooking rows upon rows of seats, around one-third of them unoccupied, in the assembly hall of the Imperial Senate Building. The speech he is about to be delivered is being captured on film to be edited and distributed by CSB later that night.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the Imperial Senate, in light of last night’s frightful attack on the headquarters of the Vocryae Police Department, I am hereby issuing an executive order… effective immediately… transferring responsibility for the safekeeping of sensitive materials confiscated on Jocospite soil… Those specifically pertaining to international affairs and incidents… to the Confederation Department of Defense… Preliminary investigations have revealed some concerning details: Firstly, that the attempted perpetrators were, by all appearances, operatives of the Ridnezite Multiple Strategic Operations Bureau… For those of you who are unaware, this is a secretive branch of that country’s Directorate of State Security: an elite intelligence corps formed of only the most highly trained agents. Secondly, that their target was apparently the materials contained in the briefcase that the sadly departed former Senator Gregorio De Marco had on his person… at the time of his death. Lastly, that said materials… previously stored in the Vocryae PD’s evidence room in a secure locker… have been completely and utterly destroyed by the events of last night. But we must remain ever vigilant, to ensure that setbacks and tragedies like this do not occur again… In the name of that goal, we must have a stronger, tougher Confederation government… That is all…”

Livia watches Lanistar’s speech from her seat amidst the assembled Senators, “Yeah, right… The materials from the briefcase were ‘destroyed’ all right… We’ll see about that, Mister Lanistar. We’ll see.”

August 9, 2023, 5:45 PM

Lanistar approaches a bus station locker, dressed as inconspicuously as he could manage. Naturally, that meant wearing clothes that corresponded to the fashion trends of 6 months ago. He procures a small key from his pocket and opens the locker, only to find one solitary envelope.

“What? What?! What is this?!,” Lanistar states, gripping the envelope and impatiently tearing it open. The message within is transcribed in Xaviet language on official copy: Herr Lanistar, we must apologize for this small deceit, but to entrust De Marco’s papers to anyone not of Xaviet blood is simply unacceptable for the purposes of our mission here… Anyone not completely of Xaviet blood. We will contact you to about this shortly, to discuss the role you are to play in events to come.

“Well, well, what have we here,” Livia called out from a couple meters away, “Looks like you’ve been caught red-handed… Lanistar.” Livia had shown up with Sal Russo at her side. As it turned out, Sal’s injuries were far more superficial than he had been led to suspect.

Lanistar went on the defensive, “Caught red-handed? Whatever do you mean? This is just a bus station locker… I was receiving an, er, private message in this manner. Surely I’m entitled to some privacy?”

“Privacy? Is that what you call it when you order hundreds of people to killed on a gambit?,” accused Livia, “This is low… Even for you.”

“Are you trying to insinuate something… Livia, dear… I’d take a second to think on that question if I were you… I am, after all, a very powerful man,” replied Lanistar. He was obviously trying to seem vaguely threatening. It wasn’t working.

Sal spoke up, “You want to know how I knew?”

Lanistar turned his attention to the unfamiliar individual in his presence, “And who are you supposed to be? Ms. Garthwaite’s personal retainer…?”

Sal ignored Lanistar’s attempt to distract him, “Your men… your operatives… They knew who I was. They were honest-to-goodness, full-blooded Ridnezites, all right. But the Zendies… They have this ‘thing’ about me, you see? They would never let their agents… not even intelligence agents… know who I was. And they knew where we were… What we were planning… When we would strike…”

“What are you blathering on about? Make some sense, why don’t you?,” blurted out an increasingly exasperated Lanistar.

“Tim, see, he knows how Zendy intelligence operates… I wouldn’t doubt his instincts or abilities on that front one bit. But Utopian intelligence? Not to mention bolstered with access to Confederation government archives and resources… Access to the entire Department of Defense database… But it didn’t click together exactly until late last night… or early in the morning, I guess…”

August 9, 2023, 2:05 AM

“I didn’t kill him, you know.”

Tim nonchalantly stated as matter-of-fact while carefully removing the bullet lodged in his shoulder with a pair of tweezers.

Sal lay on a bed in the guest room, still nursing his own injuries, “Ugh, want to say that again Sal? You’ve killed a lot of people tonight. Who exactly did you not kill?”

Tim winced with pain as he removed the slug from his wound site where it had embedded and held it up to eye level with the tweezers, “De Marco… You asked about him some hours earlier, remember? I didn’t actually kill him.”

“Well, Tim… That’s great and all to know that the Zendies are full of crap again, but in that case… Who did plug the jerk?,” asked Sal.

Tim’s memories went back to that night in June as he stared at the removed bullet, “I was there, Sal… I was there, and I was sent to seize that briefcase… and those documents… by any means necessary. I would have killed him. I tore through the Utopian secret service agents who were watching over him, but… When I stepped out into the rain, in back of that warehouse… he was already dead.”

“But… But how could that happen? I don’t believe in coincidences,” asserted Sal.

Tim started to pour isopropyl alcohol over his wound and grimaced, “It wasn’t a coincidence. Whatever the source was on RHSO intel – the exact time and place of De Marco’s planned extraction – had set us up… They wanted to have us in the right place at the right time, so that once the shooting started, they could call it in anonymously to the police. Police would arrive and find a convenient suspect to apprehend… me. But De Marco would already have been silenced by their man, waiting in the wings for the right time to strike… And police would confiscate the briefcase too.”

“But why so convoluted a scheme? What’s to be gained by manipulating things so they’d wind up that way?,” Sal questioned.

Tim began bandaging up the wound, “Why indeed? Here’s a rule which you ought to be quite aware of by now… Hell, you helped teach it to me back in Magnifico: When you find the one who stands to benefit most, that’s your culprit.”

August 9, 2023, 5:49 PM

“You’re the one who stood to benefit most. If you managed to frame the RHSO or the Zendies for mass murder on Jocospite soil, then you’d have a good case on your hands that the ongoing war over Ridnez is spilling out into Vocryae… And then you’d have cause to expand presidential prerogatives in the name of ‘collective security’ and ‘international stability’…,” continued Sal.

“And on top of it, you’d get the briefcase – or more accurately, its contents – on your terms… In the end, I don’t think you trusted the intelligence agents that you sent in… If you did, why would you have warned me beforehand? I know a little bit about Utopian politics; it’s very divisive. You wouldn’t have wanted those sensitive documents to pass through the hands of intelligence service personnel that might have been corrupted by the Temple of Umbra, I imagine. You expected… even wanted those men to get wiped out with the building… so then you could tell the world that De Marco’s secrets went up in blazes with them… The Temple of Umbra, other interested Utopian parties, would stop looking… Only you and your Xaviet friend would have been any wiser… I doubt the contents of that briefcase were even still in the building at the time it all went down,” Livia concluded.

“In the end, you were outplayed by your Xaviet allies, weren’t you? That’s what’s on the letter, right?,” Sal ventured to guess.

“How would you know anything about that?!,” Lanistar said as he stiffened up.

“I didn’t… until now. But that guy, ‘Red King’, he baited us into thinking he was a Tertanian agent… on our side, supposedly… and into thinking we had a bigger time window to infiltrate that building than he left for us. But he probably took what he wanted – what you both were after – when he first went in to knock out the security systems… Livia’s theory is the only one that makes sense: Otherwise, it would’ve been simpler and easier if things had gone off without a hitch, only for your thugs to quietly get rid of us later. And then you could blame the theft of the briefcase… and, I presume, our deaths… on the conflict between the Zendies and the Organization, once it all got discovered in the morning… That’s what the intelligence agents were told was going to happen. The way things really did go down would have worked for you… if the prize didn’t get snatched from you by the Xaviets at the last minute.”

“Interesting theory, very interesting… But you might have remembered along the way while spinning this absolutely riveting tale… that you have no proof… Of any of this,” Lanistar gloated.

“No, but if we did, Assam Elne would already be stomping your junk into oblivion… But I’m on to you… You tried to kill me once. And so long as I have breath in my body, I’m not going to forget that,” Livia warned.

August 9, 2023, 8:00 PM

Lanistar sat in the presidential office of the ISB, listening to old, scratchy music records, with a glass of whisky in hand. A call came in over the cellphone, but Lanistar let it go to voicemail. Lanistar sat completely motionless, staring into space, “One day… some day now… the Umbrites will have my head. I’ve made too many deals, too many compromises… to let it all fall apart now. But… I’m deceiving myself… It already has fallen apart. Damned Xaviets, I was undone by the faith I put in them… Undone by my trust… in their man, Schmidt. He promised, he promised me…! One day, any day now… it’ll all be over.”

DTI Training Facility, Abinhill, Central Tertania

September 3, 2023, 9:30 AM

“Excuse me?! You want me to go up against these three all at once…?! Who do you think I am?!”

The raven-haired women in workout clothes squinted upwards at an enclosed balcony protruding from the wall of the vast chamber. The balcony was protected by a thick sheet of one-way glass, but there was no mistaking that behind it was the observation platform of the individual assigned to grade her performance.

A voice boomed over the room’s intercom system, “Who I think you are? I think that you’re supposedly the notorious Ocelot – one of the most feared combatants, mercenaries, and yes, killers this side of Usea… The Directorate of Tertanian Interests expects you to live up to your reputation… But so far, we haven’t been seeing it! Everyone, return to original positions!”

Behind the glass, the Ocelot’s overseer removed his finger from the intercom button on the training room’s control console, “So… what do you think? This session, we’re putting her up against the same three opponents – picked from among the best combat specialists the agency quite possibly has, all extensively trained in Tien-Chi martial arts. In months past, from what we’ve seen… From what we’ve been able to get out of her, she’d be just about a match for any of them individually. But…”

Director Andrew Haines, standing a few feet away and dressed in standard man-in-black attire, concluded the thought, “She’ll take your boys down, but not out… Her killer instinct has… atrophied in the months since we’ve acquired her as an agency asset. Something is wrong… Her head’s not in the game for some reason… We can’t simulate the appropriate conditions to evaluate how she’ll react when… Oakley, it looks like they’re getting ready to begin! Let’s not miss this all over commentary.”

Back down in the training arena, Ocelot braced for the sparring match ahead of her, exchanging cold glances with her adversaries.

“Heh, didn’t think I’d see the day that ‘Ridnez’s most prolific freedom-fighter’ would stand before me… begging Agent Oakley to be let out of going a few rounds with the DTI’s top crust…,” boasted Harry Fraser.

“By Axon, you don’t have to be such a cornball about it… ‘Top crust’… But still, it’s not a good look for someone who’s supposed to be such a menace to the Zendies,” Elliot Boyd interjected.

“The Zendies are afraid of this Zick because they’re incompetent… Now, if they had a man like the Station Chief for Arellistan at the wheel, then they wouldn’t have a Zick problem left in Ridnez. After all, he’s been doing a fine job at showing the Arellis who’s on top… and who’s the bottom,” blurted out Adrian Clifford.

From the observation platform, both Oakley and Director Haines were taken aback by the comment, “Well, Oakley, if that outburst doesn’t get our girl’s head in the game… Nothing will.”

On the floor below, Ocelot’s expression changed from one of seeming indifference to visceral aggravation, “Alright, that’s it! Let’s go!”

Sparing no time to begin his attack, Clifford ran toward Ocelot, roaring into the air, and unleashed a flying kick. With impeccable coordination, Ocelot sidestepped the kick and used Clifford’s momentum to throw him against the wall behind her. Ocelot then turned her head to see Fraser’s fist already mere inches from connecting with her face. She gracefully blocked the punch and counterattacked using a right hook, followed by a low reverse roundhouse kick to sweep him off his feet and onto the ground. Finally, Boyd entered the fray with a flying elbow, but Ocelot’s reaction time was quicker. She ducked the attack, causing Boyd to unexpectedly connect with the jaw of Clifford, who had been sneaking up on her with the notion of taking Ocelot by surprise. Unable to suppress a satisfied grin, Ocelot waited for Boyd to throw a right jab, once more using her opponent’s momentum to bring him to the ground and pinning his arm behind his back.

Ocelot turned to the observation platform and yelled out In a half-weary tone, “So… Are we done here yet?!”

Haines had his arms folded in thought while Oakley posed the question, “It’s up to you, Director… Is she done down there yet?” Haines hesitated for a few moments before formulating his opinion, “…Did you notice the way she fought again? The kinds of moves she used against our men?” Oakley turned to Haines, “Hm, yes… Even after that ill-considered remark, she handled the three of them in a way that was almost… it’s strange to say it, but holding back. Mostly shifting her opponent’s weight against them and letting them get in each other’s way.” Haines contemplated, “Hm… Send her up.”

5 minutes later

Craig Oakley waited patiently in a communications center elsewhere in the facility, arms folded behind his back. After a few moments more of anticipation, Oakley was disturbed from his quiet inner thoughts by the noise of a door being violently thrown open.

“So, what insights do you have to share with me now, Oakley? Didn’t finish that bunch of cretins fast enough for your liking? Should I be aiming for some sort of record?,” snarked an impatient Ocelot, towel draped around her neck.

Oakley ignored the feeble attempts at sarcasm, “Do you have any idea why it is we’ve been keeping you under wraps for the past… oh, how long’s it been…?” Ocelot replied to the prompt, “Nine… It’s been nine months.” Oakley continued, “Right, nine months… Why do you think it is we haven’t put you back into the field?”

Ocelot answered as best she could, “You want to keep me out of the war. As far as your superiors are concerned, this is a conflict between rival states and alliances… The Network doesn’t fit into that dynamic… You can’t control the Network, so you’re just content to separate the head from the body and hope that the body shrivels, right? But it doesn’t work like that… The forces we’ve unleashed in the Network… They can’t be contained. And the others who’ve taken my callsign will get along with or without me.”

Oakley let off a chuckle under his breath, “I’m afraid you’re way off the mark, Ms. Drakos. You see, the… ah, ‘Network’… as you put it… It has been tamed. Whether your past accomplices like Rosa Bernardi or Beatrice Caruso are aware of it or not, they are serving the goals of the Agency, don’t doubt that…” Ocelot gave Oakley an incredulous look of surprise and grabbed him by the collar, shoving him into a nearby wall of computer monitors, “Don’t f*ck with me, Oakley… Rosa and Beatrice… They would never sell out to a foreign power!”

Before another second could pass, two armed guards had entered the room behind Ocelot and had their laser-sights directly on her. “Get your hands off the suit, Ms. Drakos…,” Oakley calmly said in a lyrical manner, “…It didn’t come cheap.” Ocelot slowly and carefully removed her hands from Oakley’s jacket, and the guards allowed themselves to return to a more neutral position. “To get to the point, the IAA… or to be accurate, our newly inaugurated domestic operations branch, the DTI… has been unwilling to field you because combat training could not ascertain that you would project the degree of ruthlessness that your assignments will require of you...”

“Ruthlessness? The bodies of those MultiStrat agents I left in Isonphis last December… To say nothing of my years of battling Zendy scum in my homeland… They haven’t proved I can get the job done when necessary?,” Ocelot protested.

“When necessary, yes… What we’ve observed though is an absence of any particular zeal on your part…,” Oakley elaborated. “Zeal?! I did what I had to do to save innocent lives… and I’ll continue doing what I have to in order to restore freedom to my country… my people… and whoever else might be oppressed under the Centro Nuovo regime. But it’s not a game, Oakley! There is no ‘zeal’ to be had in taking a life.”

Oakley smiled to himself, “Very idealistic, Ms. Drakos… If I didn’t know your personal history, maybe I’d even accuse you of naivete! But instead, I think I’ll have to bring you up on charges of hypocrisy instead… I’m certain that you’d be singing a different tune right now if the… what’s his name?... The guy with the scar around his eye socket… if he were still around!”

Ocelot thought back to the night, near the end of the Civil War, that she took Gianfranco Del Tuono’s life. Oakley spoke over her memories, “You took vengeance for your parents’ deaths… and the deaths of so many others… Don’t deny your true self. The cat’s got claws, and someday, I’m going to see them!”

Ocelot paused for a couple seconds, “…You asked those guys I was sparring with earlier to try to get on my nerves, right? To really dig deep in… You wanted me to fly off the handle and really injure them, didn’t you? But I’ve suffered worse than petty insults before… I’m a survivor, not a sadist, Oakley.”

Oakley took a lighter out of his coat pocket and began to light up a cigarette in the room, “I don’t suppose I’d get anywhere by bringing up 2015 by any chance… Due Fiume Convention Hall?” Ocelot’s thoughts flashed back to the event: an exchange of gunfire, a petroleum tank detonating, a fire consuming several city blocks, screams of entire families as they burned to death, “Due Fiume… was a mistake. And I was… different then. Angrier… more reckless. Due Fiume was a wake-up call.” Oakley simply shrugged, “If you say so… But now if it were your predecessor from Marundia we were discussing…”

“Don’t even…!,” Ocelot jumped up at her mentor’s casual mention. Oakley locked eyes with Ocelot, an unimpressed and quizzical expression hanging on his face. Ocelot read Oakley’s face and moderated her tone, “Just… Don’t bring him up… Please…”

Oakley punctuated the end of the preliminary discussion by letting his old-fashioned lighter flip closed, “Still hurts fresh after all those years, huh? I guess some of us are just built different… I’d have gotten over it by now if I were you… To think of the number of times I’ve had to sacrifice a good agent ‘cause the situation called for it.” Oakley blew a stream of smoke into the stale room air, “But there is clearly no time left to second-guess our decisions, as within the past month alone, there have been two potentially related terror incidents to go down in Isonphis… each claiming hundreds of Tertanian lives. Maintaining the security of this nation in the interest of Tertanian citizens is the reason the Agency exists… It’s the reason I have my job, and it’s the reason that I’ve kept you along as our ace in the hole for this long instead of turning you over as a bargaining chip to negotiate with the government in Magnifico, as anyone else in my position would have done by now.”

Ocelot leaned against the adjacent wall, “Yeah, yeah, save your blowhard routine… You said you wanted to gauge if I’d show any ‘added enthusiasm’ for the violence that, I suppose, is part of our now-shared profession. You haven’t gotten around to why… What exactly did you have in mind…”

Oakley hit a button on a computer terminal and brought up a large digital map of Tertania taking up most of the space on a large viewscreen. With a few more keystrokes, Oakley zoomed in on one specific city, “I suppose I should cut to the chase. Enter Fuopolis: one of Tertania’s largest and most populous cities.”

“Fuopolis is this country’s major center for concentrated heavy industry. I’ve done my homework,” Ocelot commented disinterestedly.

Oakley sneered in response, “Yes, well… Around 3 months ago, one of Tertania’s oldest and most private auction houses… lying smack-dab in the city center… was purchased by a foreign real estate developer… Thing is, we’ve checked with the Office of National Security and there’s no background to this company… They were incorporated in a resort town on the Raj coastline named Monto… And they applied for their Tertanian business license only a week after coming into existence…”

“Your ‘real estate developer’ is a front, that much is obvious… But for whom? For what?,” Ocelot questioned.

Oakley confirmed, “That’s what we’re sending you in to figure out… Whatever it is won’t be innocuous. In the time since this started, various unsavory characters have been spotted in the greater Fuopolis area, each of them with a rapsheet as long as your arm… Intelligence indicates something is going down at that auction house in the next few days…”

“And with my ‘terrorist’ reputation, you think I should be able to get in and do some poking around,” Ocelot stated, kicking herself off the wall, “Just get me briefed and give me our timetable, ‘boss.’”

Oakley gestured with his thumb to the door, “Go talk to Clifford. He’ll get you up to speed.”

Ocelot immediately revolted at the thought, “That jerk? But-“

Oakley shut down the complaint with another dismissive hand gesture, “No arguments, Ms. Drakos… Now away with you for now.”

Ocelot thrust her fist against the wall with an exasperated grunt and tossed the towel around her neck on the ground. As she passed through the doorway, she hesitated to make a final point, pointing and growling with barely controlled aggression, “And by the way, don’t call me that…! That name means nothing any longer, to anyone! Bianca Drakos was a victim… weak and helpless… I’m not!” With that, she left the room, as Oakley beat a separate path back to the observation chamber of the facility’s sparring arena.

Oakley found Haines, arms folded behind his back while overseeing another practice battle below, “So, how did she take to her assignment?”

“Predictably, she resents having to work with Clifford…,” Oakley calmly reported.

Haines was quick to remark, “But of course, he’s an unregenerate bigot… Hates Arellis, Khazhatistanis, Talgerrians, Cierridans, Ziconeans… And isn’t afraid to let people know about his prejudices.”

“Of note, she hasn’t deduced the true reason we’re testing the limits of her self-control… She thinks we really want her to go ballistic… ‘Course, you actively wanted me to give that impression,” continued Oakley.

“It’s better for us that she doesn’t know the quality that’s really being tested here… It’ll give us more reliable indicators of her behavior in the field… Hmph, wait’ll she gets a load of who’s going to be holding the auction,” said Haines.

“When she realizes the true composition of the viper’s nest we’ve thrown her into…,” Oakley commented, “…Well, frankly, sir, I don’t think there’s a force on Avaris that will keep her from dislocating your jaw.”

Fuopolis, Tertania

September 5, 2023, 11:15 PM

“I still don’t know why Director Haines puts so much confident in some Zick when they could have sent in anyone from the DTI… I mean, hell… I bet I could crash this auction business and show the chowderheads what-for all by myself.”

Clifford pouted like an ill-tempered child as Ocelot and he approached the auction house. Ocelot brought her usual leather-jacket-based ensemble. Clifford was dressed more formally, but stuffed into a business suit that was simply several sizes too small for him. Perhaps he bought it on the cheap during a clearance sale at a retail chain, but one would think the DTI budget would cover basic clothing expenses. Maybe he deliberately wore undersized suits to make himself look larger and emphasize his muscle tone through the fabric. “Will you just shut up for two seconds?!,” Ocelot urged in hushed yet urgent tones, “You want to get us killed? Go ahead! Keep advertising that we’re here for the you-know-what on behalf of the you-know-who!”

The two approached the entrance of the antiquated-looking auction house. A man with thinning, slicked-back hair, aviator sunglasses, and a thick Corpalan accent confronted the pair, pulling a toothpick from his mouth and flicking it against Clifford’s chest, “Hold on just a second. There’s a VIP list to make it into this ‘special event’… And I don’t know you from Axon, so… Can’t let ya in!”

Ocelot and Clifford shot each other a look of bewilderment.

“And here I’d have thought my reputation preceded me! Here, friend, perhaps this should clear matters up,” spoke Ocelot, procuring a laminated green business card with a yellow wildcat motif. The bouncer at the door leaned over and lowered his shades to shoot an incredulous look, “No way! That’s the symbol of- of the… But you’re a dame! And a damn fine-looking one too, if I might add. I’ve heard the rumors, but I thought it was just some of that fantasy-land crap peddled by the media to pander to women’s libbers.”

Ocelot was struck by the bouncer’s words like a brick wall, “…I’m sorry. But I think I must have misheard. Do you mind repeating that for me one more time?”

The bouncer inched closer and whispered with the sleaziest grin on his face, “Er, yeah… I’ll let you in no questions asked, but… How’s about you repay ol’ Aris with some sugar, huh?”

Meanwhile inside the salesroom…

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls… You all know why you’ve decided to grace us with your business this beautiful evening. And in case anyone needs reassurances on the matter…”

The auctioneer, decked out in a black paramilitary uniform with gray visor, yanked a large red sheet off of the sample display model of the prize of the night’s bidding, “No, your eyes do not deceive you, esteemed guests, this baby right here is the Novus Andromedae Techno-Carrier, manufactured by the ever-so-talented folks over in Salcanceacy… In addition to black paint-job for stealth capabilities and sleek stainless-steel armored paneling, it comes built to accommodate modifications to suit your preferences, including but not limited to armored turrets, fixed machine guns, surface-to-air missile launchers… And where it comes to dynamic maneuverability in urban environments? You’ll never be beaten, so long as you’ve got these puppies to roll out with. And the best part is we’re selling a whole fleet of ‘em, 500 in total, no strings attached, no questions asked… But my client has gone far and out of his way to… import these things into Tertania discreetly… which was no mean feat, I guarantee you. In short, don’t expect the bidding to start cheap! So, I trust we’re all present and accounted for…”

An eerie group clad in black robes, shoulder-patches emblazoned with an ominous eye-symbol, and white plague-doctor-esque masks announced their presence at one of the benches near the front of the salesroom, “The Esoteric Order of Al’haqiqa will match any offer the other factions represented can make. There are too many in this wretched, fallen world who seek to stop us from excavating the portal which leads to the City of the Gods. In order to best the power of man’s sinful technology, we have learned it is imperative to embrace it.”

Another group, dressed similarly to the bouncer at the front, declared their bidding eligibility, “Our employer, I’m certain, requires no introduction. We’re here on behalf of Mr. Rafail Dellogolu. These armored vehicles will come in very handy for Mr. Dellogolu’s interests in the… the mining sector. But of course, Mr. Dellogolu has chosen In his infinite charity to volunteer security for this auction.”

A third group, no less oddly garbed than the Al’haqiqa emissaries, hovered over a third bench in the opposite corner of the room, “Let there be no question, the Temple of Umbra has both the imminent need for the corporeal power that these futuristic weaponized vehicles will bring, as well as the means by which to pay. Storm clouds gather over Hazelwood City… A heathen degenerate occupies the highest office of the Utopian republic. And the first conflict in the cascade culminating in the end of days will be waged between the Umbrite faithful and the legions of the infidels and the heretical filth on Utopian soil! No cause is more important.”

In the last place, a brunette-haired, fidgety businessman stopped rhythmically tapping his index fingers together when it came his turn to introduce himself, “I’m… er, Matthew Parkes… Former Director of the Bank of Tertania. Unlike the others, I don’t feel that my motives are important to be disclosed, as I fail to see how it pertains to the auction proceedings. Let’s just get on with it already, huh? The longer we dither, the higher the chance of something going horribly… wa-huh?!”

Parkes was cut off by the cacophony of an oak door splintering into shards as the unconscious body of the bouncer flew several feet and collapsed in full view of the auctioneer and the assembled bidding parties. At the aperture where the salesroom door once stood were the Ocelot and Adrian Clifford, side by side.

Within seconds, every gun in the room was drawn on the uninvited newcomers from the members of the bidding parties, but it was the auctioneer that was first to break the thick silence that hung in the musty air, “…Lynx… Lynxie, is that you? My, how you’ve grown!”

Ocelot was taken aback, “…’Lynxie’…?” The mischievous demeanor… the mockingly familiar tone and style of address… the use of a former alias long since abandoned… There was only one man it could possibly be.

“Y-you… Jaguar… Jaguar!,” she roared at the top of her lungs, her mind flooded once again with memories of the past… Memories best left buried.

“Settle down, boys and girls, Lynxie’s an old friend… Aren’t you, Lynxie?,” Jaguar teased, leaning against the model military vehicle.

“How could… I thought… You can’t just… You can’t just show up in my life once again like this! Not after everything you did to me! Everything you did to him!,” Ocelot angrily accused, slowly walking to the front of the aisle.

“What in the bleeding hell is this dumb Zick bint up to now? She was lecturing me about compromising the-?,” Clifford struggled to understand the sudden flip in Ocelot’s demeanor, “What are you doing? Stop!”

“To blazes with the mission, Clifford! I made a very solemn vow eleven years ago!,” said Ocelot, though her mind wasn’t really in the present moment. It was back on that day – one of all too many days in her relatively young life – which would leave an indelible impression on her, one that very possibly could only be wiped away by her own death: An 16-year-old young woman, face awash in tears, kneeling in a train car heading for disaster… a surrogate father – no, a second father – suffocating on his own blood as a strained attempt is made to force out a final promise… and then him, Jaguar, standing right beside Del Tuono, holding the smoking pistol, acting as if it were nothing personal… “Sorry, kid… The Ocelot was the best in the business once upon a time; he taught me everything he knew back when I was a kid… First rule of business, terminate liabilities. He was best in the business once, but ever since he picked you up, he’s just been bad for business…”

”…Bad for business…”

”…Bad for business…”

”…Bad for business…”

The words resonated through Ocelot’s reeling mind as it traumatically snapped back to reality. And just like back 11 years ago, tears began to stream down her face… But this time she couldn’t bother to notice.

“You f*cking idiot, you’re ruining everything,” Clifford screamed at his partner. But Ocelot couldn’t bother to care about that either…

She reached for her sidearm without hesitation or delay, “Jaguar… I swore on that night to my predecessor… to our mentor… when he coughed up his lifeblood.”

Jaguar gracefully slipped into a combat-readiness stance, “Lynxie… You should listen to that slab of meatloaf you brought for muscle… Between me and the esteemed guests… there’s not a man here that isn’t armed to the teeth… it’s not going to end well for you…”

“I swore that night… every liter of his blood that you spilled… that I would repay you in kind, Jaguar!,” proclaimed an increasingly unreasonable Ocelot.

“You just had to spoil the reunion by acting all dramatic, now, didn’t you?!,” Jaguar yelled.

Both Ocelot and Jaguar quick-draw their sidearms.

One shoots first. It’s so close that the naked eye couldn’t tell.

In 2.3 seconds, madness engulfs the room.

Strathmere Auction House, Fuopolis, Tertania

September 5, 2023, 11:32 PM

“You f*cking idiot, you’re ruining everything!,” Adrian Clifford shouted at the top of his lungs, to no avail. He then quickly scanned the room while Ocelot hyperfixated on the man in front of her. “Jaguar… I swore on that night to my predecessor… to our mentor… when he coughed up his lifeblood,” Ocelot yelled at the auctioneer. Her hand wandered to the holster at her side as her eyes met Jaguar’s through his visor with a fiery intensity.

Clifford’s thoughts raced while the scene played out in front of him, ”The Zick’s lost her marbles… This was supposed to be a simple operation! Get in, figure out what was being auctioned off and who was behind the sale! So simple! How’d this happen?!”

“You just had to spoil the reunion by acting all dramatic, now, didn’t you?!,” Jaguar exclaimed. Ocelot and Jaguar both drew their sidearms and shot near-simultaneously. In almost perfect coordination, Ocelot and Jaguar began to dodge the split-second prior to pulling the trigger, avoiding each other’s bullet before it even fired. Ocelot rolled behind one of the benches in the salesroom; Jaguar took cover behind the model military vehicle.

Meanwhile, Clifford’s attention then quickly shifted around the room to the various parties of bidders. Nearly all of them began to react simultaneously to the events unfolding before them, entering battle-readiness within a couple of seconds. The Al’haqiqa group unsheathed daggers and knives. The Dellogolus loaded fresh magazines into their submachine guns. The Umbrites, clad in full-body light plate armor, drew large broadswords from their hilts.

For a tense moment, everyone in the room exchanged rapid glances… communicating the intent of battle with their darting eyes.

“Holy sh-!,” the words barely managed to pass Clifford’s lips before a hail of gunfire blasted and cleaved several of the rear benches into a cloud of wood dust. Clifford hauled it out of the gaping hole in the door to the room and took cover around the nearest corner, wasting no time to remove his own semiautomatic handgun from his coat pocket, “Now the Zick’s done it! There probably won’t be enough of her left to make a moussaka out of…”

Inside the room, Ocelot entered a trance-like state of hyperawareness the moment that the bidders took out their weapons and prepared to attack. Within a fraction of a second, she analyzed the room to determine the total number of combatants, their most likely tactics in a combat environment, and the most efficient order in which to eliminate them at least risk to herself. All this processed through Ocelot’s mind at an almost subconscious level, something that happened automatically and without deliberate thought.

She leaped into the air and grabbed onto the chandelier hanging from the ceiling as the Dellogolus started spraying bullets. Freeing one of her hands, Ocelot took a couple of shots at the firearms-wielding hostiles in the amassed crowd, once again taking account for angular momentum through a semi-unconscious work of refined instinct. Three shots were fired; all hit their targets in some form, nailing one of the Corpalan mobsters in the shoulder, glancing the arm of another, and the last passing through the lung of the third and causing him to collapse on the floor.

She then released her grip from the chandelier and let the spinning chandelier’s centrifugal force carry her through the air, landing smack-dab on top of the model Techno-Carrier. Ocelot crouched over the roof of the armored truck to where she saw Jaguar take cover… but nothing. Turning around with nary a second to waste, Ocelot saw as the two surviving Dellogolu mafiosi regained their bearings and readied themselves to let loose another volley of hot lead. Ocelot rolled off the roof and behind the body of the Techno-Carrier, “Hrm… At least it seems this thing is as resistant to ballistics as advertised!”

“I don’t know what you hoped to gain here, poutana, but no one messes with the outfit and lives to tell about it!,” boasted one of the mobsters, yelling over the sound of his tommy gun, “You’re going to die tonight! You’re gonna die tonight, you dumb little bi-!” The mobster’s voice suddenly ran out, as he felt something akin to being punched in the back. He looked down at his torso to find it was much worse; a bullet tore through his body. His next thoughts were about how difficult it was getting to breathe before everything went black.

“Michail…?,” the last remaining Dellogolu gunman reacted as his comrade’s body fell to the ground with a thud. He turned his attention to the back of the salesroom and spotted Clifford standing beneath the shattered door hinge, smoking pistol in hand. “Bastard son of a Merconian!,” roared the remaining mobster, turning his tommy gun towards Clifford and firing away. Clifford hastily ducked back around the corner to avoid the barrage of bullets, but not before one of them embedded itself in his arm, “Agh! Sh*t… Sh*t! Sh*t! Sh*t! Gonna go down fighting alongside a dumb Zick against another dumb Zick… What’ll my drinking buddies say?”

Ocelot rounded the end of the Techno-Carrier model, seeing an opening to take a shot at the enraged Corpalan, but as she lined up the shot, she heard the hammer of another handgun click right by her ear. “Ah-ah-ah… We didn’t finish getting reacquainted now, did we?,” Jaguar taunted. Acting reflexively, Ocelot dodged Jaguar’s shot and did a backflip 10 to 20 feet into the air, getting off two or three return shots against Jaguar while in free fall. Jaguar evaded the gunfire as it punctured clean holes into the sturdy wooden stage that he stood upon.

Ocelot pressed the advantage as she contacted the ground, springing herself into action. Jaguar got off several more shots, yet Ocelot continued to avoid them in an almost unearthly acrobatic grace. It was as though Ocelot were pitting her uncanny ability to predict and react to an enemy’s offensive maneuvers against Jaguar’s ability to similarly predict his opponent’s evasive maneuvers and change tactics accordingly. But one of them was just slightly better than the other.

Ocelot cleared the distance and knocked the wind out of Jaguar with a decisive front kick to the chest, causing Jaguar to tumble onto the floor and drop his weapon. Jaguar immediately scrambled to reclaim it, but Ocelot stepped on his wrist before that could happen. Wincing in pain, Jaguar looked up at Ocelot, to find her looking down her sights directly at him… or more accurately, his head, “End of the line.”

Jaguar nervously laughed under his breath, “Heh.. H-hey! Can’t we… Can’t we just…?” His hand ground forcefully under Ocelot’s boot, Jaguar begged through a strained voice, “…Can’t we talk about this? Please?” Ocelot coldly replied, “What’s to talk about? What goes around comes around…” But despite her words, she hesitated for just an instant… In that instant, the decision was taken out of her hands.

The handgun was knocked out of Ocelot’s hand by a sharp projectile of some sort, slicing through the leather glove she was wearing and into her palm. Ocelot’s gaze immediately snapped in the direction of the attack, but this left her open to Jaguar’s counterattack. Jaguar delivered a rising knee to Ocelot’s abdomen, then knocked her against the model Techno-Carrier by following up with a powerful uppercut, “You almost had me finished back there… What happened?”

Ocelot retaliated with a right hook, hoping to take advantage of how Jaguar tended to favor his own right, but Jaguar blocked the punch and countered with his own right cross, drawing first blood from Ocelot’s mouth, “You had the skills once, kid. Damn, I can tell you still have the skills. But that tiger streak in you, girl. You’ve lost your resolve. I can tell.” Ocelot struggled to regain her bearings, “Sh-shut up! You killed him, Jaguar… I’m not letting you get away with that!” Jaguar mockingly beckoned with two fingers, “Then, c’mon, kiddo… Let’s settle this the old-fashioned way. Mano a mano.” Ocelot cracked her knuckles and, beaming a deathly cold stare into Jaguar’s visor-obscured eyes, jumped back into the fray.

Elsewhere…

Clifford rushed up a flight of stairs in a sweat to the second floor of the auction house building, as bursts of submachine gun fire virtually licked his heels. Taking cover behind around an doorway adjacent to the top of the flight of steps, Clifford shouted threats in between his hyperventilating, “Huh… Huh… huh… You know… Huh… huh You guys are dead meat once I bring you in! I’ve got friends who don’t think much of Zick gangsters who don’t have respect for law enforcement…”

“First thing, you thrice-damned Tertanian pig, we’re not Ziconeans… We Corpalans have too much pride and too much love for Axon above to be motherf*cking Ziconeans… Second, I don’t give a sh*t about what your child-molester friends think. Third, once I come back with a story that I shot down some police, alphabet-agency archidi, everyone down at the speakeasy will be so happy, they’ll buy me drinks for a month!,” the mobster bragged.

The Corpalan heard the door of the room at the top of the staircase slam and lock shut, “You ain’t getting rid of me that easy, malakas.” The gangster kicked at the door repeatedly; when the door still didn’t swing open, he simply sprayed ammunition at the door until there was no more door. “You’re mine now!,” exclaimed the Dellogolu minion, just prior to unleashing more gunfire into the room of antiques, peppering just about everything inside with bullet holes. Bullet holes, but no body. The gangster stepped inside, confused, when he was shot in the head from an empty closet off the side. The Corpalan slumped to the ground without a word, then Clifford exited the closet, wiping the sweat from his brow, “…I… pant pant… was not expecting to put up with this crap today… Wonder how the chief Zick’s doing…”

In the salesroom…

Ocelot and Jaguar danced a familiar tango, similar to their prior engagement with firearms: Both combatants trying to predict, evade, and counterattack using the shared set of talents that their mentor instilled into them both. “He raised you, Jaguar… And you sold him out for money… After everything he did for you, how could you be so heartless?,” Ocelot accused. Jaguar tossed a haymaker at Ocelot’s jaw, but Ocelot blocked with her left arm and struck Jaguar in the jaw instead – because of the visor, Jaguar’s most vulnerable point – with her elbow, following up with a right hook, and setting up Jaguar to be knocked into a nearby supporting pillar with a left roundhouse kick.

Ocelot removed a thin wire from a false compartment inside her watch and pressed it up against Jaguar’s throat, pinned Jaguar against the pillar. While maintaining steady pressure with the wire against Jaguar’s airways, Ocelot reflected to herself, ”He should be out in 30 seconds… Irreversible brain damage, at very least, after a couple of minutes… Or I could just end it right here and now, slice his jugular… fast and clean… my trademark.” Gargling sounds from Jaguar’s throat diminished as he passed out from rapid asphyxiation, when suddenly, another sharp projectile clipped by Ocelot’s hair. Her head snapped to the side, and she released her grip on Jaguar, who fell limp to the floor.

“I am afraid we cannot allow you to liberate the life-force of the one called ‘Jaguar,’ interloper… The Order still has use of him… and his unknown master… to acquire these abominations of modern technology for our own… purposes,” called out the leader of the Al’haqiqa group. The voice boomed and resonated with an almost unearthly timbre; the Al’haqiqa cultists themselves appeared to glide across the room beneath their flowing robes, making no sound with their approach, “All who interfere with the awakening of the Great Ancients are marked by the Order for death… interloper.”

Ocelot stared at the cloaked figures with mild disbelief “Who…? No, what… are you?” The leader of the cultists offered a brusque reply, “Shayatin… Servants of the Esoteric Order. None before have lived to tell of our existence… And none yet shall…” The three robed warriors leaped into the air with utmost nimbleness and landed in a triangle formation surrounding Ocelot on the stage. “I have no quarrel with you people… Leave now and you might get to keep all your limbs,” threatened Ocelot.

The cultists converged on Ocelot, silent as the night.

Clifford re-entered the door to the salesroom, seeing the opening stages of Ocelot’s fight off in the distance. He stepped beyond the threshold, but caught a bright glimmer at the edge of his vision. Turning his head instinctively to the right, Clifford came face to face with one of the Umbrite warriors, about to swing his broadsword for the base of his neck. Clifford fell to the ground to avoid the attack, and the Umbrite embedded his sword in the connecting wall. Rising to his feet, Clifford pressed the barrel of his handgun to the Umbrite’s helmeted head, “Freeze, or I swear I’ll blow you away!”

The Umbrite yanked his blade from the wall with a mighty pull, “I challenge you, heathen. Make good on your threat.” Without hesitation, Clifford fired at the armored swordsman 3 times; his bullets merely ricocheted. Clifford was incredulous, “W-what? How could you-?” The Umbrite loomed tall over Clifford, standing maybe 3 or 4 heads taller in his armor and casting a long shadow, “Our armaments are not as antiquated as they first appear, I guarantee you… But you will be ancient history, soon enough.”

The warrior took another swing, narrowly missing Clifford by a few inches and smashing one of the few intact wooden benches. Clifford backed off, seeing death in his eyes, when he unexpectedly bumped into someone in back of him. Another dark shadow loomed over him from in back. Clifford didn’t even need to turn his head to know his next move. Clifford leaped into one of the aisles off to the side, narrowly avoiding a two-handed smash from the massive sword of the Umbrite standing behind him.

“Uh… O-Ocelot… A little help here…!,” screamed out the less-than-dignified Adrian Clifford, as he ran circles around the mostly devastated salesroom in the desperate hope of dodging the sting of the Utopians’ blades. Meanwhile, Ocelot was busy exchanging blows with her Talgerrian assailants. One of the Shayatin whizzed by Ocelot’s face with his dagger in hand, forcing her to bend out of the way and setting her up to be knocked to the ground by the leg-sweep of another assassin. The third cultist then descended upon the Ocelot with a two-dagger strike. Wasting no time, she rolled out of the way of the attack and countered with a kick to the face, springing into an upright standing position, “Sorry, Clifford… I’ve got my own problems to deal with right now…!” Ocelot downed one of the Shayatin with a butterfly kick to the neck, then stomped on his throat with an axe kick while he was out of it. In the heat of battle, it took a few seconds to register with her… ”Wait, did he actually… call me by my name?”

Ocelot sprinted to where she dropped her pistol during the fight with Jaguar, but she was slashed across the arm by a Shayatin, causing her to wince in pain. The Shayatin pressed the initiative with a flurry of stabs and strikes, Ocelot barely able to keep up and dodge all but the most superficial cuts. Backed against a corner, Ocelot was presented with one of those split-second decisions of do-or-die, “Nowhere left to back into… No more room to navigate… Got to do what he isn’t expecting… Hit him and hard and fast!” Ocelot tackled the Shayatin to the ground and strung out another length of wire from her watch, pressing into his jugular beneath his hood. This time she didn’t hesitate.

SLICE!

Ocelot climbed to her feet as the corpse beneath her bled out, “huff huff… I guess this proves these… whatever-they-are’s… are still human after all.” Sauntering over to her gun in the most exhausted state, Ocelot was jumped by the last of the three Shayatin, but got him into a judo throw and tossed him into a mess of wooden debris. Grunting through his mask, the assassin still refused to give up. Ocelot took aim and fired four times for the center of mass, but the Shayatin somehow blocked or bisected each bullet with his daggers through impossible timing and skill. “These guys… are good,” Ocelot commented to herself.

The Shayatin roared and leaped into the air, preparing to strike Ocelot down with a downwards slash once he hit the stage. However, Ocelot sidestepped and fired one shot into the air, estimating the arc of the assassin’s jump to be as accurate as possible. One bullet was all it took; the Shayatin descended upon the stage of the auction, but with all the clumsiness of a dead weight.

Down on the bidding floor, or what was left of it, the Umbrites had Clifford cornered against the last patch of standing benches. “Ocelot! Please, I’m your partner, remember!,” the cringing DTI agent yelled out. The enormous blade crashed down against the tile floor as Clifford scooted into the aisle, but Clifford tripped over another terrified man in hiding: Matthew Parkes. “Brother, look, it appears that our erstwhile competitor failed to evacuate when such was within his power,” observed one of the two identical-seeming colossuses. “Yea, and what fortune that nearly all other rivals to the Temple in the bidding process have been… eliminated… as a result of this turn of events,” answered his comrade. The first swordsman raised his sword again, “Truly unfortunate…”

Parkes scrambled to his feet and started to plead, “H-hey… I’m not the one you want… It’s these… It’s these freaking cops that ruined everything!” Without warning, a chunk of wooden debris struck the Umbrite in the head, making a metallic sound bouncing off his helmet. “Hey, bucketheads!,” Ocelot called out to get their attention. The Umbrite warriors both turned to the stage at the same time. The sound of two gunshots rang out in synchrony, and before Clifford and Parkes knew what was up, both armored giants toppled over, dead.

“What…? How did you?,” Clifford looked to Ocelot for answers, but she wasn’t listening to him right now. Clifford rolled over the body of one of the Umbrites using his foot, and then he understood, “Bleeding from the eyeholes of their facemasks… She shot them through the- By Axon, I might have underestimated her!” Parkes crept away in the opposite direction, hoping to inch close enough to an exit to make his getaway. “Hey!,” Clifford reprimanded, grabbing Parkes by the collar with one hand and pulling him in close, “No one said you could leave!”

Ocelot let off a deep breath from her chest, calmly kneeling by the Shayatin whose trachea she stomped earlier. He was still wheezing and clutching his throat, having difficulty breathing and totally unable to fight. “Take that stupid mask off your face,” Ocelot chided, while yanking it off herself. She looked the cultist in the eyes and took register of what she saw therein, ”Obviously South Usean of some sort… Shahi… Talgerrian… Arelli… He’s still struggling just to breathe… drowning in the fear of death. I wonder how much consideration he gave to those he might’ve killed in his past… The people he was planning to kill with that Salcanceacian weapon…”

“I killed your friends. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay where you are,” Ocelot whispered into the Al’haqiqa member’s ear. She jumped off the stage and rejoined Clifford, “I’m not sure that went quite how Haines and Oakley planned it… But all’s well that ends well, I guess.”

Clifford pointed to Parkes with his free hand while continuing to throttle him, “At least we caught this crumb in the process… You know who he is?” Ocelot glanced at Parkes, “How could I not? He’s half the reason I’m working with you now… Last December, I thought it was Vickers, Nora Vickers, who was working hand-in-glove with the Zendies... And only her. But she was still trapped in the Bank when the explosives blew. And you were conveniently nowhere to be found.”

“Hey, I know my rights! I’m gonna… This is police brutality! I want to talk to my lawyer!,” Parkes objected, futilely trying to wriggle free. Clifford sneered in Parkes’ face, “Ah, but you’re not dealing with the police. You’re dealing with the DTI now, so we don’t have to read you your rights…” Clifford punched Parkes in the gut, “Or provide you a phone call…” Clifford kicked Parkes in the groin for good measure, then punctuated each accusation by kicking him repeatedly in the stomach, “Or handle you all gentle-like! You damned filth, you betrayed your friends… got them killed… sold out your country to Ridnez… to Arellistan… What kind of man are you?!”

“That’s enough, Agent Clifford,” said Ocelot. The dark-haired woman in the leather jacket laid her hand on Clifford’s shoulder, letting him know he was going too far. Crouching by Parkes, Ocelot laid down the rules, “Alright, here’s how it’s going to be. My friend and I are going to take you in. There will be people, not as nice as we are, who will have questions about what you’re doing here and about your connection to the bombing last year. If you don’t cooperate with them, they will do bad things to you…” Ocelot leaned further in and lowered her voice down to a whisper, “I’m certain you’ve heard the horror stories from the Arellistan front… Considering how buddy-buddy you are with Mullah Farokh.”

Parkes opened his mouth as if about to reply, but everyone was distracted by the sound of a powerful engine turning on. Jaguar had regained consciousness and started up the Techno-Carrier to make his escape. Ocelot was quick to assign duties, “Clifford, secure Parkes and get him under custody. This fight is my own!”

Clifford grabbed Parkes and slung him around his shoulder, “Wait, you’re going to try doing something to that nightmare by yourself?! Have you totally lost your mind?! Oh, look who I’m speaking to… Crazy Zick.” Ocelot ignored Clifford as the Techno-Carrier folded out a grenade launcher from its carapace and blasted it at the nearest wall. She took another incredible leap into the air and on top of the roof of the armored truck, clinging for dear life as it took off at high speeds into the streets of Fuopolis.

The Techno-Carrier tore through street after street, block after block, leaving only terror in its wake. The shells of civilian vehicles simply crumpled and crashed against its metallic hide, while it sprayed grenades at the sidewalk and the road ahead to clear the path of obstacles. Ocelot’s muscles strained to their limit, she forced her biceps to pull her against the g-forces and let off several shots from her handgun into the windshield, to no avail. The glass was completely bulletproof, just like the rest of it.

In a last desperate gamble, she removed her jacket and threw it against the windshield as the Techno-Carrier accelerated ever faster. Jaguar at the wheel was blinded as inertia held the jacket against the windshield, blinding him just long enough to startle him into a reflexive decision to brake. Unfortunately, this very decision threw Ocelot from the roof of the Techno-Carrier and against the pavement of a 4-way intersection, near some traffic lights, mailboxes, and newspaper dispensers stationed on the curb.

“Now I’ve got you, you little runt,” Jaguar muttered to himself from inside his cockpit. Genuinely hurting, scraped and bleeding up and down her arms and legs, Ocelot was forced by her adrenaline rush back onto her feet, “While there’s still a score to settle… I’m not letting you get away. I’m not!” The Techno-Carrier emitted a small pellet, no larger than a grape, at Ocelot’s location. Just that instant, or maybe a fraction of a second prior to then, she sprinted out of the way. The pellet struck a section of an old factory building behind her, causing a rain of metal scrap, bricks, and random debris.

The grenade launcher affixed to the flank of the Techno-Carrier smoothly pursued its target, as on-board computers showed Jaguar a heads-up display of a reticle following his one-time partner. “That thing could kill me in nothing flat! I’m not getting another shot at this to make it count!,” Ocelot thought to herself. She acted quickly to avoid being a sitting duck, using a traffic light as a pole to swing from horizontally and get momentum, platforming onto a mailbox, and finally doing a somersault to get close to where a loose brick lay, near the site where the first launched mini-grenade hit.

In the mind’s eye of the Ocelot, the entire world slowed down to a trawl once again. She hyperfocused, not on the grenade launcher, but on the Jaguar’s twitching finger near the trigger to fire the grenade launcher from inside. Almost faster than the eye could see, Ocelot waited until Jaguar’s finger appeared that it were about to decisively contact the trigger, then in one graceful movement picked up the brick, visualized the arc of the brick’s motion if thrown with a certain amount of force, estimated the exact amount of force and the angle at which to throw it to create the exact elastic collision required, estimated the time-delay between hitting the trigger and the launching of the explosive pellet, and executed her plan in actuality.

In a few seconds, the brick was tossed, striking the grenade launcher and causing it to pivot medially, towards the very cockpit of the Techno-Carrier that Jaguar occupied. At the same time, Jaguar contacted the trigger before he could process what had happened. The very next second, Jaguar realized what had happened, but the second after that, nothing more could be said, or done. The grenade blew apart the cockpit of the Techno-Carrier, rendering the sleek war machine unusable.

“I… I did it, Ifedayo… Ocelot… teacher… father… You’ve finally been… avenged.”

Those were the last thoughts to race through Bianca Drakos’ mind as she collapsed in the middle of the street from exhaustion… covered in blood, dirt, and sweat. That, but before the darkness could retake her, she could swear she heard out a reply in another voice… a man’s voice… a familiar voice… her surrogate father’s voice.

“Dearest Bianca… I tried to tell you… Tell you what was my true will. But you just wouldn’t listen, would you? It makes no difference now. Sleep well for now, my child, but Axon above will not accept you into heaven yet. You still have work to do in this world, my little Lynx. For after all, Ocelot is your name now.”

Magnifico, Ridnez

March 28, 2002, 7:13 PM

“According to most recent reports from the front line, the Amalfi Brigades have made significant progress against the initiative of the armed forces-in-rebellion, whose joint chiefs of staff last month issued a public statement of support for the Zendirist rebellion in Il Sole. The Ground Force is supposedly in a state of retreat from Scaglione and Nimbus Nuvoloso, while the National Emergency Council have disclosed a projected estimate that Andreas Bombardone and Zendirist party leadership will be under captivity by the end of the year.”

The anchor read passionately off the teleprompter, his words broadcast to just every TV screen in the northern half of Ridnez, “Meanwhile, until this crisis is resolved, the Sons of Amalfi cry out to every free citizen of the Republic… We cry out for everyone to do their part in bringing this troubling episode in Ridnezite history to a satisfactory close! Every man, women, and child… whether you donate food, clothing, and supplies, join our media and communications corps, lend the work of your hands to the munitions factories, or volunteer to join the Amalfi Brigades in a combat or support role… has a responsibility to help rescue the heritage of civil and constitutional liberty from which we all prosper!”

The rain came down hard, and the night was young. A 6-year-old girl in a moth-eaten hoodie barely registered being wet as she peered through the storefront window at one such TV screen. Few people were out on the streets. Then the girl detected the approach of footsteps. Looking around, she noticed an older man in an overcoat, “Hey, little one, are you lost? You know the National Emergency Council doesn’t want anyone out on the streets after dark. These are uncertain times, and being alone by yourself in the big city can be scary for a young girl.”

The girl gazed upwards, her eyes virtually glazed over. “I have no one to be with, mister. There’s no one… left to look after me.” The images that would be eternally burned into her mind came to the fore again: A woman’s body swinging from a noose and a man’s head blasted to pieces. “My mommy… and daddy… aren’t coming back to me. Bad things happened… Very… bad things.” The tenor of the girl’s voice was mousy and frightened, almost sounding as if on the brink of tears. But the girl’s visage betrayed no such weakness; there was something inside filled with grim determination. Young though she may have been, there was no mistaking she would never be a child again.

The old man looked upon the girl with pity, “I… I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say… Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?” The girl thought to herself for a moment, eyes flashing left and right, “I… Mister, could you take me someplace warm… Where there’s food? It’s cold out here… I’m so tired of being cold.” The old man kneeled and lifted the girl up into his arms, “My, my… Your poor thing… I have a townhouse not far from here. It’s not much, but it should do…”

The old man opened the door to his townhouse with a rusty key in his free hand, then let the girl down in a chair several times larger than her, handing her a blanket. He then moved from the living room to the kitchen and prepared two cups of hot tea, “You know, when I was your age, things weren’t so crazy as they are now. You could get your shoes shined for a mere soldo… The boys, they sold the neighborhood daily to all the men on their way to work… Girls, they would just gossip with one another about which boy they liked best or… whatever. But those would be girls a little older than you. The point is, even poor children could be sure their parents would look after them… Don’t know what this world’s coming to…”

The girl silently threw off the blanket in the living room and began exploring through various shelves and drawers, looking for anything which looked valuable and shoving it into her coat pockets. But she froze up for the better part of a minute when she realized what was on the television beaming into the elderly gentleman’s home, “More shocking developments have been reported from Il Sole as ‘psycho psychologist’ Professor Sergio Vitale has had his sentence commuted by the Zendirist party leadership in exchange for volunteering his sociopolitical insights to the insurrectionist cabal, self-described as the ‘New State’… This is the Sons of Amalfi Media System, bringing you the latest updates on the developing situation.”

But it wasn’t the mention or the face of Sergio Vitale that bothered the girl; rather, it was the video recording of the white-haired, hazel-eyed leader receiving Vitale’s Consine salute on film. The girl did not know the man’s name yet, only that he was at the center of the events on that night… the darkest night in her life thus far.

“You know, it took me a little while to piece it together… But little lady, you do look a bit…,” the old man’s train of thought trailed off as a news headline from a December 2001 edition of The Southeast Side Examiner caught his attention, just sitting on a stack of discarded newspapers on his coffee table: PRESIDENT AND FIRST SPOUSE LYNCHED – CAPITAL FALLS TO ISV REBELS.

And on the front page was none other than a photograph of the last President Ophelia Drakos and her family… her husband Bruno and her daughter Bianca. The resemblance to the young girl in the photo was unmistakable, other than the girl in the photo was smiling for the camera, while the girl in the present was sad and broken.

The old man hurriedly rushed out into the living room with both cups of tea, “You… little gir… By no chance, you could be the daughter of the…?!” But it was already too late. The TV remained on at a low volume, but cocktail stands, bedroom closets, and office desk drawers had all been picked through and picked clean of much everything of value. Gripped by surprise, the old man dropped both hot teas to the ground. The ceramic mugs shattered against the ground by his feet.

The entire living room and the abutting bedroom had been turned inside out, and the window was left open, letting moisture accrete against the aged wooden floorboards. “Hey… that little… that thief!,” the old man rushed to the windowsill to peek his head out into the rain. Looking left and right, he could see no trace of the girl through the deluge. The old man let out a sigh of resignation, “Everyone’s hurting, Giovanni… Everyone’s hurting.” The window shut closed.

7:45 PM

The girl walked down another nearly vacant city street, approaching a solitary cuboidal building guarded by two militiamen carrying assault rifles. Both wore yellow-and-green armbands, identifying them as reserves of the Amalfi Brigades, but probably former Ground Force.

One of the two noticed the child, “Hey kid, are you lost of something? Run on home to your mommy. It’s not safe on these streets at night.” The other militiaman nudged his partner, “Idiot, look at her… stuffed pockets and all. This is one of Adonis’ kids.” The first militiaman sized up the dull-looking girl, “Oh yeah… Adonis’ kids… Alright, little lady, you know where to drop the stuff.”

Inside, the building was stacked with boxes, each printed with a label – [i[Property of Petrakis Ziconean Imports, S.p.a.[/i] – but that was of no concern to the girl as she ascended a flight of stairs to an elevated maintenance walkway. A light shone from an office accessible from the walkway, and though no words could be made out, the silhouette of a man – ostensibly the warehouse supervisor – could be seen through the fogged-up glass.

“What do you mean, the Dellogolu family isn’t going to play ball? This is a lucrative new market we’re tapping into here! Why get in the game if you’re afraid of making money?!,” shouted the supervisor – Adonis – into a phone, “No, no, you tell Rafail Dellogolu that if he’s not game letting us expand into Corpala, that we’ll just go to the Idos Outfit and he can go suck a-“

The man heard a creak at the office door, and his eyes detected the girl’s presence, “…Nevermind, I’ll call back to discuss this later.” Adonis brusquely ended the phone call, “So, Bianca, Bianca, what have you brought for us today?”

“Not many people out on the streets to steal from… the rain and the men with guns making everyone stay indoors… There was an old man though, not rich but he had some stuff I thought you might like,” Bianca explained. She emptied out her pockets, dumping the man’s cellphone, wallet, watch, a picture frame, and some loose jewelry.

Adonis immediately started rummaging through and assessing his ill-gotten gains, “Watch looks expensive, has diamonds embedded… Will probably fetch a higher price if we sell watch and diamonds separately… Cellphone, the guy’ll probably report it to his carrier… Jewelry, must belong to the man’s wife… You said he was old?”

Bianca nodded silently. Adonis continued, “Make that dead wife, some of it looks 14-karat, don’t know if these pearls are fake or not yet…”

He then got to the picture frame, containing a black-and-white photo of the man and said wife when both were much younger, “…What the f*ck is this?!”

The crass criminal blithely tossed the picture frame at the door, barely missing Bianca and cracking the glass overlaying the photo. Bianca said nothing. Adonis then helped himself to the foreign currencies in the old man’s wallet… a few Raj-issued pounds and some Tertans… then tossed the rest onto the floor.

Bianca wordlessly approached the wallet and stared at it for a couple moments in curiosity. Without even turning to look, Adonis lit up a cigarette and explained, “What, you thinking about why I didn’t take the credit cards and loose florins? Wake up, kid, the country is goin’ to hell in a handbasket. Ridnezite florin’s next to worthless now, and the banks are all sunk anyway… financially underwater… They won’t be puttin’ any card charges on credit for you… Then again, what do you know about anything? You’re just a stupid kid.”

“Did I… not do good today? I mean it, Mr. Adonis, I tried my best! Please don’t throw me out! I don’t want to go back to living on my own… by myself. Hiding in the dumpster… eating bugs… living next to rats…,” Bianca swore.

Adonis took the cigarette from his lips and exhaled a cloud of smoke, “Nah, kid, it ain’t your fault. So long as Ridnez is under ‘national emergency,’ business is going to be dry. But still…”

He ran his hand through the gold necklaces on his desk and let them pass between his fingers like sand, “I was talking on the phone a few minutes earlier to an… associate back in the old country… The Duke of Megendos… about a business venture between Usea and Kanten. One that would help you to help us to keep up our profit margins.”

Adonis leaned over and grabbed Bianca’s face, “The Duke is a very wealthy man, Bianca… Do this for me… for him… and you’ll never starve again.”

Nimbus Nuvoloso, Ridnez

August 9, 2002, 11:43 AM

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press, His Excellency, the Mayor-Protector, is ready to take your questions.”

As an aide stepped outside onto the steps of city hall to make that announcement, a buzz of activity consumed the crowd of assembled journalists and concerned citizens who had been swarming around the building for hours in anticipation of the press conference. After a couple of seconds, a well-dressed older gentlemen stepped out of the building and took the podium, “Good evening, my name – as you all know – is Francesco Straccali. I have served this Republic nearly all my life with honesty and passion, and natives of this historic city should be very familiar with the positive impact my role has taken during these past years of unrest.”

“Mayor-Protector Straccali, do you have any updates on the situation of the continuing National Emergency? There are rumors that a change in strategy of the Zendirist air force has led to considerable losses these past few days,” asked a 26-year-old Beatrice Caruso.

Straccali’s reply was brusque, “No comment.” Caruso followed up with another question, “What about allegations that the National Emergency Council have been forced to make concessions to the Ziconean mafia and the government of East Heisen in order to acquire needed materiel and manpower to defeat the Zendirist rebellion?”

Straccali answered again, even more bitterly, “…No comment.” Beatrice got in a third rapid-fire question, “Speaking about the Zendirist rebellion, is it true that the rebel leader Andreas Bombardone only got his start because of economic policies enacted during your time as President of the Repub-?”

A random bystander in the crowd confronted Beatrice, “Hey, what the hell kind of questions are these? Are you some kind of Zendy-sympathizer or something?”

“N-no… But the people have a right to the truth no matter how inconvenient the-!,” Beatrice objected. She was cut off again.

“The problem with that is you gotta ask, ‘Whose truth?’ Those guys in Il Sole are parading about, talking about ‘the truth’ this and ‘justice’ that, but you know what they mean by that? You know what they’re doing to Heisenians down there?!,” shouted the angry civilian.

Beatrice now found that she was getting cut off at every instant, “I-I don’t…”

“My name is Levi Garthwaite! I served in the Fourth and Fifth Ridnez-Shah Wars, you know that? I got a family… a teenage daughter… And I don’t even know if we’ll have a home to live in this time next year, or the shirts on our backs! Because we’re Heisenians! No other reason than we’re Heisenians, so Bombardone says we gotta go!,” the bystander continued.

Amid the hostile argumentation and the clamor of the rest of the media, Beatrice found herself being drowned out. Even Straccali was being overwhelmed, “Please, please all of you… Remain calm and I’ll get to each and every one of you in due-!”

Finally, Beatrice beat out the myriad of other voices in the crowd, “Look, believe me, mister, I’m sorry! I am truly, truly sorry, but that doesn’t change the fact that, whatever the original intentions, this Republic has become diseased… It’s become the plaything for corporations, militarists, influence-peddlers, and gangsters! I believe that the light of truth can only harm those who deserve to be burned by it… and that it is never a bad idea to question your leaders unless one day you want to be led off a cliff!”

Levi counterargued, “Lady, I don’t care how ‘diseased’ you think the government is! If you knock down the current order of things, then we are all going to go with it, y’understand me? People have got to believe in something! If people can’t believe in the Republic anymore, or the Constitution, then they can only believe in Bombardone and his mob of freaks! Then it will all be over! So I will not stand here and just let you make these innuendos about the last line of defense we as a nation might have against-!”

As the press conference slowly escalated into the beginning of a riot, another figure stood on the roof of a medium-sized building a block or so away from city hall, humming to himself to get his nerves under control. He slowly loaded a rocket into an old-fashioned model of bazooka and took aim at the podium where Straccali was standing. While the would-be terrorist was getting his shot lined up, he heard the howl of the air currents passing his ears.

Then he picked up a distinct noise, a high-pitched whistle coming from behind him. Turning by instinct to detect the source of the sound, the terrorist found himself looking down the barrel of a handgun. Letting out a slight gasp, the terrorist was grabbed by the collar and his face virtually pressed up against the barrel. The individual threatening him had a dark complexion, clearly identifying him as being descended from among natives of Southwestern Usea. He wore a mostly gray Kevlar paramilitary uniform, was entirely bald, and had earrings – the type which registered as “tribal” as opposed to “nonconformist.” But if his appearance didn’t confirm his origins, his accent of speaking Ridnezite certainly did, “Please, squirm a little more… Just give me an excuse.”

12:05 PM

A group of four impatient men remained parked out in a van a couple blocks away from city hall. They waited in a lot by the Imperial Museum of Nuvoloso, the city’s main landmark for academic tourism.

“Shouldn’t we have gotten the signal by now?,” one of the four asked, “If not the signal, then at least there should have been a wave of panicking morons coming over by this way, but… nothing.” The individual at the wheel squinted his eyes at the road ahead of him, “Something’s gone wrong… I can sense it. Either Luigi has been captured… or he’s sold us out.”

A loud thud rocked the van, jolting the four terrorists into action. As they came outside, they saw their ally Luigi, trussed up and gagged, and apparently in a state of mild shock from having been dropped from a fair height. Then they saw the one responsible, balanced perfectly on the rail of a fire escape despite his weight. “I know it’s a cliché, but we can do this the easy way or the hard way… Your choice,” spoke the imposing South Usean.

The response came in the form of drawn firearms, and without another sentence passed between them, the terrorists began to shoot away at the fire escape, causing it to collapse into the street in a matter of seconds… But they were still too slow on the draw. The mercenary leaped into the air with impossible agility, landing on the neck of one of the terrorists, “One down.” Springboarding from the crushed windpipe of the first downed terrorist, the merc did a flip and a roll out of the line of his comrades’ fire, coming up dual-wielding. Accuracy was no issue for the Usean; with only a few simultaneous shots let off, he blew a hole straight through the eye socket of one terrorist and clipped through the shoulder of another, rendering it limp and useless. “Two down,” the merc wryly noted.

Unable to hold his weapon in his dominant hand, the third terrorist attempted to flee, only to be suddenly crippled by a sniper’s bullet, tearing through his patellar tendon. The merc faced the sniper – his partner – and gave a thumbs-up sign, which was returned by the sniper on the rooftop. “I wonder where the last little worm has crawled off to,” the Usean wondered aloud. Then he saw a street-sign for a family restaurant not far from the location of the fracas and entered on a hunch. The hunch paid off.

“Alright, I don’t know who you are, or what you’re doing defending these ‘Sons of Amalfi’ whores… But if you don’t back off, this lady here gets it,” threatened the fourth and last terrorist left standing. He was hiding behind a 60-something woman, obviously the proprietor of the establishment.

The Usean stepped forth with nothing but steadiness in his calculated demeanor, “And what makes you think, exactly, that I would care about what happens to this restauranteur… if indeed I was working for such… ‘whores’… as you so eloquently put it.”

“B-back off, man, I swear I’ll do it,” the desperate gunman asserted.

“Then by all means,” invited the merc, “But do not expect that you will be able to leave this place alive after you have satisfied your taste for blood.”

The would-be terrorist audibly gulped, as heavy perspiration coursed down his face.

The merc took another step forward, unhesitatingly.

“You son of a b*tch… You bluffed him into surrendering!,” remarked the merc’s sniper friend, now standing at street level.

“I never bluff, Jaguar,” the Usean merc stated, “I meant everything I said… If the hostile took the woman’s head, I would have taken the hostile’s, as is my duty… But I am not obligated by contract or tradition to allow myself to be distracted by the lives of civilians caught in the middle… The Ocelot has a reputation to uphold.” Ocelot led the final terrorist from the storefront, hands behind his back.

Jaguar brushed Ocelot’s explanation off, “Yeah, well maybe you ‘never bluff’ like I ‘never miss’… I was aiming for this sucker’s head, but some pigeon or something got in the way and made me mess up the shot.” Jaguar pointed to the terrorist that he crippled with his sniper rifle, who was blubbering and trying to claw his way across the tarmac.

Ocelot shoved the fourth, captive terrorist in Jaguar’s general direction, setting him up to be knocked out by Jaguar’s haymaker. Meanwhile, Ocelot descended upon the crippled terrorist and stepped on his throat, “It’s fortunate for you that Jaguar missed. Jungle cats… predators… kill out of necessity, not malice. You are no threat to us anymore, so I will allow you to live… for now.” Ocelot rolled the disabled terrorist onto his back and kicked him in the face with enough force to knock loose several teeth.

4:39 PM

“So you’re saying Bombardone sent them to cause a riot in Nimbus Nuvoloso…? To eliminate me and flip the city over to Zendy control?”

Straccali met with Ocelot behind closed doors in the mayor-protector’s office, trying to suss out a reasonable explanation for the presence and intentions of the five terrorists.

Ocelot went through the details, “Not quite, Mr. Straccali. Interrogation of the surviving suspects seems to indicate that the plan was not to hit city hall with a truly dangerous explosive projectile at all… Rather, a hollowed-out anti-tank missile – an obsolete model designed back in the Second Ridnez-Shah War – was supposed to detonate above the assembled reporters and spectators… but instead of releasing an incendiary charge, propaganda leaflets were to be dropped over the area in support of the Zendirist rebellion. It was expected for the missile to panic the crowd into a disorderly area evacuation, but it seems their plan was to intercept your car with their van and assassinate you with small arms fire amid the chaos.”

“Well, thank goodness that the friends of the Republic sent such a skilled counterespionage man to shut that down before it began, huh?,” Straccali reassured through an insincere smile, “Are you sure there’s nothing I – or my secretary Ms. Rosenwald – can get you while you’re here? I am in your debt after all!”

Ocelot clasped his hands together and leaned forward in his chair facing Straccali, “Now that you mention it, there is something that you could do for me…”

Straccali leaned back into his own chair, his politician’s smile still plastered on his face, and began twiddling with a pencil on his desk, “Well then, Mister… Olatunji? I hope I pronounced that correctly… Your wish is my command.”

“I just so happened to avail myself of the propaganda materials that the terrorists were going to distribute to the crowd in their own… rather loud way. The leaflets managed to contain some rather outrageous claims… But I bring it up because I was more struck by how impressive the documentation was. You know, I did not think you could condense so much persuasive information into such a small format… It makes me wonder why legal cases in ‘civilized’ North Usea always require so much damned paperwork!,” Ocelot went on.

Straccali’s false smile disappeared, replaced by a stern expression.

“That man Bombardone granted an amnesty a few months ago… Sergio Vitale… did the research for them, based on information from the government archives. Allegations that your office… and those of the other mayor-protectors on the National Emergency Council… have sold oil and mineral exploration rights to multinational corporations… stationed in West Heisen and East Heisen… Shah and Merconia… In exchange for donations funneled through political action committees… That you and your allies systematically abused eminent, tax credit schemes, even antitrust law, in order to protect these ‘special interests’…,” Ocelot elaborated.

Straccali calmly replied, “And why does the truth matter to you anyway… At least with t*ts-on-legs earlier, it’s her job, so I understand… But have you forgotten just who’s paying you here? Do you even remember what your profession is? You’re a mercenary… a soldier-of-fortune… Key word being ’fortune’…”

Ocelot remained in his intense state of mind, “I want to know if this man Bombardone speaks true about you… If I’ve been truly serving the cause of men with no honor…”

Straccali stood up out of his chair and spun the globe on his desk, “Oh, wise up… Honor! These are modern times, pal… And this is a democracy… At least it is for those who can buy their way into the system. And Andreas Bombardone… He had it made for a good few years… Hit the anti-war and environmentalist shtick while it was still hot. But then he washed out so now he’s onto the next hot thing… Either way, ‘honor’ is just a load of crap that no one believes in anymore… What the people really want is to be told they’ve done a great thing for just getting up in the morning! There’s your ‘honor’…!”

“I… see! And Prime Minister Kirkbride agrees, I imagine?,” inquired Ocelot.

Straccali looked out his window over the city hall lawn, “How the hell do I know what East Heisen thinks? They’re paying you! You ask them! In any case, you’re taking up too much time out of my busy schedule, so…”

“Everything is clear to me now… Thank you for your time, Mr. Straccali,” Ocelot said with utmost politeness.

Magnifico, Ridnez

September 15, 2002, 8:32 PM

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kirkbride, but I fear that my entire mission these past few months in Ridnez has been an exercise in futility… I have never failed in an operation before… In keeping with my contractual agreement with your government, I am fully prepared to return your money with interest.”

Ocelot stood on the roof of the Magnifico Customs Bureau, overlooking the harbor. He was on his smartphone, speaking to his client.

“Don’t fret, Mr. Obajudwi,” spoke Rufus Kirkbride, in between the grunts of chewing noises coming through the receiver, “You’ve done good work for us as far as the Republic of East Heisen is concerned! You see… munch munch… We didn’t really expect for the ‘Sons of Whatsisname’ to amount to much in the end?”

“My legal name – the name I was born with – is Olatunji, Mr. Kirkbride… Ifedayo Olatunji… A traditional name of the Mawungi people of Marundia… But the name I was born with means nothing to anyone now… I insist you call me by my warrior name: Ocelot,” the Usean merc corrected, “Regardless, if the East Heisenian government did not expect my intervention to make a difference, then why did you-?”

“Isn’t it plain to see? East Heisen is a democratic parliamentary republic, which means it has elections every now and then… I was elected on the ticket of the East Heisen Labor Party, which means that I’m expected to ‘care about people’… people from other countries… people in general… you get the idea?,” Kirkbride clarified over the phone.

“A… concept begins to clearly emerge… So you did not care whether the Sons of Amalfi won or lost… lived or died… You only wanted to give the impression that you did… for political gain,” Ocelot summarized, concealing his contempt rather well underneath his practiced appearance of professional disinterestedness.

Kirkbride humored the mercenary, “Well, now that’s not entirely true… I will admit that several rather powerful donors and institutions wanted this whole uprising thing to last long enough to evacuate certain assets from the country… Industrial equipment, natural resources, human capital, that sort of thing… Now it will hardly make a difference. By the time that the Ridnezite military establishes presence of the Bombardone government in the north, extraction of the most valuable materials should already have concluded… Hey wait, what do you care anyway?”

“Mere, idle curiosity, Mr. Kirkbride… Thank you for your time,” Ocelot stated. He then hung up on the PM.

Ocelot then fell backwards over the edge of the skyscraper, letting himself be buffeted by the air currents for several seconds. Finally, he engaged his parachute, taking himself across a strip of warehouses by the bay. As he drew closer to his destination, Ocelot could not help but reflect on the last conversation he had with Jaguar.

At the time, they were in their temporary headquarters, set up in a derelict Oberto shipyard.

“So, East Heisen’s pulling the curtain over on this farce… yet they’re happy to wire the money to our bank account in New Ponpa just the same… Please, tell me why we should care about what dubious claims might have been made by the Zendies in a sabotaged propaganda drop?,” Jaguar demanded.

“There was more than just what I confronted Straccali about… Worse. I breached the least of the list of crimes that were alleged to see how Straccali would react… I was hoping that this was as surface appearances would imply: The fighters for democracy and humanity, against the villains who seek to end civilization. But things are never that simple… The Mowungi tribe learned that bitter lesson all too well in Marundia 20 years ago…,” Ocelot reminisced.

“But… that still doesn’t explain. So trading political favors for patronage? That’s basically the bread and butter of the democratic system. If people elect representatives to make policy, then it’s in their interest to sweeten the deal to get better ‘representation’… And nothing’s sweeter in this world than cold-hard cash! You taught me that! Why else are we in this line of work?,” Jaguar objected.

“It is a good thing to have wealth… It eases the pain of material want and opens new opportunities… That is what I had hoped to teach you. But while wealth is good, honor is more important… I said there were worse crimes included in the Zendirists’ allegations… It is my honor to rectify my mistake of attaching myself to this lost cause. The Republic of Ridnez will fall because it is rotten to the core… If it was not originally, it is now… Andreas Bombardone is an evil man, to be sure… But I cannot stop him. The people have sided with him, and there is no standing in the way of the people’s will… All I can do… is save some of the innocents. That is all.”

Ocelot landed a few blocks away from the Petrakis Ziconean Imports storage facility. The same two corrupt militiamen were stationed outside the front. Ocelot decided to take the direct approach.

8:55 PM

Bianca Drakos stood in a row in Adonis’ office with several other children from all ethnicities across Avaris. The children came in both sexes and had a variable of age range… The one commonality was they were all scared out of their wits.

Adonis welcomed a gangly man with a long beard wearing a fur coat, “Duke Zografidis, here’s the selection you have to choose from… Feel free to try ‘em out before you decide to lay down any drachmas!”

The Duke leaned over, shifting his weight onto his gold-headed cane, and looked each child in the face with a horrifying grin. Finally, he stopped at Bianca, “Hmm… Yes, I do think I shall… Take my time if it’s all the same to you.

The two militia out front took aim and fired with their rifles, but Ocelot leaped above the line of fire at astonishing speed, unsheathed a combat knife, and slashed one of the gunmen’s throats. Before the other could respond, Ocelot buried the knife directly into his heart.

The Duke and Adonis took Bianca to a dirty closet inside the warehouse, tossing her atop a beaten-up mattress inside. Adonis offered paltry assurances, “Just remember, Bianca, if you make the Duke here happy, then you’ll have a brand new life in Zicona waiting for you!” The door slammed shut behind them, as the Duke let out a sickening chuckle.

Closer to the facility’s entrance, Ocelot encountered group after group of disorganized armed security… almost like they never believed anyone would interfere with this operation in all their time running it. Ocelot shot them down with a semiautomatic in each hand. His aim was impeccable; his trigger-finger was unhesitating.

“I know I didn’t quite let the old boy Adonis know about the details of my… er, proclivities… After all, a man’s got to keep some things private! But I do get off on getting a little… rough,” the Duke said. Meanwhile, he took out a solid wire made from some durable metal from his pocket. His intentions were obvious.

Ocelot slowly approached Adonis, who had come to investigate the commotion. “Hey, this is private property! What do you think you’re-?,” Adonis spewed out. He didn’t get any farther, as Ocelot put a bullet in his skull for his troubles.

In the closet, the Duke started to strangle Bianca with the wire, his sadistic grin stretching from ear to ear at the sight and sound of the child’s struggles. Just then, the door flew open; Ocelot had kicked it open. This provided Bianca the opening she needed. Without even thinking, she grabbed the wire from the Duke and wrapped it around the Duke’s neck. With a subtle twist, and without really even meaning it, Bianca slit the Duke’s jugular vein. Not a second later, the Duke’s blood gushed all over Bianca’s face and body. The child, unable to comprehend everything she just experienced, froze up in terror.

Aside from what she had almost endured, Bianca had been reminded by the experience of being covered in the Duke’s blood… of that day… Of her father’s head separating into chunks and splashing here as Del Tuono pulled the trigger against it. And of the words that would remain forever etched into her psyche… Del Tuono’s favorite poem: ”Justice, like lightning, ever should appear to few men’s ruin… But to all men’s fear. Of mortal justice, if thou scorn the rod… Believe and tremble, thou art judged of God.”

Ocelot also remained frozen in place, unable to believe what he had seen, and even more uncertain of how to approach the deeply traumatized girl in the room. After a few moments more, an attempt was made, “H-hello…? I’m not sure who you are… But I’m here to help… I promise on my honor. My name… my real name isn’t important… But call me Ocelot, why don’t you?”

In this hypersensitive state, afflicted by psychological shock, Bianca associated that word – ocelot – with a better memory… A memory of her mother… The very last memory she had of her mother alive. Ophelia Drakos tried to distract her daughter by drawing her attention to her stuffed animal Mr. Kitty, “Bianca, we’ve been over this… That’s not a kitty-cat. It’s an ocelot.” Good omen, coincidence, or both? How could it matter?

Bianca’s lip began to quiver, “M-m… My… My name… is Bianca… Drakos. Please… help me… Save me.” Impotent tears began to roll down the child’s face, “Please… save me from this place.”

Ocelot kneeled next to the girl and looked her in the eyes with an expression of sincerity… something all too rare in this country turned topsy-turvy… “I swear to you, Bianca. I will help you. I will provide you a new home. And I will teach you to be strong… So that one day you can stand up on your own two feet… With pride in your chest. Until that day, I will not promise you that there will never be problems… I will not promise you that we will always be free from want or fear… But I will promise you that we will work it out… together. How does that sound?”

Ocelot reached out with an open hand. Shaking, however unsteadily… Bianca accepted.

A new journey was begun that day… Though the world would take years to know it.

Fuopolis, Tertania

September 6, 2023, 1:15 AM

“I’m starting to think that life is just one long series of catastrophes… And when things start to begin looking up, that’s how you know you’re about due for the next mess to fall in your lap…”

An NIB agent, no older than his mid-30s, beheld a scene of damaged windows and building ledges, smashed hulks of vehicles on the road, and gaping holes In the pavement, “I mean, just what is wrong with this country lately? First it was the Bank, then that random attack on downtown Isonphis back in July… Then no more than two days later… two days later… the Arellis crash that blimp over in Stafford…”

Another NIB agent, significantly older, drops a spent cigarette on the asphalt and puts it out with his foot, “It’s not all just coincidence, Agent Woods… In fact, I don’t believe in coincidences. Don’t you recognize something familiar about that pile of scrap sitting in the middle of the intersection?” The older NIB agent pointed to the burned-out shell of the Novus Andromedae Techno-Carrier, “I’d bet Tertans to tea biscuits that this is the exact same model of military vehicle that those unknown terrorists in July used to overrun the business district… We’ll know for sure once we get this wreck off the road and have it checked over by the experts.”

Bianca’s body began to twitch and regain consciousness, “Urgh, Ocelot… I did… my best… Forgive me.”

“Did your best at what? Cause insurance premiums to spike?,” Woods ridiculed.

Ocelot struggled to lift her upper body off the tarmac and held her head in her hands, “Huh? This isn’t…! Wh-where am I?” Her entire body was covered in cuts, bruises, and scrapes, and any observer could tell it must have hurt badly to move.

Woods drew closer, “Yeah, I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t remember right after waking up… Just looking at the state of you, I’d say getting concussed is the least of your problems. Stay put until the paramedics can arrive.”

Ocelot shook her head and pressed her eyes closed in concentration, “…Tertania… Jaguar… The auction house… Clifford… Now I remember. Can’t believe that stupid stunt actually worked…” She slowly and carefully rose to her feet, still visibly disoriented by her experience. She looked over the wrecked Techno-Carrier, hoping to make out a body in the morass of charred and twisted metal, ”Can’t make anything out in what’s left of the cockpit. I don’t suppose I can count on being lucky enough to have taken him out for good… No, his reflexes are at least as good as mine. He must have found a way to escape… somehow. After all, we always used to back in the ‘good old days’… Ugh.”

“Hey, woah, woah! Take it easy! You’ll hurt yourself if you push any harder in your condition,” warned Woods. Supporting Ocelot’s weight, Woods continued, “By the way, I think it’s fair to tell you that you’re under arrest…”

Ocelot reacted with offense and confusion, “Under arrest…? I guess you haven’t been let in the loop by…? Oh yeah, I forgot… They wouldn’t have told you.”

The older NIB agent confronted Ocelot, “Forgot? No, I haven’t forgotten… If it weren’t for your physical injuries, I imagine that Woods would also recall you quite well…”

Ocelot opened her eyes, “Agent Colin Thornton… It has been quite a while, hasn’t it? While I have the opportunity, I might as well tell you. I’m… sorry about Agent Dale… about Janet Dixon… everyone who failed to evacuate the Bank in time. I’m sorry that I couldn’t stop Operation Steel Titan before it claimed their lives. And I’m sorry that I couldn’t tell you all this earlier… for whatever it might mean to you.”

“Wait, we know this person?!,” Woods asked his superior. Searching his memory, Woods placed Ocelot’s face, “Hey, wait a second! You were the suspected terrorist the whole Bureau was hunting down last December! At first you were just a murder suspect, but then we found those documents in your hotel room…!”

“See what I told you about coincidences, Agent Woods?,” Thornton remarked, “But she wasn’t really a terrorist… At least, she wasn’t with the terrorists who blew up the Bank building. In fact, if she weren’t just at the right place at the right time, I would have had no foreknowledge of the real plot, and none of us would have been able to evacuate before the building blew… You and I both owe this woman our lives.”

“Huh? We do? But we took her in on terrorism charges, and because she was determined to be a foreign national, the IAA claimed her as under their jurisdict- Oh, I’m an idiot…,” Woods realized.

“And speaking of which, this unfortunate incident is as of now being assumed under the DTI’s jurisdiction, thank you very much,” interrupted Craig Oakley, seemingly materializing out of thin air, “And with it, the NIB is being relieved of any and all responsibility for processing suspects and handling evidence relating to the case… We’ll take over from here, Thornton. Dismissed.”

“Oakley… So what, Haines couldn’t be bothered to snub me in person? He had to send his un-distinguished errand boy to insult me over long-distance?,” Thornton snarked.

“sigh… The cultivation of inter-service rivalries is very unprofessional, you know. Perhaps if the NIB were even marginally capable of doing their jobs, then thousands of Tertanian citizens wouldn’t be dead today because of Arelli fanatics, Ridnezite saboteurs, and who-knows-who-else, and President Lane wouldn’t have seen fit to inaugurate the DTI under IAA auspices to begin with!,” replied an acerbic Oakley.

“…That’s it, Woods, unhand the suspect. This disaster is now the problem of Haines’ team of organ grinder monkeys. We’re out of here,” stated Thornton, turning his back on the crime scene. Oakley looked Ocelot in the eyes, shrugged, and released her into Oakley’s custody. Within a few minutes’ time, the NIB agents piled into the car in which they arrived and cruised off into the night.

Oakley stared without comment at Ocelot’s bloodied form, betraying no hint of emotion. Ocelot met Oakley’s gaze with a certain palpable contempt, “What… what are you looking at?”

Oakley obliged, “You look like something the cat dragged in.” Ocelot groaned, “I’ve been through worse… How long was I out?”

Oakley checked his watch with a moment’s glance, “Around 25 minutes, assuming you lost consciousness shortly after the first reports of the Techno-Carrier started coming in.” The choice of words caught Ocelot’s attention, “Wait a second… Is that what this tactical assault vehicle was called? So you-! You knew what you were sending Clifford and me into from the beginning, didn’t you? You and Haines both!”

“No use denying it. We even knew the identity of the actor holding the underworld auction… Very little happens in this country that the DTI doesn’t catch wind of,” Oakley admitted. “You knew about him too?! Then why didn’t you tell me? Jaguar… You must have known how personally I’d take it! Like re-opening an old wound!,” Ocelot responded.

“Director Haines and I had our reasons… Why don’t we discuss this in the car?,” Oakley suggested. Oakley opened the door to a solid-black sedan and beckoned Ocelot inside. After both figures were seated in back, an unseen driver, separated from the passengers by an opaque screen, began to navigate the damaged roadways. Ocelot looked out the window, “No civilians on the sidewalk or in the way, it seems. The DTI sure knows how to establish a cordon around an area fast.”

Oakley leaned ever so slightly towards Ocelot, “That’s none of your concern right now. You wanted answers about Jaguar; now you’re getting them. Simply put, Jaguar is – and has been for some time – a freelance agent of the IAA. In the days before the DTI existed, we would use freelancers like him to get around the obstacle posed by the IAA’s strict operational parameters.”

“In other words, you and your higher-ups needed someone with no prior attachments to the agency… a proxy for when you needed things to be done on Tertanian soil but couldn’t be caught acting through your own agents,” Ocelot stated.

Oakley nodded silently. “Unfortunately, paying work from the IAA began to dry up after the previous administration fell in disgrace… But someone was more than happy to make continued use of Jaguar’s services. Someone in the know… someone with connections on the inside…,” Oakley explained. The dark-suited government man procured a number of photos from his pocket and showed it to Ocelot, “See anything familiar?”

As Ocelot flipped from one image to another, she recognized combat vehicles like the Techno-Carrier she barely survived, in addition to equally jet-black attack helicopters. Oakley provided commentary, “That was July 9 this year. A group of armed terrorists, no known affiliation or recognizable nationality, pop into existence and lead a rampage through downtown Isonphis, claiming the lives of hundreds. Right afterwards, Christopher Staveley, the former President of Tertania, took to the airwaves to blame President Lane’s administration for failing to preempt the attack. Then post-Stafford, President Lane pulled out all the stops on the counter-terrorism agenda… a program traditionally associated with Staveley’s Conservative Party, so Staveley did a total course-correct and now courts lefty votes… In short, the Labour and Conservative Parties have, on the face of it, switched positions.”

“Blatant opportunism is the order of the day in politics. But why bring it up? You said that work ‘dried up’ when the previous administration was voted out of power… That would have been this Staveley guy, right? Do you think Staveley out of power is still pulling Jaguar’s strings?,” Ocelot queried, raising her eyebrow. “Based on what evidence? Taking advantage of a public crisis? It’s like you said, that’s why politics was invented! No, it’s more than that, and you’ll see the relevance soon enough… We were able to determine the hardware was manufactured in Salcanceacy.”

Ocelot interjected, “The Kingdom of Salcanceacy is well-known to not care whom they sell arms to… Arms sales make up the bulk of Salcanceacian GDP, and it’s not uncommon for them to end up supplying both sides to a conflict for greater profit… I would know from experience.”

Oakley replied, “And because of the considerations that this trade in military hardware creates, the Salcanceacian government is, shall we say, less-than-willing to humor questions about their clients’ identities. In addition… something is changing in Kanten. There are whispers that Salcanceacian leadership wants to lead the nation to becoming a regional power in its own right… Foreign policy experts have speculated about whether this presents a danger to League interests in Usea…”

“But you have no idea to whom or to where an order of materiel matching this description went out…,” Ocelot concluded, “But why tell me all this now? Why should you expect I give a damn about intrigue around your country?”

“Well, you ‘gave enough of a damn’ to be in Tertania at the right time to get yourself caught, and Director Haines and I believed that your encounter with Jaguar would… reorient your immediate priorities somewhat,” Oakley confessed.

“Reoriented away from Ridnez? I might have a score to settle with Jaguar, but I didn’t spend the last 11 years chasing him around the world… My country comes first. It’s where I can do the most good… And for what it’s worth, I deeply resent how you’ve contrived to keep me from it,” Ocelot fumed.

Oakley smirked that smug smirk of his again, “I thought you might say something like that, so how about I get to the good part… Director Haines mentioned to you that the deed to the auction house was being held by a real estate developer headquartered in the Raj, but what we… neglected to bring up before sending you into the field… was that we did some checking with our sources and do have a lead… One that helps connect Jaguar to Staveley, on top of… Oh, wait til you hear, you’ll like this.”

Ocelot paused and maintained an unamused expression. Oakley continued, “The land developer goes by the name of ‘Roderick Fullerton’, an eccentric mover-and-shaker in the Raj who founded Buonasera Luxury Residences late last year. There are no records of his having existed prior to then other than the paperwork filed with the Raj Hall of Records… No known education, no known living relatives, no tax forms ever filed…”

An unimpressed Ocelot folded her arms, “You still haven’t gotten to the so-called ‘good part’…” Oakley continued, “Around the same time as Fullerton started buying up land in Monto, your ‘old acquaintance’ Dominic Oberto vanished from Magnifico on the pretext of arranging an official state visit to the Raj… Records of Governor Snow’s office show that this visit never happened. February 2023, another of your longstanding associates, one Rosa Bernardi, took the independent initiative to hack public unit accounts accessible to Oberto and his remaining cronies… The IAA is presently trying to manage that situation on the side, I might add… It’s led to something of an impasse between your movement and Oberto’s buddies over there.”

Ocelot’s eyes lit up, “Rosa…? You… Neither Haines nor you ever told me any of this while I was performing for you in that damn compound all those months. I could have taken care of all this… I could have-“ Oakley interrupted, “Driver, we’re at the place. Please stop here.” Oakley opened the door of the sedan and climbed out first, semi-mockingly bowing and gesturing while holding the door open.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that chivalry is dead, Oakley?,” Ocelot said as she exited the car, “Swell, so we’re back at the auction house… I still can’t piece together what you seem to be implying or leading up to? What do Rosa and Oberto have to do with Staveley and Fullerton?”

“Must have taken a mean concussion from that explosion … You used to be sharper than this, Ms. Drakos! Think for a second, think! Oberto disappears from Ridnez to visit the Raj, while Fullerton… a man with no past and no known public appearances… shows up out of nowhere the Raj, all the corporate paperwork filed and notarized. You told us yourself that it was obvious this place was a front!”

Ocelot paused for a moment, “…So you’re saying that you think Oberto is setting the venues for these sorts of black market auctions… and so is responsible for supplying military equipment to terrorists… to manipulate Tertanian public opinion in Staveley’s favor? That would explain some things… Even your people weren’t able to keep me from learning about Oberto’s state visit to Tertania… and the associated scandal when he went out of his way to embarrass the Labour government during his address to the National Assembly. From what you’ve said, that type of move would appear to benefit Staveley, so maybe the two are in cahoots. But at this point, it’s all just circumstantial. Nothing can be proven to a legal standard until you get Jaguar under wraps… Even then…”

Oakley strode up to the front door of the auction house with Ocelot, deftly avoiding DTI agents scouring the lawn for specimens of material evidence, “Hm, you’re getting closer to the agency’s working theory, but there’s still a wrinkle left. Without access to Magnifico’s bank accounts, Oberto is effectively broke. All his personal assets are tied up in Ridnezite business enterprises, and it would be a fairly simple matter to trace the cash flow if any was wired internationally. But instead what we found was that Dominic Oberto’s expenses – while still in his formal capacity as de facto Ridnezite head of state – are being underwritten by an NGO – The Ridnez-Heisenian Security Organization – and wouldn’t you guess it but that this Organization is also headquartered in the Raj... Y’know, like Buonasera Luxury Residences. Likewise, the Organization is represented by an eccentric recluse who hasn’t been photographed outside in more than a decade… You might be familiar with the name…”

Ocelot furrowed her brows, “All too familiar. Edgar Isidore Albertson, he founded the Organization. You must know that my predecessor, Jaguar, and I were all once in his employ… But when Ifedayo… when the original Ocelot decided to make the anti-Zendirist cause his own after all that time… communications ceased. My network is aware that the Organization continue to be active, but ever since ‘Ocelotists’ got nominated as public enemy #1 by Bombardone, they’ve assumed a lower profile…”

Oakley led Ocelot down a hallway to where the fight earlier that night took place, “We thought you might have some special insight to offer. Now tell me this…,” he said, procuring another photo from his pocket, taken at Isonphis International Airport, ”Is the man in this snapshot the Mr. Albertson you remember?”

Ocelot reacted to the image with shock, “What?! No, that’s… That’s self-styled ‘Captain’ Hugo Hunt… A renegade mercenary from NEI who now serves as Dominic Oberto’s muscle… He claimed to be Edgar Isidore Albertson?!” Oakley took the photo back and slid it in his pocket, “That he did… Had a Raj-issued passport, or expert facsimile thereof, made out to Mr. Albertson’s name, and came into the country with it on the exact same day that Oberto began his official visit in Tertania, albeit at a separate airport. It gets even more complicated. Even if we assume Oberto, Staveley, and Jaguar are all connected, that still leaves us with one major outstanding question: Who’s really backing Oberto? When we get the answer to that, we find the lynchpin of this whole conspiracy… Now I’ve got to warn you we’re heading back to the salesroom you smashed your way into earlier. Brace yourself because it’s not pretty.”

“The chaos in that salesroom is something I caused myself. What do you expect me to be… Axon above!,” Ocelot screamed, laying horrified eyes on the nauseating spectacle before her.

DTI Facility, Abinhill, Tertania

September 6, 2023, 10:49 AM

“Agent Clifford was found decapitated and disarticulated; his torso was impaled on a pike after the fact. A message was scrawled on the right supporting wall of the building in Azaaran characters, paraphrasing passages from the Zawasuli holy text,” Andrew Haines read off the report in his hand, “…in typical fashion, taken out of the original context… Who asked this guy for his opinion? And you, what do you have to say for yourself about this fiasco?!”

Ocelot sat across a desk from Haines, “What I have to say…? That you should’ve given me a full briefing on what Clifford and I were being tossed into, that’s what I have to ‘say’. You must have known… must have expected something would happen.”

“No, Ms. Drakos, I didn’t know. In fact, that was precisely why I did keep you in the dark: I needed to know whether you would overreact… let emotion dictate your actions instead of the mission parameters. Based on this abysmal outcome, I’m surprised you and your chums lived this long back in Ridnez, scurrying away from the Zendies,” accused Haines.

Ocelot retorted, “Don’t talk to me about the mission parameters. Jaguar and I recognized each other the second I set foot into that salesroom. Any hope of tackling this assignment by ‘infiltrating’ the auction was doomed to failure from the outset. And as I keep saying, you knew that… You must have.”

Haines ruminated for several moments, “…Just tell me again about who you saw at the auction. We have nothing to go by but you at this point.” Ocelot gripped the armrests of her chair and thrust forward from her seat, “How many times do I have to keep telling you?! There were no Arellis at the auction! None! Nada! Zilch! But there was one party to the auction who survived the shootout and was, according to your people, nowhere to be seen upon their arrival… Matthew… Parkes. No one else could have done this in such a narrow window of time!”

“We’ve been searching for Parkes for months, since he emerged as a suspect of interest in what the Ridnezite MultiStrat Bureau evidently called ‘Operation Steel Titan’… And we know he’s linked to the Arellis from photocopies of the MultiStrat protocols we picked up from that hotel room. The man was funding Farokhist interest groups to lobby the Tertanian National Assembly even before Farokh took power! The thing I can’t get my head around is how this central banker in a business suit managed to eviscerate Clifford and get clean away in less than 30 minutes! Nothing in the man’s background suggests anything like…,” Haines protested.

“Look, something big… big, strange, and most of all, bad… is going down on the streets of Tertania. And while I may not have figured it out until just today, it’s going to be intimately connected to the fate of Ridnez… my home. Parkes is in the pocket of the Zendies, and Oberto… Staveley… whoever was behind that auction… was about to supply them cutting-edge weaponry. None of it makes any sense right now! But while I might not have all the answers, I could fish some out if you just give me a name… some freedom to work and a name… I don’t believe you’ve told me everything you have on the developing sitch; you must be able to give me something to use…,” Ocelot thrust her fists against Haines’ desk.

Unmoved by the display, Haines sat back in his chair and folded his hands, “…no. Axon, no… You fail to appreciate your relationship to the agency. You are, from here on, now and forever, an asset… an asset the agency has at complete liberty to position or deploy as befits the goals of Tertania. We aren’t partners. We aren’t allies. You are only useful to Tertania, so long as you’re kept on a short leash. Now get out of here.”

Ocelot squinted contemptuously at Haines, as if looks could kill, then turned and left the office, “Fine, have it your way…” She let the room slam behind her and murmured under her breath, “…for now.”

September 12, 2023, 11:15 AM

“When the Great Ancients return, all the heretics of this world will be purged! Flayed alive and made to dance on coal for 1000 eternities! Bwa-ha-ha-ha!”

A fist slammed against a plexiglass screen with all the force and power of madness behind it. On the other side, Bianca Drakos didn’t even flinch, as the glass absorbed the impact of the blow, just as it had the last several dozen punches thrown at it from the occupant of the cell, sole survivor of the incident in Fuopolis days ago. “The City of Thorns reveals the way to other planes! Other lands with beauty and riches untold, not despoiled like the festering and rotting world of Avaris! The Esoteric Order will find the city, find the way to a million paths to salvation! Such a shame you sinners won’t be around to see it! Burn, burn, burn, die, die die…,” the prisoner rambled on.

Ocelot simply observed with a mixture of pity and frustration, though her mind was clearly also on other topics than the fringe cult of Al’Haqiqa. Craig Oakley came up behind her, without her initially noticing, “Yep, he’s a sick puppy alright… Can’t ID him, there are no facial matches in any public database and his fingerprints have been singed off. All we can tell is he’s a probable Talgerrian national. Can’t deport him though, since the South Usean epidemic is still ongoing. I dunno, in the end, we’ll likely decide to just lose him in a psychiatric hospital and keep him sedated the rest of his life.”

Ocelot didn’t expect the intrusion, but wasn’t startled by it either. “Hm-hm,” she simply replied, “So why have you come to disturb my reverie, Agent Oakley? Could it be that Haines has more b*tch work that none of the real field agents could be bothered with?”

“Not exactly,” replied Oakley, “You have to understand that Andrew Haines is not a man accustomed to failure, much less losing agents – bright-eyed Tertanian boys -- in the field… I don’t know exactly what he told you the morning after Fuopolis that’s so soured your mood, but you just have to accept that’s how he is.”

“So you’re saying Haines is parochial and attaches different weight to the lives of different classes of operatives… Like I didn’t already know that?,” Ocelot snubbed.

“Well, let’s look at things another way. An organization invested with so much responsibility as the IAA can’t afford to let unknown quantities complicate strategy. For instance, I’ve noticed that you healed… rather nicely from your bruises and scars last week. One might say your recuperative abilities exceed the expected human capabilities…,” Oakley discussed, “And you know what? The same can be said for him…” He pointed to the Al’Haqiqa Shayatin assassin behind the plexiglass screen, still slamming his fists bloody against it.

Ocelot glanced momentarily at the Shayatin and turned back to Oakley, “What can I say? I guess I must live right.” Oakley scoffed, “More likely… considering the labwork that came back on the both of you… you’ve both been exposed to similar cocktails of performance-enhancing drugs. Not anabolic steroids or anything like that; some really exotic sh*t. Sadly, the stuff he got pumped with has left him permanently deranged… or at least that’s what the doctors say, if I understood correctly.”

“Why are you telling me this?,” Ocelot asked, “I have my secrets. You have yours. I may be your ‘guest’ but Haines made very clear I am not your friend.” Oakley leaned in more closely, “See, that’s the issue with Director Haines that I was dancing around before. He’s in a tough position; it’s too difficult to trust. But in so doing, I personally believe he’s squandering a potentially very valuable resource… A resource to both my country and yours.”

Ocelot’s stern demeanor began to show up cracks. She looked behind her and then at the corners of the ceiling where security cameras were placed. To her surprise, all were turned off at the moment. “Does… Does Haines know you’re here?,” Ocelot questioned. Oakley lowered his voice, “Matthew Parkes’ current residence. 2456 Serenity Blvd, Isrens. Electronic security devices in this wing of the complex have been turned off and their monitors hacked to play looped footage. I can cover up your disappearance until noon tomorrow.”

“But, wait…! Why are you doing this?,” Ocelot demanded.

Oakley replied, “I confess to having… fibbed earlier about not overhearing your conversation with the Director last week. Director Haines said that you will never be an ally of Tertania, that your cause and Tertania’s interest have nothing alike. I… disagree. I believe in taking risks and in asking for forgiveness before permission. And most of all, I believe that we haven’t even begun to get a sense of your true potential, Ms. Drakos. All it requires is that we… put a little more faith in each other. Does that answer your question?”

Without another word, Ocelot silently nodded and went on her way.

Isrens, Tertania

September 12, 2023, 11:15 AM

“This damned apartment is getting to me! Hearing scratches at night… on the floor… just cockroaches. Rapping on the window… Oh, it’s just a tree branch. But I know… I just know that one day it’ll be them.”

A loud knocking startles a 30-something man with mussed brown hair from his fitful sleep. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming. I’m coming!,” the rowdy tenant exclaimed. The door swung open, and the unkempt man – still in pajamas – came face-to-face with his landlady, a short Tienese woman with a temper, “Mr. Matthews, you’re over a week late on rent! This isn’t a charity, you know!” The man nervously fumbled his words, “Oh, yeah! I can get… Just hold on…” The Tienese woman waited at the door as the man stumbled about inside the room. After a couple seconds, the tenant re-appeared with his wallet in hand, “So… how much do I owe you?”

Unknown location

October 2022

“Please state again how the ‘interests’ you claim to represent have any common cause with the Arelli people’s jihad.”

“It’s very simple. You have a problem with the IAA. We have a problem with the IAA. Pooling together resources is the surest way to organize reprisals within the heart of Tertania. Any questions?,“ stated Matthew Parkes.

Parkes stood before a panel of five interviewers draped in shadow. Behind them, illuminated by a light fixture, was the flag of the National Farokhist Arelli Zawazuli Party. The group of five whispered amongst themselves for several seconds. “We are given to the understanding that your employers possess certain… ideologies which do not concord with the teachings of Zawasul… and are hostile to the party’s desire to see a strong and ascendant Arelli National State,” spoke the chief representative of the panel.

The Farokhist threw a stack of pamphlets into the center of the darkened room, “According to these materials, the people you work for have no sympathy for the people of Arellistan or our history of exploitation by various powers. On the contrary, they see South Usea as a promised land that is theirs to claim at the cost of all else. If the goals of Andreas Bombardone had even a small chance of reaching fruition, Ridnez would be detested by our people far more than even the Tertanian imperialist dogs are at present! So I ask you again, why so audacious as to seek an audience with us? Knowing the spite your masters have for our people, and that which we return in kind.”

Parkes rubbed his chin and started to pace, “So maybe Bombardone was a lunatic… What of it? I didn’t agree to blow up that building for the Zendies because I sincerely bought their claims I would be one of the ‘sufficiently racially pure’ minority they’d let live in the long run. That’s just crazy talk. I did it because they would have picked someone on the Board of Directors to do the job either way, and I don’t think it’s a good idea to bet against the odds. So how about this? The Tertanian Army is already invading your country; the IAA has who-knows how many rats eating away at the foundations of your national defense. My employers are reaching out with a limited proposal – to work together towards the goal of crippling the Tertanian state. What the Zendies would do in some hypothetical scenario isn’t important… What matters is whether Mullah Farokh wants to bet against the odds that he can handle the League’s incursions… alone.”

The Farokhists muttered amongst themselves, then addressed Parkes, “We have decided that there is… interest in your proposal. But you can tell the atheistic curs you obey that this changes nothing as regards the official policy towards your ‘Temple of Umbra’… Once our mutual goal is assured, this partnership is defunct.”

Isrens, Tertania

September 12, 2023, 1:23 PM

Parkes stared blankly at the rapidly cooling breakfast on the table, lost in his recollections of how his life wound up this way.

“Is everything all right? Were the eggs done how you like?,” asked a young waitress. Parkes snapped out of his daydreaming, “Huh? Oh, uh, yes… Everything… was done to perfection.” Parkes then looked down at the plate again and began to scarf everything down, more out of self-duty than enjoyment. ”Can’t bungle the big trade happening tonight. In too deep for that, have to see it through to the end…”

As Parkes ate, he instinctively scanned the room for danger. Danger meant more than knives and guns; it meant any chance someone might recognize him from a photo in the paper or a news broadcast. Several rows of booths down from where he was seated, several teenagers were engaged taking selfies with their cell phones. The possibility of being caught in the background of the image, then identified later, made Parkes’ stomach sink.

“It was a wonderful meal, but I’m afraid I’m full now. Should this be sufficient to cover the bill?,” Parkes emptied his wallet of its meager paper money and dumped it on his table, high-tailing it out of the diner as soon as possible. Parkes anxiously shoved his way through the crowded sidewalk for several blocks, checking his watch repeatedly. At a certain intersection, a car scooted up next to the curb and a voice beckoned from the driver’s seat, “You’re 5 minutes late. We have a schedule to keep.” Parkes quickly occupied the passenger seat and strapped himself in, “Believe me, I haven’t forgotten… If the deal doesn’t go through tonight, it might never.”

From a rooftop away, a pair of sharp hazel eyes tracked Parkes’ every move through a pair of binoculars, like a predator on the trail of its prey, “Found you!”

September 25, 2023, 6:30 PM

“It’s time… Where they hell are they? Please, by Axon, don’t tell me they’re onto me… They haven’t caught up with me yet… Not when I’m so close!”

Matthew Parkes shifted about uncomfortably on a park bench beneath the shade of an oak tree, tightly holding a briefcase in one hand. An autumn sunset bathed the scenery in a warm orange glow, and the park itself was sparsely occupied. It would have been a pleasant evening if it were any other evening but this.

Parkes looked down at his watch again and stood up with the briefcase, scanning his environs. He spotted several men in dark suits spread out across the open expanse, including some navigating the paths behind the tree line. But these weren’t who he was afraid of. He looked towards one of the men seated on another park bench a few yards away, seemingly engrossed in the late edition of The Tertanian Times. The suited individual briefly gazed in Parkes’ direction and gave a subtle nod. With that, Parkes began to take a stroll down the winding gravel path in front of him.

The silence in the air that evening was almost haunting in its own way; only the sound of Parkes’ footsteps crunching fallen leaves on the walkway broke through the quiet. Parkes shot a glance towards the end of the trail, nearby a medium-sized fishing pond. A man wearing a sportsman’s cap stood by the water with his line cast out. ”Nerves, Matthew, just nerves… Make this drop and you can get the hell out of this country with all the money that’s waiting for you,” he thought tohimself.

As Parkes passed under tall trees dotting the side of the path, he felt a light breeze against his face, ”It’s getting chilly as the sun’s going down. Let’s get this over with, c’mon.” He then detected the shadow of… something… pass overhead, drawing his attention, ”…Just a squirrel or… or a bird or something. That’s all it was, some stupid animal.” Parkes passed by the man with the newspaper and gave him a silent nod. Seconds later, he again detected shifting of the shadows cast by the tree branches above, ”What the hell was that?!” Parkes quickened his steps, ”I know that I saw something this time! I know that I-“

Parkes’ train of thought came to a screeching halt; he made the mistake of looking behind him. The man on the bench was still seated there, but something was wrong. His newspaper was sprawled out over his lap, and his arms and legs seemed to have gone limp. Parkes then looked out over the verdant field in the distance; though it was several meters away, he could see inert black forms splayed across the grass. Suddenly, Parkes began to run, only to be stymied by another gust of wind, this one more sudden and more powerful than the mere breeze from before.

At the end of the trail, by the fishing pond, Parkes approached the lone fisherman, “Listen up, we don’t have much time. We’re being followed…” The fisherman calmly reeled in a larger minnow, “You were now, were you? Can’t you do anything right?” The fisherman’s cap, even up close, cast a shade over the upper half of the fisherman’s face, obscuring his eyes… A similar effect to that which might be had by wearing a visor. “Look, the stuff’s in here. I mean, what the hell, they knew where the place for the auction was going down too…!”

The fisherman unhooked the fish and tossed it back into the pond, “Yes, but your employers and mine both suspected that there might be some sort of interference… It’s all been factored into our long-term plans. Besides which, you and I both well know that the auction was just a farce; there was no doubt that your guys were getting the goods from the start… Say, do you enjoy going fishing, Mr. Parkes?”

Parkes clenched his fists, panic in his eyes, “Look, what does that matter? I’ve got to get the hell out of here… Out of here and out of this country…” The fisherman retrieved his line, “A shame that you don’t know the joys of going fishing in a public park… My father took me here every week when I was a kid. It was a happy time. It was… relaxing. Those days weren’t to last though… The bloody Axonite Church saw to that…”

Parkes turned his head at the trees and the path behind him, when another strong wind buffeted his body. The tree trunks swung in Parkes and the fisherman’s direction and cast long shadows over them both now… and for a brief moment, Parkes could have sworn he saw a pair of green goggles poking out from the darkness beneath the foliage. The fisherman crouched by his tackle box and rummaged through the materials inside, “How much do you know about fish hooks, Mr. Parkes?” Parkes looked back and forth between the fisherman and the darkness closing in, “Uh… screw this. You have what you want! I’m gone!”

As Parkes sprinted away, the fisherman continued to speak, as if perhaps he was addressing someone else as well all along, “The type of hook you use depends on what you want to catch really… cod, haddock, carp…” As a figure emerged from the darkness about to pounce, the fisherman reacted with equal swiftness, hurling a sharp blade from the tackle box into the opening of the trees. “Gah!,” came the expected grunt of pain indicating contact, immediately followed by a rustle of the leaves and branches and the thud of a human being collapsed on the ground.

“I use a different kind of bait to catch land-dwelling creatures though… Eleven years apart, then we run into each other twice in one month! We’ve got to stop meeting each other like this, Lynxie. People will start to talk! Ha!” The Ocelot squirmed on the gravel of the path, grabbing the knife embedded in her right calf, “I thought I told you…,” she said through the pain, “…to stop calling me that!” Jaguar leaped into the air with inhuman deftness and prepared to nail Ocelot with a flying drop kick.

At the last possible instant, Ocelot rolled out of the way, simultaneously yanking the knife from her body and striking back with it at close-range. “Agh!,” exclaimed Jaguar, as the blade embedded itself in his left shoulder, “Well, whatever you want to call yourself, little lady, you are nothing compared to Ifedayo…” Jaguar ripped the blade from his shoulder and tossed it aside, throwing a punch Ocelot’s way.

Ocelot leaped into one of the lower-hanging branches of an adjacent oak tree, “Don’t you dare say his name! You’re not worthy of it!” Instantly after making the ascent, Ocelot stumbled and nearly lost her balance, ”Damn, so used to favoring this leg… Got to adapt on the fly, I guess.”

Jaguar reoriented himself and approached at ground level, “Haven’t we danced this tango not so long ago? Please don’t insult my intelligence by acting like you’re here on some grudge. I know who that lummox was you brought with you to the auction house… The IAA decided that I was too dangerous to them as a freelancer… Too unpredictable for those control-freaks to live with… Knowing the secrets that I know. So, they figured that since they collared you for your involvement in that business last December that they might as well turn their new attack dog out on the old one they cut loose! Figures.”

Jaguar leaped up after Ocelot, though having difficulty due to the shoulder injury; Ocelot simply leaped to a higher branch. “Don’t flatter yourself, Jaguar… We might have a score to settle between us, but in case you hadn’t noticed, I had better things to do over the last decade… Like pick up the cause you betrayed… Give the people of Ridnez a symbol of hope… Another, better ideal to aspire to.”

“Oh, please! ‘Symbol of hope’… Who do you think you are? I know why you stayed, Lynxie! You stayed in Ridnez because you hated Del Tuono and Bombardone even more than you hate me! Because while I may have fired the gun, they paid for the contract. That’s why! I know about the body count you’ve run up in your frankly clumsy revenge campaign! Or do I have to bring up Due Fiume, the Zendies’ biggest propaganda coup since they started out!,” accused Jaguar.

Jaguar leaped from the lower branch to Ocelot’s higher perch. Ocelot ducked, swung loose from the branch with her arms, and flipped herself back up to plant her left foot directly in Jaguar’s chest. Ocelot and Jaguar were taken by the momentum from the tree branch and both fell against the grass, with Jaguar taking the brunt of the impact and Ocelot cushioning herself against it with Jaguar’s body. However, Ocelot’s stunt caused her to flinch in pain and roll onto the ground; her right leg absorbed part of the force from the ground.

“You aren’t a hero if that’s what you’ve deluded yourself into believing… You’re a gutter snipe that Ifedayo snatched up out of pity and taught a few tricks. The only way you’re able to challenge me at any level is because he let you have the Orisha Elixir, and that doesn’t mean much when it courses through my veins as well. You’re the daughter of a failed f*cking politician who got made into the sacrificial goat for the criminal incompetence of an entire government. Cry me a river,” Jaguar mocked, pressing his advantage to stomp his boot into Ocelot’s face.

Ocelot tumbled over a knoll and struggled to lift off the ground, as Jaguar approached. “You have this reputation… Wooh!... of being this hardass, take-no-prisoners terrorist leader. But I know better… You’re an emotional cripple, a self-deluded sentimentalist who thinks she’s fighting for ’humanity’ or a better tomorrow or something, when the truth is she just wants to get back at everyone who ever made her suffer. To be honest… I could relate… if you weren’t so goddamned self-righteous about it!”

Jaguar kicked Ocelot in the gut, causing her to tumble over again, “You let everyone else think you’re cold… that you’re not afraid of making the hard choices to get what you want… But that’s not true, deep down, you’re mush… You’re a mess who’s only gotten this far because Ifedayo’s training gave your once-impotent rage an outlet… You could now shoot, bomb, stab the ones who made mommy and daddy go away.”

Jaguar knelt beside Ocelot and grabbed her by the hair, yelling in her ear, “Big whoop! I went through the same crap… But Ifedayo taught me to get over it… that the world is filled with corrupt bastards and that the only way to take down one is to make a dirty deal with another. He didn’t just train my body but also my mind; I had to know exactly what it was that I wanted and to realize the courage to reach out and take it! And if you knew the way Ifedayo once lived, way back before you came along, you’d know that he once wasn’t afraid to take it, alright. You made him soft somehow… He no longer remembered that he was a mercenary and not some sort of philanthropist. Of course, he was always on about that ‘honor’ baloney long before then, but up until then, much of it was just good business sense.”

Ocelot retaliated with fierce quickness, sweeping Jaguar onto the ground with her good leg and getting on top of him. She smashed her fist into Jaguar’s face perhaps a dozen times with untamed fury, breaking and bloodying his nose, “What was that you were saying earlier about bait?!” She pounded until Jaguar looked as though he was maybe about semi-conscious, then threw him against the bark of the nearby oak tree and pinned him with her elbow, “You can rattle off all the condemnations you want, but this is more than about just us, you f*cking psycho! Do you know who Parkes is working for even? What about Oberto? Does he know he’s about to sell a platoon’s worth of Salcanceacian military equipment to the MultiStrat Bureau?! That he’s indirectly financing the same terrorist campaigns designed to annihilate his number-one benefactors on the Usean continent! For what, more money?”

Jaguar headbutted Ocelot and followed up with his signature haymaker, knocking her off balance, “…So you’re into this farther than I gave you credit. For all the good it’ll do you. The events set in motion can’t be stopped. And you won’t live to appreciate the answers as they come to light. Then again, look at the bright side…” Jaguar followed up with a knee to the stomach and an elbow to the back of Ocelot’s head, “Your idiot followers in the Ridnezite Underground and those Tertanian government dogs will never realize what a worthless disappointment you turned out to be.”

Ocelot collapsed onto the ground. The shroud of unconsciousness once again followed.

September 25, 2023, 7:15 PM

Ocelot awoke in the very same spot Jaguar had left her. By now, the sun had already set. Chirping of crickets resounded through the night, ”Urgh… How long has it been? I couldn’t have been out that long, could I? No, it was already on the verge of dusk when… Jaguar… Idiot… Idiot!”

Ocelot picked herself up off the grass and stumbled onto the path, holding her still-spinning head steady with one hand, and limping slightly from her right leg, ”The Arelli armed lookouts… Tried to be ‘gentle’ on most of them, but had to put down a few that put up a fight. Police will find out about this in the morning… Police… NIB… DTI. Can’t let them take me back in… Not until… Not until I’ve found… Parkes!”

At that thought, Ocelot regained full lucidity with the adrenaline spike; even the pain in her leg didn’t stop her from sprinting as fast as possible to reach the park exit, ”Should’ve gone after Parkes from the beginning and left Jaguar alone… He’s the easy prey. But now he’s on alert… scared, running. He could be gone underground by now for all I know… But I have to hope he was dumb enough to return to his apartment to take his belongings… Whatever he might be holding in trust for either the Arellis or the Zendies.”

Ocelot reached the park exit and scanned the bustling city street from the sidewalk. She fixed her attention on a motorcycle rider putting on his helmet and ran towards him. The biker didn’t hear the swift approach over the noise of traffic and crowds, but he did feel Ocelot tap on his shoulder, suddenly startled. “Sorry about this,” Ocelot said, grabbing the biker by the arm and flipping him over her shoulder and onto the pavement. While the biker remained stunned, Ocelot swiped the keys off his body and used them to rev up the engine. “Thanks,” she semi-sarcastically quipped, before riding off down the road, weaving dangerously through traffic.

”2456 Serenity Blvd. I’ll catch him there… hopefully. I might not care much for being the DTI’s ‘attack dog’, as Jaguar put it… But it’s not like those exhausting months fighting IAA boys for Haines’ gratification. There’s a real purpose now. And I owe it to Oakley, even if he is a smarmy weasel… not to come back empty-handed.”

September 25, 2023, 7:30 PM

“Yes, I’m packing only the important documents… What?! Stop needling me! I’m trying as best I can! I’m going as fast as I possibly can!”

Parkes anxiously emptied out his safe, drawers, dressers, and cabinets, scurrying about in a frenzy to beat the clock… or rather, his pursuers. “Please, you got to… You got to understand, I don’t know how she found me!,” Parkes pleaded… with apparently no one. The sounds coming from Parkes’ apartment received the unwanted attention of the occupant of the apartment directly beneath his, an overweight woman, “Will you cut that racket out?! I can’t hear my stories over that sh*t you’ve got going on upstairs!” Parkes yelled in desperation and spite through the floor, “Suck my c*ck, grandma!”

Parkes slammed his suitcase shut over the stacks of photocopies left in his care and barged out the door to the common hallways of the apartment building. Leaning against the outer portion of the door frame, legs crossed in seeming boredom, was Ocelot, “I thought you’d never get finished packing your things…” Ocelot kicked Parkes to the ground and back into the apartment space, “It makes the task of pulling together all the juicy bits of information pertinent to the Zendies that much less difficult.”

Parkes scrambled to his feet and ran towards the window near the fire escape, “Leave… leave me alone.” Ocelot sprang into action, “Leave you alone? Do you have any idea how many people are dead because of you? How much damage you caused in your greed?!” She grabbed Parkes by his shirt collar and pulled a handgun on him, shoving the barrel into his mouth by force, “Give me an excuse. Please.” Inarticulate squealing and muttering came from Parkes’ vocal cords while gagged thus.

“Alright, here’s how this is going to go. I’m going to remove the gun from your mouth. You don’t put up any resistance or I swear to Axon I’ll blow your face out the other side of your head!,” Ocelot threatened. Parkes fell to his knees as soon as he was ungagged with the handgun, clutching at Ocelot’s boots and beginning to sob uncontrollably. “What the hell are you doing? Get off the floor!,” Ocelot warned. She grabbed him by his collar again and dragged him to his feet, slamming him against the wall behind them. Parkes was now virtually shivering with terror, desperately clutching at the leather sleeves of Ocelot’s jacket, “Please… Please help me… You don’t know… You don’t know!”

“Help you?! You’re lucky that it’s more expedient to take you in alive and that there are still bigger fish to fry! Who in their right mind would help you do anything after what you did in Isonphis last year! After what you did to Clifford!,” Ocelot objected. Meanwhile, Parkes’ eyes flickered between his immediate captor and another figure standing beside her, one only he could see.

“I’m afraid that you’ve just outlived your usefulness to the New State, Mr. Parkes. If it’s any consolation at all, there was never any hope we would let you live, in the long run of things. You’re a member of this country’s elite, you see. It harms the agenda of Centro Nuovo to allow any of the bestial races of Usea any sort of potential leadership class which could oppose our destiny,” spoke the man only Parkes could perceive. Parkes meanwhile screamed at Ocelot, pointing to the space by her side, “There, right there! Don’t you see! The Wraith… is right there! Taunting you! Kill him now! I beg of you!”

Ocelot looked where Parkes’ finger was pointing in total confusion, “…You have gone completely insane, haven’t you? ‘Wraith’? You’re waving your arm at the still air…!” Wraith met Ocelot’s unseeing eyes with a look of smugness upon his face, “The still air, indeed. Some put their faith only in what they can see or hear. Others say that you should believe none of what you hear… and only half of what you see. But none save a Zendirist can fully appreciate the reality of what can be neither seen nor heard. The currents of destiny, Mr. Parkes. May the New State ever be lifted by it into the future… Shemhamephorash.”

At the utterance of the word that only he could hear, Parkes went ballistic, screaming at nothing, now truly nothing. Ocelot struggled to manhandle Parkes in this state, “Parkes, get yourself under control or I swear I’ll…!” Before another threat could be spoken, Matthew Parkes began to convulse and froth at the mouth. Before long, all his limbs and his head were violently jerking back and forth. Ocelot let go of his body in surprise, letting it crash against the floor. ”He’s… having a grand mal seizure… But I’m not…,” Ocelot thought to herself, lying him down on the ground and undoing his collar button and tie to maintain the patency of his airways, ”I wasn’t expecting to deal with something like this. I’m not trained to…”

But by then, it didn’t matter anymore. Parkes’ body went limp and slumped over. Ocelot went silent for a full minute, attempting to process the sequence of events, “Damn it… Sorry, Oakley. Maybe Jaguar was right about some things… after all.” She thrust his fist against the wall in exasperation at the futility of her efforts.

Presidential House, Isle of King, Tertania

September 28, 2023, 12:19 PM

“So, allow me to understand this better… On top of everything else that’s happened in this country in the past year… You mean to tell me that an assassin the IAA subcontracted assignments out to… in a deliberate effort to subvert the spirit of the law… is running loose in this country… He’s gone rogue. That he’s working for party or parties unknown to destabilize this government… That your attempt to send another black ops agent in to suppress this rogue actor… is directly responsible for the mass destruction that the Conservative press is touting as yet another failure of my administration to protect the public. You’re telling me all of this now, and you expect me to expand the DTI’s prerogatives even further!”

Tertanian President Allison Lane sat in conference with Andrew Haines, hearing his further national security proposals, “I have half a mind to write up an executive order taking the DTI from your agency and giving it to the ONS! I greenlit the expansion of the IAA into the DTI to make sure that never again would we see another tragedy on the order of Stafford. The people of this country don’t feel safe anymore… Axon knows that Staveley started us down this path, but by heaven, it’s my responsibility to deal with it now.”

The conference room consisted of a circular table emblazoned across the center with the Tertanian national seal, surrounded by 16 armchairs. The room had three windows opening up to over the Presidential House’s lawn, bathing Lane in the light of the sun at noon as she passed among them. Haines was seated at one of the chairs by the table, holding a cup of earl gray tea over a saucer.

Haines took a sip from a cup of tea before continuing his point, “Madam President, you know it is in the operational interests of the IAA to maintain all information regarding ongoing missions, agents, and resources on a… need-to-know basis. Even where concerns your office. You might not like it, but these are the sacrifices that we all have to take to ensure the liberty and safety of millions of Tertanian citizens from extremism!”

“Extremism? You informed me that the Temple of Umbra… or some offshoot at least… were using Maroneda as a base for trafficking nuclear weapons to detonate within Tertanian borders. You made it seem as though this was information that could be concretely established… I authorized the annihilation of that island’s entire population because, at the time, I believed in you! Then what did we learn afterwards when outcry came from the international community? You were working off of a hunch… A hunch that you felt to need to vindicate by declassifying a deceptively censored document. I came into power to ramp down the military-industrial complex that Staveley fed into. Now he can claim to the masses that I’ve gone too far on his re-election bid!,” Lane protested, pacing frantically around the room.

“Madam President, you must know that we have Christopher Staveley under constant surveillance as a figure of interest in the recent black market arms sales that Jaguar has been conducting. We believe he may be a potential supplier of these weapons, linking him to the attack on the Isonphis business district two days before the Stafford incident,” Haines clarified.

“But Staveley himself is not the issue… You’ve used me long enough. On top of all that, I have to contend with this idiot from the Northern Ridnezite separatist government gallivanting around every popular venues on his ‘working state visit’… Right. He’s done nothing but laud Staveley every given opportunity and urge to have my administration practically crucified over your bungling,” Lane said.

Haines sighed in exasperation, “With all due respect, Madam President, may we discuss the original matter that concerns this visit? Agent Craig Oakley went directly against an agency-wide directive and about a half-dozen other national security protocols, by sabotaging our main compound’s own CCTV camera feeds and letting another agent go AWOL for all intents and purposes! These facts are, regardless of their reasons for being carried out, appalling… and demonstrate a massive, gaping hole in our security network! I believe there are ulterior motives behind these actions and would like to proceed with the court-martial of Agent Oakley, as well as an agency-wide audit of our members and a thorough inspection of the software running on the mainframes of our central computer hub!”

“Yes, I suppose this Agent Oakley did go against orders and undermine the chain of command… But he got results, didn’t he? You would have kept this new acquisition of yours, ‘Ocelot’, under wraps… And then would we have been able to locate and confiscate the private communications sent between the Ridnezite New State’s MultiStrat Bureau and the Arelli National State’s Advanced Affairs Association, by the connivance of Matthew Parkes. No, we wouldn’t… As I see it, Director Haines, Agent Oakley simply took matters into his own hands to obtain results that count… When you handled things your way, Fuopolis got attacked by a piece of advanced vehicular weaponry,” Lane stated. The President had now stopped her pacing and stared unemotionally out through one of the conference room windows.

“Madam President… What exactly are you trying to imply here?,” asked a concerned Haines. Lane turned towards Haines and obliged the request for clarification, “Need it be laid out to you in clearer terms? As of now, your duties as Director of the International Affairs Agency are being suspended. Craig Oakley has been appointed as your acting replacement until we can decide… on a more permanent change of staff.”

Haines’ eyes shot open wide, “Madam President, you can’t seriously…? Need I remind you that we now have it as established fact that MultiStrat and the Arelli National State are plotting to assassinate you and Dominic Oberto both at the debt renegotiation summit scheduled next month? I’ve served in this office for years… Oakley is… He’s a wild card… An unknown quantity at this point! You can’t trust him!”

“I apologize, Director Haines, but it appears that exigent circumstances have forced me to put my safety… and the future of this country… in the hands of ‘unknown quantities’. If you are displeased by this outcome… Blame yourself. Dismissed!,” shouted President Lane.

Haines regained his composure and waited in the room to finish his tea, then walked out of the conference room with his usual steely expression. The door slammed closed behind him.

Amalfi House, Centro Nuovo, Ridnez

November 13, 2009, 6:27 PM

“So what do you think the Hierarch has called this assembly for? It’s not very often that the General Directorate is convened in its totality… Especially with nary a hint of what order of business is to be addressed!”

“Why must you always be so jumpy, D’Amico?,” said a weary Renard D’Este, “We might not be privy to the Hierarch’s motives for calling this meeting, but it is not our place to question! Simply to listen and then do our duties as they are dictated to us… If you want to stick around here, you’d do better by asking fewer questions!”

Alessandro D’Amico grumbled, “We were brought on for our prior expertise, were we not? These unscheduled interruptions are keeping GovInvest accounting from getting anything done, I tell you…! State coffers are hemorrhaging money faster than liquidation sales of Heisenian assets can bring it in!”

The two men were seated at a large semicircular bench in a dimly lit conference room. The room itself was designed and decorated rather plainly, with white support pillars at the corners and walls painted maroon. At the vertex of the semicircle was a podium for speakers, and installed within the base of the podium but off to the side was a more recent addition, a three-dimensional hologram projector.

“And whose fault is that, exactly?,” challenged a voice like gravel speaking from behind. D’Amico startled all too easily at the intrusion, doubling around with a high-pitched whine. The man decked out in black paramilitary uniform and leather jacket was busy cleaning his shades with a handkerchief, revealing chilly blue eyes and a scar crossing his eye socket. “Each of us has been entrusted with the building of the New State by the Hierarch and by the party… This is a project that can tolerate no error, much less your petulant trifling objections. When the Hierarch convenes the General Directorate, it is with a definite purpose that will soon be revealed to us… Until then, I must… concur with your friend, Director D’Este… You need to stop whining and shut up!”

The man with the distinct scar donned his shades and proceeded apace down the aisle to his appropriate place in the conference room. Both D’Amico and D’Este remained motionless in their seats, gripped by disbelief. “Was that…? Was that really…?,” sputtered D’Amico. D’Este finished the sentence, “There is no question. The profile matches… That was Gianfranco Del Tuono… the resident bogeyman… the director no one ever gets to see… ever gets to have coffee with…” D’Amico picked up his own thought, “…And here I thought he wasn’t even formally part of the General Directorate… By Cothestrus’ name, the man lives up to his reputation! Lock eyes with him once, it’s like staring into nothing…!”

A couple blocks away…

“You don’t look so good, dirigente… You sure you don’t want me to take you to the doctor?”

A limousine was caught in traffic on a rainy evening, while the chauffeur in the driver’s seat grew increasingly concerned about his passenger. The passenger in question, a goateed businessman, answered, “No, Giovanni, the doctor can wait… I have an important appointment to keep. Isn’t there a way to cut through some of this interminable traffic?”

“No can do, dirigente… There seems to be some sort of pile-up ahead that’s slowed things down a trickle back here,” said the chauffeur. Vincenzo Borrelli glanced out the window at the gray skyline through heavy eyes, then popped a few ibuprofen pills into his mouth. “Giovanni, take the rest of the day off… I’ll just endeavor to walk the remaining distance to the presidential palace.”

Borrelli took his exit from the limousine, a black umbrella in hand, and opened it up against the downpour. “Dirigente, you’re sure you’re fine out here? Dirigente?!,” called out the chauffeur, to no avail. Barely hearing the man’s voice through the blaring car horns and intermixing chatter of the city streets, Borrelli kept his heavy eyes pointed down towards the sidewalk, rubbing his temple in desperate hope for relief. “This has been going on for the better part of a week by now… Throbbing behind the eyes, nonstop splitting headaches… I’m not able to tell if my vision’s getting fuzzy… Giovanni was right, I should have seen the doctor by now,” Borrelli thought to himself.

“…But this can wait. It’s just a migraine, probably. It’ll pass… Andreas seemed adamant that I make an appearance along with his appointed ministers. Let’s just see what this is all about then…”

6:54 PM

A white-haired man stood up to the podium at the front of the conference room. There could be no mistaking his identity, out of any Ridnezite.

The congregated directors rose in unison, their arms pointed in the Consine salute, and shout out altogether, ”Hail to the Hierarch! Hail the New State!” And just as the entire group rose and chanted in an almost orchestrated manner, they fell silent and retook their seats with equally precise coordination.

“Zendirist comrades… I have called together this conference of the directorates to bring awareness to an emergent problem facing the nation of Ridnez… A Heisenian problem. The past 7-and-a-half years have posed a learning curve for dealing with these wretched… people… to be sure. First they polluted our neighborhoods with their vices, poised to steal the promise of our youth. They threw us out of our homes, shuttered our businesses, enslaved our workforce, turned our sons into junkies, sold our daughters to their brothels, and wrecked the value of our currency! When we stood up against these innumerable indignities and declared, ‘No more!’, they tried to flee the country with their pilfered wealth like rats from the proverbial sinking ship. Now, in spite of the ruthlessness of the Heisenian financial elite, we have been measured in our responses to these affronts, as you all know… We have permitted the Heisenians to continue to live in our cities, among their own kind… until now.”

Bombardone hit a switch on top of the podium, projecting beside it a holographic reproduction of an older gentleman, “I am certain most of you are familiar with the man before you: Edgar Isidore Albertson. Along with other parasites like Napolitano, Straccali, and Drakos, he sucked the people’s lifeblood as a plutocrat of the First Republic. Unfortunately, he has managed to survive long enough to continue his persecution of the people from the comfort and safety of colonized Shah… A Heisenian himself, his ‘charity’ for Heisenian ‘refugees’ is little more than a front for the pooled assets of many of the Usean plutocracies to undermine our rediscovered independence from the international rentier-capitalist system… one which was innovated and perfected by Heisenian-approximate North Usean foreigners and only thereafter imposed on Ridnezite people in alliance with the greedy despots of the former Solian monarchy.”

Bombardone clicked the switch again, bringing up the figure of a different man, more virile, youthful, and darker-skinned, “Last year, the tenuous system of population management which we had previously decided upon was upset thanks to Albertson’s interference… The Magnifico Ghetto was incited into rebellion against the residents’ own best interests… and in the end, we had to put the lot of them down anyway… What humanitarianism… This South Usean soldier of fortune has been seen several times over the past decade aiding in the operations of this ‘Ridnez-Heisenian Security Organization’… I’ve had dealings with him in my old life… as an aspiring reformer of the broken Republican system…”

Bombardone brought up a projection of live footage, depicting the mercenary in combat with Zendirist police at the forefront of a riot scene, “He calls himself ‘The Ocelot’… His price is very steep… Out of any random sampling of the elite minority capable of bucking his cost, I’d wager that 4 out of 5 could trace themselves to Heisenian bloodlines… Like our ‘Signor Albertson’. But duplicitous little filth like that doesn’t act alone… The amassed rubbish of North Usea have a common interest in the despoilment of Ridnez. All over these attacks on Ridnezite sovereignty are the hallmarks of the likes of Victor Watson… Rufus Kirkbride… Jameson King… Heisenians and those who make business dealings with Heisenians…”

The businessman with the black umbrella burst in the conference room, dripping wet and clutching his head in hand. For a few tense seconds, the entire room turned towards the door in silent acknowledgement of the late arrival. Borrelli met their gaze through strained vision and clumsily stammered a few feet over to the nearest empty chair around the centrally placed conference table.

His facial features not betraying any judgement whatsoever of Borrelli’s tardiness, Bombardone continued where he left off, “…We have tried in the past to control the developing situation by half-measures, but… We have been incorrigibly naïve. The facts are plain: We are encircled by the Heisenian-led plutocratic empires… which know no mercy and have no limitations to the depths of their avarice. Wars have never been won by half-measures, and make no question, we have been at war since we announced our revolution to the world. Not a conventional war; the fate of Avaris won’t be decided by such ordinary, petty affairs… but a demographic war.”

Borrelli struggled through the pain to focus on the message of Bombardone’s speech, barely suppressing a grimace from his worsening headache. It was at this point that he began to feel pins and needles up and down his trunk and limbs. Oblivious to Borrelli’s condition, Bombardone spread his arms out above the audience and raised his voice to a resounding bellow, “The rulers of this world fear and despise a Ridnezite people made collectively aware of their fundamental dignity… The Heisenians prefer to cultivate the breeds of mankind which are more easily enslaved… which are happy to be led like sheep and die like dogs. This is why they send their productive capacity into the savage lands of South Usea… There is where they found races of man who could tolerate being turned into beasts of burden. The Era of Chaos was no different. It was a conspiracy! A concerted attack through the feeble, easily undermined institutions of liberal society… to turn Ridnez into a South Usean country… to turn us into a South Usean people! This is the world they want. Remember that as I introduce the man of the hour… Some of the things you are about to see may be… disturbing.”

Bombardone then took a few steps backwards, gesturing towards a brunette-haired younger man approaching the front of the room. The invited speaker had slender cheekbone and an angular jawline, wearing a crumpled lab coat with apparent indifference. The newcomer’s demeanor couldn’t be any more different to the Chief of State’s. Where Bombardone reveled in the pomp and circumstance of just about any occasion to pontificate, the man in the white coat kept his hands stuffed in his pockets and seemed almost reticent to speak, barely raising his voice above a grumbling whisper even when amplified by the microphone at the podium.

“I’ve never been one for ostentatious introductions, so I’ll cut through the pleasantries… My name is Adalberto J. Ricci. I am licensed as a neurologist, but my forte is in the field of physiological psychology research… In times past, it was said wars were won by men… In truth, it would be more accurate to say wars are won by using up human material… After all, isn’t that what we all are in the end… just material? Well, I’m certain Director Vitale would have some words on that… The key is how to win the demographic war that the Hierarch spoke of without expending any more human material of our own than is absolutely necessary… With the assistance of Director Del Tuono and MultiStrat, I give you the solution: we use up the enemy’s… After the ANRI Initiative was executed earlier this year, I put myself in touch with Director Del Tuono through Director Vitale, who is… an old friend of mine… we arranged for a few select specimens of the antisocial nationalities to be relocated to a special ward of my psychiatric institute for… a curious experiment.”

Ricci hit the switch on the podium, bringing up a holographic 3d projection of a video recording that was taken some time ago. “We wanted to test a hypothesis, see… That if the higher executive functions of a Heisenian or a Ziconean subject were… shut off… that we could predictably control their actions through electronic stimulation of the brain’s reward centers. That way, we could create a perfectly expendable espionage grunt… one capable of holding a gun, blending into a crowd, even setting off a bomb… but internally…” The researcher knocked against his own skull, “…totally… empty…”

The recording showed an anonymous subject in silent-screaming agony, as a buzzsaw cleaved through his skull and surgical tools peeled back the layers of his meninges. No anaesthetic was used in the operation; that was clear enough. Del Tuono took a Diaran cigar from the interior of his jacket and lit it up in the room, apparently unfazed… even bored. The rest of the General Directorate recoiled from the horrific sights in spite of themselves... though Ricci took no notice. As Ricci continued, Arturo Gerloni rapidly grew green in the face and regurgitated onto the floor near the back of the room. Del Tuono turned to witness the scene and sneered under his breath, puffing smoke out his nostrils, “Miserable f*cking pantywaist…”

Borrelli covered his face with his hand, still peering through the slits between his fingers with incredulous eyes, ”By Amadastra’s veil, this is… hell. I’m… I’m living in hell! What did I do…? How did it end up this way? How did I end up supporting… this?! What kind of man has Andreas become? What kind of man have I become not to notice earlier… that this was happening?!” Leaving his umbrella behind, he made a mad dash to the exit, passing by Gerloni in the middle of his nauseous episode. His head pounding and his vision going in and out, he raced out the steps from the building and through the maze of pathways dividing up the palace gardens, not really sure of where he was going, just intent on escaping the nightmare scene that played out before him. ”Can’t… even feel my legs? I don’t even… Can’t tell where my legs…? What is… happening?!”

As the rainstorm beat down upon his head, Borrelli slipped on the path, twisting his ankle and striking the ground with the side of his head. As the shroud of blackness fell over his conscious mind, Borrelli looked up into the gray sky, unable to differentiate the water droplets striking his face from his possible tears, ”Feel myself… getting colder. Cold… and pain. Is this… what death is like?”

Conti University Medical Center, Fulmine Rosso

November 15, 2009, 7:13 PM

“Signor Borrelli? Ah, Signor Borrelli, the interpretation of the MRI scan has come back… I’m afraid the news is less than pleasant.”

Borrelli sat up in his hospital bed, “Don’t tell me…” The oncologist said it anyway, “Put simply, Signor Borrelli… You have renal cell carcinoma that’s metastasized to your brain and spinal cord… You have… maybe 6 months left to live, at best, without treatment…” Borrelli quietly wept to himself, supporting his heavy head in hand, for about a full two minutes. Then through an anguished voice he choked, “…and… what about… with treatment… How long then?”

The doctor replied, “Well… if you mean aggressive chemotherapy, radiotherapy… At this stage of progression, I’d say maybe you have a year… But there are quality-of-life considerations. However, I will say this… You must be a very important person to the Hierarch… By his personal authorization, we’re able to slash through the usual red tape to offer you an experimental pharmaceutical… a preparation of a bioactive compound we’re tentatively labeling NQX-9846… until the naming committee comes up with something better, at least. It’s just entering the clinical trial phase right now, but… In your case, Signor Borrelli… you don’t have much to lose… We won’t need to fit you into our experimental model to justify trying you on the drug… assuming it will work… But either way, we can’t predict what side-effects it might have on you. It’s your risk, Signor Borrelli. The choice is yours.”

Borrelli had an intuition strike him, “If you don’t mind, Doctor… Do you know the name of the research institution responsible for the development and testing of this pharmaceutical?” The oncologist folded his arms, “Well, not to brag but… Conti University itself is spearheading the R and D. That’s why we’re in the position to offer it to you even in its untested state… Well, that, and the Hierarch issued memoranda to the Conti University Health Sciences Institute, the Principal Health Science Research Advisory Committee, the National Council of-.”

Borrelli interrupted, “Very well, Doctor! I understand! Andreas virtually created a wholly unique legal category for me in order to accomplish this feat. And every link in the bureaucratic chain down to you, the healthcare provider… aligned with these directives in a mere few days?” The doctor smiled, “It truly is a different country than it used to be, isn’t it?” Borrelli stroked his beard, almost forgetting his dire circumstances, “…Who is the head researcher on this project?” The doctor replied, “I’m not certain what your interest in the asinine details, but… it’s none other than the now-famous Dr. Adalberto Ricci. I was told that you saw him speak on another research topic at Amalfi House the other day… It is a small world, isn’t it?” Borrelli nodded.

“Yes, Doctor… Getting smaller by the day.”

Amalfi House, Centro Nuovo

November 20, 2009, 11:36 AM

“Just who is this ‘Adalberto J. Ricci’ person anyway? Why are you enabling that sordid, sick man’s… ’experiments’? This isn’t like you, Andreas… Not like the Andreas Bombardone I used to know back in university…”

Bombardone stood by the balcony of the presidential office, where his lieutenants condemned the last President of the Republic to a sadistic hanging almost a decade before. He recalled the scene every day as he walked onto the balcony and looked down over the city center. “Vincenzo, we’ve known each other half our lives… Why don’t you just say yes to taking the pill and just stop asking questions?!”

Borrelli slammed his fist onto the Chief of State’s desk, “Because, Andreas… You and I both know why I get this seat at the Zendirist table, and it’s not just because we’re old professional colleagues… I bankrolled your movement, I gave you clothing and shelter when you had nothing… You may have had the charisma and the ideas, but I had the money… I survived the Meltdown of 1993… That makes me a stakeholder in Zendirism, and I want to know what the hell you think you’re doing with it!”

Bombardone sighed, “Vincenzo… If you need my reassurance, I’m the same man you met in university all those years ago. I haven’t changed… I know it may look that way to you. My understanding of reality changed… Once, I believed that Ridnez could be made free and independent by toppling a few corrupt politicians… then some conniving corporations… maybe a couple self-promoting generals. The people of Ridnez needed a leader with a keen mind and a strong hand to unseat the wicked few and restore natural liberty to the many, and then everything would be made right with the world… Would that it were so simple! But no, the problems facing Ridnez are far too complex… too variegated… too interdependent. The state is more than some blunt instrument to be wielded by any stubborn oaf for his chosen ends. It can be used for such mediocre objectives, but its full potential is much more exciting! The state is more like an elegant grand piano: Any child can tap away at stray keys until a simplistic melody emerges, but under the deft finger-strokes of a true maestro, it plays a sublime waltz or capriccio, whose rhythm and harmony decide the movements of the dance which all must follow.”

Borrelli’s face flushed with indignation, “Andreas, if I may break from decorum just this once… What the hell?! You’re talking about music and abstract philosophy, when I witnessed a man get vivisected on the operating table! In the beginning, while I may not have been comfortable with all your choices, I concede they made a degree of sense… I realized as quickly as you that so-called democracy in Ridnez had become a vicious fraud. I may have been largely unaffected, but I saw as it destroyed you and many of our nation’s working families. The Tide Queen and her consort know that I was among the very last executives in Ridnez to oppose mass-layoffs like those parasitical ‘private equity’ holding firms wanted. And I hated to admit it, but you were right that the faces of Ridnez’s enemies were usually Heisenian or Heisenian-adjacent when it came down to it. I agreed eventually that restricting the settlement, movement, and property rights of what we now call ‘antisocials’ may have been necessary… as a temporary solution at best. But I saw they were being manipulated against us by their leadership… like how Amalfi enacted some temporary resolutions against the Ziconeans 100 years ago! Temporary resolutions… They were reintegrated into our body-politic in time… Ricci thinks of these people as lower than lab animals… and by the Phantasmic Court, you’re with him.”

Bombardone looked Borrelli in the eyes with an expression halfway between pity and frustration, “Vincenzo, let’s start at the beginning… my little ‘music’ analogy was meant to illustrate the method behind my proverbial ’madness’… What is to be gained by ‘vivisecting’ the Heisenians? Nothing in itself, but as part of a program towards the elimination of an existential threat…! The threat facing Ridnez is inseparable from the threat facing Avaris… You mentioned Amalfi… It was once said by Pasquale Amalfi, echoing the revolutionaries the century before him in Solmara… ‘Every man is born into the world under the indiscriminate eye of nature, so all must be naturally equal in rights to life, liberty, property’… He abrogated that principle himself though, because it is impractical! The rule of the people – real democracy – has never relied upon the universality of human rights to find its true rationale. But what was impractical for Amalfi to practice in his day becomes impossible in ours… The global population has quintupled in the past 200 years; Avaris is a smaller place. Resources cannot be extracted without limit, and populations cannot grow indefinitely. Ultimately, despite the optimism of our forebears and the bounty produced through our thrift and labor, we will all run up against the inevitable judgement of nature… It cannot continue! Someone has to die… many will have to die.”

Borrelli stood in awe, “What…? What are you saying exactly… Andreas? You can’t turn this entire planet into a killing field of other races, just because you think there isn’t space enough on the planet to sustain them! We would…! We would become no better than the Heisenians themselves!” Bombardone remained still for a matter of moments, then burst out laughing. Then just as abruptly as the laughter began, it stopped, and Bombardone’s visage once more became inscrutable and emotionless. His determined gaze returned to meet Borrelli’s, seeming to Borrelli at once familiar yet alien.

“You’re speaking panicked platitudes, Vincenzo. The Heisenians, the Tertanians, the Shahis… We’re all in an unacknowledged fight against the dark. A fight for survival… that’s what it all really comes down to. Not good or evil, not right or wrong. The only thing that matters is creating a future for Ridnezite people with hope in it… a future that the people can put their faith in, knowing that their children and their children’s children will be better off… But the cost of progress… is steep. Really, this has been in the cards since the beginning, but I knew we would fail unless if we moved by increments towards our goal. In light of that, I offer my sincere apologies for not having been more explicit on the point years ago. You see, first, it was important that Ridnezite people comprehended that antisocials are not… and could never have been… Ridnezites themselves. Under any circumstances. Then, it was necessary to train the people to view the antisocials as exactly that… antisocial… congenital criminals, betrayers, and nuisances… it’s not really their fault, but the simple people need to see things in crude moralistic terms. There must be an enemy identified as ‘evil’, in order for the people to see the ambition of our society as essentially ‘good’ and, so, to cooperate with it. That two-legged vermin Albertson and his failed rebellion-by-proxy just gave us an excuse to move on with the next stage… the antisocials will be removed from civil society entirely and given treatment commensurate to animals… as you have surmised.”

Borrelli covered his mouth with his hand, “In the name of the Lady of the Waves… I can only imagine that Sergio Vitale had some input into the gradual essence of your strategy… It wasn’t any mistake you exonerated him right after the culmination of the Revolution! You really do mean to get to the point… where you can get rid of… all of them… And I’ll be responsible, by the spirits…”

“But it can’t stop there. In fact, if we stopped at this point, the blowback against Zendirism and everything Zendirism stands for will consume you, me, and every other Ridnezite citizen who chose us to decide his or her future! It will be the end for Ridnez… for good! But I find it strange that these are the thoughts that occupy your mind now… Your own life, I would like to remind you, is in far more immediate danger… You invoked the name of the Tide Queen… I’ve never known you to be a superstitious man… Don’t tell me you’re going to choose now to start worrying about your reincarnation…?!” Bombardone turned back towards the balcony, “…I have a philosophy about what it means to live, Vincenzo. It’s not unique, but you’d do well to appreciate it. What I believe… is that, in the end, the only worthy measure of a man is his capacity to affirm life… Do you know what that means, Vincenzo?”

Bombardone turned back towards Borrelli and leaned over his desk, “…To survive… morally, physically… you need to be capable of taking all those actions which are necessary… without hesitation, without regret… And then you must look back on them and tell yourself that these were the best actions… the only actions you could have taken… even if you had to live them out again and again for an eternity. The New State embodies this concept. The entire will of the nation suffuses all the social relations. Even I, as the Hierarch, am but totally obedient to that will… So long as everyone has a role to fulfill within the New State, then individual responsibility and its moral burdens are no more… Individual responsibility, which destroyed the morale of the people since the very principle was discovered by the Great Luminaries of yesteryear… which put an infinity of choices in front of the beleaguered homo populus and expected his finite intellect to be able to decide in its own best interest… which equated this meaningless capacity for arbitrary choice to the true will of the man… which thereby equated the aggregate tendency of such insipid choices to the very will of the nation in itself… which made the terms ‘nation’ and ‘society’ and even ‘man’ utterly useless by the sheer vulgarity of their implicit use!”

Bombardone started to frantically pace back and forth behind his desk like a man possessed, obviously enraptured by his own justifications, “Director Vitale has conducted experiments proving these points with scientific accuracy… It’s so much easier to do the unthinkable when someone else is handing down the orders with authority. Authority brings true freedom… the freedom of action with purpose… And so by my guidance, the people must all sacrifice the luxury of ‘conscience’ on the altar of the New State, and realize that only the New State has the authority to pass judgment on the moral value of all things individual… This is the price we must all pay to acquire the fortitude of will to survive…! And so must you, I’m afraid…” As Bombardone concluded his point, he stopped in his tracks, turned 90 degrees, and pointed directly at Borrelli’s chest.

Borrelli’s stomach sank at those words, “Andreas, stop lecturing, just tell me, for Amadastra’s sake… What is this pharmaceutical that the doctors told me about…? What did your Dr. Ricci have to do to develop it?” Borrelli feared that he already somehow knew the answers. His intuition had an unfortunate habit of being on the mark too often.

Bombardone took a seat across from Borrelli, “Well, the drug in question has been refined from a certain type of rare Estredenan herb… I think I’m going to have them name it… ‘Ouroboros’… It has a nice sound to it, wouldn’t you agree? Oberto shipping interests have been sourcing the herb from Malca. The local regime has been… reasonably cooperative. As for processing, that’s being done on an island in the northwest of Noskyavia… leased from the government of Golden Impirial Utopia. I formed ties with the ruling dynasty there, back in the late 1980s. But the unprocessed herbal extract, by itself… has some extreme effects on human metabolism.”

Borrelli clutched his sides and began to shake with a wave of excruciating pain, this time in his flanks. Trying not to let it show, Borrelli clutched the armrests of his chair in a futile attempt at relief, “What… kind of effects, Andreas? Please…”

Bombardone answered, “Depigmentation of hair and skin, increased production of acute-phase reactants from the liver, insomnia, some paranoid thought disturbances… a few subjects have demonstrated decreased seizure threshold and psychotic symptoms… Not very pretty. And I know what you’re thinking, Vincenzo, yes, Dr. Ricci’s drug was perfected from this… questionable herbal remedy… using the antisocials as the test subjects. And we know its range of efficacy… its side-effects… indications and contraindications… because various conditions were simulated in the test subject models… including cancerous tumors. You know that my mother died from brain cancer… Without the sacrifice of the human-type models, this drug would take another 5 to 10 years before entering the clinical trial phase.”

Borrelli felt the beginning of another splitting headache come on. He grunted as he grabbed his head and lurched forwards onto the ground. Bombardone, if he had any emotional reaction, failed to evince any signs of it. Instead, Bombardone slowly crouched over by Borrelli’s side on the floor and continued speaking.

“Instead, this anticancer drug will be rolled out onto the market within the next 5 years, Vincenzo… Maybe 2. Do what you know you must… Affirm your life. Otherwise, your agony will only grow worse… You’ll lose control of your functions, then lose your dignity, your autonomy… Then you’ll be put in hospice on a 24/7 morphine drip, like my mother… Then your life is over. If you’re one of the lucky ones, someone will be there at your side when you take your final bow on the stage of life.” Bombardone’s still expression finally betrayed a hint of feeling; he looked aside at nothing in particular, clearly zoned out with a split-second memory of the past… nothing too pleasant.

Bombardone then slung Borrelli’s arm around his shoulder and helped him to a tenuous standing position on his two feet. His tone now was of a more personal, sentimental quality… though only slightly. “Are you happy with the impact you’ve had with your life, Vincenzo? Yes, you bankrolled Zendirism, but you never inspired it. You could do more… for yourself, for your company, for your nation, for the people… You’re a good man, Vincenzo… You’re an enterprising, intelligent man! And Ridnez still has need of you! Live, Vincenzo… for Ridnez, for the New State! That will give you the moral certainty you seek! Affirm your life!”

General Ridnez Petrochemical HQ, Fulmine Rosso

September 29, 2023, 8:55 PM

Vincenzo Borrelli, now older with grayer hair and more jittery features, sat at his executive staff desk, contemplating the past. Wordlessly, he reached for a drawer and pulled it open, feeling for a plastic medicine bottle within. Opening the lid, Borrelli poured out one 500 mg capsule, with a hue of green so brilliant it almost seemed to glow in the dark. ”Andreas was life-affirming until the very end… and now he gets to live forever… an eternal recurrence of the same themes… the same glorious myth… Zendirism incarnate… Affirm life, Vincenzo… There was never any other option.”

Upon ingesting the pill, Borrelli heard the phone ring and reached over a mess of forms across his deck to hit the answer button. A familiar voice came through the speaker… or to Borrelli, at least seemed to. “Vincenzo, old friend… You know that next Friday is your big day. The moment of truth is upon us. The Zendirist stalwarts hunt down those tunnel-dwelling Ocelotist rats… and then both the Keys of Night will be in our reach. You know that reactionary fool, the Admiral, is a crafty nemesis… you know he’s preparing something at the meeting of the General Directorate tomorrow. But what hand could he play against the unmitigated power of Project: Nyx… and the indisputable proof of his own treachery against the New State? Who would dare stand to oppose your rightful claim then?” Borrelli responded to the voice in his head, while seeming to stare blankly out into space, “Yes, Andreas… You always were a… faithful friend. I’ll make my destiny… as I complete yours. You’ll see… everyone will see this life has meant something after all…” He then pressed the end call button, hanging up on a caller who was never there.

Underground Base Camp ‘Ocelot-28’, below Fulmine Rosso

September 30, 2023, 1:00 PM

“Giovanni, it’s been 3 months… Have we gotten any closer to figuring out what the hell this crap means… Or what we’re gonna do with it?”

As Serena Fiore inspected the hard plastic case of the mysterious object they retrieved in July, Giovanni Sforza sat against an old leather couch, spreading his arms and legs out, and staring blankly at the support beams holding the ceiling up in the artificial subterranean cavern. “Sforza, your ‘girlfriend’ asked you a question! Avaris to Sforza! …Sforza!,” screamed an irate Abigail Roth.

“Huh? Oh, Abigail, I almost forgot to tell you. We have to move another 4 crates from the waterfront by Friday… Otherwise we won’t be able to afford food rations for the last week of the month…,” blurted out an only half-aware Sforza.

Abigail was stunned by Sforza’s unpracticed nonchalance… but only for a moment, “I hate to coin a cliché, you know, but… ‘What is your major malfunction, soldier?’ You might have forgotten, but this 5-man crew you pulled together on such short notice doesn’t exist to help you import Salcanceacian guns and resell them at a mark-up! We risked our lives to fetch that cracked plastic sh*t, and aside from being chased around by StateSec every now and then, we haven’t learned anything about it!”

Sforza peeled himself off of the couch, “Eh, I wish I could tell you more, really, I do… But one of the very specific conditions that my prime source had me agree to is not to talk about the prime source… I was just as surprised as you guys were to find the potential ‘key to ending the war’ was supposedly this… motherboard or whatever it is…”

“So to get this straight… You accept leads from someone whose identity you refuse to disclose, even to your own allies… You risk not just your life but others’ lives on the basis of said leads… And you’re content to just… go back to business-as-usual until this unknown person contacts you again to tell you what to do next… I honestly can’t tell if we’re getting played… or if you are…,” Abigail accused.

Serena frowned at this phrasing and interjected herself, “Abigail… Listen, that’s… That’s enough… You don’t know. Giovanni and I were both on the money train. I don’t know what this ‘Ars Goetia’ thing is supposed to be… But I do know it has to be pretty damn important for the Zendies to cause a collision in the subway system just to stop us from taking it!”

Abigail brushed Serena aside, “Not so fast, sister. It’s just as likely Sforza was disinformed by a double-agent working for StateSec… And that whole sequence was just a set-up for the train collision to occur to get rid of you both… Or maybe the point was just to goad us into getting involved so they could blame what happened on operatives of the Network…”

Sforza shot a sideways glance at Abigail, “Oh, please, if there’s potholes in traffic, the Zendy media will find a way to blame it on the Network… No need for actual involvement in a subway train hijacking! Look, it was obvious that someone… the transit police commissioner… tried to kill us because the Ars Goetia is important. But up until my contact feels it’s appropriate to play his next move, we can’t do anything but persevere and steward this thing.”

Abigail had no reply this time. She simply met Sforza’s eyes with her own, hers flaring with distrust and his dulled by casual resignation. “Sforza… Before you sent out word about the money train, I had never heard of you. I joined up with you at first because I expected a simple cash grab… This has become a lot bigger. People have died…” Serena turned her face away at the very words, of which Abigail took notice. “400 people died in that collision. I hope to Axon or whatever other powers that be, for your sake, that you’re on the level… Because I will not stand to be complicit in an operation that… however indirectly… killed 400 people… just to find out it was for nothing.”

Sforza let the tension sit still In the air as he processed the sentiment internally, ”So, Giovanni, what if she’s got a point? You know the Admiral has beef with the Zendies… but not how much per se. Maybe you were being used to arrange that bloody massacre just so Bisogno could make the hardcore Zendies look bad somehow… The truth is: You don’t know anything. Just a pawn from the beginning… better not be a pawn til the end.”

Sforza opened his mouth, as if to form a rebuttal, but instead what came out was… “I’m going outside to get some fresh air. Don’t wait up for me…” He then headed for the ventilation shaft connecting the base area with the junction point for Access Tunnel 599 of the municipal utility tunnel system. Serena grabbed the Ars Goetia case and followed, “Giovanni… Giovanni! Hold up, I’m coming with…” Abigail watched the couple leave the area and heard the heavy metal grate make a loud clank behind them, “Hrmph… F*ck it, I’ll just join Lucio for some shooting… Not like I have anything better to do anyway other than move 4 crates of rifles by Friday… Jackass, like what am I, his employee?”

1:15 PM

Sforza walked past a bustling crowd of others like him, maintaining at a brisk pace. The entire area appeared to have been formed out of a vault within the earth, containing part of a collapsed and buried early 19th-century railway station. Serena struggled to push past the ubiquitous many, holding the Ars Goetia case close to her chest so as not to drop it, “Giovanni… Slow down… You know I can’t navigate these tunnels as well as you!”

Sforza walked up to a quarter of the vast expanse where rows of fruit vendors were established, slapping down a few Raj banknotes in exchange for a few kilos of apples. As Serena grew nearer, Sforza took an apple out of the bag and offered it, “You want one?” Serena took the apple more out of obligation than anything, then stuffed it in the pocket of the hoodie she was wearing. Meanwhile, Sforza took another apple in hand and bit into it, heading towards a flight of roughly formed steps towards the artifice of the anachronistic train station.

“How did this place even get made without the government knowing about it for so long?,” Serena asked. Sforza smiled vaguely at the naivete of the question, “Heh… Chalk it up to human ingenuity, I guess. That and a decent helping of pure incompetence when the Magnus Program was conducted back in 2007…” Serena and Sforza now began to ascend up the steps.

“Magnus Program?,” Serena probed. Sforza humored her, “Yeah, you know… Zendies forced a bunch of people to leave their homes and crowded them by force into the cities in a 30-mile radius, in order to free up the land here for the construction of Fulmine Rosso. This was created to be the model Zendirist city… an megacity-scale planned community that would be the test run for Bombardone’s grand plan for the future of the country… But a whole lot of suburban infrastructure had to be blown up to make way, and some of it wound up in pieces at the bottom of this gigantic cave system they sealed over and forgot about. I remember when the Underground was first set up here… It was just slices of modular homes splayed out all along these damp rock formations. This train station split in half and wound up underground too. So you could say they have their city… We have ours.”

“So you call this weird caravan a city? I’d think of a few other terms to apply first…,” Serena judged.

Sforza couldn’t help but chuckle again, “A-heh! Well, again, you’re new… You’ll get used to living down here eventually. We all did. No other choice for some of us.”

“You’re… referring to Abigail…?,” Serena wondered. Sforza reached the top of the steps and waited for Serena to finish the climb as well, “Not just Abigail… Konstantin… A lot of people have been left with no better option than to come down here, if they just wanted to survive…”

Serena followed up with the obvious question, “What about you…?” Sforza opened the door in front of him, as it made a creaking sound. “Me? No, I made my choices… I’ll tell you about it later. I’ve got to do something important now.”

Sforza and Serena walked into what could be referred to as the building lobby. Serena was instantly taken aback by the idiosyncrasy of the sight before her: the decayed remnants of art nouveau interiors, clearly intended to evoke a florid style in its own day… intermingled with wires running all over the floors and descending from the ceiling. Even from the room next over, the loud whirring of multiple electrical generators in synergy transmitted through the separating walls and filled the air with noise. Amazingly, even this area appeared as a forum for activities and exchanges of all kinds. Appropriated subway cars and unauthorized subway lines even operated, completely unofficially, from this center.

Serena momentarily forgot where she even was, “What… is this place?” Sforza gave the perfunctory reply, “Well, I just told you how it all got here. But we like to call this place Stigmergia.”

2:30 PM

Lucio Andreozzi stood before a firing range, secreted away somewhere within the bowels of the underground city. In his grip was a Tertanian-produced handgun, carefully aiming for the center of a target at 25 meters”. Blocked off from all outside distractions by his earmuffs, Lucio let off 3 shots in quick succession; all three hit the target off-center.

Lucio ejected the magazine, “Damn, I must have gotten rustier than I thought slumming around down there. How about you, Abigail? You want to see if your steady aim has degraded any from disuse?” He turned around behind him to greet Abigail Roth as the words left his mouth.

Abigail waited with arms crossed for her acknowledgement, “Now how in Axon’s name did you know I had crept up behind you between the muffs and the noise?”

Lucio smiled, “If you’re a part of the Underground for long enough, you grow these invisible eyes on the back of your head… Very useful at telling you if you’re being stalked or spied on… But then you should know about that by now, shouldn’t you? You’ve been down here longer than I have!”

Abigail responded, “Just shut up and gimme the pistol.” Donning her own pair of muffs, she loaded a new magazine and loaded it. “You fired at 25 meters and still couldn’t hit dead-center? You have much to learn, boy.” Adjusting another target at 35 meters, Abigail steadied herself in proper shooting stance and unloaded 5 rounds, all hitting accurately in the center, as Abigail bragged she could.

Lucio’s smile faded, replaced by faint irritation. “Right, so I get your point, little Ms. Perfect. You have skill and I’m just a schlemiel… We’re all no-talent hacks compared to you, is that it?”

Abigail engaged the safety and handed Lucio back the pistol, “You don’t know what a schlemiel is… You know your problem? You’re too sensitive, boy. That’s the way with a lot of Ridnezites, now that I think about it. Look, you handled her well and didn’t blow your fingers off. That’s 50% of marksmanship right there. C’mon, I’m going to the surface to get some fresh air, and I need to vent on someone. You’re elected. Let’s go.”

Lucio followed behind Abigail with a measure of uncertainty, “Abigail, stop, you’re talking a mile a minute! The surface-? You… you don’t have a specific reason, right? Or a plan or anything?”

Abigail grabbed Lucio by the arm and dragged him, “Who needs plans? We’re only going around some residential blocks whose supervisor I have proof has been cheating on his wife with a hooker. Nothing’s going to happen to us so long as you keep your head down.”

Lucio objected, “But-but it’s dangerous up there! What if the police check our faces against their database… Ask for documentation…?!”

5:56 PM

“So you said that this nightclub is called the Razor’s Edge, huh? I have to admit it’s a different experience… I’ve never been to… anything like a nightclub before…”

Sforza downed a whiskey shot at an inconspicuous booth in the corner of the locale, “Yeah, Serena, y’see… It was so named because even keeping the place open is a mortally risky endeavor… It used to be run for a time by a Ziconean gangster… He’s dead now, but new management likely wouldn’t fare better if the authorities decided to investigate the pulsating noise and multicolored lights beaming from this warehouse… Therefore, living on the razor’s edge. It’s an ‘edgy’ lifestyle, one might say.” Sforza then swallowed another shot, working his way down a line of a dozen such tumbler glasses.

Serena sat across from Sforza, crudely concealing the Ars Goetia case in a black plastic trash bag, “Giovanni, did I ever tell you that you make an art out of overexplaining the obvious while you’re drunk?! One look at some of the patrons… and I can begin to see why the Zendies decided to outlaw all this.” Her particular attention shifted between a patron face-down in his own vomit at a table with 13 empty tequila glasses and an escalating argument between the apparent manager of the establishment, a bald bespectacled man in an indigo jacket, and one of his scarcely dressed cage-dancers, presumably over pay… or possibly something else.

“By the way, earlier today you said something to me that’s been stuck in my head ever since… Many of those in the Underground have no choice, but you say you’re different… You chose to live beneath the surface… away from the light of day, amidst the grime and the muck… I just can’t understand what you could possibly mean… I mean… Why?!,” Serena asked.

Sforza furrowed his brows and traced the rim of one of the tumblers with his finger. “So, that’s it, Serena? You want the story of my life? I’ve been trying to kill some time… And you’ve told me a bit about yourself. When I was 10 years old, my family lived in Magnifico when…” Serena was hit with the realization before Sforza finished the sentence, exclaiming under bated breath, “…oh my heaven!”

Sforza paused, “…So you know the story? What happened there?”

“Do I know the story?! I was there myself, Giovanni! You’re talking about the Ghetto Uprising, right? It was… horrible… Me, my father… We almost died!” Serena clutched at her chest; the memories still carried their own trauma.

Sforza continued his narrative, “Yeah, well… My parents did die, Serena. We lived in a third-floor apartment, and a stray grenade… maybe launched by riot police… collapsed the ceiling on top of us. My mother threw herself in front of a chunk of debris so that I could live… The Zendies tried to sweep me up and put me in protective custody, but… Even at that age, knowing nothing, I feared Gianfranco Del Tuono. He got down on one knee when the dust settled and told me things would be all right… but it was impossible not to see something evil behind the man’s eyes. So I ran… I met a Heisenian boy a little older than me named David, who introduced me to his family. They were in hiding in a winehouse cellar owned by a civilian helper of the RHSO… David taught me how to survive on the streets. I stole, pickpocketed, bartered… I realized that I could do anything in the service of survival. And that helped me down through the years… David and his family aren’t with us anymore, but I owe what I am to them.” Sforza looked away from Serena as he concluded and wiped a single tear from his eye, ”You learned how to do anything to survive, didn’t you, Sforza? Anything! Look how well it’s served you…”

Serena reached out with her hand and laid it on Sforza’s forearm, “Giovanni… For all of us… The past is cruel to all of us. It can’t be changed, and the pain that lies in the past has to remain there forever. At the same time, it’s that commonality which has drawn us together… We can help each other muster up the courage to face that past and tackle the future… That’s all we can aspire to as humans.”

Giovanni looked Serena longingly in the eyes, trying to say something but unable to force it out.

”Such pretty sentiments, Serena. But Adamastra knows I certainly don’t deserve them… after the sins I’ve committed. I’ve never told anyone. And so that’s the path I must continue to take… crime, larceny, smuggling… sin. That’s why I choose to live in the Underground. It’s what I deserve… where I belong.”

7:28 PM

“So you were in the army of West Heisen… No kidding?! Then why join the Underground Network in Ridnez…? Surely there were many more suitable locations available to you!”

Lucio sat at a table next to Abigail in a small coffeehouse by the waterfront, sharing conversation over two cups of espresso. “It wasn’t about making the decision that was easiest for me, but the one that I felt was right. I am what you might call a military brat… My father was in the army and his father was before him. They instilled in me an idea of what a soldier’s duties ought to entail… Defense of one’s people, one’s homeland… Perfect discipline of the body and mind… But most of all, never challenge the chain of command. I was a just a private when the general strike rocked Aster in 2021, just around a month before the communist revolution.”

Lucio took a sip from his cup, “I see… I don’t suppose it was easy for you to wrap your head around our Network at first… Considering there are no ranks and there is no leadership… Except for the symbolic leadership of the infamous Oce- uh…” Lucio was signaled by the café proprietor with a finger to the lips and a slit-throat gesture, “…the ’indisposed lady’ who lends her moniker to the unofficial name of our… ah… ’club’…”

Abigail raised an eyebrow at Lucio’s trepidation, “We were told that the strikers were endangering the public, but I… many of us… just saw abused workers standing up for fair treatment. An initial volley was fired into the crowd; the innocent lost their lives on the pavement that day… My familial profession had been sullied in my mind. I could no longer separate it from the injustice I had witnessed. So I resolved to take what I had learned… and decide on my own what the meaning of a soldier should entail… I participated in the overthrow of Victor Watson, but… I had no input on what happened afterwards. I was never very important, and I wasn’t a Novikovnik either… When Karl Veers put West Heisen on an unsustainable course, I just… elected to fight my own wars from then on. The genocidal plot against this country’s Ziconeans sparked me into action… Not only did I realize that my meager abilities… carrying a gun, knowing how to use it properly… had application here… as one of many, but I also realized that the Heisenians here wouldn’t be far behind either.”

“I wish I had any such fascinating tale… I was conscripted during the Civil War by order of Director Del Tuono and his military puppets… I was an aspiring theater actor beforehand… So I took the first opportunity to surrender to an Ocelotist cell that I could find and defected…,” Lucio shrugged.

“Well, we all have our-,” Abigail said, just as she took notice of a buzzing sensation from her digital watch. She stopped in her tracks at the sight of the blinking red light emitting from it, “…Lucio, we’re getting out of here.”

Lucio set down his coffee, “Huh? What’s happened?”

“Just about the last thing we ever wanted to happen… The safehouse has been compromised by outsiders… We can’t afford the luxury of assuming it’s a false alarm…,” Abigail remarked. She pulled a cellphone out of her pocket and dialed up a particular number.

Meanwhile, at the Razor’s Edge club not far away, Giovanni Sforza retrieved his phone from his pocket and answered it, “Abigail, I presume… I hope this is an emergency. You know that I have to throw this phone away now you’ve forced me to use it…”

Abigail answered from the other end of the line, “Stuff it, Sforza… The motion-sensors I set up at Ocelot-28 have been set off, and you know what that means…”

“The safehouse is compromised… By the name of the Tide Queen… We have to assume the worse, Abigail. Do you have a firearm on you?,” queried Sforza.

“Yeah, I brought Ol’ Reliable, my lucky 9mm semiautomatic… I’m out right now. Obviously I’m not going to be unarmed!,” Abigail replied.

“Great, I’ll meet you-!,” said Sforza, as Serena cut him off. “Giovanni, I think there’s something bad brewing up here… Do you see those two men that just entered?” Sforza redirected his attention to where Serena had been pointing… Though no one else seemed to notice, two identically dressed men in black business suits had been in the process of escorting the manager of the nightclub into the backroom… and from the look on his face, he wasn’t too happy to oblige.

”How could I have been so blind?! So stupid?! If they know where my safehouse is in the Underground, then they had to have been watching me long enough to track me here! This is where I put the crew together to begin with! Could be the Admiral’s personal henchmen… but I have a sinking feeling this is something else going on…”

Sforza grabbed Serena by the shoulder and began to tug her along, “We have to get out of here and now, Serena! Safehouse Ocelot-28 has been breached… Abigail and Lucio are already on their way to investigate and clear out any hostiles! But you… You and I have a special mission. See… I can’t tell you who, but there’s an inside-man in the regime that I meet at 12 midnight on the 30th of every month by the pier not far from the Razor’s Edge. Sometimes if he wants to get In touch, he’ll find me there… but those guys you saw were not his.”

Serena wrested herself free from Sforza’s grip and followed him surreptitiously out the back-entrance, “Giovanni, let go of my arm and let me take care of myself… And where do we go for the next 4 hours til midnight… How do even know if it’s still safe to meet him? And what about Abigail and Lucio… They’re going back even though the alarms went off in the safehouse… They’ll get themselves captured… maybe killed!”

Sforza tensely explained the situation to the best of his ability, racing about the side of the abandoned warehouse where the nightclub was installed. “Serena… I know it sounds crazy, but they have to go back! If Zendies have breached Ocelot-28, then the pathway to Stigmergia is open to them… and from there, how hard will it be for them to root out the entire Network using our own transportation system…! An alert has to be sent out to Network Central to make proactive adjustments… Blow up and seal off connecting passageways leading from compromised private and common areas… Then maybe make plans for creating new tunnels and new facilities where they’re less likely to be looking out for any! We’ve only been able to persevere this long by our wits. A few dumb mistakes can lead to the deaths of hundreds of our own!”

“I’m afraid, Signor Sforza, that you’ve already committed one ‘dumb mistake’ too many in your illustrious career.” Sforza and Serena were startled by this unexpected voice out of the blue. Around the bend, there waited the two men-in-black from before, pistols drawn, and flanked by the two in the center was an unfamiliar face. A young woman around Serena’s age with platinum blonde hair, wearing the uniform of a StateSec lieutenant, “This little cat-and-mouse game you’ve been playing with us is now officially over, Signor Sforza… You are under arrest for crimes against the people of Ridnez and the New State… Racketeering, black-market activities, gun-running, drug-running… You have quite the rapsheet.”

“Yeah, that’s Tetra told me last time I was in this position… And unless Ludovico Tetra got a lot better looking, all I can say is I didn’t even know there were any women in the Directorate of State Security,” Sforza quipped.

“We are all, men and women both, willing to do the best by our country… A shame to see some young men and women fail to be animated by the same sense of responsibility… Especially you, Signora Gerloni… What would your father think?,” the woman remarked, “But forgive me for failing to introduce myself… I am First Lieutenant Carmela Benedetta… And at the risk of being redundant, yes, you both are under arrest.”

8:37 PM

“Can you believe that all this firepower was sitting here right under our feet for… what? Weeks?! Months?! I’ll say this about the Ocelotists… They sure know how to nest goodies away where no one will find them.”

One Zendirist tactical police operative commented on the organization of the Ocelotist safehouse with something approaching admiration. His fellows were less than impressed. “Dante, cut it out… We all just know you just envy these people’s gun collection…”

The agent called Dante did not deny this, “Hell yeah I would like to have these people’s gun collection! A man has certain interests… But I will say against their favor, they weren’t too smart having only one way in or out… I mean, the ventilation duct… Please!” A third operative chimed in, “Heh… All we have to do is cover this grate, wait for the Ocelotist dogs to arrive, and then… well, what happens then depends on whether Interim Director Bertolini thinks they’re high-priority candidates for interrogation.”

“Interesting strategic analysis, even if your conclusions are a bit grisly…,” commented the voice of Lucio Andreozzi, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. The statement was concluded by the disembodied voice of Abigail Roth, “But there is one mistake you boys made… You thought there was only one way into the safehouse.” With that, a hidden trapdoor threw open from the floor. Simultaneously, a pineapple grenade was tossed into the air and within seconds detonated the ammunition crates randomly strewn throughout the chamber. The safehouse was no more.

For a full minute, fire and noise licked at Abigail and Lucio as they strove to crawl back the way opposite from the trapdoor. Abigail yelled out, at just about the point she became audible, “Lucio! Lucio… this was stupid! This was very stupid!” Occupying the space immediately anterior to Abigail in the crawlspace, Lucio cried back out in response, “Well…! Blame yourself, fearless leader! This was the best idea you could come up with on short notice…! You mean to tell me there was no better contingency plan than to explode an entire room of live gunpowder right above our heads…?!” Abigail growled back, “Grr… Blame Sforza… That was his safehouse and he hung up on me as we were discussing plan of attack… Self-destructive moron…”

Abigail and Lucio finally reached another junction of the utility tunnel network at the other end of the crawlspace, which happened to lead to… another abnormally large ventilation grate. Lucio kicked the grate loose, allowing himself and Abigail to fully extricate themselves. Abigail sighed from exhaustion, her pulse bounding within her chest, “Huh… huh… Well, at least we can be reasonably sure the safehouse is totally inaccessible to the Zendies from now on… And Stigmergia with it… Heh, so much for moving 4 crates by next Friday… Ow.”

9:20 PM

“No! I refuse to cooperate with you… I won’t give up. And neither with Giovanni!”

Serena stood in front of Sforza, arms spread across in protection, perplexing him and the Zendy operatives sent to capture him in equal measure. “You just said it… You know who my father is… He wouldn’t allow you to harm me.” The Ars Goetia case remained clutched in one of Serena’s hands as she remembered its value. “And… and this thing… I don’t know what it is or what it does, but Giovanni has it on good authority… This is the key to everything you people want. You can’t let it be harmed either, isn’t that right?” She proceeded to clutch the case in front of her chest, hoping that even if they risked using tasers or less-lethal weaponry on her, that they would not risk the Ars Goetia trigger.

“Signora Gerloni… Please… You are making an ass of yourself. If you do not surrender yourself… and your boyfriend… and the… item in your possession… then I will be forced to torch the warehouse-secreted pleasure-den beside us with all the sordid, recidivistic clientele inside… No great loss, but given this location’s evident sentimental value to ‘Giovanni’, I don’t suppose you’d like to be forced to witness as it burns to the ground…,” said First Lieutenant Benedetta.

“This has gone on long enough…!,” Sforza exclaimed, “Look… I get it. You people want me to surrender myself. I’ll come quietly. But just… please… give me a minute or two alone with Serena…” Benedetta folded her arms behind her back in mild amusement, “We’ll be waiting in eager anticipation, Signor Sforza…”

Sforza lightly placed his hands on the shoulders of a still highly tense and not fully comprehending Serena Gerloni, even while she continued to tightly hold the Ars Goetia with no sign of letting go. “Listen, Serena… I know we haven’t known each other for very long. You’ve been a good friend… an amazing friend… in this rather friendless and sometimes lonely world. I don’t know about all these people saying ‘boyfriend, girlfriend’… That’s maybe a bit much for now…”

Serena snapped at Sforza in impatience, “Giovanni!”

Sforza leaned in close and lowered his voice to a whisper, “Right, so here’s the short version… Uh… Remember midnight. I did get a call in to the missing member of our group in all this before I tossed that sh*t phone into the marina water… He’s coming 9:30 which is in 2 minutes, so you should duck when you hear the motor running… Yeah, that’s about it…”

Clearly whatever Serena was expecting Giovanni to say, it was something else. Her sole reply: “What?!”

Sforza put his hands behind his head and slowly walked towards Benedetta and her two grunts. But while the Zendies handcuffed Sforza, Serena inched closer to the edge of the pier.

“Not this childishness again! Your ‘Giovanni’ had the good sense to give up the ghost… Why don’t you? Your father has been looking forward to a reunion after all these years,” urged Benedetta

Serena did her best to sound confident and cocky, whether in hopes of convincing the Lieutenant or convincing herself. “You know, it has been many years, hasn’t it? But I’m going to tell you the same thing I told me father at age 16… Get stuffed!”

At those words were said, Serena picked up the rapidly increasing pitch of a speedboat motor. In seconds, she ducked to the pier with the Ars Goetia in her grasp, while a burst of cover fire came from a machine gun mounting onto the hull of the approaching speedboat. The fifth and final member of the Sforza crew had arrived at last.

“Serena, jump in, quick!,” yelled Konstantin Pappas.

Serena lit up with hope at her comrade’s appearance and leaped into the boat with the Ars Goetia. “Konstantin, you’re a life-saver if ever there was one! I don’t know where you came from, but we’ve gotta vamoose!” As they shot off into the bay beneath the inky-black night, Sforza overheard Serena’s voice trail off into the distance, “Oh holy Phantasmic Court, we give honor to you for the blessings of speedboats, for thou art…!”

When all trace of Serena and Konstantin faded from view, Sforza let out a deep and relieved sigh, as if he had been holding his breath for far too long.

“Make it, Serena… For the sake of all of us… please make it.”

On a tributary of the Chryselephantine River, Fulmine Rosso

9:35 PM

“Konstantin! I was wondering where you had gone while the rest of us held down the fort!”

Serena clutched the Ars Goetia against her body, hunched down within the interior of the moving speedboat, “But I have a question… Where do we go now? Giovanni’s safehouse is done for… Do we even have a Plan B…?” All of a sudden, she heard gunfire overhead and ducked for cover as bullets whizzed by.

“Well, girl, there is still the small complication of shaking off these police boats… Afterwards, I suppose we’ll have to play it by ear! I can call in a few favors that I picked up in my time working for House Aritidoukas. Ziconeans didn’t carry their 3000-year civilization this far by lying down and dying when they were told to!,” Konstantin replied, peppering the three pursuing speedboats with return fire from his mounted machine gun. “Have you figured out what that electronic keycard was for anyway…?”

“That’s just it, Konstantin! Giovanni told me just a few minutes before you arrived…! He’s been in touch with the contact who sent out the original tip! They were supposed to meet at the pier tonight!,” Serena yelled to make herself heard over the sounds of the motor, the intermittent gunfire, and the water splashing by her sides.

Konstantin reacted to the information with surprise and consternation, “Tonight?! At the pier?! Well, seeing the sh*tstorm brewing down at the docks should convince Sforza’s contact to keep the hell away…! And if Sforza’s been captured, I wouldn’t put it outside the realm of likelihood that the so-called contact has been rounded up too…! And if the ‘Ars Goetia’ is as important to the Zendirists as he claims, they’d put a bullet in him for sure…”

“Bullet…?! Are you talking about Giovanni or the mystery-man again?,” queried Serena. The response from Konstantin came in brusque form, “I mean both… What happened to Andreozzi and Roth, by the way?” Before Serena could answer, Giovanni swerved hard to the left to avoid the discharge from one of the pursuer’s grenade launchers, knocking her off her feet and against the side of the boat.

“Ack! Could you be a bit gentler on the turns next time?! I don’t know where Abigail and Lucio are… Right before we got cornered by StateSec, Giovanni received a call from them saying the safehouse was compromised… Giovanni told them to head back to destroy it and seal the path to other parts of the Underground!,” she answered.

Konstantin fired on one of the pursuing speedboats, shredding its hull, “So that’s what you meant when you said the safehouse is no more… What you mean to tell me is that all our close allies are dead. We are the only ones left. In that case, in my capacity as a knight of the House Zografidis, it was an honor to work beside you, Serena Gerloni…”

Serena emoted palpable shock at Konstantin’s conclusion, “…Hey, now! You said yourself that people don’t survive for long by rolling over and calling it quits! We have a mission, a purpose… that’s larger than any we could have imagined being thrust onto our shoulders. You may not have signed up for this, but for Giovanni’s sake… We’ve got to find whoever can use the Ars Goetia for the most good and ensure it reaches them!”

Konstantin smirked to himself, ever so slightly so as not to throw off his gruff and stolid demeanor. “You are a spirited young lady… If only I could have introduced you to some of my brothers back in the old country… They would have loved to make a wife out of a woman with your verve.” Serena was taken aback, “What the f*ck? I’m not going to marry one of your drinking buddies! What sort of thought is that while making a courageous last stand…?!”

“Forgive an old-fashioned man for his old-fashioned ways, Serena! But I agree, even if this is to be our end, we have to give it our all in the trying!”

Via di Primavera, Fulmine Rosso

10:30 PM

“What is the meaning of this?! I have urgent business to conduct down this way, Officer, and you are standing in the way of my addressing it!”

Giulio Bisogno sat at the window of his staff car, pulled up by a cordon established by the Fulmine Rosso police. He confronted one of the officers posted at the barrier, “You do realize that I am the Supreme Commander of the Ridnez Armed Forces by appointment of the General Directorate! As all of sovereign Ridnezite land is under a condition of martial law at present, there is absolutely no excuse for your insistence on obstructing my path! I will have you stripped of your badge if you do not unobstruct me at once!”

The beleaguered officer sighed to himself, “I apologize, Admiral Bisogno, but… I answer directly to the Directorate of State Security, and that makes my most superior commanding officer at the moment Interim Director Vito Bertolini! If you have an issue with his decision to block this street, I suggest that you consult with him yourself…”

Bisogno curled his lip into a grimace and ordered his chauffeur, “Corporal, send a call to the office of Vito Bertolini in Centro Nuovo… Apparently the higher-ups of StateSec have decided to surpass the legitimate bounds of their authority!” Bisogno’s driver obliged and dialed the number on a secure line, “Yes, sir, Grand Admiral… Interim Director Bertolini on the line right now!”

The speakers of Bisogno’s car emitted the voice of the StateSec chief, “Admiral Bisogno, I presume… To what do I owe the pleasure?” Bisogno stated his concern, “Bertolini, what I want to know is the answer to one rather simple question. Do you have any idea what the term ‘martial law’ means?!”

Bertolini half-chuckled his astonishment, “Heh, what?!” Bisogno continued to voice his grievance, “Bertolini, on what authority did you decide that you had the right to blockade all access routes leading to Fulmine Rosso’s waterfront without my agreement? All branches of the Armed Forces within this country ultimately report to me! You have no justification for undertaking a decision of this magnitude by yourself!”

Bertolini replied in a casual tone, “Admiral, this is classified information, but in deference to your post, I will be candid with you. The Fulmine Rosso branch of StateSec has been conducting an investigation of Ocelotist smuggling operations in the general area for the past several months… I had a recent report come in… within the past hour, actually… inform that a joint police-intelligence effort to flush the criminals out resulted in a desperate counterattack, setting fire to a former Oberto warehouse at the docks. The blockade has been established in the interest of public safety…”

Bisogno processed what he had just been told with a degree of trepidation, “Ocelotist smugglers? Don’t you agree that such matters as these are best left to be handled by the Military Police? Especially as your people seem to have bungled your operation as it is…”

“With all due respect, Admiral, I don’t appreciate your insinuation that StateSec is incapable of containing the situation without military assistance… Our operatives have already placed the leader of the smuggling ring into custody, so his partners shouldn’t take too much longer to round up. At this stage, we’re perfectly content to assign this incident to the category of strictly minor felony,” Bertolini stated.

Bisogno bristled, “You said that they set a shipping warehouse ablaze? I see this as an attack on maritime traffic and resource allocation. As far as I’m concerned, this debacle has graduated into a question of outright domestic terrorism… Hand control of the developing situation over to me. I’ll have things wrapped up within a few hours.”

“If that’s your will, I can hardly go against you, only serving in right of the true Director of StateSec in absentia… But I’ll remind you that the outcome of the night’s events can very well be spun for political advantage when the Integral Social Vanguard holds its biannual congress on the 6th of October,” Bertolini warned.

“Political advantage is the farthest from my mind. I see a threat to the peace… and a potential act of sabotage against our war effort… In any event, don’t try to pretend neutrality for even a minute, as we both know which claim to civilian political leadership will be backed by the spokesmen of your directorate at the party congress. Tell Vincenzo Borrelli that whatever game he’s playing is one I have no reason to partake in! Grand Admiral, out,” Bisogno replied. The chauffeur hung up the call, while Bisogno stepped out from his car.

The officers maintaining the cordon simultaneously received a message from their earpieces. “Acknowledged. Over and out. It seems that the Interim Director has granted us permission to receive your orders, Admiral Bisogno, sir… The next move is yours.” The officers stepped out of Bisogno’s way as he bypassed the cordon and made a determined march towards the waterfront. ”I can’t believe I put my faith in that stupid child. But it’s too late now to re-strategize. If anyone still has the means to prevent the Zendirist madmen from reuniting the Nyx triggers, it falls to Giovanni Sforza. That irresolute stripling. May Amadastra and Cothestrus show their mercy upon Ridnez, indeed.”

General Ridnez Petrochemical HQ, Fulmine Rosso

10:37 PM

Standing by the window of his executive office, Vincenzo Borrelli observed the pillar of flame from the docks, which was once the Razor’s Edge nightclub, send flickers of light adrift into the night sky to be drowned out by the darkness. Arms folded behind his back, Borrelli contemplated, ”The Ocelotist scum appear to be putting up a better fight than Bertolini’s assurances would suggest. Was the Ars Goetia destroyed in the blaze? Could some random act of general ineptitude be responsible for smashing all our hopes for the future? I must know what’s happening down there!”

Borrelli heard the ringing of his phone on his desk. After checking the caller ID, he eagerly hit the answer button, “Vito Bertolini… Almost as if by happenstance… I was only seconds away from calling you. Just what the devil has transpired? I thought you had Sforza and his co-conspirators under observation for weeks! How could you have allowed a dock fire to occur, of all things?”

Bertoloni responded, “Fear not, dirigente… The fire is well-controlled. The warehouse in question was a hotbed of iniquity and a frequent dive of the Sforza fellow. I had ordered it to be done for the purpose of justifying a police blockade around the waterfront… It turns out that you were right about Admiral Bisogno. He did show up at the cordon, rather aggressively demanding to be let past to conduct an unspecified article of ‘business’… I only wonder what ‘business’ this could have been, hm?”

Borrelli approached the speaker emitting Bertolini’s voice and hunched over the desk, “Circumstantial evidence perhaps, but it doesn’t matter! When Sforza is under custody, we’ll be able to ascertain the truth from him then… Even if he requires to be persuaded to talk. But…” Borrelli backed off from the desk, took a deep breath, and seemed to diminish In intensity, “But… I would like a chance to speak with the lad first.”

Bertolini was flabbergasted. “You want to expose yourself to the risk and the danger of a personal encounter...? Greatest respect, dirigente, but he is a hardened criminal and a anti-Zendirist rebel to boot. If anything goes wrong with his containment procedures, he could certainly end you… And what reason would he have not to… especially if he is working with Bisogno?”

Borrelli saw the specter of Andreas Bombardone opposite him from the desk, seated in a chair. The specter talked to him, “Tell Bertolini that Sforza is a young man of hardy Ridnezite stock… with a decent head on his shoulders. Tell him that it’s important to persuade the lad not through crude threats and violence, but by simply telling him… the truth of the world. There is no force more irresistible than that.”

“Dirigente? You’ve fallen silent… Is there anything wrong? Is anyone in there with you right now?,” asked Bertolini.

Borrelli snapped back to reality and noticed a fine tremor in his right hand, setting himself down in his seat slowly and weakly as Bertolini spoke through the phone. “I have… er… to explain to the… man. To the young man…” Without warning, Borrelli then suddenly snapped forward with a renewed energy bordering on desperation, “I have to show Sforza exactly what it is he’s been doing here by keeping me from my goal… If nothing else, he’s proven to possess a powerful instinct for self-preservation and a keen innate intelligence. All good traits for a Zendirist to have… His intrigues, though petty and perverse, showcase a certain potential for espionage that could be of benefit to the New State. I’m certain of it… All that’s needed to reorient Sforza’s virtues toward their proper ends is to be made cognizant of the grievous costs the people must bear for his antisocial defiance!”

“I… I see your dedication to the people is as strong as the Hierarch’s ever was. Yes, you’re right. We aren’t Shahi brutes… All Ridnezites have common cause with the future of civilization on this planet. Show the young man his errors and allow him to make up for them… By handing over not just the Ars Goetia and the Admiral, but everything else he knows about the Ocelotist Network,” said Bertoloni.

Bombardone’s ghost returned to speak again in Borrelli’s brain, “But… just in case…”

“Just in case… have the Retromnemon prepared for use. He’s been captured one time too many to forgo the procedure on him any longer,” Borrelli ordered.

5 blocks from the waterfront, Residential Block 40-G, Fulmine Rosso

10:45 PM

“Don’t look at anyone else for too long, Abigail… But don’t act all fidgety and nervous either. You’ve gotta act naturally, like anyone else caught up in all this.”

Lucio whispered advice into Abigail’s ear as they, dressed simply as civilians, walked opposite the flow of human bodies obeying the police evacuation order passed over the waterfront district. Lucio wore a black polo shirt and sweatpants; Abigail was dressed in a blue T-shirt, dark green jacket, and denim jeans. “And word of advice, next time you want to ‘take a breath of fresh air’, wear all-black. It hides the dust and stains from crawling around grimy old tunnels and musty ventilation shafts better.”

Abigail whispered back, “I don’t like this, Lucio… That damn idiot screwed up, and now we’ve got to find him and pull him out.” Lucio snarked, “Oh, so you liked better when we had to sneak underneath 3 armed guys to blow them up before they shot us?”

“I’m serious, Lucio… You and I are… We’re going to be treated differently here. If they ask any questions… And they find out I’m Heisenian,” Abigail muttered. “And here I thought you were supposed to be the brave one! Look, we’ve been in difficult spots before, but it’s our duty to Giovanni and the others to at least find out what happened…”

Lucio and Abigail ducked inside as they neared an alleyway between two buildings, being careful to look in all directions around them and not to make too much noise. When they were almost one block away from the pier where the Razor’s Edge used to be, they disturbed a nest of particularly large rats, causing them to hiss, squeak, and spill out onto the streets. One of the policemen guarding the scene of the crime was alerted by the minor commotion and approached the alleyway out of curiosity, shining the flashlight of his rifle down the filth-encrusted corridor, but finding nothing more than a few garbage cans, loose garbage can lids, and a dumpster. “This was supposed to be the model city, they said… I guess vermin and trash are just inescapable realities of cities even when they’re made to model-order, huh?,” the officer remarked to himself.

The officer turned his back on the alley and began to saunter back to the scene surrounding the warehouse blaze, but before he could make much progress, he felt the barrel of a handgun jab sharply into his back. Freezing up automatically, the officer was quickly put in a chokehold and dragged back into the alleyway by Abigail. One thud to the back of the head, and the officer was unconscious. “Now, Lucio, this guy… He’s a schlemiel, not you. Alright, now it’s your turn to do your thing, boy. Suit up in his armor and take a look down where the fireworks are at. Locate Sforza, but do not try to rescue him yet… We’re inadequately prepared, so it would be stupid, understand?” Lucio moaned to himself, “Ugh, why is it that I always get the hard part?”

Lucio dressed in the officer’s uniform and tactical gear and walked in the direction of the warehouse, while Abigail deposited the officer himself in the dumpster and carefully tracked Lucio from a distance using the back-alleys for cover. The first thing Lucio noticed was the police wagon holding Sforza, parked by the curb away from the pier. Lucio proceeded down the length of the pier, searching for sign of what might have happened to Serena. ”Now’s time to take your own advice, man… Act normally, like you’re supposed to be here… If only I had a better idea of how a StateSec officer is supposed to act in these situations…”

Lucio took a long, hard look at the brackish waters of the harbor, then decided to head back. As he walked back his path, he took notice of First Lieutenant Benedetta, giving orders to several of the other officers on the scene. “Signora Gerloni and her as-yet unidentified partner have made off with the chief item of interest in this investigation. It does not concern us what the item is for; this is classified information above our rank in the hierarchy. What does concern us is returning the item in one piece, and if it can be reasonably accomplished, Signora Gerloni herself… She is the daughter of the esteemed Director Gerloni of the Environmental Protection Directorate, and as such, is not to be harmed. Her ’partner’, on the other hand, from reports of Sforza on file, is believed to be a Ziconean beast with organized crime ties… He is to be shot on sight, do I make myself clear?”

As Lucio passed by, Benedetta scanned Lucio with her wandering eye; everything about his posture and mannerism seemed off. “You there… Officer Marconi, I thought I told you to cover the intersection of Strada Fuldio and Incrocio Rosita… What are you doing wandering so far from your post?” Lucio froze up momentarily, then quickly formulated a response. “Ah, I was… uh… asked to cover this area for the officer previously on duty here, while he had to use the restroom.”

Benedetta stepped forwards. “Is that right? Then tell me, what is this other officer’s name? Actually, what is my name?” Lucio stood still and without word, reviewing his options. ”Great, this is exactly how we didn’t want it to go down? Do I try to BS it? No, that won’t work… I have the officer’s rifle…! But I’m outgunned! To hell with this…!” Before another thought could cross Lucio’s mind, Benedetta whipped out a small cylindrical staff from her sleeve and, in one single graceful motion, flicked it to extend it out to a length of one-and-a-half meters, while striking Lucio with 50,000 volts running through the tip, stunning him and causing him to crumple towards the ground. “One more ‘dumb mistake’ to go on top of the pile, it appears… If only all Sforza’s accomplices could give themselves over through such half-baked stunts.”

Benedetta was alarmed as she heard the sound of a gunshot, followed by one of the 4 StateSec officers surrounding the fallen Lucio Andreozzi grunted and flew backwards onto the ground beside them. Her head, and those of the three remaining officers, whipped around, as approaching the pier with a stride of perhaps unjustifiable confidence was Abigail, reloading her handgun. “You know, Lucio was right… I’ve never been the coward in this outfit and I’m not about to start today! I’m taking my friend… and Sforza… back, thank you. Stand aside or do your best to stop me!” Benedetta was shocked by the turn of events, “I didn’t consider my taunt to your fallen comrade as an invitation, but if you want to die, girl, there were easier ways of accomplishing it! Open fire!”

The three remaining officers did as commanded, spraying bullets on where Abigail had been a second ago, but anticipating their move, she rolled out of the way and came up in a crouching position, getting off two headshots that dispatched all but one of the remaining armed officers and the Lieutenant herself. Abigail quickly closed the distance, as the last man with a rifle was obstructed from getting a clear shot by Benedetta and his partner’s falling bodies. Abigail covered Lucio, pistol now at point-blank range from the Lieutenant, “To be honest, I’d have been maybe a bit more hesitant if I didn’t already know from experience that StateSec goons can’t hit the broad side of a barn… Now, Mr. Macho with the assault rifle, don’t try anything unless you want the blonde to get it! Throw away your weapons!”

After a moment of silence and uncertainty, Benedetta gave the order, “Do as she says, Officer Zappolini. It hardly matters. They won’t get away.” The last remaining armed officer on scene complied and placed his rifle at his feet, then rose with hands up. “That goes for you do, blondie. I don’t know what kind of trick you pulled before, but dispense with the souped-up band leader’s mace, why don’t you?” Benedetta calmly twiddled her staff to draw attention to it, “You mean this? Oh, it’s more like a glorified cattle prod really if I had to describe it…” Without warning, the Lieutenant flicked the staff out with a twitch of the wrist. Abigail attempted to evade, but the side of the staff glanced her own wrist and forced her to drop her handgun. “Think a police taser or stun gun… A really, really powerful one. But the current is entirely focused at the tip, you see… If your reflexes were a smidgen less quick, I’d have conducted enough amps in you to have you in similar condition to your accomplice. So how about I make you the same offer to surrender as you gave me?”

Abigail steeled herself for the confrontation she knew was inevitable to ensue. “Sorry, blondie, but… It’s not in the cards for me. I know what you people have done to your ‘antisocial nationalities’ in the Outer Sector… Death is preferable to that, and I still have people relying on me… a mission to complete!” She ducked underneath Benedetta’s electrical wand as the next attack came out, then quickly grabbed Officer Zappolini’s rifle, butting him in the stomach with it and following up by knocking Zappolini out with a strike to the face from the barrel. Quickly, Abigail tried to get some distance from Benedetta and oriented the rifle within her grip. But then a stray thought caused her to hesitate… ”If I miss, I could hit Lucio… Don’t tell me I have to fight this witch one-on-one!”

The thought was quickly broken by Benedetta’s sudden surge forward anyway, forcing Abigail to drop the rifle. “It wouldn’t have done you much good, anyway. Standard-issue firearms used by Ridnezite police and military are fingerprint-locked… So you meant to imply before that you belong in the Outer Sector with the rest of this country’s rubbish? Then there is no need to hold anything back!”

On a tributary of the Chryselephantine River, Fulmine Rosso

11:20 PM

“They just keep coming! How many speedboats could the Fulmine Rosso Police Department have on hand anyway?!”

Serena took a despairing look behind her as the small fleet of pursuing police boats seemed to hound them to the ends of the earth. By now, she had to take over the task of steering, even though she had never been in a speedboat before in her life. “Seriously, every one that you take out… Two or three more just take their place… and like, immediately! They can’t be getting paid that well!”

Konstantin replied in between bursts of machine gun fire, “It’s not the money, Serena. You should know that very well by now… These men believe that our success means the doom of their country. Few things can inspire a man to put his life on the line more than the defense of his people! They, and I, are alike in that regard…!”

By this point, Serena had taken Konstantin and herself far enough down the waterway to partially circumnavigate the tiny peninsular outcropping that the city of Fulmine Rosso itself was founded upon. “I just want you to know, Konstantin… I have no idea where I’m going… This was your rescue, remember?!” Just as the words were spoken, the noise of another lobbed grenade, exploding above the water, rang in her ears. “And do you think they’re still serious about not trying to kill me?! It sure looks like they don’t care very much about what my father thinks any longer…!”

Just then, Serena saw a line of more police boats mobilized in the distance ahead of her, “Aw, no… It can’t be! We’ve been played for fools!” Konstantin turned to look in Serena’s direction and understood instantly, “It’s a pincer attack! We’ve been surrounded!”

Serena choked on the lump in her throat as the next few words came forth, “Then… this really is the end…!”

Serena and Konstantin’s speedboat swerved in a last-ditch effort to escape into the river, but it was futile. A volley of gunfire sprinkled on their boat from both ends ignited the gas tank. In the passing second before disaster, Serena leaped back from the steering apparatus of the boat, clutching the case containing the Ars Goetia. “Got to save this thing! Giovanni believed in me! It’s our only hope!”

Then the boat’s gas tank detonated; where Serena and Konstantin once stood was naught but another fireball on the waterfront.

Serena and Konstantin had gained just enough momentum jumping off the boat that the concussive force wave of the explosion only seared their backs and propelled them several more meters into the inky darkness of the river. Serena remained strongly gripped to the Ars Goetia, as if it could save her or as though she could save it… But the principles of gravity and buoyancy had decided otherwise; clutching the Key of Night only hastened her descent into the depths. ”I… I’m sorry I couldn’t do it, Giovanni. I let us down… Let down all of us. Our hope for a better ending…” Serena rapidly lost consciousness after hitting the water, but before she fully faded out, she vaguely sensed being cradled and lifted… Salvation, or a dying dream?

By the former Razor’s Edge nightclub, Fulmine Rosso

11:35 PM

Carmela Benedetta took several agile thrusts with her electrified staff as she forced Abigail Roth down the length of the pier against the backdrop of the warehouse blaze. “You have no hope here, subhuman dog! I was mentored by Director Del Tuono himself! I was up for consideration to replace him, even…”

Abigail was unimpressed, “So you were taught by a crusty sadistic former engineer to wave around a stick? That’s quite the qualification you have on you! Guess you were passed up for Tetra ‘cause you were a woman though, huh? That must have stung…” Abigail retaliated by parrying Benedetta’s swing, pulling her into a knee to the abdomen to take the wind out of her, and throwing her off several feet to gain some room to maneuver.

Benedetta regained her breath more quickly than someone of her age, build, and general appearance would suggest, “S-shut up! I’ll show you what stings when you taste the end of my staff!” She rushed for Abigail, bringing the staff down with a two-handed smash into a wooden crate. Abigail dodged without much difficulty; the Lieutenant’s susceptibility to taunting made her form sloppy.

“How about I regale you with my qualifications as I beat you into the ground? Army of the Republic of West Heisen, National Guard, 76th Infantry Division…,” Abigail taunts, delivering a quick flurry of blows to Benedetta’s head and flank, taking her off-balance. “Heisenian armed forces have innovated a special technique of close-quarters combat… We call it Paru Mila; you don’t need to know what it means in my native tongue.”

Benedetta took another swing, broad and clumsy, behind her. Abigail predicted the movement and grappled with Benedetta, grabbing Benedetta’s staff-holding arm by the wrist and yanking it to her side while slamming a descending fist into the Lieutenant’s face. Abigail pressed the advantage, landing a side kick knocking Benedetta into a pile of crates and forcing her to drop the staff. By the time Benedetta reoriented herself and was ready to reenter the fray, Abigail already had the staff in hand and stood over her. “Good night, blondie.” With that, Abigail struck the First Lieutenant directly In the chest with the tip of the staff, sending her into helpless convulsions on the ground and forcing her to pass out.

Dropping the staff, its use exhausted, Abigail supported herself on her knees, finally allowing herself to catch her breath and recoup. But no sooner did she allow herself to relax than she heard a less-than-encouraging round of applause from farther back up the pier. Standing above the still-unconscious body of the disguised Lucio, and by the deceased bodies of several other StateSec officers, an older bearded man in naval uniform clapped his hands, whether in mockery or genuine appreciation was impossible to tell.

Standing in a solid line beside him were about a dozen more armed agents, attired somewhat differently from the StateSec officers before. StateSec wore solid black; these dressed in a dark blue. Otherwise, both units appeared equally militarized, their individual identities buried beneath tactical gear. But of more pressing attention to Abigail was that they cocked their guns in near-unison and readied laser-sights all dead center on her torso.

“That was quite a show you and Bertolini’s henchwoman put on for the lot of us. Consider us sufficiently amused… but as you can clearly see, you are outnumbered and, needless to say, outgunned. I will graciously accept your surrender,” stated the Admiral.

Through a winded, nearly spent voice, Abigail offered a flicker of defiance, “L-like… Like hell I’ll surrender to you! Did you hear anything that I just told sleeping beauty over here? I’d rather die than experience what you Zendirist filth have in store. So just shoot me now…” Even as the words passed her lips, Abigail could not help but wonder if those were the right ones. ”Praised be to Lord Axon, redeem my impure soul…”

Bisogno loosened up by a tick and considered his course of action, “Miss… I’m afraid you have me sorely misunderstood. Recall that the relationship between the Republic and the Armed Forces has always been one of distrustful collaboration and never blind submission to civilian control… I don’t deny what Zendirists have done… or are doing still… to your people. But on my honor as the scion of the noble line Bisogno or Bisonium… you and your comrades will not be harmed if you come with me.”

“B-bullsh*t… Don’t try to deny that the armed forces chiefs are completely and totally on the same page as the Zendies now… I know my history. It’s how it has been for the last twenty years in this country. You allowed Andreas Bombardone to take control of civilian administration and whored your services out to his abominable nest of vipers! You’re no better than they are!,” argued Abigail.

Admiral Bisogno sighed to himself, “…I cannot rightfully refute any of these claims. But I insist that, today… I am on the level. What must I do to persuade you of my sincerity?”

Abigail thought to herself, then came the reply. “I want you… to get those damned sights off me already! They make me nervous…” Bisogno looked to his military policemen and nodded his head to the side, signaling them to stop aiming for the desperate Ocelotist. “Now you can free Giovanni Sforza right now… and let him and the both of us get out of here… and don’t attempt to follow, or we’ll know it!”

Bisogno spread his arms out and half-shrugged, “I am afraid that one of these requests is outside of my ability to oblige, my dear… The goons of State Security have already spirited the Sforza lad away from the area. They acted as soon as you and your friend started making a commotion… demanding my personal appearance.”

“Then where… are they taking him?!,” Abigail demanded to know. Bisogno slowly approached Abigail’s position down the feet, being light and careful with his footsteps, and leaving Lucio to the MP’s. “As I said… civilian and military authorities in this country answer to two completely unrelated hierarchies. For now, mine is supposed to take precedence as the General Directorate… absent the guidance of a Chief of State… reluctantly agreed to submit to my temporary wartime leadership. But the loyalists of the New State conspire around me nevertheless, behind my back… to the detriment of this country, I would say. And to the detriment of the Heisenian race and so-called ‘Ocelotist’ cause, within the country, to add.”

Abigail listened intently as she began to comprehend. Bisogno continued to grow nearer, “You see… Sforza and I had an arrangement some time back… One in which I had sworn him into secrecy for the sake of mutual self-preservation… but exceptional circumstances call for deviations from accepted protocol.”

Abigail’s expression changed from one of defiant determination to one of total surprise, “You… Y-you’re the contact…? You’re the contact?!”

Bisogno then came to a stop in a few feet from Abigail. No words passed between the two; instead he waited for her for fully absorb the implications. But at the corner of the Admiral’s peripheral vision, he witnessed a V-shaped formation of sleek gray bodies streak at a rapid pace through the sky. Most other men would be unable to notice their approach, but Bisogno had enough experience to know what an air wing of bomber jets looked like fast approaching.

Bisogno’s eyes widened up with dawning terror, “By Amadastra’s veil! We have to evacuate the premises now! Tell civilians to head for regionally organized bomb shelters! There’s only a minute or two in which to act…!”

General Ridnez Petrochemical HQ, Fulmine Rosso

12 midnight

The 8th Bomb Wing of the Royal Shah Air Force flew over the city, releasing small but powerful payloads of explosives. The Conti University campus… the culture and dining spots of Via di Primavera… the Blanco Nero Building under reconstruction… electrical substations, police stations, armories, other strategic targets… but also gardens, museums, public parks, schools, hospitals… were struck with a brief yet supremely devastating rain of death from the skies.

Vincenzo Borrelli witnessed the ongoing annihilation of Fulmine Rosso, paralyzed with fear, disbelief, and indecision. “I… I cannot believe what I’m seeing. It’s not… possible. It’s just not possible! Isn’t the Aerospace Force supposed to maintain radar arrays to warn us of any breach of our airspace well before…?”

Bombardone’s specter materialized again into the room, standing beside Borrelli’s desk. “Now you receive but a small sample of the fate that awaits the people of Ridnez if the schemes of our enemies are allowed to come to fruition! Look upon grand, proud Fulmine Rosso from the heights of your tower… Look upon the ultimate Zendirist project… the model of the clean, prosperous society we had promised our people as the reward for the exactions they have been periodically compelled to endure! The very form and substance of that hard-won triumph over nature which has preoccupied generations of Ridnezite people over their entire existence! Look at it… our promise to the people of a future in which they have a truly worthy place… to live, to dance in the sun, to raise their children and let them know that things will be alright in the end…! Look at it burn, Vincenzo! Look at it burn, burn, burn!”

Borrelli collapsed to his knees, brought to the verge of tears, as he looked at the pillars of smoke and fire sprout not just from the waterfront, but from all over. But Borrelli’s sorrowful collapse was interrupted by his valet Giovanni Ossola, “Quick, dirigente… The entire city is under a state of aerial bombardment by the League! There is no doubt, given your stature in the Council of Corporations… and the prominence of this building against the skyline… We are soon to be bombed as well!”

The following events passed through Borrelli’s mind like a haze, in deep contrast to how those few seconds of the initial attack he observed felt, subjectively, to last for an eternity. He recalls as the entire corporate HQ building was put on alert for evacuation of staff, as he was rushed down hundreds of flights of the stairwell due to the many risks of using the elevator in such a situation… He barely processed as his legs gave out from the strain, accompanied by a minor episode of tremors brought on by stress. Ossola grabbed Borrelli and rushed him to his limousine, and from there to a bomb shelter… Staring out the window, barely capable of recognizing the world he was inhabiting anymore, Borrelli took in rapidly passing shots of wrecked, burning hulks of busses on the road, people screaming and pushing past each other in frenzied evacuations from their places of work, their places of recreation, their homes… in a few cases, the bodies of the dead, some ignited and burned to death… others trampled by human stampedes… still others blown to bits by either the bombers’ payloads or explosions occurring subsequent to the original bombardment.

Bombardone’s voice returned in Borrelli’s mind.

“I told you all those years ago, Vincenzo. Many will have to die. The rules of this world have decreed it. Now which of the millions should it be, Vincenzo… You might well be the only man with the impact to make that decision now…”

Borrelli spoke his reply to the invisible specter of the late Hierarch, although Ossola was too preoccupied with driving to the shelter to care.

“Seeing these crimes… My will is steel, Andreas. I’m sorry for having been weak all my life. I know nature abhors weakness… roots it out. The people must survive; I must survive to lead the people. And the League… the Ocelotist garbage… the Heisenians who control both of them… must pay dearly.”

Ridnez Imperial Navy Base ‘Caelesti Classe’, Al Collo

October 2, 2023, 4:15 PM

“Well, it seems that, in spite of the odds, the gang’s all here… through thick and thin…”

Lucio tried to put a positive spin on their current predicament to Abigail, Serena, and Konstantin. All of them were bound by their arms and legs to uncomfortable-looking metallic chairs. The room around them appeared pristine chrome; the overhead light beamed down upon them incessantly for hours, giving Konstantin a migraine headache. Nevertheless, he continued to exude pure strength, not visibly letting the pain show, “Not all of us, Andreozzi… not all of us. StateSec got to Sforza… and that means it’s not long before they torture the identity of his ‘contact’ out of the poor sod. And then from him… it’s only a matter of time for the rest of us. For all we know, they already got what they wanted out of him, and…”

“Shut up, Konstantin, just… Just shut up! We don’t know anything right now! This is the first time in the last few days that we’ve been taken out of our cells and allowed to speak with one another, so let’s… let’s just remain hopeful, alright?!,” objected Serena. Abigail jumped in, “But Pappas has a valid point, girl… Those men are ruthless to the extreme, and the stakes are higher than ever. How long can any human mind resist before cracking under their methods? And meanwhile, until Sforza does crack, the Admiral keeps us imprisoned at his leisure, to sacrifice as pawns on the gameboard whenever it suits his goals… like he used Sforza himself apparently. I hate this… how ineffectual we all are.”

“Ineffectual? No, I wouldn’t say that… In fact, you’ve all been just about the most capable allies that the boy could have asked for… Based on what he’s told me about you,” said Bisogno, stepping through a door attached to the wall by rusted hinges, “Allow me to apologize for your rather… discourteous treatment under the custody of the Imperial Navy. As an officer and a gentleman, allow me to assure you that such is not the customary hospitality you had every right to expect from a gracious host of high birth.”

“Stuff it, Bisogno. There’s nothing to be gained by buttering us up. You have us at your mercy before you, so just say what you mean, damn it!,” Abigail shouted. Bisogno shut his eyes for a moment, his expression blank, and took a deep breath, “Ms. Roth, I assure you that my demeanor is no artifice. As the last scion of a noble line which has passed through the centuries, I have definite ideas of what is proper and I do my best to conform to them.”

“Uh-huh… And does installing a nutjob who goes about throwing innocents into ghettoes and relocating them into camps register anywhere on ‘what is proper’ for you?,” remarked Lucio. Bisogno sauntered over with an icy calm, “Mr. Andreozzi… m’boy. I reiterate, I am a gentleman. I am attempting to show guests the degree of courtesy that might be expected from one in my station. I would appreciate…” Bisogno started to yell, “…if you did not deliberately test me!”

Bisogno walked over to an empty chair across from the four restrained Ocelotists and collapsed into it with a huff, his strength virtually leaving his knees all at once. The members of Sforza’s crew exchanged glances with one another, none saying a thing. Without prompting, Serena Gerloni was the first to break the awkward silence, “Er… Admiral Bisogno. It’s rather obvious by now that you were relying on Giovanni to help you with something important for quite some time. Something too important for you to entrust it to your own operatives in the Navy and the Marines. Because if you let the Zendirists in the capital know about it… something terrible would happen. Isn’t that right?”

Bisogno wearily met Serena’s gaze, his tired eyes meeting her sensitive ones. She continued, “Please, Admiral Bisogno… You plead that you’re a gentleman… My father spoke to me about you many times in my youth. He told me something of how you view yourself: the last man standing for a tradition of honor and service that the Ridnez of today has forgotten about. I can understand that… I guess. But I will admit I don’t understand, knowing that, what reason you might possibly have had for joining a dishonorable man like Bombardone those 20 years ago… I was only an infant at the time… But what’s important is that you seem to have recognized your mistake. Some people spend their whole lives without ever confronting what they believe… and the things they’ve done to attain their position in life. Other people spend their whole lives charging down the wrong path, and by the time they realize that they erred, it’s already too late for them to turn back… either they keep on going because they feel they have no other choice… or sometimes they die unable to make their amends. That’s why you got Giovanni involved, right? You don’t want to charge down that dark path any longer…”

Bisogno let out a sigh, “How did a young thing like you become so… perceptive? Ms. Gerloni… I am the last of the House Bisogno. Attached to my command, I neglected my duty to sire an heir… and I’m not sure whether to sire an heir in this diseased, unvirtuous world would have done my ancestors any honor. For what purpose? For my own progeny to be taken up… corrupted by the mad acolytes of Andreas Bombardone? I acted out of love for my country, Ms. Gerloni. Please… you must believe me. The scheming politicians of the Republic, the corporations they whored themselves out to, the social malaise… pornography, prostitution, drug dealers… the mafia, serial killers, graft and extortion! It was all just too much to stand by and passively tolerate! My forebears had always maintained a… strained relationship with the Republic, at the best of times. But the world stopped making any sense! We thought… some of our concerns were echoed by the Zendirists in the beginning. We thought we could control Bombardone… moderate his discourse and guide his action…”

“But you couldn’t… You f*cked up, and you lost what little control you had of him. Now millions… possibly billions… are going to pay the price. Don’t beg for sympathy, Bisogno… You committed treason against your country and helped to spawn a living nightmare into being… What excuse do you have to continue going on living when Scaglietti and Sciabarra paid the price for their sins before you?!,” Abigail accused.

Serena turned towards Abigail, “You… Abby, you’re not helping! Mr. Bisogno… Admiral Bisogno isn’t our enemy right now… whatever wrongs he might have committed in his past. Giovanni is out there in a StateSec torture cellar right now, and we need to save him!” Lucio scoffed, “Serena… It hardly seems like the Admiral’s on our side when he has us cuffed to chairs in… where even is this place? You never quite told us, ‘Mr. B’…”

Bisogno addressed the complaint, “Mr. Andreozzi, you and your… may I assume you are friends?” The Ocelotists shot each other befuddled glances, as if they had never stopped before to even consider the question. “You and your friends have been hidden away from the prying eyes of State Security in the brig of a naval fort under my immediate command. My status as the Supreme Commander of Armed Forces has expanded my functional prerogative to make such decisions… As to you, Ms. Roth, yes, I suppose you could put it bluntly that I ‘f*cked up’… My dream and that of my ancestors was to see the resurgence of the Solian Crown one day – and the return of the beneficent House Bocacci who appointed the Bisogno family to our traditional role as guardians of Ridnez by sea. You Ocelotists believe that your Amalfian Republic was destroyed by the Zendirists; as I see it, the New State is naught but a logical extension of Amalfi’s atheistic rebellion against the celestial truths of nature and spirit… Like Amalfi, Bombardone styled himself a revolutionary, after all.”

Lucio interrupted, “You’re wrong, Mr. B. See, you have a fundamental misapprehension about what the Network believes. We acknowledge that the failings of the First Republic led to the New State. We’re not afraid to admit that the Amalfian conception wasn’t necessarily all it was cracked up to be from the start. But we still see merit in that ideal… We can admit things are worth preserving even if they aren’t perfect, ‘cause the solution then is to work on it and make it better. The Republic went down a dark path. Some of us just want to live according to our own conscience, some of us want to make a living outside the system’s exploitative rules, some of us want to survive when they’re telling us we gotta die… Most of us, though, want to take the Republic off that dark path and put it right again. I think that conviction remains true to what the Amalfian conception entails, don’t you?”

Bisogno grumbled, “Republic, monarchy… Amalfi, Bocacci… the very language of that debate has been dead and buried for years. I’m the only one left who cares… Maybe I am just too old to change in my fundamentals. I was raised to view everything to do with the Republic as vile and unsalvageable. It was our hope of generations – the hope of 100 years, quietly nurtured by the proud surviving noble houses – that the Republic would finally fall one day, but…”

Abigail sniped, “But your delusion of 100 years escaped you… Because things have changed in those last hundred years, Bisogno. The world has changed. The shift from widespread superstition towards popular faith in science… from feudal agriculture-based economies towards industrialization and combinations of labor and capital… broad societal applications of technological innovation… and the mass availability of information that became possible with the opening of some form of internet to public and commercial use… at least in the civilized part of Avaris... They’ve left your paltry ideals in the dust forever. Even in Heisen, before it was split… the transition from the age of monarchy into republic marked a permanent structural evolution of human society. People have been educated up to realizing that they create the world in which they live, through their human endeavor… not some unreachable deities whether they be named Axon or Amadastra. It’s because Bombardone accepted this and you couldn’t that ensured you would never be more than a lackey to him… Even though it’s the cause of all our problems, Axon help me, Bombardone told the people of this country that they are the New State, and that the New State is the Republic. Follow the logic, and you’re left with a claim that the people are in ultimate control… and that’s important! Don’t you get it? The Ridnezite people – some of them – are genuinely on his side because he told them he cared about them… even if it is a load of BS. Your ‘delusion of 100 years’ never even asked the question in the first place!”

The Admiral faced Abigail with a look of palpable offense, “Hmph, you talk a lot about what the Ridnezite people want, but what would you know about Ridnezite people, Heisenian… Ever since your ancestors first settled in the lands to the north over a millennium ago, they brought with them the detestable creed of benighted Axon. The Corpus Maris teaches that Axonity is tantamount to the worship of man over nature… Much like your rosy account of republican virtues. I cannot accept this supreme vanity, for to my last breath my ancestors have prided themselves on obedience and humility within the celestial hierarchy. Cothestrus and Amadastra above all, the Duke of the Blaze and the Countess of the Gale beneath them… and so on and so forth until him upon whose head are seated the Two Crowns of Ridnez… and the House Bisogno beneath him.”

The Admiral stood up and raised his voice, “If I cannot have the satisfaction of knowing that what you call our ‘100-year delusion’ meant something in the end, then where is virtue?! Where is honor? Where is everything our culture had been founded on from the first settlement of the Ziconeans in times of yore? I admit… maybe you’re right. Maybe it is the will of the Phantasmic Court that the people should decide their fate, and not their appointed representative on the throne… But there is no longer a Corpus Maris or even a Corpus Terrae to tell us. We had believed that the noble houses were selected by the spirits to reincarnate the souls of the virtuous throughout time, that they might guide the ignorant towards virtue and understanding before the foretold ending of the present world cycle 5000 years hence. If I give up my faith in the spirits, and in my own lineage’s claim to nobility, I give up everything… As I said, I’m in my late 60s… it’s too late for me to change my mind.”

Serena picked up, “Admiral, can’t you see that… even just by trusting in Giovanni in the first place… you already compromised with those beliefs? You, an aristocrat who supported the restoration of monarchy all your life, chose Giovanni to help you rectify the mistake that you made, the terror that you helped to make into a reality… Giovanni, who has no distinguished family or background… who’s spent most of his life with the Underground, as a fugitive from the law… who is about as far from your ‘honor’ or your sense of ‘what is proper’ as one could imagine… According to your beliefs, Giovanni was put in this position by the Phantasmic Court for what…? An unvirtuous past life? But you didn’t go to one of your fellow disgruntled nobles in the Navy to safeguard the Ars Goetia. You chose Giovanni because you believed in him for some reason… Tell me why!”

Bisogno looked back over to Serena. There was something about her earnest expression which seemed to compel him. “…Expediency, that’s why! In late 2022, Ludovico Tetra, the Director of State Security, paid me a visit at the Grand Admiralty on behalf of Bombardone… ‘His Excellency.’ The task I was charged with was a dire one: to prepare the Southwestern Seawall of Ridnez for demolition with high-power explosives, if Ridnez were ever to fall into the clutches of foreign powers… they called this the Vortes Program, but it was but one prong of a ‘national suicide’ plan… Operation Greatest Love.”

The Admiral shuddered at utterance of the name, so wrong was it to associate that phrase with the operation in question, “I didn’t know about the other aspects of Greatest Love, just this one protocol they made me responsible for drawing up. The Zendirists’ exaggerated sense of nationalism will not permit even one Ridnezite… judged according to their modernistic racialist standard… to survive the end of their Hierarch’s dream. I suspect, considering General Scaglietti’s purge by Tetra’s predecessor, that this was intended as a test of my continued loyalty… or perhaps submission would be the better word… I had no choice but to accept and to direct the Program through to its completion.”

The group of Ocelotists were all taken aback by the revelation, except for Konstantin who continued to project his silent, reserved demeanor. Lucio was first to react, “The Southwestern Seawall is all that keeps the Central Ridnezite Plain from being flooded by the Golden Sea! Y-you mean that even if the Zendies are ousted… they’ve been working on something to take us all down with them?!” Abigail was next, “This is… crazy! Even from the perspective of drafting a contingency plan, wiring the seawall with explosives is like inviting the League or whoever else to focus on blowing it apart prematurely to win the war… Even if their intelligence never finds out, they’re liable to do it on accident! Are these idiots in Centro Nuovo so desperate to risk losing half their land and millions of their population while they still have a chance of winning…?”

Bisogno responded, “You analyze the situation correctly. It is the height of madness, but Bombardone was mad and so are those intent on following him to the grave if called upon… The Seawall has been defended from League naval operations by the heaviest concentration of our Imperial Navy’s forces. Due to the absurd incompetence of Bombardone, this war began in such a way as to put us on the defensive… I’ve been doing everything possible to mitigate the potential damages! But even before the League offensive began, by a few months, I couldn’t abide this insanity… I put myself in contact with Sforza, using men loyal to me to liberate him from police custody… He had been then recently arrested on smuggling charges. He was the right combination of skilled in advanced intrigues and yet small-time enough that I could rope the lad around my finger without too much difficulty… That was my calculation when I first reached out, anyway.”

Konstantin finally elected to speak, after listening through most of the conversation, “You manipulated Sforza… used him as a proxy to sabotage this ‘Vortes Program’… because you couldn’t do anything to stop it even though you were in charge… A fascinating solution to a fascinating quandary, Admiral, I will say… And also, unlike my republican-minded comrades, I will also tell you I have some appreciation for your system of values… In the Commonwealth, the noble families have ruled for thousands of years. As a knight in their service, I know of the sense of tradition and obligation whose passing from this land you lament… But my involvement concerns the liberation of my Ziconean brothers from the Zendirist reign of butchery, nothing more or less… As such, I cannot say I am qualified to pronounce on Ridnezite matters any more than Roth.”

Bisogno perked up slightly, “Now you understand. Even though your people are now… baptized under Axonity… it’s good to know that someone can relate. It’s been… so wearisome. And I’ve been… so, so alone. When Generals Scaglietti and Sciabarra were still… with me at my side… we all agreed that the New State’s treatment of Ziconean people was the last straw… And if we saw an opportunity to overthrow Bombardone, we would have seized it… but Del Tuono and Valentino Oberto were always several steps ahead of us… In our religious convictions, your people have a sacred mission to fulfill on Avaris, you see… We always believed you would return to the veneration of the Earth King and Tide Queen if the foothold of the Abenzian curs’ bastard sons could ever be shaken on Kanten.”

Serena interrupted, “I’m sorry, but isn’t this all getting away from the original purpose of the discussion? What does the Vortes Program have to do with the Ars Goetia? Why didn’t Giovanni trust us to know you and he were in league? Or that the result of our failure could well be the destruction of Ridnez as we know it?! There are dots still needing to be connected, Admiral… and while I’ve tried to be as sympathetic as possible, I’ll agree with Abigail that this self-loathing defeatism is getting us nowhere! We need to know in very clear terms what it is you expect from us…”

Bisogno hesitated, then opened his mouth as if about to speak. But before the Admiral could form the first words of an explanation, another man entered the room, dressed in a simple business suit. “I’m afraid that Admiral Bisogno’s sentimentality has perhaps gotten the better of him… Perhaps it is best if I provide you the answers you seek. And while we are on the topic, you can thank our frogmen for your survival and that of Herr Pappas, Fräulein” Abigail narrowed her eyes at hearing the man’s obvious accent, “Fräulein? Hey, you’re… you’re Xaviet! Now this is a twist I wasn’t expecting! I thought the Xaviet Empire and the New State saw eye-to-eye, what gives?”

The man in the suit sighed, “It is the position of the Gouvernmentgebau that Andreas Bombardone was a polymath of our times… as close to a philosopher-king as Usea is likely to have had in centuries. But… our trust in Herr Bombardone does not extend to his… Generaldirektorium. It is for the purpose of securing the stability of Avaris… and principally Xaviet interests… that we seized control of the Ridnez Ground Force’s mandate in West Noskyavia… and Project: Nyx with it.”

“Great, tales of more secret Zendy projects to regale us with,” Lucio grumbled. “But this is the nexus bringing the rest of the Zendirist hopes together, I’m afraid… So not just ‘some’ secret project, but ‘the’ secret project. You’re all probably somewhat aware of the Fenix reactor incident which struck Halus Ayer 40 years ago, ja?”

Lucio replied, “Uh… somewhat. I know that some Ancient Asconean artifact that was dug up back in colonial times had a big discovery surrounding it. It could be used as a clean source of energy and a potential replacement for oil and natural gas. Some egghead named Jax Arcanic headed a project to use the thing as the core of some type of reactor, but it went kerblooey and that’s the reason that Halus Ayer is now a radioactive wasteland… ‘Hellslayer’ is the name used, not particularly sensitive to the victims. The Zendy official histories say that the Troika, an energy cartel that had the entire National Assembly in their pocket at the time, were responsible for sabotaging the project to defend their profits… I don’t put much stock in the official histories, but here I’ll admit it always seemed to make a good deal of sense. Bombardone and his mediocre crony Vincenzo Borrelli tried to cut into the Ridnezite energy market by marketing alternative energy sources, so it makes sense why they’d tell the truth about an atrocity committed by former business rivals… as opposed to their own.”

The Xaviet scoffed, “That is all well and good, but to the heart of the matter, as Fräulein Gerloni urged us. The ‘Asconean artifact’ has a name – the Nyx Effector – and opposed to ‘Hellslayer’ being, as you say, a radioactive wasteland, it conceals a quite advanced and sophisticated society that arose from the ashed. Doktor Arcanic caused the Fenix incident deliberately, because he had investigated the Nyx Effector for its potential and realized that he could master its power… use it to target mutations in the human body… creating a resilient ‘superhuman’… or perhaps by another less flattering term, a ‘demon’…”

“You’re talking nonsense, buddy. There ain’t any such thing as ‘demons’… Don’t expect us to buy this science-fiction trash!,” Lucio objected. Serena yelled at Lucio in turn, “Lucio, what he’s saying might have something to it…! The Ars Goetia, whatever it is… was called a ‘Project: Nyx Effector Trigger’… lots of familiar words are being brought up here.” Abigail spoke up, “Giovanni told us that the motherboard or whatever-it-is in that cracked plastic case could end the war… He said his ‘contact’ knew its purpose, so I guess that would make Admiral Bisogno and his… who are you again?”

“Ach, where are my manners? Erm, well, my true name is a state secret, you must understand… To coin a cliché, if I told you, I’d have to kill you!,” said the Xaviet in a perturbingly chipper tone, “But… not to be too unpleasant, you may call be Röter König.” Abigail commented, “Röter König? Huh… ‘Red King.’” The Xaviet perked up again, “Ah, you speak Xaviet, do you?” Abigail offered an indifferent comment in response, “Eh, Heisenian has some similarities to Xaviet tongue.”

Serena grew impatient at the number of tangents interfering with the disclosure of new info. “C’mon, ‘Red King’… We don’t need the whole story in fine details… Just tell us! What… is… Project: Nyx… for?!” Röter König complied, “Very well, Fräulein… Simply put, from the records the Staatsdienst has been able to intercept, Nyx is a source of a quaint type of subatomic particle that can be used in a variety of ways… In the case of ‘Hellslayer’, and in the case of research conducted by the Ridnezite Temple of Umbra, the goal is to aid in the breeding of a superior race of mankind… based on a Ridnezite template, for such was Herr Bombardone’s obsession. But there is another, even more nefarious purpose… for exploitation as a supply of energy for other projects formerly classed in the field of science fiction. The Nyx Effector does not obey known laws of thermodynamics, you see, so it follows that feats not currently within the general technological capacity of most nations on this planet become possible through it…”

“I don’t like where this is going…,” Lucio nervously stated. “One such application of Project: Nyx in the Zendirist plan for the ethnic cleansing and colonization of Usea… which they call ‘Project Canaan’… this is all very confusing, I’m certain… is Operation Static Cloud. An orbital bombardment system in place, coordinated by low-orbit geosynchronous satellites, to disperse and collate an intense particle beam launched from Project: Nyx… such that it can annihilate just about any major populated center on the globe, if the records of the Umbra scientists do not idly boast.” Lucio furrowed his eyebrows in consternation as his stomach sank into a pit, “…Crap, I knew I wouldn’t like it.”

Bisogno contributed once again to the discussion, “When the Xaviet Empire first offered its generous support to my silent insurrection, they… and I… had only in mind the final overthrow of Zendirism… and the fulfillment of the Bisogno family’s ‘100-year delusion’, if that is how some of you see it. The Xaviet Staatsdienst worked with the Utopian Intelligence Service to acquire photocopies containing very detailed records of this information from Director Gregorio De Marco… He, too, conspired with me to frustrate the Zendirist conspiracy against the rest of the world, but was… sadly… eliminated for the secrets that he alone remained privy to… It is now up to us to ensure that his sacrifice was not in vain.”

The Xaviet intelligence officer chipped in, “Ja, neither Kaizer Heinrich II nor Chancellor Graf Schenider are particularly enthused about the prospect of disappointed Zendirists obtaining the means for the decimation of the Empire from space… especially as our ‘unauthorized acquisition’ of their Project: Nyx facilities have, de facto, terminated the alliance between our two states.”

Serena processed the load of new information with some difficulty, “So… if I understand you correctly, the Ars Goetia gives the Zendies the ability to activate Project: Nyx to complete Operation Static Cloud. Well, if the Xaviets control Project: Nyx right now, then why aren’t you halfway back to Noskyavia right now with the Ars Goetia in tow?! You could easily stop this conflict right now if you wanted…!”

“cough cough Except for the other matter of Operation Greatest Love… which will destroy Ridnez if they’re ever forced to admit defeat. Axon, why does it have to be so goddamned difficult?,” Abigail reminded.

“That alone would not stop us, if not for our immense consideration for the Grand Admiral and our abiding interest in the re-establishment of a Ridnezite monarchy… But I’m afraid that the Ars Goetia alone cannot activate Project: Nyx. There is another one of these ‘Effector Triggers’… or ‘Keys of Night’, which is the pretentious language preferred by the Temple of Umbra, from their documents,” Röter König contributed.

“There’s another whatchamacallit out there?! And you don’t already have it secured?!,” Lucio exclaimed. The Admiral and the Xaviet exchanged looks and shrugged in unison. “Well, if not you, then who does know where it is?!”

An IAA black site somewhere in Talgerria

October 3, 2023, 3:16 PM

An armed operative in mostly black tactical gear marched down a complex maze of spacious hallways, lit neon blue from LED lights behind the grating of the floors and ceiling. After proceeding in that manner with forethought and intent for several minutes, the man looked down at his watch and headed towards another area of the top-secret facility, guarding an enormous, heavy osmium-steel door.

He walked up to a female agent in near-identical garb and gear, both bearing AGG-10 assault rifles on their person. “It’s time for shift-change, Agent Garland. Let’s not tarry any; you know as well as I do that Taggart will have our heads if a slip off schedule of even a minute results in a security breach at this facility.” Garland sighed at her fellow agent’s uptightness, “Oh, come off it, Boyle… The prisoner secured behind these doors has been in a coma for the better part of a year. He’s not going to suddenly wake up and blast these doors down around our heads if we waste a couple seconds here and there.”

As if tempting fate, the walls began to rumble with the force of a shockwave from outside, knocking both agents off their feet and momentarily killing all power to the facility. The lights went out for about 5 seconds, as Agents Garland and Boyle struggled to comprehend what was happening around them. “The hell just hit us?! This is a secure facility, well behind the defensive lines of our occupation zone in this sh*thole country… Who’d have the stones to make a go at us here?,” the male agent wondered.

The next moment, the lights turned back on, now flushing the chamber red and making it seem all the more claustrophobic. Simultaneously, the doors behind them disengaged their locks, opening gradually to reveal an atrophied, unconscious body laying on what looked like a hospital bed with an IV in his arm. Garland apprehended the gravity of the situation immediately. “Aw, hell.”

On the outside, the situation was even more chaotic. The facility, most of its levels at a subterranean depth but its entrance accessible at ground level, was in the midst of a coordinated military onslaught. Black attack helicopters and unbelievable fast and versatile mini-tanks scoured the surrounding desert complex, unloading thousands of rounds of ammunition and tens of short-range projectile explosives upon the barracks and command center. Closer to the entrance to the facility itself, militarized squads of IAA agents battled the encroaching tide of death, spending magazine after magazine of firepower against the tank-like vehicles until only 4 were left. Hemmed in and overpowered, the few survivors threw their weapons to the ground in surrender.

“P-please… We know when we’re beaten. Whoever you are, I beg of you… Just please don’t kill us,” the apparent squad leader pleaded. Several of the footsoldiers of the invading force, dressed in black, green, and beige colors, paused their approach as if to consider the request, then broke out in disorganized laughter for a few moments. The Tertanians knew then and there; they were as good as dead.

One of the attackers, evidently the commander, drew nearer, “Mullah Farokh knew that you League gangsters were an abominable, godless heathen bunch, to be sure… But we at least expected such hardy men as you to go to their deaths with some shred of dignity still intact. But I must thank you… Thank you for taking from yourselves what little value we could not simply strip from you in death…” The man, self-identified as a black ops agent of the Arelli National State, removed the Tertanian squad leader’s balaclava and goggles off and jerked his head back by his hair. “I always like looking a man in the eyes when I kill him.” The Arelli produced a dagger and held it to the IAA agent’s jugular vein.

The squad leader struggled to bleat out one last futile cry, “Please… I’ll give you anything… Anything!” The Arelli mustered a brief whispered response, “But, kafir, you have nothing of which to give… When you lowly dogs kill our people… and unleash your degenerate plagues upon us like Rafe Kalmar… we die content in the knowledge that paradise is ours. But you? You die for the cause of your demonic cabal, and you will be rewarded for your sin with the torment of the damned!” The Arelli slit the Tertanian’s throat without another word. His three subordinates soon followed him in death, as Arelli infantry picked the man off from a distance with their rifles.

“What next? The Tertanian infidels have secured this facility underground… We have no knowledge of how many levels are swarming with more of this rubbish to kill off!,” one of the Arelli soldiers asked of his leader. The commander smirked beneath his headgear, “There is no concern for worry, Abbas… Our ally of convenience has given us his guarantee that the means of ‘liberating’ this facility are perfectly within his capabilities.”

Deeper within the facility, two IAA agents hunkered down in the comms center, one with rifle pointed straight at the door in anticipation of intruders and the other struggling to radio in a call for military assistance from a base in the surrounding vicinity. “Hello… hello, can anyone out there read me? There’s a… there’s a situation brewing over here. It’s really bad… and we have no idea if the attacking force is aware of this site’s strategic importance… the prisoner. They don’t appear to be the Ridnezites… Is anyone receiving me?!”

The door swung open at that very instant, provoking the other agent to unleash a barrage of gunfire… but to his surprise, there was no one on the other side. All he had succeeded in doing was spraying the wall. “W-why’d the door open? Have they taken control of motor systems just to f*ck with us?” The air carried the bone-chilling reply, coming seemingly from nowhere, “Oh, I’m afraid that won’t be necessary…” Within the next few seconds, an invisible force punctured a clean hole into the neck of the first agent, followed by slashing out the throat of the latter agent fiddling with the radio broadcast equipment. When both men had fallen silent and dead, choking their last unintelligible words through their own blood, the invisible man had activated the intercom system of the facility itself, alerting dozens of agents strewn throughout the other floors at the light thud of the speakers turning on. One phrase simply followed, “Shemhamephorash.”

As the complicated string of syllables resonated throughout every level of the facility, just about all still-living agents perceived a sudden aura. Some saw colors; others smelled burnt toast. But in a matter of milliseconds, they all dropped to the floor in helpless convulsions, frothing at the mouth. All except for Garland and Boyle at the lowest level of all, the vault containing the IAA’s “guest”. Nevertheless, as the word was spoken and transmitted, the prisoner suddenly lurched back into consciousness. A different word was on his lips however, “N… N-Nora…?”

Garland and Boyle both turned their guns immediately on the withered husk of a man who was their assignment, neither fully sure of what had transpired. Garland issued an uncertain order, “F-freeze… Don’t move a muscle or I’m fully authorized to blow your motherf*cking head off…!” The prisoner looked at both the black-clad armed agents confusedly for a matter of instants, then formed a weak smile, “Oh… Oh! I get it now…! They’ve come to retrieve me, have they?”

Boyle panicked at his incomprehension, “W-who’s come to retrieve you? Do you have something to do with this? Tell us how to stop it, or I swear to- Ack!” Boyle suddenly found himself gargling on his own blood and gasping for air, as his throat had been perforated from behind just like the agent in the comms center. Garland directed her attention to her mortally wounded fellow agent, only to be met with the same grim fate. To the Tertanians, there was no accounting for their assailant’s identity as they breathed their last. They saw nothing but empty air. But the prisoner, on the other hand, was very cognizant of his rescuer’s form and identity.

The prisoner pulled the IV from his arm and made a stern expression to his liberator, “How long since Steel Titan has it taken for MultiStrat to pull this off exactly? And where exactly are we?” The man only the prisoner could see replied, “Around 10 months. And I’m afraid even the MultiStrat Bureau can’t claim full credit. Our… ‘understanding’ with Farokh’s Arelli National State enabled us to reach so far behind Tertanian-controlled lines… Oh, and sorry not to clarify, we are in the Tertanian occupation zone of Talgerria, Director Tetra.” To the prisoner, the “invisible man” looked to be wearing a black leather infiltration suit.

Tetra raised an eyebrow, “You had to rely on the Arellis to make this happen? The Arellis?! What ever happened to logistical support from the Ground Force? Isn’t General Cascagni still having his ‘fun’ over on the opposite end of the country?” Tetra’s rescuer answered, “Hm, our occupation zone is currently being besieged by a detachment of army forces from the Raj… You see, very shortly after your capture, open war has been declared between the New State and Powers’ League. The Hierarch… is no more, unfortunately.”

Tetra’s jaw dropped at the revelation, “You… mustn’t be serious?! How could this happen? After all the favor the Hierarch curried with the Shadow Emperor, surely that must have counted for something in the end.” Tetra’s rescuer merely shrugged his shoulders, “It appears not, and more mysteriously, the gateway to Jocospor has been sealed… But this presents us with some opportunities. The Confederation is no more, and we have even been deprived of direct access to the Areopagus by the treachery of the Xaviet Empire. But in spite of all that, Project Canaan proceeds apace. The Tertan is in steep decline as an international currency; the Tertanian economy is in ruins. Their political scenario has only grown more volatile, and Dominic Oberto – the great Felon of Magnifico – has seemingly abandoned his miserable separatist project to his League allies’ defense. K1N3 decimates the worthless trash of South Usea… while our Arelli ‘acquaintances’ remain none the wiser, so myopically concerned as they are about Tertania and the League themselves.”

“No one ever accused the Azaaranic race of producing the brightest minds, but in the short-term, their blindness is to our advantage. If it weren’t that the branches of the Heisenic race such as the Tertanians felt South Usea so valuable for replacing Ridnezite labor with stupid beasts-of-burden… then there would be nothing justifying keeping the South Useans alive at all. The Arellis will learn that one day, but for now, razing Tertania to the ground is paramount. There is only room for one nation… one developed power… one people… to preside over the transformation of Usea into our paradise… our promised land. My present physical condition is… unacceptable. Did you bring Ouroboros B… Wraith?”

“But of course… You wrote part of the protocol. You know MultiStrat comes prepared.” Wraith removed a plastic pill bottle from his pocket and dispensed one brightly orange-gleaming capsule.

Tetra weakly took the capsule in hand and downed it.

Piazza Silvano, Città d'Argento

October 5, 2023, 8:00 PM

A black limousine cruised down a mostly empty city street, as the backseat occupant stared out the window. As his limo passed by, he beheld any number of typical urban scenes: tired office workers slogging along to catch the maglev train, young women chatting about miscellaneous gossip at an open-air coffee bar, and a bearded street musician with dark glasses playing the fiddle for loose change were a few of the sights captured by Vincenzo Borrelli’s retinas.

“Giovanni, remind me… Isn’t there supposed to be a curfew in effect? What are all these… people doing? You’d hardly believe from the general attitude that there was a war being waged on our soil at all?!,” Borrelli asked. The chauffeur Giovanni Ossola formulated a careful response, “Well, dirigente… There are districts… more frequented by circles of citizens who believe that the war will be over with soon. And are intent on ignoring the war to the best of their ability…”

Borelli clenched his fist at hearing this, “The war… will be over soon? These people are flouting government orders and regulations… Is this what Admiral Bisogno is willing to tolerate? This total lack of discipline… this absence of patriotism?! The League have taken over the northwest in its entirety by now! They should be sacrificing their days and nights in our munitions factories, at very least… Why hasn’t Bisogno conscripted more of the able male population to expand the ranks of our army anyway?”

Ossola felt a nervous sweat trickle down his neck, “Er, well, dirigente… Some say that the Grand Admiral is also… anticipating an end to the war soon enough.” Borrelli was sent into a babble of dumbfounded sputtering by those words, “Hah-huh?! What?! What does that imply? Until the League has been brought to heel… with the heads of Powers, Lane, Snow, Rudholm, Milotos, and Oberto all on pikes… this will never end! Doesn’t he know what will happen if he loses? Has the geriatric oaf forgotten so quickly the protocols we have for that contingency?!”

Ossola gulped nervously but did not change his neutral tone, “I… I’m not certain, dirigente. May I be quick to remind that I am only your chauffeur…? The affairs of state and national security are far beyond my station.” Borrelli leaned back into his seat, allowed his muscles to relax up a bit, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes, “I… apologize for forcing my troubles on you, Giovanni. It’s just… you’ve always been there to hear me out when I’ve needed someone to listen. But you’re correct, things are different now. I have Andreas’ shoes to fill, and providence only knows whether I’m up to the task. But either way, the task is mine, and mine alone, to undertake… Thank you, Giovanni… Thank you for being… such a good friend.”

Ossola frowned to himself with worry, though Borrelli did not notice. “Heh, heh… Well, you know me, dirigente. Your reliable, trusty chauffeur! Just… take care of yourself, huh? Did you take your medication tonight?” Borrelli sat up from his position splayed out over the passenger seat of his limo and stuffed his hand into his coat pocket, “T-thank you, Giovanni… For… reminding me.” Borelli removed the plastic orange bottle, then dispensed one glowing green pill. As the capsule rolled into his palm, Borrelli’s hand and arm began to shake uncontrollably, as he was revisited by the specter of Bombardone. “Remember, Vincenzo, this is your destiny to win for yourself and the nation now… You have to believe you have the control, know you have the control…” Borrelli squeezed his hand shut over the capsule until his arm stopped shaking. After a minute, the tremors stopped, after which he subsequently popped the Ouroboros into his mouth and swallowed with water.

Borrelli looked again out the window for a high-rise office building farther down the street, “Giovanni, you can stop me off over here… I know how to find my way.” Ossola scratched his head in uncertainty, “You sure, dirigente? I mean, you’ve seen how… uh, disorderly this district can get an’ all that?” Borrelli inhaled deeply, then determined his reply, “Yes, yes, I’m quite sure, Giovanni. Thank you for your concern, but… I have other people… Good people watching over me. I have an appointment to keep now; you’ll excuse me.” Borrelli opened the door of the limo to step out, then walked down the street toward the office building at a brisk pace, turning his head back for just a moment, “Giovanni… Why don’t you take the rest of the night off? Don’t keep waiting for me…” Ossola shrugged, “I-If you say so, dirigente…”

As Borrelli reached the office building, he checked to ensure that all lights within appeared to be turned off. He then rounded to the back of the building via the adjacent alleyway and removed the key to open a door leading to one of the building’s stairwells. Borrelli slowly climbed the steps until he had reached the fifth floor, then opened another door leading to a network of small passageways. Borrelli passed through the passages, checking the number of each door he encountered, then finally arrived at the one he was searching for. “Storage room #5418… Yes, this is where Bertolini said he’d be, if I recall.”

Borrelli unlocked the storage room with the key, obviously the master key to the building, and entered inside what was apparently the only space in the building with the lights still on. Before his eyes, Borrelli witnessed Giovanni Sforza, being beaten senseless by two StateSec goons with batons, “Oh… oh, dear heaven, what are you men doing to the young man? I told Interim Director Bertolini that I wanted a talk with the Sforza kid, not a cold-blooded interrogation…!”

Both of the StateSec agents instantly switched from whaling on Sforza to restraining his arms and forcing him to his knees, while one of the two made an excuse, “Well, dirigente, we presumed that… following the Interim Director’s instructions… it would be a good idea to soften the Ocelotist rebel up if you were really so intent on conducting a one-on-one interview.” The other agent spoke, “As our future Chief of State, we cannot deny your request… But you must know that, just the same, we can’t take the risk of letting this punk get his hands on you either. If he did, he’d do to you what we were doing to him…”

Sforza spat blood on the ground next to one of the agents’ shoes, “Aw… Didn’t know you cared, Borrelli? What is this to you, a social visit? Couldn’t just let me rot in a jail cell like the last 3 times?” Borrelli grabbed a short stepladder from the corner and used it as a seat, “Well, certainly not given your track record of enigmatic escapes, Signor Sforza… I’ll give you this; you are a resourceful young man. So let me just ask you… What are you doing cavorting with such vermin as Heisenians and Ziconeans anyway?”

Sforza chuckled to himself, “You’ll never get it if that’s all you think of them, Borrelli. At least you felt respectful enough not to use ‘Heisenphyte’ or ‘Zick’ though, eh?” Borrelli recomposed himself, “…Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot.” Sforza chuckled some more as the choice of words, “Hah! Got off on the wrong foot? I’d say so if these two neanderthals are your idea of a welcome-wagon!” One of the StateSec officers screamed in Sforza’s ear, “Shut… up! You Ocelotist scum! You’re speaking to the future leader of Ridnez now!”

Borrelli yelled at the agent in turn, “I asked you before… Please refrain from violent actions and from violent speech with Signor Sforza… We are all Ridnezites here, not barbarians!” Sforza let out a wisecrack at those words, “Well, I guess I gotta tell you, Borrelli… It’s getting a bit hard for me to tell the difference sometimes…” Sforza slurred the last few words of the sentence as they left his tongue.

Borrelli leaned forward to be at eye level with the restrained Sforza, “Please… please, Signor Sforza. I know this must all be very upsetting to you, but do not be glib with me. I’ve come here in good faith, upon the cherished memory of Andreas… He wouldn’t have wanted you to continue living like this… like some bottomfeeding, nightcrawling petty crook. You’re a son of Ridnez, kid… The New State exists precisely to offer you a better way to life than that. But your ability to defy the authorities at a greater or lesser scale intrigues me… It also fascinates others in the General Directorate who are aware of your existence. Exceptional talent for survival such as yours must be cultivated in a StateSec training academy, not persecuted by those your inferior… It’s not the way it should be.”

Sforza looked up from the ground into Borrelli’s oddly sympathetic expression, “…I’m going to be honest with you, Borrelli. My first thought after hearing all that… was to spit blood in your face… But… but… You actually sound like you mean what you’re saying. Like you’re here for more than just to mock me, waste my time, and see if you can pump information from me… So I’ll give you one chance and you absolutely don’t deserve it. Persuade me.”

“Hmph, well… It’s about time I broke through to you in some way,” Borrelli said, taking a manila envelope from the inner flap of his coat in hand, “But before we start, I might as well let you know that, as clever as you and the Admiral are… I already know what you’ve been doing… colluding together to sabotage aspects of our initiative here and there… I put it together after you stole the Ars Goetia from me with your daring money train robbery, Signor Sforza… There was a very limited number of people who knew that the trigger would be moved under cover of the subway ticket fee collections that day…”

Sforza attempted to sow doubt, “I bet the pool of names isn’t narrow enough to support your conclusion though…” Borrelli continued, starting to pace, “I’m not done… I had your facial profile… caught on CCTV feed at the Conti University station… cross-referenced with StateSec databases. And that’s when I discovered that you were also there at the Government Archives Complex on the date last year when military-grade explosives were used to blast into one of the buildings and steal the original copies of several of the records… relating to the Tertania Commissariat Protocol of Project Canaan, as it turned out. No fewer than 2 days later… 2 days… the symbolic leader of your self-proclaimed ‘resistance’ – the so-called Ocelot herself – was reported in by MultiStrat, interfering… though unsuccessfully… in the execution of Operation Steel Titan. Coincidence? Maybe, I’ll grant you, maybe…”

Sforza grinned in spite of himself as Borrelli’s sleuthing, “Heh… What makes you think Gregorio De Marco didn’t put me up to it? Isn’t he the obvious suspect? He was the archival librarian, had near-unrestricted access to those files, and was later found with a stack of photocopies – including copies of those very same files I swiped – in his briefcase when he was assassinated… Doesn’t that look awfully suspicious to you?”

Borrelli sat back down on the stepladder, dangling the manila envelope in front of Sforza’s face as if to pique his curiosity. “Yes, Director De Marco would have been the obvious suspect, but you point out yourself why it couldn’t have been him… While yes, he did commit treason against the New State by abusing his diplomatic post to arrange his flight to Utopia with our classified documents… His unlimited access to the archives, and his apparent ability to smuggle the contents of the archives without anyone else’s knowledge, preclude the necessity of the explosives… Making it more than likely that De Marco told someone else in our inner circle, who proceeded to act upon that knowledge independently to sabotage us… in his own way. Now who would have access to explosives powerful enough to get the job done? Giulio Bisogno. And when I did some further investigation, eyewitness descriptions of one of the mobsters who conducted that series of raids on explosives shipments for the Vortes Program… matched your profile quite neatly. And I suppose it’s just another ‘coincidence’ that Bisogno was on his way to the docks of Fulmine Rosso on ‘important business’ the same day that you were captured in the same area… Please.”

Sforza’s grin faded. “Well, I’m not saying anything to incriminate anybody… unless you’re going to change your mind about these clowns’ propensity to violence…” The StateSec agents glowered menacingly at Sforza, but did not speak their minds openly per Borrelli’s instruction, left to stew in their proverbial juices. Meanwhile, Sforza could not help but direct his attention towards Bisogno’s envelope.

Borrelli noticed this and manifested a grin of his own, “I see that your eyes have been wandering back to this package in my hand… It contains all the reason you’ll ever need to see things my way, I guarantee you.” Sforza voiced his incredulity, “So you mean to tell me that in that manila envelope is some secret, special information that will make me flip 180 degrees…? To change everything I ever believed? Everything I ever thought I knew? Pssh, yeah right!”

“I see you’re skeptical, Signor Sforza, so I won’t beat around the bush… I’ve gone into your files, and I’ve perused over your history… every sordid charge that ever stuck to you, but even before that, your squalid and unfortunate upbringing. I know why you became what you did… where you went wrong. It has all to do with the Magnifico Ghetto Uprising of 2009, doesn’t it?”

Sforza grimaced at the very mention of the incident, “Yeah… yeah, it does. You piled up all those poor people in unsanitary and inhumane conditions, and then when they revolt at being treated like garbage, you sent in the riot police and the gendarmerie to put them all down like animals… My folks and I lived in an apartment in a crappy building abutting the ghetto. Del Tuono’s psychopaths blew the whole place to bits just to make sure nearly all the active participants in the uprising were dead… Apparently my folks were collateral damage to the bastard… My mother died to save my life… and all I’ve known since then is more hardship, more regret… All caused by you!”

“Although I cannot provide any excuses for… the extreme nature of the late Director Del Tuono’s tactics… your parents’ deaths were in fact what I am here to discuss. Read the official report… Then tell me what you think,” Borrelli said, tossing the manila envelope on the ground, “It’s all in there… Release him, officers. The boy deserves to know the truth.” Bombardone’s ghost rematerialized behind Borrelli, “The truth is often more painful… Ever since humans have learned to tell stories, they have indulged in the practice of comfortable self-deception. But here is where Giovanni Sforza sees the world for what it truly is… The abyssal darkness masquerading behind the illusory light of false ideals.”

The StateSec officers unhand Sforza with some reluctance, then go to skulk a short distance behind Borrelli’s person, flanking him. Sforza rubs his arms and shoulders, ”Damn brutes left nasty bruises… But what do I do now? Do I really… want to look at whatever this is?! The Zendies are lying sacks of refuse… You know this! So then why… does the thought of reading that report make you wanna throw up so bad? No other choice, Giovanni… Live in ignorance, or persevere in strength for what the future has to bear…”

Sforza took the envelope off the floor and opened it.

”No turning back now… please, by the Lady of the Waves, don’t let it be what I…”

Giovanni Sforza’s eyes dashed faster than the speed of thought across the pages of the report; he took in the images and the info even faster than his brain could make sense of it. “…South Usean soldier of fortune arms Ziconean and Heisenian insurrectionists… accompanied by Tertanian male partner and female teenage partner, matching profile with Bianca… believed to be financed by First Republic Heisenian politician Edgar Isidore Albertson… leaders of uprising issue calls for revenge on Ridnezite people… deliberate campaign of terrorism against civilian population… riot police ends unrest by destroying center of uprising with subterranean explosive charge… Del Tuono: ‘If the hand of the state was stopped before by remnants of the old morality, this incident is, in this Director’s opinion, irrefutable proof that the Ridnezite people cannot share with the world with the races of-‘… ‘They would not share it with us given the same choice either; let us not wait until the shoe is on the other foot’…”

After Sforza concluded reading the report, his hands were visibly shaking. ”No, it can’t be… It’s forged… misrepresented. It has to be… It has to be lies. I was there! How could it?!” Then Serena’s statement from before came back into Sforza’s awareness: ”Do I know the story?! I was there myself, Giovanni! …It was… horrible… Me, my father… We almost died!” Now the meaning of those words became ever clearer. “She… her father… wasn’t targeted for being the Director of EnviroProtect, was he? They didn’t even know… didn’t even care! Serena…”

Borrelli stood up from the stepladder, rising head and shoulders above the shellshocked Sforza. “What irony… what tragedy… That you should have lived… and suffered… in service to a movement based around them… The Marundian and the Ziconean who, together, put the guns into the hands of your parents’ murderers… I’m sorry it had to come out like this, but… there was no other way for you to see things my way… how Andreas would have wanted you to see them…”

Sforza clenched his fists, tears in his eyes, “It… It doesn’t matter! I don’t care what motives the participants in the Magnifico Ghetto Uprising might have had! We’re all individuals… Don’t you get that? We’re all… morally responsible… for ourselves.” Borrelli sneered as the words were uttered, “Yes, yes… that’s the standard response I’d have anticipated. But be realistic, in this world, individuals who think for themselves are the outliers. People want to have the camaraderie of those most similar to themselves… These are the people they understand, and can expect to be understood by. Nations and races of man are no different… there is a great general will that has a tendency to align all the individual wills together. And it’s only by this instrument that all civilization was built in the first place. Listen to me now, Giovanni… please. The public doesn’t know this, but… I… I’m dying.”

This caught Sforza’s attention with a surprise rivaling that of what was on the reports, “W-what did you just say?” Borrelli removed the bottle containing his Ouroboros capsules from his pocket and worked to release just one luminescent green capsule for Sforza to see up close. Even in a fully lit room, its glow was noticeably unearthly. “I… I’ve been dying… for a long time now. My body has been riddled with stage 4 cancer for over a decade. The only reason I still live is because… because of the research that went into producing this drug. You might have seen it or heard of it mentioned. It’s called Ouroboros… as close to a bonafide panacea as there ever was. It was only developed quickly enough to push off the date of my inevitable demise by sacrificing human subjects to Dr. Ricci’s experiments… Ziconeans, Heisenians, the same kinds of ‘people’ that declared revenge on our nation all those years ago, and killed your family. Not just my life was extended by this R&D… Countless cancer patients have had their prognosis miraculously improved by Ouroboros… many even go into total remission if started early enough. And this is just one of the miracles the New State is capable of, if only you just believe in it…!”

Borrelli now began to feel in the back of his mind… that his spoken words had become one and the same with the words spoken into his mind by the living memory of the Zendirist Hierarch. “It doesn’t matter if there are individuals that deny the corporate will and power of the nation. The general will of nations still proves real enough. Those Ziconean animals knew their only hope to continue parasitizing the resources of this world was to either seduce us with the lie of equality and coexistence… or failing that, to extirpate us entirely as we would later extirpate them. The weak… those who can’t see the obvious staring them in the face… are destined to be crushed by history. There are teeming billions spread across the face of Avaris. Billions! And billions are born each day, and billions more die each day! No one’s life matters, taken by itself, much less their death. Not even mine. What does matter? The things that last are what retain their moral significance then! Generation after generation, 1000 years of learning to be civilized! Mothers and fathers, daughters and sons! The great chain that connects it all, the ties that bind, they are the only essential thing!”

Sforza looked upon Borrelli’s subtlety changing expressions with befuddlement and horror. ”What the-? That’s… Why does he not look… not speak like he was just a couple minutes ago? Like he just switched from one personality to another by getting lost in his tirade… Before he seemed genteel… filled with doubt and… maybe even a little fear. But now, by the Tide Queen’s veil, it’s like watching one of Bombardone’s old rants up close and personal!”

Borrelli suddenly shut his eyes closed and clutched his head, shouting in agony. He stumbled a few steps as even the StateSec officers beside him showed concern for his health, “Dirigente… Are you all right? What is… what is happening?” Sforza slowly rose to his feet as a peculiar intuition about what was happening occurred to him.

Borrelli finally shook his head a few times, then slowly drew in a large breath and let in out. His eyes reopened, and Borrelli seemed back to normal… for the moment. “I apologize for the… outburst, Signor Sforza… That was… most uncouth of me. But yes, Ouroboros… the miracle cure, the salvation of thousands, if not millions of Ridnezites. With the recent access to Project: Nyx at our disposal, the Temple of Umbra has been able to… innovate on the original formulation also. Behold: Ouroboros B.”

Without any additional prompting, one of the StateSec officers removed one orange capsule, glowing brilliantly like the green from earlier. “You must be aware by now from your… association with the Grand Admiral… just what Project: Nyx is… and what we are capable of when the ability to initialize the system is within our grasp. Ouroboros B is more than any panacea. With the modification of the formulation by inundation with esoteric particles, a controlled mutation of the human genome takes place… people become stronger, more durable, more agile… Simply put, Ouroboros B is a stepping-stone towards the culmination of Project: Nyx’s mission statement… and the true purpose of the Temple of Umbra… to assist in the generation of a superhuman specimen. One which, unlike the misbegotten dead-end that Hellslayer has been reduced to thanks to the untimely demise of Jax Arcanic, can reproduce… and pass on their artificially enhanced genes to the next generation. The future is within your grasp, Signor Sforza… Just reach out… and take it.”

The orange capsule gleamed brightly before Giovanni Sforza’s eyes. For once, he was a loss of what to say or do.

Then at last, he took the pill in hand.

Piazza Silvano, Città d'Argento

October 5, 2023, 10:13 PM

”Ouroboros B, he called it? What the hell have you gotten yourself into this time, Sforza? What sort of loony-bin sh*t is this?!”

Giovanni Sforza beheld the shining orange pill in his open hand, as Vincenzo Borrelli and his two StateSec henchmen stood but a couple meters away, waiting for Sforza’s next move. “Well, young man… It’s time to decide. Will you remain voluntarily shackled to the infirmity of mortal flesh… or will you seek to ascend beyond the limitations of mere humanity? The choice, as I said, is quite literally in your hand.”

“So that’s what this ultimately comes down to, does it? Humanity… You scorn humanity. Not just humanity in general, that’s clear as day. But your own humanity. And this... pill? Some sort of mutagen that will, what? Turn you into some sort of… some sort of what? I… I just can’t…?,” Sforza processed, “You tell me that all the people you’ve hurt… all the experiments, the camps, the secret projects… was all to manufacture something designed to… to do Amadastra knows what to your body… and what about your mind? Your faculties? Do you even know… Do you even care?”

“Signor Sforza, I understand your hesitation, but believe me when I say that the effects of Ouroboros B are well-understood by the Umbra researchers… In any event, every worthwhile endeavor involves an element of… risk-taking,” Borrelli spoke with a confident grin, “But I will let you know that these two gentlemen by my side have been consuming this drug on a regular schedule for the last 9 months… as part of a trial run within StateSec for broader implementation within the armed forces… Insomuch as can be determined, they are no worse for wear.”

Sforza took a quick glance at both of the StateSec officers, ”Sh*t, I didn’t notice before while they were pummeling the crap out of me, but… their irises… they’re orange… and in this lighting… are they glowing? Just like the pill!“ Sforza looked to the capsule in his hand once more, “Yeah, well… If you say this stuff is so safe for use… Why haven’t you used it yet? Why stick with the green version? Is that what this is about… You want to convince me to be a guinea pig… or maybe this stuff’s addictive and you want to get your hooks in me?”

Borrelli shook his head, “Signor Sforza, I am not authorized to receive Ouroboros B… In the first place, because the uncertainties surrounding my condition make it a potential contraindication… And also because Ouroboros B is not intended for use by the civilian population… at least not yet. In spite of everything which has transpired, this nation’s law still operates in conformity with the undying will of the Hierarch. Even I can’t change such arrangements… On the contrary, I am endorsed for leadership of this country by all true Zendirists because my aim is to carry that will through to the end, without alteration.”

“But… Can’t you see how freaking morbid this is?!,” Sforza objected, “You and maybe hundreds… maybe thousands of others are enslaved to the ideals of a dead man! And in the service of that, you’re willing to… embark on this quest to achieve something above humanity… to deny your own human nature because he… Bombardone found it flawed? Hasn’t it occurred to you that maybe what you’re aspiring to is less… not more… than human?!”

Borrelli growled at the insinuation, “Less than human? Quite possibly… But we have no choice. I had no choice! The fruit of Andreas’ ambition, however sacrilegious, held the key to survival… and so that I could live with my dignity, free from constant pain… Observers the world over have called our New State a monstrous conglomerate… I’m not ignorant… We’ve never been ignorant of the accusations. But neither has this persuaded for an instant to turn our backs on the future we have realized!”

“You mean you’d continue marching along the path Bombardone laid out even if it led over a pit?! What about the people of Ridnez?! Despite all your rhetoric, they don’t have any true conception of what you’ve been doing… Or of what you’re prepared to do in their name!,” Sforza appealed, “Isn’t… isn’t there some part of you that at least doubts… that hasn’t totally surrendered itself to that man’s beliefs…?” Sforza’s voice betrayed a certain desperation, verging on urgency.

Borrelli stepped aside and momentarily closed his eyes, apparently shaken by Sforza’s words, ”Doubt… to have the fate of a nation, a continent, maybe even a world rest upon my shoulders… Is there anything more human than to doubt when faced with such a terrifying responsibility…?”

The specter of Bombardone materialized behind Borrelli. Even though Borrelli kept his eyes closed, he could sense the Hierarch’s presence looming over his shoulders quite literally. “That is the culmination of the Zendirist Revolution, Vincenzo… Until the New Man is created who is at last free from the shackles of doubt, human civilization will forever be a paradox… vacillating between the poles of barbaric cruelty and decadent flaccidity… Destined to rise and fall in cycles, with true progress ever beyond mankind’s reach. There will only be a better world once all the weak and impure who succumb to these primordial temptations are erased. Show the youth how irresistible is the resolve of the New Man!”

Borrelli opened his eyes, “You asked if I have any doubts about Andreas’ dream? I admit that I did… long ago. But then came the day when I couldn’t afford to have doubts… that horrible day.” Borrelli thought back to that day in 2009 when his diagnosis was first made, “Andreas told me that the only way to live is to grab life in your hands and affirm it. From that day onwards, I would never let anyone’s recriminations stop me from doing what I knew I must! All the decisions which have been made up to this point have been taken with the foreknowledge that there will be no turning back… to doubt, to falter in our appointed course, to admit weakness of conviction… is to let down the floodgates sparing Ridnez from the chaos that only Zendirism has protected it from since the time of the Revolution! It means to surrender ourselves to the mercies of the rest of the world, knowing that their vengeance will be more terrible than our deaths! Let me ask you the same question… After what I’ve showed you, certainly you must doubt your own long-held convictions! Don’t deny it!”

Sforza looked between Borrelli’s eyes and the Ouroboros B, “Yeah, I… I can admit it. You’ve brought up a fair number of questions that I’m definitely interested in looking into… Next time I meet face to face with Ocelot, I’m going to have a few very pointed questions towards her, to say the least…” Borrelli smiled with a smug expectation of triumph. Sforza continued, “But… I’m not going to throw away everything I once fought for, just because you’ve pointed out there are those among the Ziconeans… the Heisenians… or whoever else… who have given into the same tribalistic, vindictive impulse that you have.”

Borrelli frowned, “Haven’t I already gone over with you-?” Sforza cut the Zendirist true believer off, “Yeah, yeah, general will whatever… something like ‘this is the way it always turns out’… Well, maybe that just means we ought to double down on rejecting that ‘general will’ of yours even harder…! Not just Ridnezites, but all peoples… maybe when people stop categorizing each other as an intellectually lazy excuse to abuse their fellow man… or hiding behind the labels of nations and groups to excuse their own crimes… Call it idealistic, call it naïve… But as they say, if you want to see the change, you’ve got to be the change… All of my allies – my friends – in the Network subscribe to that philosophy. We have all the proof of our philosophy that we need, fighting Bombardone and his ‘vanguard’ for over a decade… and still kicking!”

Borrelli sounded offended, “H-how…?! How dare you?” Sforza picked up, “Yeah, I know your use of verbiage is intended to dress your arguments up and make ‘Andreas’ sound like such a great person, but all it amounts to is a pathetic attempt to cover up your own failures as people by blaming them on a convenient scapegoat… and then what, you take these sketchy looking drugs and proclaim that you’ve ‘ascended’ beyond the human condition? Please… Ridnezites suffered in the past, I get that. And you? It sounds like you’ve gone through a world of crap no one should ever have to deal with… But how does any of that excuse what you’ve done in Talgerria, for instance? People have suffered all over the world…! How selfish could you be to imagine that your pain justifies anyone else’s?!”

Bombardone’s specter spoke into Borrelli’s mind once more, as a change of personality effected itself. Once again, Borrelli sensed as he and the Hierarch spoke as one voice, “Sforza… Can you not understand through all your stubbornness that the human condition ‘as is’… is simply intolerable? No one ever said it was the fault of the benighted antisocials that they were made as they were… but the laws of this world demand that either they will die to build our Canaan, or all people will suffer equally in a resource-stripped, polluted waste of a world. A world divided into nations and peoples constantly at war… People hurting each other, hurting themselves… grinding each other down! The New State has solved all of that for everyone here… Call our aspiration ‘less than human’, but if accepting an imperfect world is what it means to be human… then who wants to be human?”

Sforza defied Borrelli with ever greater conviction, “People hurting themselves, hurting each other… Grinding each other down… These are all the aspects of the human condition that Zendirist projects have brought out in abundance, not suppressed… Underneath the neon lights, the clean-swept streets, the fake smiles… and the evident decency and uniformity of the Ridnezite citizenry… are a gulf of fear, hate, terror, and greed… Bombardone hasn’t elevated the people of this country into any prototype of a ‘New Man’… he’s made them into satellites of his monumental ego… He may have lied to you, or to himself, or to the people themselves that this was all for them… But it’s self-evident in every part of the design of this monochromatic nightmare… he made all this just so that he could say he was a visionary who was right in the end. And if he wanted the rest of Usea to be purged to make this the reality of life everywhere, well, that just confirms everything I’ve just said! There is no end to history… and if there were, Bombardone and you sure as hell aren’t the ones to point to it.”

Sforza crushed the Ouroboros B in his hand and let the powder run off from the palm of his hand onto the floor. Borrelli stared in indecision for a moment or two, when the voice of Bombardone advised him, ”Unfortunate, if not altogether unexpected… The boy is a loss, but he was in no way essential to our plans… He has chosen his fate from the persuasion of his own deviant will…”

Borrelli sighed with resignation in his breath, “I’m… sorry it has to be this way, Signor Sforza. But between you and Admiral Bisogno, we cannot allow any wild cards to jeopardize the future we’ve prepared for… Buona serata.” Borrelli calmly left the room through the door behind him, as Sforza lunged towards Borrelli’s position. “Hey, where do you think you’re off to?!”

One of the StateSec guards grabbed Sforza by the collar of his shirt and threw him with force into the stepladder Borrelli was seated on minutes earlier. “Should have accepted the dirigente’s offer… You could have been one of us…” The other StateSec officer grabbed Sforza up off the floor by the neck and dangled him in the air with inhuman strength, “Instead you’re going to be another corpse… pretty stupid of you.” The second StateSec officer smashed Sforza’s body against the adjacent wall, sending him reeling. ”What… in the name of the Tide Queen? Felt like I just got hit by a bus… don’t think anything’s broken yet though…,” thought Sforza.

Meanwhile, one of the StateSec agents procured another Ouroboros B capsule and swallowed it, smirking in Sforza’s direction. Sforza struggled to peel himself off of the ground and caught his opponent’s expression, ”Don’t like that look on his face…” Within seconds, the orange glow of the capsule appeared to radiate from within the agent’s center of mass outwards, tracing the pattern of his arteries and veins. Afterwards, the glow beamed outwards from the agent’s body, as muscle mass spontaneously added itself to his body and increased his overall size. ”I am so glad that I didn’t take that pill!” No sooner did Sforza form these conscious thoughts than he darted into the hallway through the open door Borrelli passed through earlier.

Sforza raced for an elevator and frantically hit the button to reach the bottom floor. “Elevator’s not in operation, great…,” Sforza noted. Looking behind him, he saw one of the StateSec agents rapidly approaching, “What are the chances that I can take him?” The agent directed a flying punch towards Sforza’s head. Sforza maneuvered quickly out of the way, causing the agent to dent the metal sliding doors of the elevator with his fist’s impact. After getting over his initial surprise, Sforza directed a kick towards the inside of the agent’s knee to destabilize him and brought an elbow down into his jaw to bring him to the ground.

“Hey… I really can take him, can’t I?,” thought Sforza, but for only a moment. Just as soon as the agent went down, he sprung up off the floor with an uppercut that knocked Sforza off his feet and splayed him onto his back. The agent’s heel ground against Sforza’s trachea, forcing him to twitch and grasp for air, when suddenly a loud noise, akin to thunder, cracked through the air. The agent fell to the ground, leaving a disoriented Sforza to regain his bearings and deduce what had happened. The agent’s body lay dead on the ground; his head was profusely bleeding from the side. “A friendly sniper? Does that mean-,” Sforza wondered, glancing through a window to the rooftop of the adjacent building, “…They’ve found me?”

Sforza grabbed a handgun off the deceased StateSec grunt’s body and cautiously proceeded down the hallway, “There was one more… The one with the glow-up from before. First idiot didn’t even think to use a pistol, he was so confident in his ability to tenderize me with his fists… Who even knows if the other one can even be stopped by small-arms fire?” Sforza’s thoughts were interrupted as the remaining agent, his muscles visibly rippling and his face betraying a truly deranged grimace, smashed through the wall next to Sforza.

Three shots were reflexively taken off by Sforza; all three embedded themselves into the enraged beast’s flesh, but failed to stop him for more than a couple seconds. ”There’s no room in here. I can’t maneuver!,” thought Sforza. Then faster than the blink of an eye, the hulking brute was upon Sforza, backhanding him with enough force to send him crashing through the window behind him, weakened as it was by the sniper’s bullet from earlier.

Sforza wildly lashed out in freefall, hoping to make contact with anything whatsoever. He connected with the hoist of a large Zendirist banner suspended from an outside ledge, holding on for dear life as his momentum took him through the arc of a pendulum towards a window on the second floor. ”Not going to be able to break through unless… There’s only one shot at this!”

Sforza desperately aimed the handgun he swiped from earlier towards the window and unloaded every remaining round in the magazine without looking. Before he knew whether he was successful or not, the rope he clung onto reached maximum velocity at the bottom of the arc, sending Sforza’s body smashing through the damaged window.

The window did not break in the same way depicted in the movies, disintegrating into a fine glassy powder. Instead, it shattered into several large, gnarly shards, some of which shattered into still smaller jagged pieces upon hitting the floor inside the building. Sforza lost consciousness immediately upon impact, covered in gashes all over his arms, legs, and back. After several minutes, the shadows of multiple figures hovered overhead: The Grand Admiral and his personal attendant

“So this young man is your ‘Giovanni Sforza’, Herr Grossadmiral? He doesn’t look like much, but there is no question… He has an uncanny knack for surviving…,” spoke one of the figures, the SD agent Röter König, with a sniper rifle slung over his shoulder, “But the question remains whether he is still if any use to us in this condition?”

Bisogno looked dispassionately between Sforza’s crumpled body and his Xaviet co-conspirator before pronouncing his judgement, “…So long as Sforza’s Ocelotist connections prove pivotal to the performance of tomorrow’s vital operation, then Sforza’s life has some value to us… Roth, Andreozzi, and the rest won’t cooperate without the assurance of his continued welfare… But after then… Who knows?”

October 5, 2023, 11:52 PM

“What do you mean, we can’t let this distract us from our plans for tomorrow?! In case you hadn’t noticed, we don’t even know if Giovanni will survive the night! We don’t give up on our own! Giovanni comes first, Admiral!”

Serena Gerloni cradled Sforza’s head on her lap as Lucio Andreozzi sat across from the both of them in Giulio Bisogno’s staff car, struggling to apply pressure and control Sforza’s bleeding. Admiral Bisogno himself sat next to Lucio and gave his reply, “Little lady, at the risk of being insensitive to the lad’s plight, we have much, much greater worries than whether he lives or dies… The ISV party congress is being held in Centro Nuovo in less than 24 hours… Your people and mine both have to be in position well before then, or our strategic advantage is forfeit!”

“If we’re not in place to make it happen, then Vincenzo Borrelli, Bombardone’s favorite stooge, is nominated the Chief of State and the power – and the expectation – to execute Project Canaan will be incumbent upon him… This is something we can’t risk. It has to end tomorrow night, Serena. It just has to,” explained Lucio, still focusing on tying and bandaging Sforza in the passenger seat, “We might never get a better chance to put a stop to what the Zendies want to achieve.”

Serena looked down at Sforza’s face, his features reflexively contorted in pain from his injuries, and rubbed her fingers through his hair, “So… what’s the plan then? We don’t know what Borrelli managed to get out of Giovanni before… he had him defenestrated, apparently. By the Tide Queen’s will, it’s a miracle he even survived at all…! But we have to assume that Borrelli now knows everything… he’ll be fully expecting Admiral Bisogno to try something. And he’s smart enough to be on the lookout for suspicious characters fitting the profile of known Ocelotists.”

“That’s why the goal is for you and your actor friend here to maintain a low profile at all times throughout the event… You’ll be provided with inconspicuous earpieces and cufflink radios to coordinate your actions,” the Admiral elucidated, “Your other two friends are out on another assignment, to procure… acceptable identities to admit you into the National Assembly Hall. I trust you have your own means to keep in touch with them… But I will anticipate you to be within the building lobby by 6:30 tomorrow evening.”

“You brought up Abigail and Konstantin… What role are they supposed to play during the events tomorrow if Lucio and I are serving as your eyes on the inside…?,” Serena asked. “The Heisenian and the Ziconean have no possibility of blending in with their accent and features… They don’t speak or move naturally in the manner Ridnezites do… They’ll be told easily apart. So their role will be to secure the perimeter of the building before I give the signal for forces I can trust… loyal to the chain of command above bankrupt ideology… to occupy it.”

Serena’s eyes widened as the Admiral spoke those last couple of words, but she withheld any questions or concerns she may have had. “…Fine, Admiral. We’ll play the game by your rules; it doesn’t seem like we have much choice in the matter. But I’m not going back on what I said before about Giovanni. We’re not abandoning him to die, no matter what happens between you and Borrelli and your conspiracies.” Serena remained focused on Sforza’s changing expressions. Since Lucio applied some basic first aid, Sforza’s facial expressions appeared more relieved than they had been before. Serena couldn’t help but smile, “We’re taking him back to the Underground to get some actual treatment.”

Meanwhile, the Admiral maintained his stolid demeanor, “Far be it from me to insinuate that you ought to abandon your ally in his time of need… But I need you to keep your sense of priorities in order as well. How you and your comrades choose to spend the time remaining from now until the party congress is beyond my control… and outside of my interest. Just realize what you must do by tomorrow evening… and get it done.”

“You sure don’t mince words, do you, Mr. B?,” remarked Lucio, “Where are you dropping us off by the way?”

“The landfill on the outskirts of the Argent City… where it’s least likely for anyone to see us together. I trust you have your own means of furtive transportation beneath this country’s inter-city rail system. Centro Nuovo is an hour-and-a-half ride by maglev train. I don’t imagine what you have can compare exactly, but then again, it doesn’t need to. Does it, son?,” Bisogno answered.

“You’re really not giving us much time to figure things out on our end, you know that? And by the way, I’m not your ‘son.’ The name is Andreozzi to you,” Lucio snapped.

“And I’m not ‘Mr. B’ to you either… As I said, I trust you will figure… things… out. You people have always managed to be persistently frustrating in the past when our goals were in conflict… Tomorrow should be no different for Borrelli, the sickly little worm…,” said Bisogno.

The staff car took a turn off the highway and towards the landfill.

Via Penelope, Due Fiume

October 5, 2023, 8:25 PM

“So what’s your prediction for the party congress, Alessandro… Will it be as much of a disappointment as the Hierarch’s funeral turned out to be?”

Renard D’Este and Alessandro D’Amico dined out late into the night with their spouses at a well-regarded establishment of the elite. D’Este and his wife ordered salmon and potatoes; D’Amico and his wife had veal marsala. “The way I see it, we can either have a strong leader in Bisogno… who doesn’t share our sense of purpose, or we can elevate a spineless weakling in Borrelli… who we can at least trust not to change much about the arrangements the Hierarch left us with. In short, I don’t like either of our options,” said D’Amico.

D’Este put his fork down on his plate and folded his fingers, “sigh Alessandro, you and I have been more closely associated with one another than just about any other two members of the General Directorate other than the Hierarch and Director Del Tuono themselves… I ask because I feel that the Vanguard is likely to be divided for the first time since the Revolution over the issue of the Hierarch’s successor… The New State functions from the original principle of unity. As they say, cooperation is the law of survival. Yet, if there is one party member I trust more than any other to form a united front, it is you… There is no more time to put off this discussion. I need to know how you intend to vote…”

D'Amico stuffed a morsel of food into his face and spoke while chewing, “Hm, well… To be honest, I’ve felt so much like nothing I’ve done has been of consequence in initiating policy… that I figured who I’d rather win wouldn’t bear much weight in the big picture of things. But I guess you’re right with the Hierarch gone and all… it’s up to the Integral Social Vanguard to make a collective decision. That said, I’d rather the Grand Admiral continues to run things… at least until the League has been repelled.”

“W-what?! You would rather vote for… But Alessandro, Bisogno has been standing in the way from instituting a definitive solution to the Heisenian question! If he is permitted the legitimacy of chieftaincy at the helm of the state, he may even revoke the ANRI Initiative… shut down the DRC system!,” D’Este urged, slamming his fist on the table. “Renard, dear, please… Remember your blood pressure,” pleaded D’Este’s wife. The Director of IndLab continued to remain focused on the topic at hand nevertheless, “Can’t you imagine what this will do to Imperial Industries? Or what it will do to the entire Ridnezite economy? Wages will drop, prices will soar, there will be widespread unemployment… and that’s not even beginning to touch on the question of what the old fool will do with the Heisenphyte rabble… Will he try to ‘integrate’ them as the Felons of Magnifico accomplished with such tremendous success… Absurd!”

D'Amico’s wife listened to D’Este’s rant with dawning trepidation, but D’Amico himself merely chuckled, “Please, I’m aware that the Grand Admiral is not a true Zendirist, but I hardly think he’s so senile as to think he can just reverse the past two decades of demographic policy. The entire prosperity of the Ridnezite people – even the stability of the war economy… especially the stability of the war economy – depend on the retention of the status quo which we have inherited from the Hierarch. The Armed Forces chiefs have always proved amenable enough to our reforms. After all, we have, in a way, avenged their lost pride on the First Republic dregs.”

D'Este’s face flushed slightly red with exasperation, “You say that as if an Armed Forces chief hasn’t betrayed the New State for their maudlin sentimentality once before… Aldo Scaglietti, who was exterminated by Director Del Tuono for sabotaging a tactical operation for the Felons of Magnifico… and for secreting a Zick larva in the sanctity of his home… These idiotic reactionaries don’t put stock in the ultimate deterministic reality of race… Anyone who cannot affirm the social ideal, the racial ideal, and the-“

D'Amico interrupted, “Yes, well, that’s all well and good, Renard, but speaking personally… given I, for once, am at liberty to do as much… I don’t much care what the Admiral’s ‘ideals’ are so long as he doesn’t interfere with my directorate’s responsibilities… And unlike you, I’m not so convinced that he will… Besides, what’s the alternative? If that emaciated stringbean Borrelli is allowed to go forward with the more extreme version of the Zendirist program, then the ‘solution’ to the Heisenian question you alluded to will mean the eventual extinction of the DRC system anyway. What happens when there are no more ‘industrial apprentices’ to draw from the antisocial populations? Ridnezite citizenry have been given a society where realities of hard labor are unknown to them, and frankly I like it better that way. GovInvest revenues brought in from Imperial Industries keep SocPol programs well-funded and keep me receiving a generous salary… No complaints here.”

“Hm, I fear for this country, Alessandro… It pains me that we couldn’t see eye-to-eye on this, unlike… just about every other matter of importance to concern us both since the time of the Revolution. Either way, no matter who wins the Vanguard’s endorsement, I trust we will be able to work well together towards a better future for the party, for the state, for the people… and for our families. What do you say, old friend?,” said D’Este, raising a toast with his glass of white wine.

D'Amico raised his glass of red wine and clinked it against D’Este’s, “Hear, hear.”

The two directors’ wives, somewhat less enthusiastically, copied the gesture with their own glasses. Anna D’Amico forced an insincere smile and chuckled, “Well, Sofia… I hope things continue to go well for you and yours. Maybe we’ll have a formal meet-together of both our families sometime next month?” Sofia D’Este replied, “Hm, yes, that sounds lovely, Anna… Besides which, the kids haven’t had a chance to play with each other in a good long while.”

The D’Amico and D’Este couples made their cordial exits and headed separately for their automobiles, both 2025 models of the Aurelio Desti Leopardo, the quintessential Ridnezite luxury vehicle.

“What was that Renard was saying earlier about Admiral Bisogno’s plans to shut down the DRCs, Alessandro?,” queried a concerned-sounding Anna. Alessandro addressed the question as he sat in the driver seat and started the ignition, “Oh, pff, that… Just a paranoid delusion held by some of the diehards in the party about the Grand Admiral’s intentions for permanent political leadership of the country… Vincenzo Borrelli has a significant base of support in the institutions set up by the Hierarch’s directives… Take the RSMC for instance. It’s been systematically staffed with the biggest Zendirist stalwarts around… Borrelli was the Hierarch’s best friend, so naturally they’ve been doing everything in their power to make it seem like Bisogno’s going to upset the established order… It’s just hit-pieces and innuendos, that’s all!”

The D’Amicos drove their car down Via Penelope as, unbeknownst to them, they were being watched by Konstantin Pappas from a nearby fire escape, suspended from within a dark alleyway. The couple continued to argue, oblivious to the events that were about to happen. “Alessandro… We have children. We have children! Don’t tell me you’re going to vote for this Bisogno person if there is even a chance he’ll release the antisocials to rape the entire country… After everything that’s happened, do you think they’re not going to take revenge?” D’Amico frowned as he contemplated his wife’s words, “That’s not going to happen, Anna… Trust me as your husband; the Admiral is the only one who can stop the League from releasing the antisocials upon the country! He’s going to keep us and our children safe, Anna… I swear it!”

As the Leopardo made a right turn onto Via Basile, Konstantin picked up a walkie-talkie attached to his belt and gave a single prompt, “Now!” From an adjacent rooftop, Abigail Roth chewed on a wad of bubble gum and blew a decently-sized pink bubble, which popped at the very instant she received Konstantin’s command. Armed with a rocket launcher, she fired off a single projectile at the middle of the street as the Leopardo approached. The rocket detonated into a large cloud of obscuring gray smoke. It had obviously been modified to have its incendiary charge removed, but panic ensued regardless.

“Alessandro, what’s happening?!,” screamed Anna. Alessandro D’Amico quickly left the car and dragged his wife behind him, clutching her by the wrist, “What else would it be, Anna? Ocelotists! They’ve come for me like they did Del Tuono and Vitale!” The two pushed their way past crowds of people and ducked into an alleyway… when suddenly they heard as a large, muscular man dropped from the fire escape behind them.

“Alessandro D’Amico, I take it? Director of Public Finance and chief executive of the state-owned metalworking monopoly which bears your name… and also a slaver and butcher of my Ziconean brothers and sisters on an industrial scale. I’ve heard tales about the horrors of your factories in the Outer Sector… I only wonder if she knows as well…?,” Konstantin uttered with his guttural voice.

D’Amico’s eyes visibly dilated as he called to his wife, “Anna, quick, get to the end of the alleyway… Get home, take the kids, and get as far away as you can! They were herding us here… waiting for us!” Anna dashed to the end of the alley, doing the best in her ability with high-heeled shoes at least, but Abigail was waiting for her at the other end. Abigail grabbed Anna and pinned her against the side of a building abutting the alleyway, holding a knife to her throat, “Just relax, sister. We’re not going to hurt you unless you give us reason to.”

“Anna! Threaten my wife, you filthy Zick animal, will you?!,” roared Alessandro. He curled his fingers into a fist and made his best attempt to throw a punch at Konstantin’s toned abdomen, but only injured his hand in the process, clutching it in throes of pain. “I… I’m not… afraid… of you,” muttered Alessandro somewhat unconvincingly. Konstantin looked down upon D’Amico with a look of utmost disgust, as if he were looking more at a repulsive insect than a man. “You should be afraid of me,” said Konstantin, as his own powerful fist connected with D’Amico’s face and crushed the cartilage of his nose like so much tissue paper, sending D’Amico reeling and collapsing on the ground.

“A-Alessandro… Alessandro!,” screamed Anna, as her face became awash with terrified tears. Abigail could only apprehend the moment with a sense of pity in spite of herself. “Good grief,” Abigail said, “Did you have to do that in front of the woman? I just told her that we wouldn’t hurt them if… Oh, f*ck it.” Abigail brought the blunt end of her knife handle down against the back of Anna’s head with enough force to knock her out, “No redeeming that situation. That runt posed no threat to you, Mr. Legbreaker. Couldn’t you have handled that a little more delicately?”

Konstantin justified himself with his typical unemotive cadence, “This cur D’Amico deserves worse… Far, far worse. Don’t presume to lecture me about what I should have done, woman.” Abigail sheathed her knife and put one hand on her hip, “I wasn’t going to… Just saying less noise is usually the preferred outcome when you’re trying to nab a target, and you sure set off the scream queen here before I put her to bed. Now let’s just grab them and skedaddle before creeps from StateSec show up…”

Underground Base Camp ‘Panther-164’, below Centro Nuovo

October 6, 2023, 3:44 AM

”Why do you continue to flee from those who care about you? We’ve been searching for you… and others like you… orphans, stragglers from the incident… for a long time now. There is no shortage of decent Ridnezite foster families who would be glad to have an intelligent kid like you… to help raise you up into a fine young man. You’ll never have to sleep in a cardboard box ever again… you’ll never need to cheat your elders or break the law to scrounge up what amounts to loose change… you’ll never, ever go a single day hungry ever again. That’s not the kind of world that the Hierarch is building for the Ridnezite people to partake in, you should know. And partake in it, you can… by my honor as the Director of State Security… we just need you to tell us the whereabouts of the Heisenian boy you’ve been seen around with… What did you say his name was again?”

Giovanni Sforza arose from a cot with a violent jerk as the words, so alluring at the time they were first spoken, passed through his liminal consciousness. Doing so only aggravated the many sutured wounds over his body and caused Sforza to groan as the sharp pain hit him.

“Giovanni… Oh, for Maris’ sake, you shouldn’t make any sudden movements, or you might accidentally tear open your stitches! Now just hold still,” Serena clamored to settle Sforza down and gently lie him back down. Sforza took stock of his surroundings; other than the cot, there was a first aid kit cracked open on a metallic tray some meters away, four corners, a floor, and a ceiling. Otherwise, the room appeared a dull gray, and the air smelled familiar… the stale-smelling air perfusing the bases and settlements of the Underground. To Giovanni Sforza, that was the smell of home.

“Serena… Did anyone tell you that you’re… that you’re…,” Sforza formed the words, then went blank for several seconds as he found himself focused on Serena’s face, her brunette hair, her hazel eyes, ”…so… beautiful…” The remainder of the thought came out as just that, a thought, unuttered and undisclosed.

“…Yes, Giovanni? What is it?,” inquired a concerned Serena. Sforza shook his head and rapidly blinked, “I was going to tell you… You’re just too damned maternal at times… News flash, you’re not my mother… you’re 21… we’re basically soldiers down here, almost… Your coddling is strictly unnecessary!” Serena pressed her lips together tightly and arched her eyebrows downwards in disapproval, then finally smacked Giovanni Sforza across the face with unexpected speed, “Jerk, I’m just trying to show some concern towards my friend… Someone I’ve spent almost every day and night for the past several months getting to know…” Serena turned away from Sforza and gripped her arm, muttering underneath her breath, ”…to know and… care about…”

Sforza immediately realized his error, ”In Maris’ name, why’d you say that? She was just trying to…” Anxiously rubbing the nape of his neck in a nervous tic, Sforza made his apologies, “I... I’m sorry for going off like that. I know you were just trying to help and all… It’s just… I’m not used to being in this position, y’know?” Serena folded her arms and snarked, “You’re not used to crashing through glass windows and nearly getting yourself killed? Who’d have thought?”

“No, c’mon, you know what I mean… I don’t like this feeling of… vulnerability, I guess you could call it. It puts me on edge… makes me cranky,” explained Sforza. “Well, there’s that, and also… I guess you could say… deep down I don’t think I’m worth the effort…” Serena held Sforza’s hand, “Giovanni… Do you know the number of people I’ve met in my life who are as brave, as selfless, as… as heroic as you? I can count them on one hand, and most of that number are the other members of your crew. Just about any human being would be worthy of at least some concern, if they had gone through what you just did… So I’m telling you now… You’re worth it, Giovanni.”

Sforza closed his eyes and sighed to himself, “You still don’t understand, not really… Hell, even after prying into my whole past, Borrelli didn’t understand sh*t…” Serena’s look increased in intensity at the mention of the name, “B-Borrelli…?” Sforza went on, “He tried to flip me to the Zendy side, after all the trouble I’ve given them… all the years I’ve spent playing opposition. But his pitch relied on a misconception that I was driven by hate… for having lost my parents. But it was never that… never that at all. I first got into this fight… because… because…” Sforza’s thoughts went back 12 years, as he recalled that seductive offer…

Burned into the memory of Giovanni Sforza, his 14-year-old self’s words cracked with the desperation that only hunger and poverty can bring, ”There’s… other people out there who would take me. Even knowing how I’ve been living… how I’ve been getting by, and who I’ve been doing it with…?” The Director, Gianfranco Del Tuono, put on his best impression of an inviting grin, but as Sforza recalled, that only made him more frightening. One look into the man’s eyes revealed the vulpine predatory instincts just underneath the surface. ”Yes, Giovanni, I guarantee it. You can have a normal life again… a bright future ahead of you. These are things which you now know better than most ought not to be taken for granted. You said the little Heisenian thief is named ‘David’… A Heisenian family living amid an unsuspecting Ridnezite community is a social hygiene risk, you know. The Hierarch has proven through his accomplishments that this country will move mountains to rescue its most unfortunate from the misery of want… But you first must do this for your country… Where is this ‘David’ hiding? Are there any others hiding with him?”

Sforza was brought back out of his recollection by the voice of Serena, “By the Phantasmic Court… Did you tell Borrelli anything? I won’t blame you if you did… I can keep things discreet if you want me too… but we’re readying to infiltrate, then take, the National Assembly Hall in less than 24 hours…!” Sforza jolted forward at hearing this and spat, “W-what?! You can’t be serious! How could you hope to…? Urgh!” Sforza’s outburst was cut short by his aggravation of his injuries in his overstimulated condition.

Serena explained, “There’s simply no time left! The annual party congress is happening today evening, and it’s where Borrelli intends to acquire legitimacy as the new Chief of State. It’s early morning right now as we speak! The StateSec crackdown on your planned meeting with Admiral Bisogno several days ago cost all of us valuable preparation time, so now we’ve got to push things into overdrive, no matter what happens!”

Sforza regained his calm, “So you know about Bisogno, huh? I’m not even going to ask…” Serena gently placed her hands on Sforza’s shoulders and knelt down next to him, “Giovanni, please just tell me… What is it that Vincenzo Borrelli knows about Bisogno’s plans for the party congress…”

“Hmph, so… he knows that Bisogno and I had been cooperating to keep the Nyx Effector Triggers from him… and to divert resources away from completion of the Vortes Program before that… He knows everything about us, but… But I don’t think he knows all that much about you… You, he might not see coming,” said Sforza. Serena nodded her head in affirmation, “Then that just might confirm the Admiral’s faith in us to get the job done, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess so… But be warned, Borrelli plans to use his knowledge of Bisogno’s disobedience to his advantage when the time comes… Bisogno has the Ars Goetia and… maybe he has some other leverage too… I dunno, he just used me to do his ‘errands’ for him…,” Sforza stated with some degree of contempt, whether for Bisogno, himself, or possibly both.

“Giovanni… there’s been something else I’ve been thinking about. Can we trust Admiral Bisogno? What happens if he gains the Zendies’ appointment as Chief of State without a conflict? He just shuts everything down? Surrenders to the League? What?!,” asked Serena.

Sforza had a muted chuckle as the question was posed, “Can you… trust Bisogno? Can you trust him?! Serena… hell, no! We’re just a means to an end for him… Once we’ve served our purpose, we’d only be an obstacle to him… Behind all his ‘nobility’ is just another bootlicking bloodhound who only decided to grow a conscience when his boss told him that half the country might have to be euthanized one day… That’s our only common cause when push comes to shove, and don’t you forget it…!”

Serena looked sad in that instant, as thought there was part of her that wanted to believe otherwise, but she knew to defer to Sforza’s judgement as Bisogno’s long-term contact. “I… won’t forget, Giovanni. After all… he betrayed the First Republic and put Bombardone in power, so of course we can’t trust him now. How could I forget who I was dealing with?,” said Serena, in an almost robotic tone of voice. ”But his grief… his pain… When he talked to us a few days ago, about the high stakes of the upcoming mission… I can’t believe that was a lie,” Serena thought to herself.

“Uh… y’know, I’m a bit embarrassed to admit it, but… I’ve been sitting here, watching over you for the past couple hours,” Serena said. “A couple of hours? Staring at gray, gray, and more gray…? Oh… Oh!,” Sforza’s reaction was one of unspoken surprise, while Serena emoted bashfulness at Sforza’s sudden realization. “I might as well… check and see if Abigail and Konstantin are back from their ‘errand’ for Admiral Bisogno,” Serena stated, as she turned to leave the room.

Serena was halfway to the half-shut door when she stopped, maintained an awkward silence for a few seconds, and then turned back in Sforza’s direction. “Uh… Giovanni… one last thing. When you said that Borrelli pried into your past and still didn’t understand your motivation… What exactly did you mean? You confessed that you lost your… your parents… in the ghetto uprising. But if not that, then what…? Then why…?”

Sforza shut his eyes tight and struggled to hold back tears, though his voice wavered, “Serena… I… I appreciate what you think of me, but… there are things you don’t know. Things I just can’t tell you about… But if I told you, you would get it… You’d know exactly why I have to live in these tunnels, hardly ever seeing the light of day… Comfort… is a luxury of those who choose to live without doubt. Borrelli’s a man like that… He chose to ‘affirm life’, in his own words, by rejecting his humanity. I couldn’t do that… I dragged back into the squalor and the darkness and the struggle by my doubts… by my regrets… and so long as that suffering lets me know I’m still human inside, I’ll never let go of it… never!”

“Giovanni, I… I only wish I understood what’s eating at you… On the surface, sometimes, you try to cover it up, with that smart-aleck loner façade. But I know better… there’s a part of you inside that’s screaming to open up to someone else who will just… understand. And I’m not going to stop until I reach that core and force you to realize you don’t have to carry that burden alone!,” announced Serena, walking out of the room and shutting the door closed with a loud thud.

Serena navigated through a short maze of claustrophobic, dimly lit passageways, feeding into a larger space resembling an isolated floor of an abandoned parking garage. She saw Abigail, perched on top of a crate, cleaning out her firearms with a cloth and some gun oil. Next to her were Alessandro and Anna D’Amico, both tied to a support pillar. Konstantin was nowhere to be found initially, but the sight of the captives immediately piqued Serena’s curiosity.

“No way… Those two… They can’t be! Alessandro D’Amico… GovInvest Director?,” exclaimed Serena, approaching the scene. Without looking up from her favored Tertanian-manufactured handgun Old Reliable, Abigail confirmed, “That’s him, girl… Trussed up like a pulled turkey. How low the mighty have fallen, as they say…” Serena shook her head, “No, Abigail, you don’t understand… These people… They…”

Anna D’Amico lifted her weary head, encouraged by the familiar voice, “Serena…? Director Gerloni’s daughter?! What on Avaris…? What are you doing consorting with… these people?! What would your father say if he could see you now?” Alessandro said nothing and, from Serena’s view of the underground chamber, appeared to be totally limp, as though he would fall over if it weren’t for his bindings.

Serena nervously gripped her wrist as she drew nearer. “These people… I knew them when I was a kid, Abby. They were friends of the family ever since I barely came up to their knee…” Abigail turned her head in Serena’s direction and kicked off from the crate, holstering the pistol, “I guess it’s a bit strange for me to think that you now have… emotional connections on both sides of the aisle… Tough break, kid, but… You’ve seen what they’ve done. You’ve made your choice. Now, in Axon’s name, you’ve got to stick with it.”

Serena rounded the pillar with some anxiety as she anticipated Alessandro’s condition. What she found: the man’s face was encrusted with dried, oxidized blood, swollen in asymmetrical lumps, and discolored with heavy bruising. His party uniform was shredded and torn, revealing lacerations and bruising over various parts of his skin. His Zendirist armband was torn from his arm and stamped into the grime of a corner of the sunken parking deck.

Serena winced at the sight. “By Amadastra’s veil, Abigail…! What in the name of the seas did you do to him?!” Abigail approached, speaking with a slightly offended tone of voice, “You think that was me?!” She grabbed Serena by the shoulder, pulled her away a couple meters, and began to converse in whisper, “Even though I’d have good enough reason to bloody up this butcher, torturing helpless prisoners doesn’t exactly sit right with me… Konstantin was here earlier. He'd smack around D’Amico until he’d get a concussion, wait for him to come to, and then whale on him some more… His sense of honor compels him… to avenge the millions of Ziconeans who have perished in his extermination centers for the past few years… or who were worked to death in the decade prior to that.”

Serena looked back and forth a few times between Abigail Roth and Alessandro D’Amico, then replied to the former in whisper, “I just can’t… square it. I knew these people. When I was younger, I played with their children at house parties… They were decent people. How could they…? How could he…?”

Abigail leaned closer and adopted a biting tone. “D’Amico was decent like your father was decent? Later today, your old man is likely to occupy one of the highest places at the party congress, as a member of the General Directorate. No matter what happens, it’s conceivable that he could get hurt… even killed. And if he doesn’t, then he’ll still be arrested, and if justice is done, he’ll be dragged before the whole country and made to face the music for his many, many crimes… What D’Amico’s been through so far will pale in comparison to that!”

Serena glanced back once more at D’Amico, then stared silently at the floor, not wanting to make her thoughts known. Abigail changed her intonation to be more sympathetic, “Look, girl… Serena. I don’t mean to put you into a quandary or to test your resolve, but you have to grasp what you’re getting into! Especially as you’re playing a pivotal role in the events about to unfold! If it makes any difference to you… I probably saved that slob’s life by reminding Konstantin that he’d be useful as a living hostage if it comes to that… and ‘Pretty Boy Alex’ is only pretending to be unconscious so that he doesn’t get his ass beaten again… Sforza got it way worse, believe me.”

“So… where is Konstantin now?,” asked Serena, as she and Abigail walked over to an area of the chamber out of earshot of the D’Amico couple. Abigail almost hesitated to reply, “…So we both had the idea that with our ‘fearless leader’ temporarily down for the count… and given what we know about Bisogno and his intentions… we need to recruit backup of our own from inside the Network, should everything go sour at the National Assembly Hall.”

Serena questioned the logic, “W-what do you mean, ‘should everything go sour’….? What do you think will happen?” Abigail elucidated, “What I mean is… Let’s assume that the 4 of us, by some miracle, help Bisogno outmaneuver the party loyalists with the assistance of the MPs guarding the building… What then? Do you really think he’ll just let us go? He probably has something planned to scapegoat us and kill us all off so no one knows the truth that he had the idea to upstage his Zendy masters… If you’ve been an affiliate of the Network long enough, you just get to know that this is how things happen… But if this is the one occasion where we can truly, finally end the waking nightmare, we’re not going into it blindly… We’re going to be ready for whatever happens on our own terms...”

“I… see… It’s all riding on Lucio and me then, huh?,” said Serena.

Abigail nodded in confirmation. “Afraid that’s the hand we’re forced to deal, girl… I hope you know your way around a formal event in heels and a dress… ‘Anna D’Amico’…” She offhandedly tossed the ISV membership card of the real Anna D’Amico in Serena’s direction and started to walk back towards the crate she was seated on earlier with her firearms. Serena’s quick reflexes enabled her to catch the card in her hands before it struck the ground.

“How am I supposed to pass for a woman over 30 years older than me?!,” Serena demanded to know. Abigail shrugged, “Bisogno said his men will vet you through the front door. After that, just do your best not to get noticed, I guess… it’s not a good plan, just the best we can manage on such short notice.”

National Assembly Hall, Centro Nuovo

October 6, 2023, 5:30 PM

“So, are we ready to broadcast? Remember every TV set across Ridnez will be tuned in to see this go down… It might be the biggest event in the course of 22 years of the Zendirist Revolution.”

“Yeah, and imagine I’m the lucky reporter who gets to cover it… I can expect to get bumped up to a higher tier of party membership after this!”

“Uh, huh, good for you… Anyway, cameras rolling on three, two…”

“Good evening, people of Ridnez! This is Urbano Buffon, bringing the National Assembly Hall to you live, right on scene in Centro Nuovo… once known in the annals of Ridnezite history as Il Sole, the City of the Sun… but for the past 16 years, rededicated by the dearly departed Hierarch of Zendirism, the City of New Beginnings! What a fitting name in retrospect, for tonight a heated debate is scheduled between two eminent candidates to succeed the Hierarch as Ridnez’s Chief of State… to be elected by the inner leadership council of the Integral Social Vanguard, the rarely seen, hardly spoken-of Council of Zendirism. Whoever prevails, there is one thing for sure! A new beginning is the Vanguard’s promise to the nation of Ridnez tonight! And for those of you who weren’t reserved seats to the occasion on the Strato Uno or Strato Due membership lists of the Vanguard, WRSMC will be dutifully bringing the whole fateful thing to you in the leisure of your personal dwellings!”

Crowds of men and women, dressed in either party uniforms or formal wear, proceeded up the steps leading to the imposingly tall doors of the Assembly Hall. Among the sea of people, Serena Gerloni and Lucio Andreozzi were found partnered up to infiltrate the meeting in the guise of Anna and Alessandro D’Amico. Serena was dressed in a dark blue evening gown with white evening gloves; Lucio wore a standard tuxedo with a black bowtie. “Ready to enter the fray, ‘Anna, my love’…?,” Lucio teased. Serena groaned, “Shut up, Lucio… We’re just about at the security checkpoint. Let’s hope that Admiral Bisogno’s on the level about his people working the front.”

The two presented the ISV membership cards of Alessandro and Anna D’Amico to the military policemen guarding the checkpoint. Lucio tried playing it cool, putting on a fake smirk as though he was just happy to be there. Serena remained more serious and focused, locking eyes with the MP analyzing and scanning through the membership cards. The MP gave a subtle, knowing nod, which Serena reciprocated.

Around 300 yards away from the National Assembly Hall, up on a hill, a StateSec officer observed the swarm of human bodies flood into the lit-up building, while monitoring the perimeter obscured under cloak of night. He heard his squad leader check in over his comms device, “Everything looking okay over the west side of the perimeter… The party congress is due to start in an hour. All openings, windows… must be covered at all times. Copy, over.”

The officer turned on his mic, “You don’t need to tell me twice. I mean, heck, I can see the podiums for the speakers from this distance… Whoever was the original architect sure prized aesthetic over security, is what I’ll say. Copy, over.” The squad leader replied succinctly, “Just don’t get overconfident. Something’s bound to happen tonight. Keep on your toes. Over and out.” The agent shuffled about, “…’Don’t get overconfident’… Who does he think he-?” The officer’s sentiment was stopped short as he was grabbed in a chokehold by a truly massive figure, passing out in seconds.

“All’s clear for you to get yourself set up on this end, Roth,” said Konstantin in his unmistakable monotone, “So what’s the plan from here… Take the shot when Borrelli steps up on stage?” Abigail quickly and efficiently removed the parts of a sniper rifle and assembled it together, “No, that would cause undue difficulty in keeping a lid on the developing sitch… I’m going to let Bisogno handle things his way… But if he loses control of the sitch all on his own… or he tries to betray us in any way… then I’ll have both Borrelli and Bisogno In my sights to take them down.” Konstantin comprehended quickly, “The Admiral… does not know of your intentions… He does not even know that we are established at this vantage point, does he?”

“Bisogno was deliberately vague in his choice of words… ‘Secure the perimeter’… Well, I’m at liberty to go about that task any way I see fit, aren’t I? But I have no reason to believe in Bisogno’s ‘benevolence’ any farther than I can throw him… And I’m damn well not leaving Serena and Lucio in the lion’s den without some means of ensuring they’re okay down there!,” Abigail pronounced. “Hmph, you try to put on a sour demeanor much of the time, but… You really do care about them, don’t you?,” Konstantin observed.

Abigail sneered at Konstantin, then resumed putting her rifle together. “Just bind and gag that schlemiel before he wakes up… and don’t start trying to get mushy on me now, either. We need Konstantin Pappas, wall of 500 pounds of Ziconean muscle… Konstantin Pappas, knight errant.”

Konstantin nodded silently and then gave comment, “Understood, Roth… I’ll reserve the ‘mush’ for the contingency we all survive…”

5:44 PM

A black limousine pulled up outside the Assembly Hall, at the foot of its grand staircase leading to the security checkpoint at the entrance. Inside, Vincenzo Borrelli stared bleakly out at the gathered masses of politicians, businessmen, regime functionaries, reporters, and admiring civilians held behind lines of tape by the Ridnez State Police.

“Well, dirigente… Tonight’s your big night. You must be very excited!,” said Giovanni Ossola, the chauffeur and valet. “Not every man… even guys with experiences and connections comparable to yours… gets to be present for a convention that stands to rock the foundation of the country to its core! But I believe in you, dirigente… Just know that, and even if things turn out differently than you might be expecting, I guarantee you it’ll all be fine in the end.”

Borrelli grabbed his right wrist tightly with his left hand. It was all he could do to keep it from trembling, partly out of fear and partly due to Ouroboros. “Do you really believe that, Giovanni? If I fail in my designs for the night’s events, then it might not be fine for any of us in the end… This isn’t some simply job application, Giovanni, bless your soul. It’s the life and death of millions at stake… Maybe even yours.”

Ossola’s jovial attitude diminished as he heard those words from his employer. “I… I… I dunno what to say, dirigente… If you really think it’s that serious… But you can do no better than your best, right? I can’t tell you any differently than to give it your best, can I?”

Meanwhile, Borrelli had checked out from listening to the valet, concentrating intensely on his reflection in the backseat window. But in his reflection, it was not himself, but the Hierarch’s revenant, that Borrelli saw there. “Now is the final test of your willpower to lead this country and change the world… Your undereducated valet, while insipid in his chosen manner of expression, has the right idea to believe in you, Vincenzo. I believe in you… The Zendirist elite has put their trust in you by my implication! Do not disappoint that trust… There is still much that is left to be done, before the Ridnezite people can at last, finally, win their rightful place in the world. The Admiral and some Ocelotist criminals stand in the way… No great feat to clear them off of the board, is it?”

Borrelli noticed himself blankly staring out the window at nothing, saliva dripping from his lip, as he frantically jumped back in the passenger seat and tried to regain his composure. But he still could not stop his hands, knees, even his eyelids from twitching uncontrollably. Ossola looked back towards Borrelli with concern. “Dirigente… You want me to… help you up the steps. It’d be no problem, really!”

Borrelli heard the voice of Bombardone, garbled into a monstrous roar almost, as he clenched his fists, grit his teeth, and closed his eyes. “No, Vincenzo! You aim to lead… to inspire these people while shivering like a nervous wreck?! You… alone… must surmount the barriers facing you this night! Else you will never be worthy to replace me!” Borrelli denied Ossola’s offer, “No, Giovanni… I appreciate the request. But I have to show the people… strength… capability. I can do this… I can do this!”

And so Borrelli got his tremors and his unstable gait under control through a supreme effort of will, putting one foot after the other, climbing the steps up towards his destiny…