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Governor: The Articulate Republic of Rahul Raghuraman

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1.The Articulate Republic of Rahul RaghuramanScandinavian Liberal Paradise Gay Marriage State“Forever advancing!”
2.The United Republic of RichompScandinavian Liberal Paradise Gay Marriage State“For Glory, for Peace, and for a United Richomp!”
3.The Sweet Islands of Candy and ChocolateDemocratic Socialists Hell“Tout est bon avec du sucre!”
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7.The Grand Duchy of AlomphmerksFather Knows Best State Suspiciously Liberal Dictatorship“To forever advance!”

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Crimtonian spectre

Inspired by Richomp’s recent historical writing, here’s some stuff I’ve been working on about old Crimtonian history—specifically, one of CS’s (many) predecessors, the Crimson Kingdom!

Nomadic Period (pre-1456)

Prior to the year 1456, modern-day Crimtonian Spectre was inhabited by nomadic peoples who, from time to time, formed great confederations that rose to power and prominence. Owing to its mostly mountainous and boreal terrain, including the largely impenetrable Snowy Mountain Range that marks the border with Nazbeth, the area was only settled in its entirety by roughly the year 900 CE by various nomadic Luhlazan tribes. For this reason, historians consider the Crimtonian region to be part of the Nazbethian superregion (along with Nazbeth proper, Alomphmerks, the Eternal Empire, and Essel-Asteria), and more broadly, the “Luhlazan diaspora.” However, over time, the nomadic peoples inhabiting Crimtonia came into their own cultural and ethnic identity. Though exact cultural and societal practices varied among numerous tribes and city-states, crucial to Crimtonian tradition throughout the region were the Luhlazan religion, military technique and prowess, horseback riding, and falconry—many of which persist to this day. Even today, the golden falcon remains Crimtonian Spectre’s national animal.

Though occasional conflicts and confederations broke out amongst the Crimtonian tribes, no great wars of conquest were waged until the mid-15th century. It was not until greater Crimtonia was united that shared cultural and ethnic traditions would begin to coalesce into a national identity.

Period of the Crimson Kingdom (1456-1797)

In the year 1456, a young and ambitious warlord by the name of Crim raised an enormous army of almost 200,000 in the Snowy Mountains, with the goal of uniting all the nearby tribes and city-states under his banner. A pair of crossed black swords on a crimson field, Crim’s flag was said to be inspired by the color of the rising sun, so prominent amongst the dramatic peaks and crags of his landscape. Crim’s powerful coalition soon came to be known as the Crimson Kingdom, with Crim as its leader and military commander. The name “Crimson” also had the dual meaning of “Sons of Crim,” a name soon attributed to those in Crim’s inner circle, and eventually, the entirety of his numerous supporters—regardless of gender. In any case, his detractors quickly labeled the name as fitting, for it was the color of blood.

Led by Crim, the Crimson army—which came to be known as the Crimson Knights—poured out of the mountains to wage a bold conquest of the Crimtonian south. Though Crim’s campaigns were renowned for their brutality, he also proved himself to be a capable negotiator, with multiple adversaries pledging fealty to his kingdom without the need for violence. Within an astonishingly quick 7 years, Crim had succeeded in uniting nearly the entire central and northeast of Crimtonia.

However, the more Crim conquered, the more his thirst for expansion seemed to grow. In 1463, the mountain citadel of Ferinhelm and its expansive surrounding territories surrendered to the Crimson Knights after an arduous 99-day siege. To broker peace and quell rebellion within the powerful Ferinhelm Queendom, Crim agreed to marry its ruler, Isidora Rostenstaphen. In a legend that is likely apocryphal but nonetheless integral to Crimtonian tradition, Crim was said to have cast aside his armor and sword and fearlessly approached the walls of the Ferinhelm citadel as the 100th day of the siege dawned, demanding to speak to their yet-unseen leader. When Queen Isidora emerged from the walls to meet Crim face-to-face, he was so entranced by her beauty and strength that he got down on one knee and immediately proposed marriage. Isidora accepted, ending the siege without bloodshed.

After marrying Isidora Rostenstaphen, Crim adopted the name and sigil of her dynasty, crowning himself King Crim I Rostenstaphen the Conqueror and adding the Rostenstaphen falcon to his flag. He declared Ferinhelm the new capital of the Crimson Kingdom and gradually relocated his legions to the surrounding mountains. By now, the Crimson holdings covered an area of almost half a million square miles, but the emergent kingdom was plagued by persistent unrest and anarchy. With the speed of his conquest, Crim had rapidly overextended himself. Rather than give up or subdivide his lands, Crim declared the kingdom’s instability to be the fault of a lack of agriculture and rallied his forces to mount a last, desperate campaign. Crim’s fabled 10-year March to the Sea conquered the fertile lowlands to the east of the Crimson nation, pushing deeper and deeper into the outlands until his progress was eventually stopped by the waters of the Deplandian Bay. The year 1474 marked the end of Crim’s annexations, after his army succeeded in repelling an invasion from the neighboring Deplandian Despotate.

The onerous and taxing nature of his endless wars had taken a toll on Crim. In August 1474, Crim the Conqueror suddenly died after suffering an exhaustion-induced fall from his horse, leaving his heir, the four-year-old Crisrath Rostenstaphen, as king. The entire realm went into a month-long period of mourning, and the kingdom was not expected to survive the death of its creator and sovereign. However, at the conclusion of the mourning period, the widowed Isidora Rostenstaphen wrested the throne from her son and his proxy supporters and declared herself Queen Regnant, announcing her intention to renounce none of Crim’s lands. After deposing a series of pretenders, Isidora proved herself to be a gifted administrator, efficiently transforming the farmlands of the east into an effective agrarian society and ushering in an era of rapid economic growth in the kingdom. Isidora ended the conquests of the Crimson Knights, successfully juggling her nation’s militaristic impulses with the pressing need for an end to bloodshed. The phenomenon of Queen Isidora’s post-conquest era of peace and prosperity is today remembered as Pax Crimsonia (the Crimson Peace), and alternatively as the Crimson Golden Age, and the queen is remembered as Isidora the Great.

Queen Isidora Rostenstaphen’s death in 1525 at the age of 86 marked the end of the Crimson Golden Age, as the kingdom exhibited gradual and eventual decline. At its greatest extent in the late 1400s, the Crimson Kingdom spanned over 1 million mi², including nearly all of modern-day Crimtonian Spectre and the Ashes of Crimtonia, as well as parts of Alomphmerks, the Eternal Empire, and Kaltam (The Wastes). Isidora’s heir, Crisrath I Rostenstaphen, ended his mother’s policy of non-expansion and mounted a failed conquest of Deplandia, which resulted in the annexation of much of the Crimson farmlands in the east. Thus, the kingdom was forced to return to a more militaristic form of existence, conducting numerous raids on their pacifist Nazbethian neighbors to the south and wars of attrition with Deplandia. A long line of Rostenstaphen kings succeeded Crisrath, none of whom managed to recapture either the ferocity of Crim’s campaigns or the majesty of Isidora the Great’s Pax Crimsonia.

Despite the militaristic aggression of the Crimson Knights, the relatively isolated and resource-barren location of their kingdom made it an unattractive prospect for the great military power of the time, the Richompian Empire. Instead, the Knights and the Richompians struck an uneasy but mostly stable alliance in the year 1601, owing mainly to their mutual rivalry with their common enemy Deplandia. The alliance—and the state of the Crimson Kingdom—stayed mostly consistent for almost two centuries, up until the reign of the Crimson king Cardin II Rostenstaphen.

Upon ascending to the throne in 1795, Cardin proclaimed the resumption of the Crimson Knights’ glorious campaigns of conquest in the mold of Crim the Conqueror. Calling the greatest military leaders from throughout his realm to the Citadel of Ferinhelm, Cardin laid out his bold imperialist goals for his whole nation to see. Surrounded as he was with greedy sellswords and smarmy sycophants, no one dared tell the young and inexperienced Cardin that his campaign had no chance of success. However, his goals had broad support among the Crimson armies and populace, all of whom saw the stagnancy of the Kingdom and were itching to recapture the glory days of yore.

Cardin began by setting his sights on the Crimson Kingdom’s ancient enemy: Deplandia. No Crimson King, not even Crim himself, had succeeded in conquering their cynically bellicose, highly disciplined neighbor. However, surprising everyone (and possibly even himself), Cardin did. With the advantage of surprise and sheer numbers, the Crimson Knights mounted a lightning attack and swept through the Despotate, reclaiming the old Crimson farmlands and capturing the capital and its ruler within three months (though suffering enormous casualties in the process). Cardin forced the Deplandian despot to sign the Rostenstaphen-PEETY Treaty at gunpoint, ceding the entirety of Deplandia to the Crimson Kingdom, and then promptly executed him. The kingdom had doubled in size, and Cardin’s grand conquest had hardly begun. Observers quickly dubbed the young king with the title Cardin the Audacious.

Though his Deplandian campaign could be considered a great success, and Cardin had proved himself a more-than-capable commander, the thrill of the victory rapidly rushed to his head. Rather than rest on his laurels and consolidate his newly conquered territory, Cardin directed his depleted armies to march south, and within a year had occupied the Kingdom of Kaltam. At this point, Cardin the Audacious’s ego had inflated beyond any hope of redemption, and the young sovereign believed himself unstoppable. As he had now captured the thrones of two of the Crimson Kingdom’s neighboring dynasties and nearly tripled his realm in size, Cardin righteously believed that his country deserved a new title: the Crimson Empire, making he, Cardin II Rostenstaphen, the Emperor.

At this point, news of Cardin the Audacious’s aggressive expansion had spread throughout the continent, and the considerably more enlightened rulers of the Richompian Empire and Free Unidalanian Commonwealth sought to bring the unhinged “Emperor”’s ambitions to heel. Representatives from the Nava Livyat and Unidalanian National Assembly met with Cardin and his entourage in Korinth, seat of the so-called Third Crimson Throne. There, Cardin declared in no uncertain terms that He was the Law, and promptly sent the diplomats packing. Shortly thereafter, he announced his intention to annex the bordering Richompian colony of Fiorea into his empire, in direct violation of the terms of the Richompian-Crimson alliance. But this time, Cardin’s hubris would be his downfall—and his enemies were ready for him.

It was the spring of 1796 when the Crimson Knights, led by Cardin himself, crossed the Kaltamian mountains and descended into Fiorea, encountering little resistance along the way. The few skirmishes Cardin fought, which he won easily, only served to embolden him. However, the moment Cardin’s army attempted a naval crossing of the Streka river, the trap was set. The full might of the Richompian army emerged from beyond the nearby hills and encircled Cardin’s host, while a small fleet of top-of-the-line Richompian warships sailed from upriver and annihilated his transport ships. The Crimson Knights were routed, losing almost 200,000 troops to death or capture, while the Richompians (who outnumbered the Crimson forces nearly 2-to-1) suffered less than half that. In the chaos of the fighting, Cardin the Audacious was decapitated by a stray cannonball, and later had his corpse castrated.

After the swift obliteration of Cardin’s army (and Cardin himself), the Richompian Emperor Syrin IV seemed to take the upstart Crimson Empire’s betrayal as a personal affront. The Richompian counterattack swept into the erstwhile emperor’s holdings, liberating Kaltam and claiming Deplandia for their own (which they would later be unable to hold), and eventually settling their sights of the Crimson lands proper. Though the bulk of the Crimson forces were destroyed in the ill-advised Fiorean campaign, the few who remained fought fiercely and to the death in defense of their homeland, taking advantage of their expertise in the mountainous terrain and their fervent veneration of Cardin as a martyr. It took almost two years, but the Richompian Empire eventually succeeded in subjugating the imperial upstart, claiming the capital of Ferinhelm after another brutal months-long siege. Cardin’s heirs were exiled to the remote countryside and the altogether short-lived Crimson Empire was renamed the Crimtonian Protectorate, a Richompian puppet state. The name “Crimtonia” was devised by a group of Richompian-Crimtonian governors and Crimtonian sympathizers, who viewed it as a dignified and simpler alternative to the demonym “Crimsonian” or simply “Crimson.” Gradually, the name stuck, with “Crimson” being preferred only by loyalists to the Rostenstaphen crown, traditionalists, and anti-Richompian insurgents. Over time, the name would come to supplant the old Crimson in the minds of most Crimtonians, though a small modern-day movement to return to the “Crimson roots” persists.

Rahul Raghuraman and Nazbeth

Crimtonian spectre

Say hello to my little friend...

Loren Ross

3rd President of Crimtonian Spectre

Incumbent

Assumed office: January 21, 2060

Vice President: Andrea Callahan
Preceded by: Lainey Johannsen

4th Speaker of the Crimtonian Senate

In office: January 8, 2058 – January 21, 2060

Preceded by: Hazel Grant
Succeeded by: Riad Luther

3rd Chairman of the Senate Liberty Caucus

In office: January 12, 2056 – January 8, 2058

Preceded by: Gordon Tyrell
Succeeded by: Andrea Callahan

Crimtonian Senator from Verdan

In office: January 7, 2056 – January 21, 2060

State delegation system: no direct predecessor or successor

1st Director of the National Front

In office: May 5, 2055 – January 12, 2056

Succeeded by: Kevin Zimmerman

Personal Details

Born: Loren Tiberius Ross
March 19th, 2024 (age 36)
Lerus, Crimtonia

Parents: Lucina Ross, Silas Carther
Siblings: Sabrina Ross

Nationality: Crimtonian

Political Party: National Front
Coalition: Liberty Caucus

Alma mater: Lerus University (dropped out)

Occupation: Politician • Legislator • Political theorist • Commentator • Educator • Former revolutionary

Religion: Luhlazan

Military Service

Allegiance: Crimtonian spectre

Service Branch: Army

Division: Infantry

Years of Service: 2048 – 2052

Rank: Ensign

"Liberalism failed my country once. Never again."
- Loren Ross


Loren Tiberius Ross (born 8 August 2025) is a Crimtonian politician, political theorist, and former revolutionary who is the 3rd and current President of Crimtonian Spectre. Born in Lerus, Crimtonia during the Crimtonian Fall War, Ross lived under dictatorship for most of his youth and actively worked to subvert it as a student, educator, insurgent, and soldier. After the formation of Crimtonian Spectre’s democratic government following the Crimtonian Civil War, Ross became disillusioned with its liberal governance and gradually grew in influence as a right-wing theorist and commentator, eventually becoming one of Crimtonian Spectre and Dauiland’s most prominent conservative voices. Variously described as an alt-rightist, nationalist, libertarian, populist, and the “personification of Crimtonian conservatism,” he is a founding member of the far-right National Front party and served in the Crimtonian Senate as its leader from 2056 to 2060. Ross became Senate Speaker in 2058 before his ascension to the Presidency in 2060.


Contents
1. Early Life and Education
2. Military Service
3. Media Career and National Front Founding
3. Senatorial Career and Senate Speaker
4. 2060 Presidential Campaign
5. Presidency and Political Positions
6. Personal Life and Personality
7. Quotes


Early Life and Education

Loren Tiberius Ross was born on August 8th, 2025, in the city of Lerus, Crimtonia, to Lucina and Silas Ross (né Cartren). Lucina was an electrician and Silas was a high school history teacher, though both struggled to find employment around the time of Ross’s birth, owing to the ravages of the Crimtonian Fall War. Ross has a twin sister, Sabrina.

A year after Ross’s birth, the authoritarian Crimtonian Word paramilitary party won the Crimtonian Fall War, and the country fell under their dictatorial control (known as the Crimtonian State, or, colloquially, the Regime). Under Grand Arbiter Variss’s New Crimtonia Program, all private schools were outlawed and all curricula combined into the single Crimtonian Education, which was wrought with censorship and inaccuracies. “It was all ‘Variss this’ and ‘Variss that,’ and I didn’t believe a word of it,” Ross later said. “I believed it was my responsibility to educate myself.” Though Ross nominally attended Lerus CE School 12 from Kindergarten to twelfth grade, he mostly considers himself homeschooled by his parents. “They made sure I knew the truth—and how dangerous it was.”

Ross was admitted to Lerus CE University in September 2042, where he nominally studied history, politics, and law. Though he played the model student, Ross knew the entire curriculum was fabricated to improve Variss’s image and groom the youth into service for the Regime. Seeking to obtain a genuine education for himself and his peers, Ross founded and led a secret—and highly illegal—academic syndicate called Crimtonians Acting For Truth (CRAFT). As one of CRAFT’s leaders, Ross tracked down textbooks that had escaped Variss’s purge, solicited aid and information from sympathetic professors, and taught clandestine nighttime classes on censored history.

Ross’s charisma and leadership were invaluable to CRAFT, as well as his future trajectory. “CRAFT was my first real calling,” he later said. “It was terrifying to defy the Regime, yet exhilarating at the same time. Certainly that was part of the appeal, for we all knew the risks.” If Ross or any of his co-conspirators had ever been caught, they would have been put to death.

Ross never finished his degree (though he said “I would’ve burned it if I had”), because in 2043, Odil Rostenstaphen seized power after Variss’s sudden death, executed the Crimtonian State’s leaders, and ended the New Crimtonia Program. The abrupt, violent coup d’etat had repercussions throughout Crimtonia, and Ross’s university was no exception; with the complete loss of government support that characterized many publicly funded institutions at the time, it was left in shambles. Although Ross was officially a student and had no formal teaching experience, his now-popular reputation as leader of CRAFT meant he was quickly offered a job as a history professor at the struggling school, which he accepted.


Ross on the Lerus U campus,
before the trademark beard

Ross served in the position for the next two years, during which Odil Rostenstaphen consolidated his power. Due to the continued lack of funding, the job paid little, if at all; Ross was forced to work two side jobs at the university, as a bartender and a janitor, to supplant his meager income. In addition to his three jobs, Ross traveled the stricken city, aiding people and gathering information, which he used to supplant his lessons. He began to develop a deep distrust of Odil Rostenstaphen, despite the dictator’s vague promises of democratic elections—“he always seemed unhinged to me”—as well as the desire to influence the direction of his nation in a more significant way than just education. Nonetheless, his dedication and vigor in his work proved a great inspiration to the low-morale teaching community, and in September 2045 he was appointed Lerus University’s Deputy Headmaster at the mere age of 20.

Two months later, Odil Rostenstaphen, supported by his enormous army, officially proclaimed himself Emperor of Crimtonia, confirming Ross’s worst fears. Like many of his colleagues, Ross joined a small rebel cell that operated out of the university, and began combat training—though he was terrible at it. “I was definitely more of our intellectual leader than our physical one,” he later joked. By late 2045, every major city in Crimtonia was under martial law, and the cell was forced to disband on fear of death. That same month, the university was shuttered for its ties to the rebellion, and Ross was left jobless and rudderless. Faced with the dictatorial totality that had enveloped his city—one far more severe than the one he had experienced his entire childhood—Ross fell into a deep depression. He contemplated fleeing Crimtonia to escape his torment, but ultimately decided against it, realizing his family needed him. “It was the worst time of my life,” Ross said, “but I came out infinitely stronger for it.”


Military Service and Early Career

On New Year’s Day, 2046, many of Crimtonia’s beleaguered rebel organizations combined forces into the organized insurgency Crimtonian Spectre, which proclaimed itself Crimtonia’s true government and began to raise a standing military to topple Rostenstaphen’s dictatorship in the Crimtonian Civil War. Crimtonian Spectre’s emergence stirred Ross out of his funk, and both he and his twin Sabrina joined the revolution that same day.

For 2 years, as Crimtonian Spectre mobilized its resources for all-out war, Ross served the revolution in various ways, including espionage, recruitment, and diplomacy. Ross’s intellect and strength of character in spite of his youth impressed his superiors, and he gradually came to be entrusted with important individual missions. In April 2047, Spectre financed his first trip out of Crimtonia: to solicit international aid from the administration of the (now disgraced) then-President of Nazbeth, the Socialist Wanda James. Though Ross insisted he be allowed to meet with James in person, her representatives refused him an audience, and the talks went nowhere. Ross’s experience in Tiricia enraged him and, as he later admitted, had a major role in shaping his political views.

When the Crimtonian Civil War officially broke out in January 2058, Ross, like many unattached Spectre insurgents, was conscripted into the military due to a dearth of competent personnel. Though he scored only average for both marksmanship and physical ability, Ross made it through basic training and entered the Crimtonian Spectre Infantry as a commissioned officer of the lowest rank: Ensign. He served in the 22nd Battalion as his squad’s tactician and proved a stirring force to his regiment in spite of his limited combat skills. As Ross self-deprecatingly put it, “I was a bad soldier, but I was good at talking. My comrades endured me as one of their only sources of entertainment during the war.” The 22nd Battalion suffered some of the worst losses of the entire army; over 70% of their soldiers died at the catastrophic battle of Eredik Outpost, and Ross has suffered survivor’s guilt. Despite it all, however, Ross has remained pro-war and fervently pro-CS for his entire life. His general outlook on the war can be summarized by the following (typically verbose) quote: “The war was grisly and atrocious, a horrid dance of death that had me lose almost every friend in my regiment. I saw things no human should ever see. But it is because of the loss and the slaughter that we fought on—we knew we were fighting for a cause far greater than our lives. We knew that our deaths would not be vain, for at the end of it all, we would throw off our shackles.”

Despite their decimation at Eredik, Ross’s regiment joined the enormous convoy that continued to march on towards Rostenstaphen City. Ross fought in the ferocious battle that raged through its streets, outskirts, and the skies above it, finally reaching its zenith on December 21st, 2050. The 22nd Regiment helped capture the city’s armory, a key strategic objective, as Tarius Rostenstaphen led an elite squad that seized the Royal Palace. When it was over, most of the Empire’s leaders were dead or captured, though Odil Rostenstaphen managed to escape. Even so, Ross and his comrades partied hard and long into the night. “Maybe the monster wasn’t dead, but he had lost his menagerie. That was enough for us to lose ourselves in the love of our country and its brew,” Ross reflected wryly. Two days later, Tarius Rostenstaphen proclaimed the formation of the Free State of Crimtonian Spectre to the world, followed shortly by the ratification of its Constitution.

Just when everything seemed to be going right for Ross, however, everything changed: his father Silas became terminally ill, and Ross returned home to help take care of him, going AWOL from the army. Ross’s involvement in the insurgency had seen him lose almost all contact with his parents, though their relationship had never been close to begin with. However, Ross took most of the responsibility to aid his ailing father upon himself, due to his mother and sister’s difficult employment obligations.


Media Career and National Front Founding

Returning home to Lerus had a profound effect on Ross, as he witnessed Crimtonian Spectre’s transition to liberal democracy from within his working-class childhood neighborhood. Rapidly, Ross was dismayed at what he believed to be severe shortcomings in the implementation of CS’s Constitution. Having been drafted by talented but inexperienced statesmen (such as then-VP Lainey Johannsen) owing to the eradication of the former First Crimtonian Republic’s ruling political class under Variss, the Constitution was largely modeled on the region’s premier democracies of Unidalania, Nazbeth, and Richomp. Ross saw this as a fatal mistake (“Crimtonian Spectre is a nation apart from the regional elite and should have never been built in their image”) and slowly began to loathe the Rostenstaphen administration, especially Tarius Rostenstaphen himself, whom he viewed as grossly incompetent and an embarrassment. The watershed moment for Ross came when he tried and failed to check his dying father into a newly-built nationalized Crimtonian hospital, as Silas passed while Ross was frantically filling out reams of forms. “As I sat in that brand-new, shiny, taxpayer-funded waiting room and cradled my dead father’s head in my arms, I knew there was no turning back from my true calling,” he later reflected.

In the wake of his father’s death, and at his sister Sabrina’s urging, Ross tapped in to his growing political urges and became a blogger, owning and operating various websites and podcasts (including the popular Actively Seeking Knowledge, or ASK, which he viewed as the spiritual successor to CRAFT) with the then-goal of becoming a talk show host. At the time, Ross had little interest in entering the true political sphere, believing he could have more influence if he “spoke to the people directly, without the miasma of bureaucracy to obstruct me.”

Having been influenced by both his tumultuous personal experience and various names as Yanar Harren’s spiritual successor Clorasi Cyra, prominent Nazbethian libertarian and DAsceptic Kieran Vann, and (though he would never admit it now) the infamous and indomitable Senzala Kadhir, Ross forged his own brand of conservatism, libertarianism, nationalism, and constitutionalism, frequently spiced with fervent extremist tendencies. Though they have permeated Crimtonian Spectre politics now, many of the views he espoused were relatively unknown or unsought at the time, attesting to the bewildering speed and proliferation of Ross’s influence. Some of his trademarks included disparaging Tarius Rostenstaphen as “the most idiotic incarnation of the debased Crimtonian monarchic fetish,” advocating for the privatization of healthcare, education, and social security, and, most controversially, blaming returning Crimtonian expatriates and so-called Freedom Seekers (immigrants and refugees from dictatorships such as Deplandia and Seeroltea seeking a new life in CS) for much of the country’s economic suffering. Though he would later lessen some of his stances in his formal career as a politician, his unrepentant extremism played no small part in helping him gain an underground but immensely loyal following that has stuck with him to this day.

For his first couple of years in this unconventional career, Ross struggled. Despite his growing fame in alternative-rightist circles, it had not yet translated to broader success, including financially. What little income he gained from public appearances and advertising revenue was often seized by his mother to pay rent, owing to Ross operating his setup out of her garage, being unable to afford a property of his own. The emergence of Odil Rostenstaphen’s revenant army in still-lawless Western Crimtonia, and its subsequent annihilation along with the West and Kaltam itself, contributed greatly to the personal woes of Ross’s family and the country at large. During this time, he and his mother had frequent and violent clashes. In March 2052, two months after Armageddon, Lucina Ross died from fallout-related sickness. Despite their conflicts, Ross inherited her home and much of her savings. It was only after his emancipation from his mother’s influence that Ross’s stature began its dizzying rise.

On June 23rd, 2052, Ross appeared on prime-time television as a guest host for the extreme-right Crimson Voice, discussing his iconoclastic internet sphere and incendiary personal views. Ross went viral among conservative circles for his savage dressing down of Tarius Rostenstaphen, who he denounced as “not only a clown, but the entire circus,” and painting his “sickly sentimental response to annihilation” as the only sensible reason for his January re-election. The Voice was so overjoyed with Ross’s performance that they gave him a permanent segment on Friday night television, entitled The Truth with Loren Ross, or just The Truth. Ross had finally achieved his dream, but his ambitions would hardly stop there.

Over the next two years, Ross cemented his exponentially rising status as the emotional and intellectual heart of Crimtonian conservatism, almost single-handedly revitalizing the flagging movement and hooking it on his linguistic command. Tarius Rostenstaphen’s nosediving popularity and public mental deterioration only played into Ross’s growing public veneration, having been one of the onetime “Golden Boy”’s earliest and most vocal detractors—culminating in Rostenstaphen’s resignation from the presidency and the swearing in of Lainey Johannsen in May 2054, though she had been de facto President for some time.

Johannsen’s restoration of quiet dignity and competence to the presidency did little to rein in Ross, however. He condemned Johannsen’s adoption of the Dauiland Dollar and entrance into the DA and DFTC as “selling out to the regional elite,” one of his most popular mantras, and ironically took credit for her passage of the Economic Relief Act, saying it realized many of his laissez-faire aims but “didn’t go nearly far enough.” Ross’s reputation as Johannsen’s #1 critic soon established him as the darling of not only ordinary, disgruntled citizens, but the conservative political elite. And though he had made his name deploring many of them, the time was right for Ross to play nice; he would need their support to realize his most ambitious vision yet. Ross was ready to become a politician.

On 2 May 2055, Ross called on his considerable connections and influence to convene an enormous, 500-strong conference of his political allies, disciples, and sympathizers at the conservative think tank Institute for the Nation, headquartered in Lerus, which had become a hotbed of Ross Theory and adoration of their homegrown son. At this so-called “Nationalist Spring,” Ross declared his intention to form a new political movement based on the core principles of his following and political thought: an alt-rightist, anti-establishment revolution. That week, Ross, along with his inner circle including such names as his sister Sabrina Ross; policymaker prodigy and future protegée Andrea Callahan; and longtime friend and right-hand-man Kevin Zimmerman, became the founding members of the National Front, and Ross would forever be remembered as its first Director.

As famously and explicitly expressed by Ross, the National Front was founded with the aim of returning the Crimtonian right (and in a broader and bolder sense, the nation) to what Ross dubbed the National Ideal: “Crimtonian Spectre First.” Throughout all his time as a political theorist and commentator—and indeed, even before that, in his educational and history background—Ross came to fervently believe that his country had been sold out to international interests, and that the twin cancers of liberalism and elitism were the rot at CS’s core (and perhaps more importantly, the failed First Republic that had preceded it). The National Front was the ultimate expression of his zeal, with the term “Front” itself, as opposed to “Party,” embodying how Ross hoped—knew—that his ideas and people would come to the forefront of Crimtonian politics and transform the entire system forever.

That same spring of 2055, Ross and his newly-minted National Front associates began a bold voter outreach, canvassing, and fundraising campaign, the likes of which had never before been seen in Crimtonian politics. In a matter of months, the Front went from a slightly threatening novelty—indeed, despite Ross’s enormous popularity, many politicians and analysts from both sides of the aisle massively underestimated his movement’s potential—to a cause of great concern for the Crimtonian political establishment. Once again, Ross demonstrated his expert, almost oxymoronic blending of grassroots, working-class populism with the “necessary evil” of soliciting aid from the elite. Voter registration and individual donations to the Front skyrocketed in the months leading up the January 2056 general elections, as did endorsements by prominent conservative politicians and economic leaders (there was a great deal of corporate money involved as well, one could reasonably assume).

The efficiency and ferocity of the Front’s emergence unsettled Crimtonian Spectre’s leftist coalition enormously. Many of its most prominent voices, from Senate Speaker Keith McAnder to Democratic Party founder Felicity Grace to President Lainey Johannsen herself, went live on air decrying Ross and the Front’s conflict-stoking, extreme-rightist rhetoric. So too did many of the more moderate elites in CS’s most entrenched right-wing echelons, the Conservative Party and then-dominant Populist Party. But their condemnations only added fuel to Ross’s fire. He was yet to make his arguably most astonishing move to date, which many analysts viewed as the culmination and conclusion of the explosive Nationalist Spring.

On August 14th, 2055—only days after Loren Ross celebrated his 30th birthday—Ross and his inner circle commenced the first of a series of behind-closed-doors, clandestine meetings with the leaders of CS’s Conservative Party. More socially and economically right than its mainstream Liberty Caucus counterpart, the Populist Party, the Conservative Party—despite its not insignificant following—had never captured the same ardent support as the National Front, and by then had a reputation for many jealous looks in Ross’s direction. Though he (unusually for a man of his bombast) never spoke explicitly of the details of what was discussed, by the end of August’s third week, the talks concluded. On August 21st, Ross and the Conservative Party chairwoman Gisela Mandel held a joint press conference, announcing the union of the Conservative Party and National Front under the Front’s name, shocking Crimtonian politics to its core. Only shortly thereafter, Ross announced his campaign for the Crimtonian Senate, and his audacious Senate Speaker ambitions were plain for all to see. This time, Ross and the leaders of the Front decided not to focus on the Presidency, believing (prudently but perhaps surprisingly) that such a goal was too ambitious, too soon. The September Liberty Caucus Convention was marred by simmering tension between the new-order Frontists and old-guard Populists, who eventually announced the well-respected Populist Senator Allison Key as their nominee, to whom Ross offered his calculatingly measured support.

With the unconditional adoration of Lerus behind him, Ross captured a Senatorial seat from his home state of Verdan in an 80-to-20 landslide, and was sworn in on January 7th, 2056 as unrepentant leader of the upstart National Front.


Senatorial Career and Senate Speaker

The 2056 midterms saw Ross and the National Front truly arrive on the international political stage. Buoyed by the working class, the Front’s comprehensive grassroots organizing led to them capturing gubernatorial, state legislative, and countless local positions throughout the country—a stunning achievement considering the recency of their formation. Though the New Left Caucus still held a narrow but decisive majority in national representation, the Front came shockingly close to equaling the seats held by their more moderate Liberty counterpart, the Populists. The absorption of the former Conservative Party certainly played no small role in this, as all former Conservative officeholders had their party affiliation changed to the Front the moment the Nationalist Spring concluded. Meanwhile, many more extremist Populist politicians also defected, contributing to the overall strength of Ross’s legion.

However, his ultimate goal remained—as of yet—out of reach. Once the Senate results were in, the New Left Caucus held a razor-thin majority of 103 seats to 98, while the Populist Party succeeded in holding onto their narrow Liberty majority of 52 to the National Front’s 46. Ross had been fairly explicit in his aims to topple both the New Left and Liberty elites, and in this regard, he failed—thanks to nothing more than sheer numbers. However, it was clear that all political momentum was on his side, with the 2056 elections simply coming too soon to realize his ultimate aims. After Allison Key handily lost to the incumbent Johannsen in the Presidential election, Ross made his future ambitions clear: the Front would throw their support behind a candidate of their own in 2060. He had never fully supported Key, who Ross viewed as too moderate and too compromising, meaning his conscience was clean; it was the Populists who had failed, not him. By the time 2060 rolled around, no one had any doubt who would be the National Front’s nominee. Ross was their heart and soul, their standard-bearer, their founding father.

Without a majority in the Senate nor his Caucus, Ross entered the 2056 legislative cycle as a Senator in name but with vastly more power in practice. Though the Populists elevated their party leader Senator Veronica Walker to the #1 position of Minority Leadership, Ross made it clear that if they desired the National Front support, he would require the #2 slot of Liberty Caucus Chair. When the Populists agreed to grant his demands, Ross ceded his position as Director of the National Front to Kevin Zimmerman and threw himself into the mire of Senatorial politicking.


Ross in front of the doors
of the Senate Chamber,
giving a reporter side-eye

Because Liberty failed to claim the Senatorial majority for the third election in a row (a fact that Ross loudly and incessantly pinned on Populist incompetence), much of his first 2 years in the Senate was devoted to frequent obstructionism and undermining of the ruling New Left’s agenda. CS was now firmly within the “LJ Era,” with Johannsen and her allies firmly ushering in her vision of rapid economic growth in tandem with environmental sustainability. In typical fashion, however, and after constantly being underestimated by his enemies, Ross once again found a way to make his mark.

In his initial few months, New Left solidarity largely limited Ross to powerful, explosive, but ultimately pointless speeches on the Senate floor (including his now-legendary 13-hour filibuster of the CRIMCOM Act—Crimtonian Compassionate Relief Act, a multinational international aid bill—which Ross began by ironically congratulating Johannsen on her election as DA Chief Councillor, spent hours pontificating on Johannsen’s betrayal of the National Ideal and quoting from the historic failures of the First Republic, and concluded with “now if you’ll excuse me, I need to take a piss.”). But that July, President Johannsen and Senate Speaker Hazel Grant announced the Economic Growth Package (EGP), a comprehensive stimulus bill seeking to boost all areas of the Crimtonian economy. When the small but decisive 8-Senator Equality Alliance refused to support the bill, citing environmental and workers’ rights concerns, Ross seized his opportunity. His position as Liberty Caucus Chair meant he, not the floor leader Walker, was the ultimate authority on Liberty’s legislative positions—and thus he offered to get Grant enough votes to pass the EGP if she agreed to numerous concessions. Though Grant and her allies at first refused to negotiate with Ross, the Equality Alliance stood firm, forcing Grant’s hand. In the end Ross forced numerous creative tax cuts and deregulatory policies into the EGP, articulated by himself and masterfully crafted into legislation by Andrea Callahan. The package passed with not-insignificant support from the Liberty Caucus after further defections from the New Left’s Progressive Party.

The EGP ended up being transformational for Crimtonian Spectre’s economy, dramatically curtailing the country’s reliance on raw exports and improving wage growth and employment for many. Though Grant and Johannsen rightfully took much of the credit for its success, so too did Ross—and he once again harnessed his mastery of narrative and spin to take sole credit in the eyes of his base. It was around this time that Ross had a bitter and public feud with Minority Leader Walker, owing in no small part to his “accidental” admission on camera that “Senator Walker is in my pocket, I assure you; she’s Liberty’s leader only in name.” Though Walker vehemently denied this assertion and condemned the insult of her person, many conservative politicians and commentators took Ross’s side, agreeing that Ross had carried the caucus through 2056 and urging Walker to hand him her position. This Walker also refused, and though she and Ross later publicly reconciled, Ross emerged from the spat ever stronger.

The dominos continued to fall in Ross’s direction during the anxious buildup towards the 2058 midterm elections. To Ross, the 2057 “Feringate” scandal was a triumphant field day: not only did it name multiple of his direct political rivals as corrupt, it also took down many of their most powerful corporate donors, such as the Liberate! bank chain that was prosecuted for collusion with the Grazod Syndicate. Though Johannsen and McAnder’s names were quickly cleared, the jailing of Secretary of State Yanic Foster and deaths of Secretary of Industry Edwin Clemons and Liberlitatian President Teddy Shaw were all points of great strife for the Johannsen administration. Despite Johannsen’s ability to stay above the fray, Ross made sure to pin the blame for Foster and Clemons’ crimes directly on the President, owing to her having appointed them—irrevocably tarnishing Johannsen’s until-then immaculate reputation. He also stoked the regional fires of outrage at President Shaw’s death in Clemon’s hostage crisis, though the Liberlitatians themselves were mostly unbothered (owing to the uniquely insular and unemotional nature of their technocratic society). Feringate made Ross many enemies, and all but guaranteed he was the New Left’s most hated man, but it all played directly into his hands by swaying the body politic as the elections approached.

Ross’s confrontational and abrasive nature was in many ways at its most prominent during his time as Liberty Caucus Chair. He was unafraid to tear into enemies and supposed allies alike, publicly insulting and belittling anyone who didn’t meet his exacting competitive and ideological standards. Despite his young age, his near-constant railing against the often considerably older political elite cemented his reputation as an “inspirational insubordinate,” as Andrea Callahan put it, all but striking the killing blow against the importance of age and experience in Crimtonian politics. Under Ross, far more important were energy, graft, charisma, and unerring political tenor. By the time of the 2058 midterms, which were widely viewed as Ross’s golden chance to oust both Senate Speaker Grant and Minority Leader Walker, Ross was 32—his frequent collaborator Callahan, widely viewed as his protegee, was younger still at 27.

The 2058 midterms saw the National Front emerge as not only the largest and most powerful of the now-majority Liberty Caucus, but with an outright plurality in the Senate. It was now clear to even Ross’s biggest doubters and detractors that he was all but certain to become Senate Speaker—and when he did, he refused to appoint a Populist (most likely Walker) to the position of Caucus Chair as Walker had for him, choosing Callahan instead on the basis of her legislative merit. But this time, Ross’s decision was met with either raucous applause or a silence that spoke louder than words. The once-ungrateful upstart now had sheer power on his side, and his erstwhile Populist rivals swallowed their pride and held their tongues.

As Senate Speaker, Ross’s rabble-rousing anti-establishment rhetoric captured the international stage, with many of the regional powers looking nervously in Crimtonian Spectre’s direction. Furthermore, Ross’s pronouncement of Liberty’s “unconditional opposition” to all of Johannsen’s agenda meant the official end of the LJ Era, with Johannsen forced to exercise her executive powers much more frequently. Ross, for his part, announced his intention to undo as much of Johannsen’s legacy as he could “as soon as the National Front holds the Presidency in 2060.” Though a rather audacious boast, Ross had the numbers on his side, with the Front now officially possessing the greatest voter registration numbers in CS and comfortable (some would say concerning) majorities in the polls.

The only major piece of legislation to pass through the Senate during Ross’s tenure was the Crimtonian International Economic Reform Act (CIERA), viewed as one of Ross’s most significant legislative achievements to date. Despite both parties’ immense distaste of one another, Ross agreed to negotiate with Johannsen and Grant to reform the CS economy’s relationship with predator multinationals, which was one of the few things both agreed was deeply flawed. The CIERA, bipartisanly passed by virtue of Ross’s ardent championing and signed into law by Johannsen on July 2nd, 2058, encouraged international investment in Crimtonian businesses through a combination of government incentives and deregulation, and resulted in enormous growth of the industrial manufacturing sector. Importantly to Ross, the CIERA also encouraged businesses to hire Crimtonian workers through tax break incentives and government funding and massively undercut the rights and opportunities offered to immigrant workers. Additionally, the CIERA’s tax incentives and deregulations had the result of greatly lessening the gross capital tax for Crimtonian companies, contributing to a boom in corporate profits and criticism from environmental activists.

The CIERA caused great controversy among both sides of the political spectrum. While praised by some for its role in continuing to develop the now-powerful Crimtonian economy, it was highly unpopular among the extreme right and extreme left, both of whom accused Ross and Johannsen of betraying their convictions through a flawed compromise. However, through a combination of Ross’s wordsmithing and the privilege of the presidency attracting the bulk of blame, the political winds once again blew in Ross’s favor. Though Johannsen’s popularity ratings declined to the lowest point of her political career, Ross’s remained steady and even grew. Importantly to analysts, it also signified a turning point in Ross’s personal philosophy, where power and pragmatism became more desirable than raw ideology in his eyes.

As 2058 trundled on, Crimtonians waited with bated breath for Ross to announce his presidential campaign, which by that point seemed only a matter of time. The New Left’s popularity was at its lowest in Crimtonian Spectre’s brief history, owing to a plethora of contentious issues including the largest recession in decades, climate change, immigration reform, and CS’s regional standing that would come to dominate the 2060 elections. Rather than bask in the pomp and circumstance as he is oft disposed to do, Ross chose to make his official announcement on November 19th, 2058, in the humble environs of his mother’s Lerus garage where it all began.


2060 Presidential Campaign

Ross’s decision to announce his campaign from the familiar surroundings of his mother’s garage was widely viewed as a masterstroke, with the spindly cedar desk, comfy leather armchairs, and framed Crimtonian flag all contributing to an aura of relatability, conjuring the nostalgia of his beginnings as a self-employed political blogger. By contrast, his main rival Hazel Grant’s decision to launch hers on the main stage of the grand Felicity Grace Building in Ferin, when she may have expected Ross to do something similar, made her appear detached and elitist. In many ways, this misstep would come to characterize Ross and Grant’s “senatorial slugfest,” as The Ferin Daily put it: Ross painted himself as the anti-establishment outsider, founder of CS’s newest and most revolutionary party, opposing the dynastic, bureaucratic, centrist Grant.


A publicity photo from Ross’s
“garage announcement”

Meanwhile, Ross mounted an enormous smear campaign against every one of his direct rivals, labeling them ineffective, incompetent, and inadequate. Only the Populist Governor of Alledia Ellis Terrence dared to directly challenge Ross for the Liberty nomination, offering some of the strongest direct condemnation of the man who hijacked his caucus to date: calling him “a dangerous egomaniac,” “a disaster for this country,” and, most strongly, “a glorified neofascist demagogue.” Even so, Ross swiftly eviscerated the older man on the debate stage, running circles around Terrence verbally and all but guaranteeing his nomination. By the time the votes were counted, Terrence had practically given up, exhausted from the day-to-day confrontation with Ross’s animus. In the end, Ross tore Terrence apart with a vote of 82% in his favor.

At the September 3rd Liberty Convention, Ross wouldn’t hold back from the spectacle this time. Held in the packed-to-the-rafters 81,000 capacity SpecCom Arena stadium, the crowd produced a din louder than any Crimtonian National Football Team match, perhaps even louder than the games against its rival Richomp, when Ross took the stage. His acceptance speech is widely regarded as the pinnacle of the craft of unrepentant conservative politics and is quoted by right-wing scholars the world over. Some choice quotes: “The political elite hate me because I am their worst nightmare: a working-class kid who rose to the top not through some sappy liberal love story to the State, but through my own grit, determination, and suffering”; “Our country must never again let outsiders make the decisions that end millions, that betray our people, our convictions, our uniquely Crimtonian way of life. Not under my watch. Crimtonian Spectre First”; and the now iconic concluding line, “I’m not just imploring you to dare to dream as I did. I’m not just daring you to defeat the corrupt dynasty that has drained Crimtonian Spectre dry. I’m not just asking you to vote for our great and righteous movement. No, I am urging you to have the courage to Live Free with every fiber of your being. My friends, I am urging you to Live Free or Die!”

It was Ross’s moment. His entire coalition had risen behind him. Even his former, sometimes most fervent detractors—powerful Populists like Walker and Key and Terrence—smiled, waved for the cameras, and hit the relentless notes of the National Front political machine in their own little speeches. Andrea Callahan, a staunch disciple-slash-restraining force of Ross since day one, was rewarded for her loyalty with the Vice Presidential slot, despite her initial reservations and desire to remain in the Senate. But no one could stop Ross, the man himself, from dominating the night and capturing the Dauilandian imagination. To conservatives in a country and, more broadly, region so steadfastly liberal, he was their apotheosis. And Ross was right: to the liberals themselves, he was their worst nightmare.

Ross couldn’t win; and yet after that night, it seemed inevitable that he would. Grant had captured her own caucus’s nomination, after a significantly more straining battle against the Progressive talisman Alessandra Elhem, and she and Ross’s fight was far from over. But was it really? As Ross and Grant traded increasingly more caustic, increasingly more personal, increasingly more unhinged blows over the airwaves and the stage, many couldn’t escape the sneaking suspicion that this was exactly what Ross wanted. Because it was his element. It was he who had transformed the Crimtonian political landscape into a toxic cesspool, entirely by his own calculating design. He had seized the system and made it his monster, and Grant was a fish out of water. No amount of First Republic-era gentility and decency could save her now, nor the great liberal fortress she and Johannsen and so many others had built, which was collapsing like a house of cards before their very eyes.

Ross stole the Crimtonian heart, whispered dark truths to their most radical desires, and molded the national psyche in his image. It was a transformation that maintained the illusion of happening overnight and yet was the culmination of years of careful and deliberate planning. As the morning of Friday, January 16th, 2060 dawned with the news that Loren Ross had defeated Hazel Grant by the decisive popular vote margin of 53 percent to 45, Ross’s many supporters lost themselves in ecstasy, the powerful forces amassed against him were left to reflect on just how everything went so badly wrong, and all of Dauiland was left stunned. Loren Tiberius Ross was sworn in as the 3rd President of Crimtonian Spectre on Wednesday of the following week, January 21st, 2060.

Much has been made of Ross’s victory in the months since that iconic day. Chief among the significant analysis of his candidacy, credibility, and personality is the truth that he managed to be both so underestimated and so feared. In liberal Crimtonian Spectre, it should’ve been impossible for him to win, and yet he did—in a near-landslide. It was nothing less than arguably the greatest conservative victory and worst liberal failure of recent Dauilandian times. There are a plethora of explanations for how and why this happened, but it must be made clear that the bulk of it was not some perceived weakness of Grant’s candidacy—she was the hand-picked and seemingly perfect successor to the indefatigable Johannsen—nor simple chance, the political winds happening to favor him at the right time. No—the responsibility for Ross’s victory rests solely on Ross’s shockingly young yet unimaginably talented shoulders, on the man who many cannot seem to take seriously until it is too late, on the breathtakingly diverse and decisive political coalition he built in a manner of weeks, months, years. Ross was carried by the working class he came from who had been left behind by progress; by the disenfranchised youth who in him saw their raging reflection, of children who knew nothing but war and oppression and pain; by those seeking to build their successes and fortunes without the yoke of regional or planetal responsibility, only the liberty of their own; and by the sometimes quiet but nonetheless enduring power of Crimtonian tradition, a burning desire to recapture the glory days of old. Ross promised them all of this and more. Would he deliver? History will be the arbiter of that.


Presidency and Political Positions

Ross’s presidency saw him continue in much of the same explosive, populist vein as his previous career, albeit with a noticeable lessening of his most extreme political leanings. For one, despite his thinly veiled threats to secede Crimtonian Spectre from the Dauiland Alliance during his Presidential campaign, Ross has as yet made no move to follow through, and—defying numerous analytical expectations of his tenure—has even scored multiple surprising but triumphant victories on the international stage. Overall, reception to the first months of Ross’s presidency has been mostly split on party lines, with his supporters as devoted as ever, and his enemies, still reeling from their catastrophic defeat at his hands, gradually regrouping and criticizing his every move. Some political scholars posit that Ross’s victory and very presence in Crimtonian politics has resulted in irreversible polarization.


An iconic President Ross pose.

Though many of his detractors label Ross’s fervent and often violently nationalist support base a personality cult, Ross categorically rejects this characterization. Even so, it cannot be argued that Ross and the National Front’s mastery of communication, ideology, iconography, and image have contributed a great deal to his success. Whether it’s the vaguely chauvinistic Falcon of the Front symbol, his powerful, rabble-rousing, eloquent-yet-frequently-bombastic speeches, or the incessant plastering of his young, handsome, and intimidating visage on every available surface, Ross has undoubtedly borrowed from the authoritarian playbook to manipulate his political appearance. Such efforts have only redoubled once Ross captured the Presidency, and indeed, it is now not unusual to find Ross propaganda not only in his strongholds of Lerus and Ferin, but in such international metropolises as Dauilan Megapolis, Tiricia, and Whalani. If nothing else, Ross has demonstrated a remarkable command of the domestic and international press’s gaping attention.

With a now commanding majority in the Senate, led by Ross’s onetime mentor Speaker Riad Luther, there seems to be little standing in the way of Ross achieving his ambitious, retaliatory agenda on the national stage. Already he has forced through Crimtonian Spectre’s third significant economic reform act of its short existence, the Tax Cuts and Fiscal Responsibility Act (TCFRA), which dramatically slashed government spending and set CS on the path to Ross’s vision of fully privatized healthcare, welfare, and education. Many of Ross’s other policy goals, views, and victories are detailed below.

Policies

  • Economy & Environment

    Despite their express condemnation and horror of the Act, there was little the outnumbered New Left could do to stop Ross and the Front from enacting TCFRA (pronounced “tee cee fra”) into law, already rapidly undoing much of the last decade’s liberal progress. Though TCFRA does not immediately privatize large swathes of the government—Ross may frequently speak in terms of revolution, but he is also smart enough to know that complete upheaval also causes complete chaos—it marks the bold beginning of what Ross labeled “the stepping stones to economic independence and prosperity.” Through the immediate privatization of government organizations such as the postal service and Airport Security, and the implementation of measured plans to achieve the same for many others within the next decade, Ross proved that his exaltation of laissez-faire economics was much more than mere talk. And he saw near-instant payoff, with the Crimtonian economy rising out of the recession and adding millions of jobs to the newly streamlined private agencies. Though his critics would argue this was more to the resolution of the economic crisis in Richomp, one of CS’s most important trading partners, than the TCFRA, Ross and his supporters could hardly care.

    Beyond just laissez-faire economics, another characteristic of Ross’s policy is what he dubs “laissez-faire environmentalism.” Climate change has always been a sticky issue for Ross, thanks to his sheer past inaction and skirting of the subject—though he accepts the scientific consensus on climate change, he is often reluctant to directly confront the issue and prefers to instead focus on how “climate radicalism” has harmed Crimtonian Spectre socially and economically. Perhaps hoping to combat or at least lessen his reputation of gross climate inadequacy, in the early months of his presidency Ross adopted a policy of combating climate change through the free market, arguing, as he frequently does, that the market will be more effective at addressing the issue than “clumsy, top-down, bureaucratic” solutions. And he now possesses at least some evidence to back up his claims: namely, the passage of a landmark nuclear energy law, the Crimtonian Atomic Independence Act of 2060 (CAIA2060), that encourages adoption of nuclear power through significant deregulation. Though skeptics have warned that Ross is dicing with danger, pointing at catastrophic meltdowns in Nazbeth and Unidalania in the past, Ross has largely scoffed at such assertions. Whenever he is frequently and scathingly criticized by the Dauilandian Climate Bloc, Ross now enjoys retorting by pointing out Nazbeth’s complete lack of nuclear power following the 2029 Arch Valley Incident and (reluctant) reliance on foreign oil, declaring “we are the future and you are the past.”

  • Social Policy

    Ross’s approach to traditionally liberal social policy can best be described as “ambivalent.” Seeking to balance the hardline traditionalist “Crimson Wing” of his party with the largely younger, more progressive, socially-liberal-but-fiscally-conservative one, Ross has often neglected to take firm stances on issues such as trans rights, abortion, drug legalization, and euthanasia, though he has always been a staunch supporter of gay marriage. Crimtonian Spectre (a nation in which the widely respected Lainey Johannsen felt unable to come out as gay until she left the Presidency) is often viewed as backwards on these issues by the international community, who do not fully grasp how CS’s violent, isolated history led to the entrenchment of many patriarchal, prejudiced, and xenophobic norms. In part due to his not taking a side and his reputation as the National Front’s leader, Ross has often been described as a traditionalist, but in reality is neither fully accepted nor rejected by both the traditionalist and progressive wings of his coalition, holding his personal beliefs close to his chest. Some commentators praise this decision as pragmatic and necessary, while others criticize it as cowardly.

    Despite his frequent labeling described as such, Ross dislikes the term “traditionalist,” having the following to say on the matter: “I love and cherish Crimtonian traditions, for this country is long-suffering but strong, a thing of bitter beauty, with the Crimson way and history at its core. But to conflate ‘tradition’ with morality is a fallacy. It is innovation that drives strong and moral institutions, and tradition is prone to stagnation.” That being said, his politics have been seen to advance the entrenchment of the long-lived Crimtonian ideals of militarism, fierce individualism, and laissez-faire capitalism—if not chauvinism and bigotry—which Ross does not deny.

  • Foreign Policy

    To even the staunchest Ross supporter, foreign policy was widely expected to be the arena in which he would most struggle, owing to his propensity for making an enemy of practically every powerful Dauilandian leader even before he was President, including nearly all those with whom he would sit on the Dauiland Council. However, as he is often wont to do, Ross has defied expectations in that regard. His foreign policy thus far has been defined by victory after victory, whether it be conspiring with moderates to elevate the centrist Goa Lore to the Chief Councillorship when it seemed inevitable the radical environmentalist Shovacc Elondro would win instead; ensuring the DA Trade Headquarters was constructed on an international island in the Sea of Richomp rather than the progressive megalopolis of Tiricia; claiming guarantorship over the burgeoning Luhlazan-diaspora nation of Essel-Asteria, ensuring unparalleled access to their untapped economic potential and beating off competition from Unidalania, Nazbeth, and Richomp in the process; and most significantly, ensuring that his brainchild to reclaim tens of thousands of square miles of DA-administered land in the Ashes of Crimtonia’s Northeast Corridor—christened (allegedly by himself) Project Phoenix—was accepted by the regional elite with only minimal regulatory concessions.

    Hardly anyone could have anticipated that Ross would have this sterling international track record after only a few short months in office. And indeed, there are many who seek to undermine his achievements by pointing to the integral contributions of Vice President Callahan and Secretary of State Francis R. Madison, as well as Ross’s frequent exiting of the DA chamber during important negotiations, only to return intoxicated. But Ross long ago proved that typical diplomatic and political norms simply do not apply to him, and that if anything, his uniquely tempestuous and wholly unpredictable personal style only serves to confound his enemies and embellish his anti-establishment reputation. Indeed, to quote a certain regional conservative counterpart, by this point analysis of Ross’s personality had spawned an entirely new genre of literature. But regardless of how exactly he attained them, his foreign policy accomplishments speak for themselves.

For & Against

  • For: autarky, capital punishment, capitalism, conscription, democracy, economic freedom, egalitarianism, fiscal conservatism, freedom of assembly, freedom of press, freedom of speech, gay rights, industry, interventionism, laissez-faire economics, laissez-faire environmentalism, meritocracy, nationalism, nuclear power, patriotism, political freedom, populism, privatization, public protest, rule of law, secularism, social conservatism

  • Neutral: abortion, chauvinism, euthanasia, extreme right, feminism, free trade, income tax, libertarianism, marijuana legalization, mercantilism, militarism, political cooperation, social liberalism, tariffs, traditionalism, transgender rights, unitarism

  • Against: anarchy, authoritarianism, bureaucracy, climate radicalism, communism, Dauiland Alliance, dynastic politics, elitism, extreme left, fascism, immigration, imperialism, international cooperation, corporatism, labor unions, monarchy, patriarchalism, religious fundamentalism, socialism, state schools, statism, terrorism, traditional environmentalism, universal healthcare


Personal Life and Personality

Ross’s family grew up lower-middle class, and his home life was difficult. “My parents were extremely strict, to the point of being tyrannical,” he said. “Yet even then, I understood. The real tyranny was from up top. They were hard on us to protect us.” Though his relationship with his parents was very complicated, and he has expressed his regrets for failing to reconcile before their early deaths, Ross is close to his sister. Sabrina Ross was his campaign manager in his Senatorial and Presidential runs and is said to be his most trusted confidant.

Sabrina is known to have had a significant influence on forming Ross’s public persona, especially in tempering his more egoistic inclinations and softening his image (his masterful presidential campaign launch comes to mind). She is also reputed to have written or aided in writing many of his speeches, and has been labeled by the Ferin Daily as “the hidden force behind the Ross dominion.” To a certain extent, Ross’s enduring popularity also has to be attributed to his youth and perceived attractiveness, with him famously supplanting the iconically arresting Tarius Rostenstaphen for the #1 spot on The Tiricia Times’s “Top 10 Hottest Male Politicians” in 2055 (certainly part of that was Rostenstaphen being far from anything resembling a politician in any sense of the word by 2055, but the point remains the same). When Ross was asked to comment on this, he simply smiled wryly and said, “What an honor,” in marked contrast to his typically arrogant manner (allegedly, after he received the news, Rostenstaphen locked himself in a bedroom and did not emerge for three days).


Loren and Sabrina Ross: power duo

Indeed, Ross’s public personality is often characterized by its paradoxicality. He is obsessed with facts and logic to the point of grating condescension, yet possesses a genuine charisma and (sometimes inexplicable) likeability that lets him connect emotionally to acquaintances, supporters, and voters alike. He is an immensely gifted orator, famed for his powerful and unrepentant speeches, yet can sometimes devolve into petty bickering and insults, needing his allies to restrain him on multiple occasions. He can be lighthearted and jokey, and equally contemptuous and mean. But perhaps most importantly, the true Ross is an enigma. The question of his true personality has captured the national imagination (and likely contributed to his fame), but the only few who can likely truly attest to it are a handful of his closest confidantes and the man himself. In public psychoanalysis of Ross (a now-popular venture, due to him being one of the region’s most eye-catching figures regardless of political affiliation), much of his apparent bitterness and almost dual-personality is attributed to his immensely difficult upbringing, including his family life and time under the Regime.

In a 2055 interview, shortly after his rise to fame, Ross was asked why his family never fled the Crimtonian Regime. “It was either leave everything behind and move somewhere new with nothing, or stay and fight for our country. The choice was obvious,” he defiantly answered. Ross has been immensely critical of prominent politicians such as Lainey Johannsen and Keith McAnder—who through wealth privilege did not live in Crimtonia as children—having variously remarked “they didn’t live here; they didn’t suffer here,” “they’re traitors, snakes in the grass,” and referred to them as “those Nazbethians.”

In many ways, Ross’s personal views on politics can be encompassed by the idea that he is fervently anti-authority unless the authority is himself. In part owing to his considerable ego and self-assurance, Ross believes that the word of the elites must always be questioned, but refuses to ever entertain the thought that he may one day become (or has already become) an elite himself. He has a strong belief in the rule of law, frequently expressing that when governmental leaders are not beholden to the power of the law and the people, the State becomes “ruled by shadow government”—the disgraced First Republic being the obvious example. But even so, Ross has no qualms in exercising the executive powers of the presidency and thereby taking free rein to achieve his aims, simply because he understands he is the best person to do so. And when crafting the public persona to achieve those aims, Ross believes that traditional expectations of morality, conduct, and restraint are beneath him.

Ross is known to be a bit of an alcoholic with a notorious thirst for spirits. In a manner typically unbecoming of politicians, Ross has many times become drunk at official events or functions, turning his already low inhibitions and restraint to nearly zero—in marked contrast to the teetotal and always levelheaded Lainey Johannsen. However, Ross has joked that this is his “secret weapon,” as it allows him to express “critical truths” that he would otherwise be “too buttoned up to let loose.” In any case, many of Ross’s inner circle of handlers (namely, Vice President Callahan and the Secret Service) take it upon themselves to ensure no harm befalls the President (or the country) during his escapades. On the opposite end of the spectrum however, Ross has never come anywhere close to the infamously childish alcohol-or-sugar-induced outbursts of his other predecessor, Tarius Rostenstaphen, with the effects of Ross’s drunkenness often serving only to increase his bombast and zeal.

Perhaps surprisingly considering his notoriously unbridled reputation, Ross has never come out and explicitly labeled his sexuality, though he is known to have had romantic and sexual relationships with both men and women. In one of the few times he spoke candidly about the topic—a 2059 interview during his presidential campaign with his former employer the Crimson Voice—Ross joked, “the most important quality to me in a prospective partner is a personality that can match my own, and to date, I have been met with nothing but disappointment in that regard.” Ross maintains a keen interest in keeping his private life secret, and for that reason has no known partners while confirming he does not wish to have children.

Trivia

  • Ross stands 6 feet tall and weighs 168 pounds.

  • Unlike nearly every other politician of his prominence, Ross is yet to receive even a third-class ribbon of the Order of Crimtonian Spectre (CS’s highest civilian honor). This is likely due to it being bestowed by the current President, and all previous presidents have despised him. Ross has confirmed, jokingly, that he has no intention to grant the honor upon himself, saying “I don’t need validation from that crusty monarchic relic anyway.”

  • Ross is known to enjoy kickboxing, first-person-shooter videogames, and woodworking as his hobbies, which he all names as excellent stress relievers. In particular, he enjoys ironically referencing his FPS prowess in contrast with his infamously unremarkable marksmanship with actual rifles.

  • Despite the aforementioned reputation, Ross does own quite a few firearms and has been known to record press conferences with them hanging in the background. In 2059, he competed against 24 other ex-military Crimtonian politicians in the friendly firing contest Tacticians' Tactical Challenge, organized by the nationalized Crimtonian Rifles Corporation. He placed a respectable but thoroughly average 14th.

  • Not only does Ross have an infamous propensity for the bottle, he is also known to be fond of smoking exotic cigars from time to time. He even posed for a photo doing this once (see below), but never did again, perhaps on advice from his publicists.

  • Ross makes a habit of returning to his alma mater and former employer of Lerus University to lecture on history and politics at least once a year, and has delivered their commencement address on four separate occasions. Despite never receiving a diploma, he is easily their most popular alum.

  • When Ross was a child, he had an alter ego named Tiberius. He has pointedly refused to confirm or deny whether said alter ego still exists.

  • Until his trip to Nazbeth in 2047 on behalf of Spectre, Ross had never left the country. He famously found Tiricia “a disgusting neo-socialist hellhole, and not at all what it’s cracked up to be.”

    Yes no f*cks were given
    and yes he doesn’t care.


Quotes

“My tiebreaking vote is the sole reason you’re sitting there wasting all our time, you impudent ignoramus.” (To DA Chief Councillor Goa Lore)

“No, I don’t have much love for miring bureaucracy.”

“I, Loren Tiberius Ross, refuse to stand idly by as Dauiland’s powers that be try to put my intrepid and long-suffering people in their ‘proper place.’”

“The Dauiland Alliance is a corrupt, wasteful, thoroughly unnecessary institution that’s rotten to its core. I’d sooner die than endure five more minutes of their drivel.”

“My two insufferable associates forced me to choose between the lesser of two evils. So, being a man of logic, I chose neither.”

“The Crimtonian political situation is simple. On the one side you have avaricious corporatists, and on the other, deluded fools. Luckily, after six years of stasis, the National Front arrived. And they have me.”

“The political elite hate me because I am their worst nightmare: a working-class kid who rose to the top not through some sappy liberal love story to the State, but through my own grit, determination, and suffering.”

“Our country must never again let outsiders make the decisions that end millions, that betray our people, our convictions, our uniquely Crimtonian way of life. Not under my watch.”

“I’m not just imploring you to dare to dream as I did. I’m not just daring you to defeat the corrupt dynasty that has drained Crimtonian Spectre dry. I’m not just asking you to vote for our great and righteous movement. No, I am urging you to have the courage to Live Free with every fiber of your being. My friends, I am urging you to Live Free or Die!”

“I wasn’t a good soldier, but I was good at talking. My comrades endured me as one of their only sources of entertainment during the war.”

“The Front is dedicated to upholding the National Ideal: Crimtonian Spectre First.”

Read factbook

Rahul Raghuraman and Nazbeth

Nazbeth

July 22nd, 2032. A day he had been looking forward to for weeks—his little sister’s 5th birthday. Little did he know it would also be the day everything slipped away.

It was a sweet, sunny day outside on the grounds, the kind of sultry summer afternoon where the air is thick and hot, the plants lush, the sparkling water of the pool cool and inviting. But the interior of the Madison mansion was cold and unsympathetic as an operating room. No wonder 14-year-old Frank loved to escape to the warm, childlike confines of his kid sister’s demesne to read and relax, the soft pink wallpaper and stuffed animals of her bedroom a welcome contrast to the maximalist excess, gilded banisters, and gaudy Regime symbols outside.

And the company. Sarah was his favorite person in the world: a joyful and innocent refuge from the unwelcome attention of his mother, disapproving glares of his father, and suck-ups and simpletons at his so-called “Crimtonian Education” middle school… well, high school now. Some people might’ve thought it strange, considering the age difference, but especially compared to the imbeciles he usually surrounded himself with, he found his sister’s outlook refreshing and remarkably insightful.

Like right now. “What’s wrong, Frankie? You look upset.” Sarah’s huge doe-like eyes left her puzzle to gaze up at him, her hair a mess of curls. Francis put down his book and looked back at her sadly, though the nickname made him smile; she was the only one who called him that.

“It’s nothing, Sarah,” he answered kindly. In truth, it wasn’t, but he didn’t want to trouble his sister. “And where’d your hairpin go? You know Mother and Father don’t like to see you like that.”

Sarah pouted. “It’s itchy. And ugly. It makes my head hurt.” After a cursory glance around the room, Frank spotted the shiny gold brooch—wrought in the stylized shape of the Grand Arbiter’s all-seeing eye—perched haughtily atop a mountain of pillows. He snatched it, studied it, and promptly tossed it over his shoulder with a shrug.

Sarah watched it clatter in the corner and giggled, and Frank grinned right back. “You’re right—it is ugly. And who cares? It’s your birthday. You should wear whatever you want.”

“Thanks bro-bro! Grand Awbiter Variss can shove it.” This time it was Frank who laughed.

“Glad you agree. C’mon—let’s go outside. It’s lovely out, and I know how much you love puzzles, so I planned a scavenger hunt for you!” When he saw Sarah’s ecstatic smile, Frank knew all his risky maneuvering earlier—sneaking to the garden to set up the clues when he was supposed to be practicing his falconry—was worth it.

Frank led Sarah by the hand to the door, but the moment they stepped outside, his ebullient bubble was rudely and instantly burst, a pair of loud and intimidating footsteps greeting him promptly.

“Francis Rockwell Madison. Toussaint has informed me that he missed you at the range this morning. Care to explain?” Rockwell Olakitan Madison—the man whose name his son carried, with all the burden it entailed—was a formidable presence: six foot four, expensive faded haircut, broad shoulders straining the tailored dark-crimson business suit he wore so religiously. Frank wasn’t sure he had ever seen his father smile, and he certainly wasn’t now. His face was contorted in its trademark supercilious scowl.

“Father. As it is Sarah’s fourteenth birthday, I simply thought it appropriate to make the most of my time with her. I realize now that I neglected to inform Toussaint. I shall apologize to him.” Frank was a tall teenager, but even so, he still had to strain to meet his father’s dark eyes, irises reflecting the surgical hallway lighting he considered “tasteful.”

“It is me to whom you should apologize,” Rockwell thundered, the familiar stormclouds of his rage gathering concerningly quickly. “Do you think I pay twenty thousand marks a month for you to waste Toussaint’s time? I have worked hard to make you into a proper Crimtonian man, Francis, and for you to treat our ancestral practice so flippantly is disgraceful. No son of mine is an ingrate.” Noticing Sarah’s small frame in the doorway for the first time, clutching the back of Frank’s leg protectively, their father seemed to soften his tone. “Ah, but perhaps I have been too harsh on you. Go, then. Enjoy this beautiful day with your sister. It is wise of you to make it last.” Rockwell let this statement hang in the air, looking contemplative.

“Thank you, fa—wait.” Frank paused, digesting what his father had said, and sensed a familiar knot in his stomach. “What do you mean by that?”

Rockwell Madison’s expression was unreadable. “So you haven’t heard? A courier arrived at the estate around lunchtime. It seems that Inquisitor Tanner has seen fit to grant you passage.”

“Grant me passage.” Madison said dully, feeling empty.

“Indeed. It is a privilege, not a right, to leave our glorious Regime—but in your case, a deserved one. You won’t have to attend that lowly public school anymore. No; you will complete your education within the hallowed halls of Dauiland’s finest boarding school, Nazbeth’s Tiricia Tech Academy.”

Boarding school. He was going to boarding school.

Madison crumpled to the floor.

May 2nd, 2060

Two days after Essel-Asterian independence

Astina, capital city of the Federation of Essel-Asteria

Madison solved the cipher in exactly twenty-seven minutes, in the back of a taxi cab on his way to the LuxAstere hotel. It was actually a point of nostalgic pride for him—proving that he still had the intellectual capabilities to solve the sorts of puzzles that had so captivated him in his youth.

He and Sarah had always loved puzzles. They provided a welcome distraction from the instability of their home—and a firm, unforgiving test for the mind.

Though, as far as puzzles went, this was a relatively simple one. An alphanumeric cipher, wherein a string of numbers is converted into letters and vice versa. The trick to alphanumeric ciphers was intuiting the starting number, from which the cipher followed, Madison remembered. It was almost like hearing Sarah’s voice speaking to him—she had always been more naturally talented than he. Thus, this was the part that Madison found most perplexing, and he contemplated the string of numbers for a solid quarter of an hour, remembering the ghost of his departed sister in his mind.

At first, he had called her every night, ignoring the judgemental smirks and exasperated eyerolls of his conceited Tadanian roommate. But sadly, he came to discover that there is only so much a five-year-old and a fourteen-year-old could discuss over the phone. Gradually he came to talk to her less and less… and his parents less still, losing almost all contact with the flawed family unit from whence he came. But every time he returned home for his breaks, every time without fail, he and his sister would discuss puzzles. He was amazed at how quickly Sarah had graduated from childish games to remarkably complex tests of logic. Sudoku, crosswords, anagrams, brainteasers, ciphers… they solved them all, together, with rare glee and gusto. And when they were both adults and, by miraculous coincidence, decided to pursue the same calling, Sarah told him with a laugh how politics and diplomacy weren’t all that different…

Madison returned to the numbers, remembering his purpose here. So at them he stared. Contemplated. Suffered.

282730321513303220173031273332203132301717321324241737

The numbers spelled out in their line, unforgiving.

Every two digits, nothing goes above 3, Madison suddenly realized, the fresh look causing him to notice things he hadn’t previously. The starting number is likely in the tens place, which means these can be segregated into groups of two…

28 27 30 32 15 13 30 32 20 17 30 31 27 33 32 20 31 32 30 17 17 32 13 24 24 17 37

Madison rewrote the cipher. Once in this format, it was easy. He simply found the lowest number—a 13—knowing it was very likely to be the letter “A”, and solved the rest of the cipher arithmetically. He could’ve used his phone’s calculator, of course, but found the mental math a welcome challenge. When it was finished, this is what he had written out:

PORTCARTHERSOUTHSTREETALLEY

Port Carther, Madison knew, was a city in Essel (though his information packet hadn’t deigned to provide anything else), while “South Street Alley,” whatever that was supposed to mean, was maddeningly nonspecific. Madison was still glaring at the words, trying to make sense of them, when the cab driver interrupted him.

“Um, sir, we’ve arrived.”

Madison quickly glanced up, annoyed he had allowed himself to be lost in his thoughts—and with a start, realized what he was looking at.

There in front of the LuxAstere doors stood his handler Special Liaison to Essel-Asteria Vivien Trélinas, arms crossed, her expression one of complete and utter unamusement. She was flanked by no less than four Secret Service agents, looking extremely conspicuous as their black suits roasted in the morning sunshine. A small crowd of locals had gathered, keeping their distance, clearly eager to witness the oncoming spectacle.

Madison swallowed hard. Time to face the music and dance. After quickly handing the driver his fee, Madison stepped out of the cab, a cheery smile pasted on his face. “Vivien!” he declared. “Fancy meeting you here!”

“Francis,” Trélinas replied, drier than dry. “You have got some explaining to do.”

“So let me get this straight,” Trélinas said, sitting across from Madison at her small hotel room coffee table, her tone now one of complete bewilderment after variously fluctuating through disdain, disapproval, and primal rage in the last few minutes. “You snuck out after hours like some common teenager to attend a hippie Luhlazan Society party that that deadbeat Elishari invited you to, after you specifically said you would not—”

“That is correct,” Madison said, sipping coffee.

“—Where you not only met Essel-Asterian Head Diplomat Soran Valensi, you were propositioned by a creepy robotic figure, with the promise to seek out a mysterious urban legend that will magically solve your problems—”

“Not that kind of propositioned, but essentially yes,” Madison said, taking another sip.

“—And then after spending the night at Valensi’s house where you did not, and I repeat, did not—?” Trélinas probed, raising her eyebrow so high it was both interrogative and suggestive—

“Yes, I did not,” Madison confirmed, leaving what exactly he was confirming he did not do out of words and out of mind—

“—Did not have sexual relations with that person,” Trélinas said, completely ruining Madison’s attempt at obfuscation—

“—Yes, I did not,” Madison confirmed with a wince, placing his almost empty coffee cup down on its coaster—

“—Good,” Trélinas agreed simply before continuing, “and not only then, rather than brushing this off as some bizarre, excruciating, post-negotiations hangover—which we all have from time to time, it’s nothing to be ashamed of, my dear—rather than purging this whole ‘Cypher’ business from your psyche and getting back to your job, you decided to return to the hotel, gather your things, and… SEEK HIM OUT?” At this final charge, Trélinas slammed her fist down hard on the table, throwing the nearly-empty coffee cup into the air, where the dregs splashed Madison in the face. Trélinas was unapologetic.

“Yes,” Madison said after he wiped the coffee from his cheek and collar, where it had dripped. He met Trélinas’s steely gaze with his own—one of equally firm resolve. “Yes, I did.”

“And WHY would you ever do such a thing?!”

“Sarah,” Madison answered simply.

Trélinas inhaled sharply and briefly turned away, seemingly taking a moment to gather herself. When she was done, her hands were neatly folded in her lap, her composure and decorum returned to the refined Tirician manner Madison knew so well.

“My dear Francis,” Trélinas began, her voice sweet and smooth as poisoned honey, “Everyone here knows and understands how Sarah’s death has affected you—such a tragic loss for your family and for our country. But that was years ago, now. You had your bereavement leave and you had your counseling, and you got back to work—and my, what wonderful work it was! Your dedication and vigor was an inspiration to us all. And so you rose through the ranks after impressing who really mattered—President Ross, Vice President Callahan, and me.” Now Trélinas rested her elbows on the table and put her elegant, steepled fingers together, studying Madison closely. “As I’ve said, we may not always agree politically, Francis, but there is one thing you cannot doubt about me—that I am always dedicated to the good of my country. President Ross is smarter than he looks, you know. He sent me here for many reasons—but one of them was to keep an eye on you.” This was news to Madison, and he fought not to show it—but he knew he had already lost. Trélinas grinned evilly. “He knew you couldn’t be entirely trusted, you see. He knew you were a bit too…” Trélinas leaned forward to whisper in Madison’s ear, “unstable.”

“What do you want?” Madison demanded, recoiling.

“Your absolute dedication and loyalty,” Trélinas answered immediately, falling back into her chair, arms crossed. “You have a very specific skill-set, Francis, and one that this government cannot afford to lose. You’re the Secretary of State for a reason—the damn Secretary of State, I say—and you better start acting like it. Your instability endangers you and our entire operation. So lose this Cypher nonsense and this irrelevant obsession with Sarah once and for all.” Satisfied, Trélinas leaned back in her chair.

Madison sat still and stared at the floor, silently stewing. Trélinas, misinterpreting his demeanor as reluctant acceptance, placed what was meant to be a reassuring hand on Madison’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Frank. I know that moving on can be a difficult thing to do. But it’s for the best,” she offered. A fatal mistake.

Madison shoved Trélinas’s hand off and shakily stood up. “You take that back,” he said hoarsely.

“I beg your pardon?” Trélinas said, surprised.

“You take that back!” Madison yelled. “You said that Sarah was irrelevant!”

“I never said that!” Trélinas insisted, shocked by Madison’s sudden anger. “Of course Sarah’s relevant, I simply said it was your obsession with her that isn’t, Francis. Yes, it’s irrelevant, and quite frankly, it’s unhealthy. The investigation is closed—there’s nothing more you can do.” Trélinas decided it was time to put the foot down, and continued with what she hoped was a kind yet firm tone: “I say this with the utmost compassion and understanding: you need to move on.

For a moment, Madison said nothing. He just stood still and glared at Trélinas, who stared back with mild concern, trying to force a smile.

“I quit,” Madison finally said.

“Wait, what?

“I’m leaving. I resign. Whatever you want to tell the party and the press, I don’t care. You’ll come up with something.” He gathered his things and headed for the door.

“Wait, Madison, you cannot just leave like this! If you really are serious about quitting, you need to tell the leadership in person—help find a replacement—and besides, I cannot allow it! Secretary Madison, your resignation is not accepted, and I demand you come back here right now!

Madison turned and saw Trélinas staring insistently at him, pointing firmly at the vacant chair beside her. Her lips were pursed and her eyes deeply disapproving. Madison felt himself overcome with the inexplicable urge to punch her.

“Fυck you, Vivien,” was all he said. With immense satisfaction, he watched as her genteel face reddened and screwed up, her pouty condescension transforming immediately into outrage.

Then he turned and left.

“You… you ingrate! President Ross will hear about this!” she howled at his retreating back. Madison said nothing—he just gave her the finger.

As he marched through the dingy halls of the hotel, Madison felt himself filled with pride. He had no regrets. He had shown her and every last one of them—he was beholden to no one, a man of his own destiny! When one of the Secret Service agents made a grab for him as he exited the hotel, Madison brushed him off, surprised at his own strength. As he stepped into the midday Essel-Asterian sun, Francis Rockwell Madison felt like a new man.

He headed for the train station. They didn’t pursue him; he was home free and dry. Port Carther, here I come.

Only later, after everything went down as it did, did Madison confront the realization that hopping on a train to a distant city without even the slightest resemblance of a plan may have been a bit hasty.

As Madison stood on the platform surrounded by angry Essel-Asterian commuters, he felt both antsy and remarkably exposed, like they would all start whispering “colo” under their breath at the drop of a hat. At least he had shelled out for a Premium Cabin seat at the kiosk, though the irony wasn’t lost on him that said decision mostly placed him in the company of First and Second Wavers. The ticket wasn’t inordinately expensive, but he still charged it to his official Secretary of State credit card, and was mildly amused to discover it still worked. Guess his “diplomatic expenses” would remain covered then, for now. Madison glanced down at his ticket again and shuffled towards a crowd of more businessly-dressed folks at the end of the platform, ignoring the many judgemental stares as he went.

The train arrived exactly 10 minutes late, an armored, smelly diesel behemoth at least thirty years of technological advancement behind schedule. Madison shook his head and clambered in, reminding himself to be thankful that this sorry second-rate country at least had public transit. He found his seat—gaudy, faux-leather, with some unidentifiable stains on the upholstery, but nonetheless adequately comfortable. Madison retrieved his phone and settled into the 6-hour journey to the distant ex-Deplandian port city.

Once they pulled out of the decaying urban core of Astina proper, Madison’s internet coverage plunged from spotty to zero, tearing him away from some trashy Tiricia Times article about that diplodocus Tarius Rostenstaphen’s latest booze-infused affair. As he would sooner die of boredom than subject himself to those horrid microtransaction-ridden Satan spawn called “smartphone games”—he had never been much of a technology person anyway—Madison found his eyes inexorably drawn to the view of rolling countryside flashing by his window.

It was surprisingly beautiful. Miles upon miles of emerald hills and winding rivers and dense, ethereal jungle, the train tracks often the only signs of civilization one could see. Madison knew people like Luther and Callahan and Ross would gaze upon it and see nothing but untapped resources and unharnessed industrial potential, but to Madison, the thought of dredging up all of this natural majesty in the name of “progress” made him surprisingly sad.

As he lost himself in the sun-drenched Essel-Asterian landscape, Madison found that —try as he might to push them down—his thoughts began to wander. And so, inevitably, they came to be dominated by moments and memories of his sister… of the relationship they had shared, and of that day, over two years ago now, that all the love he had to give came crashing down to Earth. He never did tell her just how much she meant to him until she was gone.

Then, out of nowhere, the train came to a sudden and screeching halt, wrenching Madison from his thoughts. This didn’t seem like a stop to him—they were in the middle of the rainforest at this point. And a rather primeval part of it at that. Outside Madison’s window, the sun was blocked by a thick canopy of hundred-foot-tall trees, sunlight only barely piercing through their enormous leafy boughs.

“Do you know why we’ve stopped?” Madison leaned over and asked the woman sitting across the aisle from him. She shrugged, not even looking up from the thriller novel she was reading.

“Probably debris on the tracks. This section of the railroad is pretty badly maintained.” And that was all Madison got, as she promptly returned to her book.

He believed her well enough—he had already seen enough of Essel-Asteria’s infrastructure to know that, even to an urban planning amateur like himself, it needed some serious work. Oh well; it wasn’t his problem anymore. He just prayed the delay wouldn’t be so long and boring it took years off his lifespan—but he wouldn’t be surprised. Madison slouched down into his chair and contemplated trying to take a nap.

He had just settled into a comfortable position and closed his eyes when he heard the explosion. He started out of his seat, inadvertently shouting “What was that?!” at the top of his lungs. But he wasn’t alone in worry this time.

“I don’t know!” The woman across from him replied, a panicked expression on her face, her novel lying open on the floor, forgotten. All around him, the Premium Cabin was filled with anxious muttering. Another explosion. Then another—this time shaking the train car with a low roar. Book Lady dove for cover. Madison, struggling with his own considerable urge to do something drastic, reminded himself to remain calm. He craned his neck to peer out the right edge of the window, towards the front of the train—where the explosions seemed to originate from—and gasped.

A small crowd of a dozen or so black-clad militants had emerged from the jungle, maybe 100 feet down the tracks and 30 feet from the train, just within Madison’s line of sight. About half of them were priming and lobbing what seemed to be homemade explosives at the train, shouting something that Madison couldn’t discern. The other half brandished rifles, though they hadn’t yet fired. What was going on here? Could they be Deplandians resisting the DA’s desist order? No—the fascist Deplandian flag and banners of PEETY STUYVESANT’s maniacal mug were nowhere to be seen. These were a different breed entirely. Could they be? Terrorists!

And Madison had wondered about the armored train car. He should’ve known something like this could happen. Now overcome with a sort of morbid horror, he stayed glued to the terrorists as a platoon of heavily armed Essel-Asterian police officers swiftly descended from somewhere within the train and began to gun them down, the earsplitting rat-tat-tat of their assault rifles echoing through the jungle. Rather than surrender, the fighters broke ranks and ran, returning fire over their shoulders as they went. The police picked a few more off before the rest disappeared into the treeline. They didn’t pursue them.

As the terrorists turned tail and fled, Madison’s gaze was drawn to something he had failed to notice earlier: a mysterious white symbol on their backs, clearly meant to be their designation. He couldn’t quite make it out at this distance, but Madison could’ve sworn it looked like a stalking cat. Whatever it was, he didn’t recognize it.

Madison continued to stare at the bullet-shredded symbol on the back of one of the dead militants as, after a brief pause to let the police protectors back on, the train rumbled on like nothing had happened. Gradually the passengers settled back down too; just another day in Essel-Asteria apparently. But Madison couldn’t stop thinking about the ambush, the bombs, the killing, the cat. The incident dominated his thoughts all the way till Port Carther. He didn’t think about Sarah anymore.

As the newly blackened and bullet-ridden armored train pulled into Port Carther Station, it was only then that Madison finally realized he had made a grave mistake. Composed of multiple smaller mistakes, actually. Lovely.

Mistake #1: Between the excitement of the attack, the unreliability of his internet connection, and the irregularity of his thoughts, he had failed to do his research on Port Carther. Besides the brief entry in his dossier, which informed him that it was an Esselen port city of 200,000 people—how remarkably useful—he knew next to nothing about it.

What he discovered about Port Carther was that it was everything he wished a city wasn’t. Gritty, industrial, troubled were all words that came to mind the moment it entered his view. Everything was dirty, dilapidated, and choked with smog. The people he saw slouching through the streets in drab, colorless attire all appeared either dangerous or depressed. What had once been a sunny day was now overcast and gloomy, mirroring Madison’s trepidation—and indeed, the overall mood of the unsettled city he now found himself in.

Mistake #2: Dressed as he was in his wrinkled, sweaty black suit —the very same suit he had worked in, partied in, and slept in yesterday, coincidentally—Madison was forced to confront his regret for not at least stopping to change back at the LuxAstere over 6 hours ago. There was a small coffee stain on his collar from where Trélinas had splashed him, and his royal blue tie—perfectly complimenting the Crimtonian flag pin on his lapel—was askew and rumpled. He could’ve gone and bought some casual clothes somewhere, of course, but in the end he decided to consider his ensemble a blessing in disguise. After vigorously scrubbing off the coffee stain in the nasty train bathroom, Madison straightened his tie and gazed at his reflection in the mirror.

Madison stared down Madison, searching for recognition and enlightenment in the infinite depths of the grubby pane of glass. A neon-green permanent marker graffito near the top left read, fittingly, “TRAINWRECK,” just above a rough white scratching that looked suspiciously like male genitalia. Madison focused on his reflection. And as he stared, he realized that the suit gave him power. Purpose. He may have quit his post to pursue this enigmatic endeavor, but for now at least, he would look the part.

That reminded him. He wanted to check the newsfeeds for any mention of his resignation. Scrolling through various publications on his phone, Madison saw no mention of himself anywhere (or the train attack for that matter, though that didn’t surprise him in the slightest). The National Front must’ve not reported his absence yet. Those cowards. So they think I’ll get cold feet and come crawling back to them? I’ll prove them wrong for sure. Seconds before closing the app, one headline grabbed his attention.

TRAVIS MCANDER, FORMER NAZBETHIAN PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE, COMMITS SUICIDE.

It was a shame. Madison hadn’t known the man personally, but the ex-arms dealer at least had the gumption to challenge Nazbeth’s liberal hegemony, even if Sarrafi beat him handily. He did deal the bomb that killed Sarah, Madison forcefully reminded himself, but that doesn’t mean he deserved to die. At least he expressed remorse and helped track down Grazod. Madison couldn’t fathom what could’ve led McAnder to commit such a terrible act.

We have arrived at Port Carther, a bored voice announced over the intercom. All passengers prepare to disembark. Resolving to read more another time, Madison put his phone away. It was time to get his head in the game.

“HURRY UP IN THERE! SOME OF US HAVE TO GO!” A voice yelled, muffled from outside the bathroom. Madison immediately opened the door and gestured the desperate-looking man inside.

“I would advise you not to linger, my good fellow,” Madison said pleasantly. “You’re going to miss the debarkment.”

Then he promptly spun on his heel and left, ignoring the man’s incoherent volley of obscenities. It was time to seek Cypher.

As he walked the grimy streets of Port Carther, Essel-Asteria, Francis Madison was treated to an inglorious spectacle of human folly and misery. All of Essel, he knew, had once been a Deplandian military colony, and Port Carther’s infrastructure, atmosphere, even its soul seemed like it was still crushed under the iron fist of that despotic, wretched nation. A dilapidated military prison, its barbed-wire walls and squat stone watchtowers visible even from miles away, was the area’s defining feature—along with the enormous, featureless cranes looming ominously on the shoreline, perfectly positioned to load containers of raw resources and military hardware out of smoke-belching factories and onto Deplandian ships.

The telltale devil’s mark of PEETY wasn’t yet purged in its entirety, either. Multiple ugly brick buildings bore the clear signs of having had massive murals, etchings, and superglued posters of the dictator roughly scratched off their facades. And as Madison reached a main square, he saw that its centerpiece basalt plinth was missing its statue… even if the bronze plaque reading “PRAISE BE TO THE GLORIOUS ETERNAL MAJESTIC GODLY DICTATOR-FOR-LIFE” still remained, albeit heavily defaced. With a scoff, Madison realized he wouldn’t be at all surprised to see Ross erect a statue of himself in its place. The man’s ego and vanity went hand-in-hand, each working to beef each other up until dear Tiberius’s head was far, far too large for his flimsy body. Frankly, Madison had no idea how he endured him for as long as he did.

Madison took one disgusted look at the plaque on the pedestal before he put his head down and kept walking. Here, in a square streaming with the smoggy city’s denizens crossing to and fro, he was uncomfortably aware of their hostility. Perhaps it was the presence of their ex-despot’s ghost that was having this effect on them? It was only when curiosity got the better of him and he began looking people in the eye that—with sudden horror—Madison realized that their ire was, at least partially, directed at him. He kept getting dirty glances and sullen stares, and he was even swore at under their breaths as he walked by. At first he thought the Port Cartherians were simply angry, uncouth people. But when he truly reflected on his being here—a clear nonnative, dressed in a suit representing Crimtonian Spectre, yet another unwelcome foreign power in a long, long line of unwelcome foreign powers—he realized he was beginning to understand the Essel-Asterian psyche for perhaps the first time. Rather than denigrate and judge, as was his initial instinct, he started to truly take in what he saw, seeing people for their humanity rather than their squalor.

For one, the city’s homeless population seemed to have exploded, and there was nowhere for them to go—people punished for the simple crime of existing. Madison felt a pang of guilt as he passed yet another person left behind by society, slumped beside a building and begging for charity. He considered dropping a handful of Dauiland Dollars in their collection tin, but quickly thought better of it when he saw a gang of unsavory thugs leering at him, some of them visibly holding knives and handguns. Not for the first time, Madison was forced to confront his Mistake #3: coming to a place like this, dressed as he was, carrying over 1,000 Dauiland Dollars in cash in his wallet, unarmed and unprepared. His discomfort, and disbelonging, must’ve been obvious. When he was propositioned by a hooker as he waited for a light to turn green—“I know exactly how to please a rich man like you, lovie” (he had never felt so disgusted in his life)—Madison once again considered visiting a store and trying to blend in just a little bit.

After waving away the prostitute, Madison pulled out his phone. When he arrived in Port Carther, he had discovered that South Street was, in fact, an actual street—one located only a 4 minute walk from the station, as luck would have it. He was now marching down the street in search of the infuriatingly vague “alley” that the Cypher card had specified. Well, perhaps that could wait. His most urgent need now was to find a place that sold appropriate clothing.

His phone informed him that the closest clothing store was 10 minutes down South Street, a small men’s boutique called “Wearhouse.” Well, it would do. He was about to put the phone down when something jumped out at him. Literally.

A strong pair of hands clamped roughly over his mouth, and multiple arms started dragging him off the sidewalk and away from the street. Madison was overwhelmed with his assailants’ foul stench. Somehow, the B.O. was vaguely familiar, and Madison realized with a start that it was unmistakably the same thugs he had passed earlier. Bastards. He was getting mugged in broad daylight!

Madison struggled fiercely, and though he was more in-shape than most politicians, he was no match for so many of them. They dragged him out of sight and into somewhere darker, and in his thrashing Madison had no idea what that somewhere was. His only thoughts were on his attackers. Would they rob him? Kill him? Sell his organs on the black market? He couldn’t plead, couldn’t even scream. When he tried to bite their hands and yell something, anything, a meaty fist connected with his windpipe, and he sprawled on the pavement. They were almost upon him—four, maybe even five of them—when suddenly, they weren’t.

An even stronger pair of hands wrenched the first mugger off of him, and Madison, facedown on the grotty stone, heard a sickening crunch behind him. Then another was forcibly pulled off, and another. The tail of his suit jacket ripped audibly, and Madison immediately reached and felt for his wallet. It was still there, thank God! Then he flipped over, swearing.

In awe, Madison watched as a massive cloaked figure, six foot six at least, held one struggling thug in each arm. It slammed their heads violently together, and they collapsed unmoving to the ground, knives clattering away. Another one of their fellows was already slumped in a pile of rotting garbage, up against the wall of—whatever this was. Madison looked around. It was a thin space, carved between two tall, imposing walls on each side. Maybe ten feet wide, stretching almost a hundred feet down. Probably a popular mugging spot. Unmistakably an alley.

The alley.

Madison was still processing the implications of this revelation when he realized there was still one thug left behind them, standing out of his and the figure’s line of sight. “H-h-hey, g-g-get your hands up!” the hoodlum stuttered. Madison turned his head and saw his last attacker, leveling a pistol at the figure with shaking hands. The figure turned, walked slowly towards him, still lacking a face. The hoodlum let out a terrified yelp and opened fire, emptying the clip.

The bullets all pinged off the figure harmlessly, the sound of metal impacting metal. Madison gasped. He had his suspicions, of course, but it was still stunning to have them confirmed. Not as stunning as it was for the hoodlum, though—his gun arm fell limply to his side as he looked up, trembling, at the massive imposing bot, now just feet in front of him. He didn’t even turn and run. The bot brought up one metal fist and smashed it down on the man’s head, and he crumpled like a leaf.

Madison, still in shock, looked around at the carnage. Madison was surprised by how young the hoodlum was—how young they all were. Ethnically Luhlazan, blood seeping down their brown skin and pooling on the hot pavement. Their clothes, clearly cheap imitations of designer brands up close, were really no more than rags. Dirt poor, forced to resort to the most cowardly of crime. And they paid the price.

“They are not dead,” the bot said in its deep, garbled voice, as if it knew what he was worrying about. “I am trained to apply precisely the correct amount of force to incapacitate, but not kill.”

Madison nodded, swallowed hard. “Thank you. For the rescue.”

The bot didn’t answer. Meanwhile, somewhere in the distance, Madison heard police sirens. Probably coming to investigate the gunshots. It was good to know there was at least some semblance of law and order left in this city. Though Madison wasn’t sure if he wanted to face their undoubtedly awkward questions.

The bot seemed to hear the sirens too. “You come to seek Cypher,” it said, finally. It wasn’t a question, but Madison answered anyway, with as much courage as he could muster.

“Yes. I do.”

“And what is it that you hope to find?”

Madison swallowed roughly, looking up into the robot’s faceless black cowl. He saw no glimpse of humanity, no sense of recognition or brotherhood or understanding. It was hard not to be intimidated.

“The truth.”

“Interesting,” the bot said. And with a sudden swiftness that Madison never saw coming, it whipped out a hand and violently jabbed a hypodermic needle into Madison’s neck, depressing the plunger. He cried out in shock, more out of indignation than pain.

“Hey! What the hell?!” Madison yelled, trying to stay awake. But he suddenly felt tired… extremely tired. Vision swimming, turning black, Madison tried to protest, but found he wasn’t able to. Wasn’t able to do much but just fall, slowly, and let the darkness take him. The bot caught him. Its hands were surprisingly gentle.

Groggily, Madison came to, opening and closing his bleary eyes, experiencing the peculiar sensation of being wholly unsure of where he was or what he was looking at. He seemed to be surrounded by a strange soft blue light from all directions, and eventually realized he was sitting upright in a chair, feeling its soft bottom and stiff backing poking his shoulder blades. Trying his best to regain his mental faculties and not fall off the chair at the same time, Madison shook his head as if to clear the drugs and craned his neck to look all around him.

Only then did he make sense of what he was seeing.

He was in a room filled floor to ceiling with computers. A perfect rectangle, maybe twenty by thirty feet, and every wall lined with a mind-boggling assemblance of TV screens, monitors—some blank, some covered in walls of text—surveillance feeds, and programming consoles. Every surface—floor, walls, and ceiling—was covered in a kind of dense, black, noise-canceling fabric. There were no visible windows or exit doors anywhere; it was like being trapped inside the command center for the Matrix. But strangest of all, the room was near-silent save for the soft hum of the computers and an odd slurping sound. Madison turned toward it… and realized he was not alone. The room’s other occupant was sitting directly across from him, staring his way. Somehow, in his crazy computer-induced tunnel vision, he had failed to perceive her.

She was seated in a high-backed wheeled seat that, elegantly curved and futuristic though it was, was suspiciously reminiscent of the type preferred by hardcore gamers. When she saw that Madison had noticed her, she took one last sip from her bright-red canned energy drink and tossed it in a trash bin, where it made a loud clunk—implying there were many more in there. A large gunmetal gray headset sat atop her dramatic fringe of black hair, dyed gradient pink-and-blue at the tips. She was short, pale, maybe 30 years old, with a silver nose ring and a self-satisfied smirk on her face—in essence, exactly the opposite of who Madison had been picturing he might find, here in the domain of Essel-Asteria’s enigmatic broker of truth. Huh, maybe he needed to confront his biases.

“You’re a woman,” Madison blurted out, only realizing how stupid it sounded once it left his lips.

“How remarkably astute,” she replied sarcastically. “Are you sure you need my help? For someone as observant as you, you must have everything figured out already!”

Madison winced. “So you are Cypher then.”

“That’s me, cupcake,” she said with a roguish grin. “And I’ll have you know, T2 isn’t programmed to pick up just any old sad sack he finds on the street—he picks ‘em out with intention. Surgical precision, you could say. His ability to discern the useful from the useless is quite remarkable, not to toot my own horn too much.” Cypher gave him a knowing look.

A vision flashed in front of Madison’s eyes, of the bot parting the crowd at the party to speak directly with him. It was quite strange, and the revelation left him nonplussed. “What do you mean, I’m ‘useful’? I thought—”

“—You thought you could waltz in here, demand to know whatever the fυck it is you wanna know, and then leave? No reciprocity whatsoever? Just like that?” Cypher snapped her fingers to emphasize the point, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Well, that kind of was what I was picturing, but when you put it that way…”

Cypher rolled her eyes. “Unbelievable, man. Maybe you are one of the useless ones after all. It’s too bad, the seeking process usually weeds out the dumbasses…” Cypher smiled to herself, pointedly ignoring Madison as he raised his eyebrow so high it practically escaped his forehead. “Well, might as well see what you’ve got cooking.”

In one expert motion, Cypher pushed off from the smoothly carpeted floor and took up position at one of the many carbon-fiber black desks ringing the room. Her fingers flew across an array of glowing keyboards and control pads as she entered a console command with well-honed speed.

Even as Cypher’s back was turned, Madison suddenly felt the unnerving feeling of being watched—and looked up to see the telltale red light of a ceiling-mounted camera locking onto him. Before Madison could even think to look away, an enormous message popped up on the main monitor, bathing him and Cypher in red light: “FACIAL MATCH DETECTED.” Then Madison suddenly experienced the immensely unsettling event of seeing each and every screen in the room become covered in pictures, newspaper clippings, and unsolicited information about him, cascading onto Cypher’s computers like an unending fountain of Francis.

“Francis Rockwell Madison. Born March 20th, 2018 to Rockwell Olakitan Madison and Imani Zarah Elamin, both wealthy industrialists. Current Secretary of State of Crimtonian Spectre, though—now that’s interesting—this memo here says you just resigned, only they don’t plan to accept it. All immediate family deceased,” Cypher recited, her tone softening slightly on the last line.

“That’s right,” Madison said, a little harsher than he intended. He was impressed, especially about the memo, since it was something one couldn’t exactly find in a cursory internet search. But after she mentioned his family, he didn’t want to give Cypher the satisfaction of awing him.

“Your father—” she began, seemingly about to launch back into her monologue, but Madison cut her off before she could.

“—Was a Regime sympathizer who was executed by Rostenstaphen like the rest, and my mother along with him. My sister died in the Nazbethian Embassy bombing, and my heart along with her. Now are you quite finished? I don’t have much interest in hearing you spill all my secrets, considering I know them all too well myself. Well, I guess you do now too. I see what you can do.” He gestured vaguely at the mess of computers around them, feeling a familiar wretched anger bubbling in his stomach.

Cypher looked taken aback, but she recovered quickly. “I am truly sorry for your loss, Madison,” she said, not unkindly.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what they all say,” Madison scoffed. “I don’t care for your condolences and I don’t care for your pleasantries. I understand you’ve got quite the reputation, so I expect you to uphold it. I want to know the truth about Sarah. Now work your magic.”

“Okay, sloooooow down mister,” Cypher said, putting her hands in the air. “You think you’re the only one who’s lost people? I grew up in Deplandia for fυck’s sake! If it wasn’t for being captured by the Eternal Empire, I may never have broken free—but that’s a story for another time.” Cypher exhaled and ran her fingers through her dyed hair; Madison just glared, trying his best to remain unbent and unbowed. “What I’m saying is I understand,” Cypher continued. “I want to help you, I do. But before we even start discussing that, you should know, as a rule, I don’t work with politicians.”

“What? Why?” Madison asked, incredulous. “Besides, like you said, I just resigned! So I’m not even that anymore.” He felt desperately bitter, the kind of loathing that clenched at his broken soul, fed up with constantly being turned away from what he most needed to repair it.

Cypher shrugged. “Once a politician, always a politician, so far as I’m concerned. But to answer your question, in my experience I’ve found politicians to be backstabbing, duplicitous, greedy little shіts. And to be frank—do forgive the pun—I don’t know if I can trust you not to be that yet. BUT—” she added, wisely sensing Madison was about to blow his top— “I’m willing to give you a chance.”

Madison came down from the fire, his relief palpable. “Thank you, Cypher. I mean it. A chance is all I’m asking for. So by all means—name your price. Whatever it is, I’ll pay it.”

“What makes you think it’s money?” Cypher asked mischievously; Madison just gave her a look. “...Okay, you’re right, it’s money. Lots of money.”

Madison sighed; typical. Looked like his “diplomatic expenses” were about to get vastly more conspicuous, but he was far too deep to turn back now. Retrieving his wallet from his pocket, Madison queried: “So do you take cash or card or…?”

Cypher laughed. “Not right now, ya big dumb. I charge on delivery. Pride myself on it!”

It almost seemed too good to be true. “So you can really help me…”

“...Find out why your sister died? Yes, I believe I can. I just might need some help along the way.” Cypher rummaged in her pocket for a moment, popped a neon green bubblegum in her mouth, and promptly smacked on it as her fingers danced across her keyboards once more. After sorting through various popups, windows, and walls of text—at a pace thoroughly unfathomable to Madison’s tech-averse brain—for a solid three minutes, muttering “hmm” and “uh huh” all the while, she swiveled her chair back around to him.

Cypher blew a large bubble, popped it, and began chewing the noxious green stuff again. Madison watched with a strange fascination, dutifully waiting for her to tell him what he found. Finally, she spat the gum into the tiny trash can underfoot and asked him seriously: “I assume you heard about Travis McAnder’s suicide?”

“Of course I did, it was all over the news,” Madison answered instantly, wondering where she was going with this. “A truly tragic death. I didn’t know the man, but he was held in high esteem by many conservatives.”

“Of course you had to make this about politics,” Cypher remarked, before her face suddenly turned to stone. “But Madison, Travis McAnder didn’t kill himself. He was murdered.”

Madison was astonished. “How do you know that?”

“I don’t. It’s a hunch,” Cypher said pensively. “But I’ve come to trust my hunches, especially when the data seems to point in that direction. As for confirming it—well, that’s where you come in.”

Ordinarily, Madison would’ve been skeptical. But for some strange reason, he had no doubt that everything Cypher had told him today was true.

“I’m in,” he said, meeting Cypher’s intense gaze with his own. He hadn’t noticed it before, but her eyes were mismatched—one jet-black, one dark blue. With a start, he realized the black one was almost certainly cybernetic.

“Good,” Cypher said, satisfied. She stood up from her chair and started pacing the room in a kind of nervous anticipation. “You see, Madison, I’ve always operated on the philosophy that one can learn anything, find anything, find anyone, online—assuming you know where to look. So my biggest limitation is what can’t be located in the world of the web. My bots and drones and first-rate internet connection can’t be expected to do everything for me, now can they?” From a nearby table, she picked up a powered-down surveillance drone disguised to look like a dragonfly, stroked it lovingly for a moment, then set it back down. “I usually hate relying on people—they’re so much more unpredictable—but today I’m asking to rely on you.” Picking a piece of black cardstock off her desk, she turned and looked Madison in the eye. “I have a suspicion that what you find here will be of great interest to us both.”

Cypher placed the card in Madison’s hand. The top of it was blank; he turned it over and studied it. 17 Belmont Drive, Hillwood, Tadan. McAnder Mansion; Havenfield. Madison nodded grimly. “This is where Travis was found?”

“Correct,” Cypher answered. “I want you to travel there, see what you can dredge up. The news only just broke, so it’ll be a while before there’s any sort of report I can access. And in any case, they often omit the important details from those.”

Madison shook his head, still working to wrap his mind around the task ahead of him. “Alright, I’ll do it, but what makes you think they’ll see me? Travis was the McAnder clan’s prodigal son. Even more so than Keith, who from what I’ve heard is a bit of a pariah. But if you really think this is in some way connected to what happened to Sarah…”

“...I do,” Cypher confirmed. “And it’s more than just ‘think,’ Madison. I know. But right now, it’s down to you to find out what you can. You’re the Crimtonian Secretary of State—at least officially. You’ll figure it out.” At this, Cypher kicked back to her desk and began busying herself with something Madison couldn’t see. “The McAnders have a private airstrip, of course, but flying there might be a bit too conspicuous. You’d do better to fly into Rihan and drive. Should only take an hour at most.” Though Cypher was speaking to him, she remained fully focused on whatever it was she was doing.

“Okay,” Madison answered. It was certainly a daunting task, and he was no private investigator. He had no experience searching a suspected crime scene for clues. But he had been on countless fact-finding diplomatic missions, so that’s how he chose to view this one. Never before had he felt so personally invested in its outcome.

“So, are you ready?” Cypher asked him, back still turned. As soon as Madison affirmed he was, she wheeled around and jammed a needle into his arm before he could react. Serious déjà vu.

“Ow!! What was that for?!” Madison exclaimed, already feeling woozy.

Cypher was no-nonsense. “Sorry, but I really need to do this. You seem like a good guy, but I’ve met far too many sleazy ‘good guys’ to trust you just yet. It’s nothing personal… just business. Can’t have you knowing where this is, after all. Nighty night!”

And for the second time that day, Madison could do nothing but ebb out of reality, surrendering to the darkness. The last thing he saw before fading out was Cypher’s wry smile.

Happy 5 year embassy-versary! Leaves a basket of cookies

RICHOMP SHALL NEVER DIE!!!

Rahul Raghuraman and Nazbeth

It’s honestly admirable that you’re the last one who still does issues.

Nazbeth and Richomp


Odil's Escape Remastered


Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer ;
Things fall apart ; the centre cannot hold ;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world ,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed , and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned …

- W. B. Yeats, " The Second Coming"


Prologue

Odil Rostenstaphen stood on a rocky outcropping and stared at the vast gray ocean below him, contemplating how it would feel to plummet into the abyss. The exhilarating rush of gravity running its course, the aromatic allure of the salt air in his nostrils, and finally, the force of the impact that would shatter every bone in his body and end his inner turmoil, permanently.
Oblivion. Abysm. Void. Whatever you called it, the end result was the same. From a height like this—the cliff face was easily 300 feet tall, emerging from the sea in a blanketing shroud of mist—there was little difference between hitting the water or colliding with one of the many gnarled rocks that dotted the crashing surf like black confetti. He didn’t even have to jump. Just one step forward, one loss of footing on the dew-slicked crag, and he was a dead man.
Odil had always been a man with no fear of his mortality. Standing as he was mere inches from his demise, Odil outstretched his arms like Jesus on the cross, threw his head back, and drank in the sensations of the sea. A chill wind battered his body, running across his chiseled bare chest, through his matted dirty-blond hair, caressing his scarred arms with the touch of nature’s soothing yet inexorable hand. Here, it smelled of salt and stone, freedom and bondage, dreams and despair, life and death. Each shuddering feeling carrying the lost memories of a sad little boy who died a sad little death long, long ago. Did anyone mourn that boy? he wondered. Certainly I didn't.
Odil took a deep breath. Another. Spared one last glance at the unforgiving ocean below, remembering the people he had put there, wondering when he would join them, forever. He knew, perhaps undeniably, that he was nearing his end; it was less a question of when, but how, he would do his final dance with death. But not yet. Not now, when he still had plenty of unfinished business.
Slowly, Odil stepped away from the precipice and began to walk back towards the ghost town where he spent his childhood, a time that felt like an eons-old dream of the past and yet somehow infiltrated his waking present. He knew every rat-infested house, every deserted street, every salt-rusted fence by heart. After all, he was their maker. The legacy of Odil Rostenstaphen was indelibly imprinted on every nook and cranny of the village of Vale’s End—not least in its absence of any living soul. If Odil shut his eyes tight enough, he could still picture the fires, hear the screams. Everything was by design, just the way he liked it, and he allowed himself to briefly savor this image before shelving it away in the deepest recesses of his mind. He had far more important things to focus on than silly remembrance.
As the slick cliff-stone gave way to scrubby brush and finally, pitted cobble pavement, Odil strode to the small two-story cottage at the very end of the road, overlooking the ocean. In stark contrast to the rest of the hamlet, its sorrowful countenance had stood the test of time. The baby-blue paint was peeling, the shingled, ivy-covered roof groaned under the weight of the vegetation, and the once-immaculate front yard was snarled in chest-high weeds, but Odil refused to let this cottage collapse. Through an unlikely combination of force of will and woe, he ensured his boyhood home did not succumb to the elements. He had equally ensured that all that remained of the bungalow beside it was a pile of blackened timber and brick.
Odil pushed open the front door, ascended the creaky wooden staircase, and unlatched the secret compartment underneath the upstairs dresser. Inside the compartment, he carefully placed a leather-bound book, retrieved from its spot on his nightstand for the last time. From the compartment, he retrieved a very particular item. One that would prove invaluable in his quest for one simple thing. One simple thing before he could lay down his burden and return to the simple life—or death—he had always desired.
Odil left his cottage and took a winding path through the ruins of his town, drinking in its sights and smells for the last time. Why is it that the more something hurts, the stronger our desire to return to it? Odil wasn’t sure. But what he did know was that Vale’s End held a deep spiritual significance in whatever was left of his heart. There weren’t many things left in this world that were capable of hurting him, not in this life, when he had already seen it all. That Vale’s End was one of those made it unique. It was always notable if he felt something—anything—akin to pain. On rare occasions he could spend hours chasing that feeling. It was intoxicating. But most of the time, he just couldn’t be bothered. His lack of pain was a gift; it meant his conscience was clean. He had always been different from the others.
Meandering though it was, Odil’s route was in fact charted with precise and careful intent. As he rounded a final bend, an unmarked, unoccupied black sedan waited for him beside a copse of fog-choked pine trees, right where it was supposed to be. It contented Odil to know there were still contacts he could rely on, thralls he could order to do as he pleased. Ever since he was a child he had wanted control. Craved it.
Odil got in the car, started the engine, and left Vale’s End in the rearview mirror for good. He would never return, that much he knew. Or at least, not in the world of the living. He wouldn’t be surprised if being stuck here for eternity was to be his punishment in the kingdom of the dead.
At that thought, Odil laughed out loud—a short, raspy thing not unlike a dog’s bark, something he rarely allowed to escape his body. It was funny, really. He used to feel a deep and abiding hatred for this place. Now, Odil found he felt nothing at all.

* * *



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Merry Christmas!

**sends over a tray of Christmas cookies**

Have a quiz in my Mongol class - the terminology is kind of difficult, but most of the quiz is about locations. I have spent so much time playing EU4 that all of these incredibly irrelevant locations are lodged in the dome.

Nice... it truly is the gateway drug to geography and history

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