#syrakhanistan

[syrakhanistan]

signs of a coming War

((This will not make sense if you haven’t read the Stonefire Arc.))

//

35 seconds past 2310 hours, XX/XX/2010. Roughly one year prior to W-Impact Event. Special order of operation on behalf of the Incubator of the First Officio Assassinorum with the assent of the Warmaster of the First Officio Assassinorum.

Operation: Executed, successfully. Minimal casualties.

Side Objective: Executed, successfully. Minimal casualties.

Second Objective: Executed. Objective(s) confirmed. Assets involved to be debriefed; solution to be assessed and ascertained.

//

“Yo, Mel! Sorry for the rush briefing, and the somewhat-abrupt semi-kidnapping, but this job’s a good one, I promise… and it’s also an order from the top. We’re to be embedded into an independent international task force special forces unit comprising of American, Syrakhani, British, French, and Russian soldiers en route to an abandoned military complex within the violent disputed border region based on the salt flat made from the former Lake Chad, set between Cameroon, Niger, Chad and Nigeria.

I’m to be deployed in one squad, you’ll be deployed in another alongside your, ah, current comrade-in-arms, Oug’di al-Gawa’a (or whatever they’re calling themselves today). This special international task force is being deployed following reports of a known terror cell meeting with WMD specialists in the disputed, lawless area - the same fundamentalist terror cell responsible for those brutal attacks in Paris and London a year or so ago. This was originally enough for some level of intervention; however, this has since changed - as intel came in that the terror cell was under attack from a seperate terrorist organisation: the infamous ultranationalist zealots that’s been tearing most of Central Africa a few new ones. These guys, if anything, are more of an interesting threat - given that they are confirmed to have access to WMDs, and used them at least once (and were potentially involved in the supplying of the weapon used in the Hizawi tragedy).

However, while destroying terror cells and extracting important intel is certainly good for a laugh… I’m damn sure you can guess that you’re not just here to spray bullets. Our more specialized expertise has been requested, predominantly because we were in the area, for a seperate objective - direct from the higher-ups.

Your primary objective (as opposed to the secondary objective of turning terrorists to paste on the walls) is the location and extraction of a particularly important asset, who we can only refer to as Asset I. That’s an i, not a 1, friend. If you wanna be pedantic, call them Iota.

Neither of us are actually cleared to know what the details surrounding I actually are - but, somehow, the Asset was either captured or was simply, for some reason, located on-site at this facility. Therefore, the higher-ups need us to infiltrate with our assigned squads, and secure the Asset - ensuring no harm comes to them from either side of the battle. Once you have confirmed the asset's safety, and the special forces units have confirmed their own tasks, the independent task force will issue a command to allied Syrakhanistan Air Force and Navy units on standby to bomb the area to smithereens.

God is with us. Blessed is She.”

//

You are Mel Anna, formerly known as Three. You are a magical girl (formerly an unofficial hire before your exemplary performance landed you a true contract with the Sixteenth Officio Assassinorum), and you’re currently in free fall above a hostile combat zone following abrupt orders from your superior and erstwhile friend, Colonel Kiryu.

You've just jumped from a High Altitude Low Opening position from a modified Russian/former Soviet supersonic aircraft (the aptly named "Black Canary" for it's near-prototype status; an upgraded Tu-160 chassis built with prototype Tu-144 equipment, then further modified by American engineers before being... acquired... by Syrakhanistan), directly into anti-aircraft fire.

So much for taking advantage of two opposing enemies fighting each other - now both of the ground-forces of the terrorists were attacking you all, too.

Luckily - no pun intended - this was to be expected. As in, you'd already predicted this. Your powers from your wish (some powers of which you'd just activated with a small flash of light to help defend against the onslaught of firepower) allowed you to perfectly predict the future - often to either brilliant or terrible results, to the point that you'd been repeatedly advised to only use your primary wish-granted power only when given explicit permission from higher-ups.

This prediction was clearly enough to give some a sense of easy security. Your assigned co-worker and partner-in-crime, the ever-confusing Oug’di al-Gawa’a (commonly known currently as the more simple Ogawa; A shapeshifter and cloner by magical nature, wish unknown, and especially talented Callidus assassin currently contracted with the elusive Twentieth Officio, who has changed name (having previously been known as, among others, Ougi Kumahara, Di Mario, Kagali Ojigawa, Publius Maximus, and Gabriel bin Darra), history, and even flesh and mind several times over - in the short time you'd known them, let alone before your assignment together) was currently posing for an unseen camera while nearing terminal velocity. They noticed your gaze amidst the flak bursts and gave you a cheerful wave, much to your chagrin.

As you descended to the military facility built into the already corpse-ridden salt flats, you threw out a few of your personalised magical tarot cards towards your allies desperately attempting to maneouver out the way of the anti-air fire, the cards flipping in the air and turning into small shields of energy, protecting them.

"Deploy PWSS on my mark." You say over the comms as the wind rushes around you. "Mark".

Your equipment deploys, alongside the other members of the squad, activating into a quasi-wingsuit, quasi-parachute mechanism (you’d forgotten to actually ASK what PWSS even meant), allowing you to accelerate faster down to your destination but with more control, as well as to hit the ground in such a manner that you WEREN'T reduced to a splatter on the concrete.

You hit the ground with a solid thud, going straight into a forward combat roll, as the soldiers operating flak cannons on the rooftop of the complex turned to fight your incoming group.

A flick of your wrist, and cards from nowhere spin out, cutting the throats of several enemy combatants, while Ogawa swung around behind them, cloning instantly, each one holding weapons - knives, guns, even a machete - and carving a line across the rooftop.

The gunfire and missiles continued to stream away nearby, even as your squad regrouped after clearing the area.

You motioned towards a set of doors (the other set on the roof being left clear for either another squad such as Colonel Kiryu’s, or for exfil), and the group moved into the complex, slowly checking corners, clearing rooms, checking for mines and traps.

One set of doors turned into another, each corridor going on and on, each filled with an endless stream of enemies, flies to the flame that they were.

The hallways, the rooms, the floors, all of them began to blur together, a strange feeling lurking at the back of your mind.

Like, this place was a LOT bigger than it should have any right to be.

It was built into the flat salt of a former lake; surely such ground would be hard, and less than perfect for underground structures?

Yet it just kept going. Further and further you went, meeting each floor filled with more and more insurgents, more and more corpses, more wasted bullets and more wasted energy.

You’re glad you’d asked for the extra few Grief Seeds before the mission.

The deeper you went, ironically, the more lit up the halls were. Electricity seemed to be concentrating somewhere deep below, so power seems to have been rerouted to whatever, whoever, wherever this “Iota” figure was, or whatever cage they had been imprisoned in.

Of course, the enemy also become more and more entrenched as your team descended. Your equipment indicated that by the time you reached an impressively fortified bunker-like position complete with underground towers - somehow - you were close to nearly a few solid kilometres below ground.

That’s impossible, unless…

You motion to Ogawa, giving an old hand signal and pointing to one of your comrades, between hails of gunfire from the towers.

Ogawa looks confused for a brief moment, before confusion turned to concern as the Callidus performed the check on the soldier you’d motioned towards.

Ogawa nodded. Shit.

Somehow, the bunch of you had got caught inside a Labyrinth. Either that, or the Labyrinth had been built around Iota, or perhaps to contain Iota. A Witch, and a relatively powerful one, must have manifested here - or, if not fully manifested, then a Seed must have been used in some way.

The Kiss sigil burning black on the soldier’s exposed neck gave your theory enough credence to be wary.

You radio into your comms, praying that the influence of a Witch wouldn’t impact the hardened equipment you had.

“Daisy Hand to Siren, do you read? We’re confirming unknown-class interference close to the predicted location of Asset Iota. Confirm acknowledgement, over.”

“…tua… res… fi… ack…”

“Daisy Hand to Siren, repeat last, over.”

You tut irritably, ignoring yet another round of bullets fired your way.

…well, you tried.

“Ogawa! I need cover while I do my thing!” You shout between bursts of fire.

“Did you get—”

“Nope! But I’m gonna do it anyway, otherwise we’re gonna be up to our necks in shit at this rate, let alone whatever’s up with Iota - if the Asset is even still around.”

“…fine. But using that, it’s on your ass, you hear?”

You hear, alright.

As the rapid deployment of Ogawa’s shadows began to move forward into the enemy ranks, you close your eyes, and concentrate.

Breathing in, and out. You blink.

+ Predict where the Witch is. +

You project out to the abyss, your consciousness wavering, surfing along the very edge of the accursed realms between reality, searching for an answer.

Your predictions will always be correct. You will always get the answer that will occur.

Even if it’s a terrible one.

A feeling, a nudge, a scar opening, crackling of flames, laughter, the sky falls, beating heart, cruel knives, the dead live, seas of blood, a sick jokes, corridors endlessly fading into a pit of—

There. That one. But what did…

You shake yourself back into reality, discerning and paraphrasing what little you understood.

The Witch…

You look between the Towers, through the Maze that continued behind the enemy encampment, past the bullets -

There! You fling a single card—

“Got it!” Ogawa shouts, revealing themselves amidst the horde of clones, firing a single shot following the glowing trail your card had left.

Between the towers, past the camp, past the bullets, through the corridors, hitting the Door’s window.

A screech, like the rending of metal, before fading away, the breathless agony of another dead creature - whether a natural one or an old comrade, irrelevant.

The building’s doors didn’t have windows. Ironically, unlike most Witches that bury themselves within the depths of their Labyrinth, this one had created an endless loop of rooms, spreading itself thin to create a seamless world to trap victims in.

The labyrinth dissipated, the lines of enemy soldiers vanishing in mere moments. It appeared only a dozen odd insurgents had actually been in the building; but the Witch that had either imprisoned them, or had been employed by them, had made the enemy seem insurmountable.

The illusion shattered, you and your squad find yourself in a far more spacious but still all-too corridor-like room.

A room with doors, but in particular one rather bulky looking and rusty one.

As Ogawa passes by the few corpses, grabbing the lone Grief Seed that had fallen to the floor, you once again grab your comms equipment - only to be interrupted once more by the sounds of gunfire.

Ogawa pockets the Seed, and together with your surviving comrades, you take positions next to the door which the sounds were coming from.

“Anyone home? We could use a hand!” A familiar voice shouts behind the door between the combat noises.

Your expression softens, and, ignoring your team’s surprise, you unloosen the bolt on the door, letting your friend through.

The Colonel herself immiediately shuts it behind her, a grim look on her face. “Cheers, pal. ‘Twas getting a bit hairy.”

You nod to Ogawa to keep watch on the exit doors alongside the rest, while you help Kiryu out with her many, many wounds, as the two of you walk towards the clearly suspicious larger door while fixing up the comms equipment.

“—and, do you read? Do you read or not? Over.” The comms finally crackled back to life, the Field Commander’s excitable but determined tones coming through.

“Siren, this is Daisy Hands and Chairman, we read you loud and clear. Interference has been eliminated, and we have located the probable location of the Asset. Confirmation on how to proceed? Over.”

A chuckle. “Aha! Finally! You had me worried for a moment there - not sure why, mind.” Audible throat clearing, before - “Daisy Hands, your position is getting more dangerous by the moment; we have confirmed enemy reinforcements from both OPFOR groups, and much of your backup outside has been worn down. So I need you to listen closely, over.”

“Boss, it’ll be faster if you could get on with it!” The Colonel shouted irritably, long hair swinging from side to side.

“That’s former Boss, and current Field Commander, to you - Chairman. Now then…

The location of Iota should have a massive metal door, locked down nice and tight. However, there’s a knack to opening it - besides several tonnes of high explosive, that is.”

You… didn’t like where this was going.

“The door will only open with the confirmed death of a magical girl.”

There is a soft sigh, before the Field Commander cut off the comms.

…ah.

The Colonel and you exchange the smallest of glances - right before you both bring a weapon to one another’s throats.

“I outrank you, Mel. That’s just how it is.” Kiryu murmured angrily, blade steady.

“I still haven’t got what I became a magical girl for. I won’t die in such a miserable manner as this.” You respond, with an equal level of malice, no magical weapon or card in your hand - just a simple 9mm pistol drawn from your side in the fastest of motions.

There’s a brief moment of tense silence, only occasionally broken by gunfire.

Before being properly broken by an extremely agitated Callidus.

“What the FUCK are you two doing?!” Ogawa cried aloud, sprinting towards the two of you and rolling between your raised arms.

“Out of the way, Ogawa. Otherwise it’ll be your head we take.”

“Yeah, kid, whatever you’re calling yourself these days. Go back to your position, you’re outta line.”

“Head? What? What the hell are you talking about?” Ogawa shouted, refusing to budge.

“Goddamnit, we don’t have time for this—” You say, rolling your eyes.

“Ogawa, our new orders require the death of a magical girl to open the door.” The Colonel says, her eyes still on you.

Ogawa pauses. “Bodily death or soul death?”

The two of you hesitate, before you both look at the bemused assassin.

“Oh, screw this!” Ogawa shouts down at the two of you, before roughly shoving you both out of the way.

Before you can move, Ogawa has approached the hulking metal door, and produced a Very Sharp Knife; you recognise the brand, since you’d bought it as a birthday gift - straight from the forges of KilianInc, your personal favourite Swedish arms manufacturer.

Ogawa kneels down, while Ogawa remains standing.

Oh! That’s… will that work?

Ogawa swiftly decapitates the fleshy shadow clone, neck stump spraying viscera onto the door as the head rolls onto the floor.

There’s a few moments of tension, breaths held - before your prayers are answered, as metal began clanking against metal, the doors swinging open with a rough and screeching noise.

A noise only rivalled by the equally loud gunfire outside.

Without any hesitation, you three rush into the open bunker, while the remnants of your squad continue to fortify against the next enemy assault outside.

The location where Asset I was being held was, in a word, cramped. The brief hallway that contained the vault door quickly ended and abruptly interrupted your intrusion with wall after wall of expensive-looking electronics; servers, open laptops, entire sections with fuse boxes and nothing else.

There was barely any lighting in here, the only lights glowing a dim red - like that of an emergency generator - and occasionally seeming to flicker, and almost appearing to move deeper inside. A veritable sea of wires seemed to endlessly connect every port and cable, the floor packed with them, all running to the end of the bunker.

And, at the end of the bunker, lay your presumed target. A large cylindrical metal capsule, cold to the touch, with a jewelled engraving of a single letter:

I. Styled in a Roman numeral.

The flow of glowing lights and wires all seemed to be pointing to a small panel of buttons that lay next to the capsule.

Your curious gaze was broken by the sound of an explosion; the enemy was attempting to breach the room before the bunker. More gunfire, and the occasional grunt and scream.

You’re the first to move, rushing to the computer terminal, panel, whatever it was, while signalling the other two to give cover while you inspect it.

There are a whole lot of buttons on this surprisingly small computer… thing… and none of them have labels - or, at least, labels in any language you actually understood. Some of the symbols even hurt your brain trying to look at them for some reason - but you get the feeling that the ominously glowing one on the right hand side of the machine is your objective.

In for a penny, as they say…

You press the button.

There’s a pause, before all the few lights in the room shimmer, before following a pattern and seemingly moving from electrical thing to thing all the way to the button you pushed. Finally, after some whirring and mechanical humming, something begins to stir.

The capsule slowly creaks open, and something - someone - flops out unceremoniously; falling to the ground onto their face, sticky and cold liquids gushing out from the machine and covering them and the floor with a fleshy-stinking ooze.

The person, presumably Iota, is utterly soaked in the freezing cold liquid paste; however, they’re also covered head to toe in some sort of metallic armour, with only their mouth being uncovered, and a dense band of red painted metal acting as a blindfold. Their armour seemed to act like an extension cable, given how many more wires seemed to be popping out from them. Armour that…

Appeared to be underneath what seemed to be a girl’s bear onesie. Somehow not soaked.

You’re somewhat taken aback by all this, even as the gunfire and combat grows louder outside.

“Mel! Whatever’s going on over there, get it done fast! We’re up to our necks in shit over here!” The Colonel shouted between bursts of semi-automatic fire.

You barely hear her, as you continue to look down on the Asset.

All this… for a sticky dead girl?

Oh, right - she might not be dead. You kneel down, and try to search for a pulse, or something. Difficult to do beneath layers of metal seemingly surgically attached into her.

She isn’t breathing. Nothing coming from her mouth or nose, shit.

Wait, there’s something! Her mouth is, well, full. Which is odd. Maybe it had more of the ooze? Trapping her airways, maybe?

You grunt, ignoring the stench and texture, before shoving your fingers into the girl’s mouth.

You know that feeling. This object. You carefully hook your fingers around it, and pull.

Of course.

The Soul Gem comes out from her mouth, wet with saliva and gunge, the soft hue and glow already slightly illuminating the room. And that almost biological feeling of it, that notion that the jewel is alive, an artificial beating heart, sets off a feeling of tension in you.

As you hold it in your hand, another explosion nearly deafens you from outside.

“FUCK! They’ve breached! Hold the line!” Ogawa screams.

“MEL, GET YOUR ARSE OVER HERE AND DO SOME KILLIN’ ALREADY!” The Colonel commands you, her voice audibly concerned.

Even as super-soldiers empowered by the powers of aliens, even as highly trained professionals - you were by no means Gods. Sure, you could kill dozens with your bare hands; hundreds with the right equipment; but there are only so many bodies you can bring down before their weight brings you down.

So, following the Colonel’s command, you place the Soul Gem gently onto the ground, and move to grab your rifle—

There’s a flash, a surge of electricity. The bunker seems to come to life in a single moment - a single moment where you feel your sleeve being tugged.

“Killing is not something that comes naturally… not something that SHOULD come naturally. Those who kill lose part of themselves, and gain something that no human should ever be comfortable with. Makes us even less human than we already were. I do not enjoy killing; it is a necessary evil, something I do because I must.

Because death has brought me new life on this day.”

The voice, quiet, barely a whisper, pierces your mind, speaking eloquently but eerily. You look down to your quarry, and see the previously angelic look of someone fast asleep being replaced with a creepy grin, skin stretched to the human limit.

Another surge of electricity - and it’s now that you begin to hear the screams.

“What the… fuck…?” You hear the Colonel audibly exclaim.

You manage to break off your state from Iota’s salivating smirk, and look to the entrance of the bunker.

It was absolutely soaked in blood. As you watched, the previously shot down corpses of enemies were now being joined en masse by new corpses. Seemingly from nowhere, enemies began to explode left and right, spraying blood and pieces of flesh around the room.

It’s then that the dots connected in your head:

Whatever Iota’s powers were, they were causing electrical surges around you; pulses of power, continuing to flow from her barely functioning body. And those same pulses were also being sent to the enemy - specifically, their own equipment: radios, earpieces, flashlights, phones. Anything that could be accessed with electricity - perhaps with radio frequencies, or wifi, or infrared, or SOMETHING - was now effectively being turned into a bomb.

As you gazed in awe at her handiwork, the girl herself began to stir, gripping onto your arm to steady her feet. She sniffs the air, looking around - or, perhaps, the motion of looking around, given the heavy metal blindfold.

“My thanks.”

She says softly, clearing her throat, her words still barely escaping her lips. She manages to find her footing, before slowly moving forwards, the trail of wires somehow following her every move. You follow in her footsteps as she approaches the confused Colonel.

“Ah. Ah. Resting. Besting. Testing. Testing. One, two. Yes. Good.” She begins. She speaks oddly, her accent stilted, like she knew how to speak but didn’t usually speak with human flesh. You… don’t know quite how to easily put it; if a baby was born instantly with speech abilities and the full knowledge of the lexicon, this would be like that.

Sort of.

The Colonel nods to the Asset. “Greetings. We have orders pertaining to your extraction.”

The girl listens, pausing, and nodding. “Acknowledgement. Confirmation: Colonel Kiryu, Sixteenth Officio. Yes slash No?”

The Colonel blinks a few times, taken by surprise. “Y-yes? That’s me?”

“Confirmation - Colonel Kiryu, extraction of Asset Iota: Iwakura Lain. Package is in transit”.

You blink a few times, stopping in your tracks.

Lain… Iwakura?

Your line of thinking is made concrete by a similar expression flashing across the Colonel’s face, head quickly turning to yours, the briefest of head shakes directed to you, before returning to silence.

Iwakura. The same surname of the girl you’d killed on your last mission as a (barely) human.

Iwakura. A dynasty of magical girls, a practical family lineage.

Iwakura. The surname of someone extremely powerful related to computers that Colonel Kiryu had explicitly told you to avoid.

Your only hope is that you hadn’t spoken yet nor could she see your face. If she could identify the Colonel so easily, then you just had to stay as quiet as a mouse.

+ Ogawa, no time to explain. Whatever you do, don’t speak to me. The Colonel can explain later. +, you project to Ogawa.

A brief look of confusion on Ogawa’s face flickers, while the Colonel appears to be explaining the situation to Lain, before clearing and a small nod responds to you.

“Alright, Asset Iota…” The Colonel begins before being interrupted.

“Assent: Identity is Lain Iwakura. Polite: Feel free to call me Lain. Good?” Lain speaks, her voice growing more normal with every spoken word.

“Lain, then. We’re on the move to the extraction point. Please be careful, there are some steps.” The Colonel said, motioning her head to the approaching staircase.

“Request: Could your subordinate/subordinates lift me? Body… is still malfunctioning.” Lain says, still almost mechanical, but with the smallest hint of humour.

The Colonel stops in her tracks, giving a small chuckle. “A… piggyback ride, then? I mean… Eh, if that’s your order.”

She nods to Ogawa, who blinks a few times, shrugs, and lifts the girl up. Not quite a piggyback ride, but still, Lain appeared content.

Even as the four of you moved upwards through the building, gunfire appeared to sporadically begin in earnest only to swiftly end with barely audible puffs of electrical explosions. Lain, her wires still trailing slowly behind the group, appeared to continue to be guarding the squad with her powers.

You nod to the Colonel, and signal towards your comms equipment. She acknowledges the motion, and you turn it on.

“Siren, this is Chairman. We have extracted the Asset, proceeding to Extraction Point B on the roof of the facility.” The Colonel spoke over the comms.

“Chairman, Siren acknowledges. Asset already made contact the moment you completed your objective; she speaks highly of your actions this day, particularly of your willingness to perform your orders. Over.”

“Willingness, sir?”

“…To kill Daisy Hands like that in order to open the magically sealed door, that was brave. Your commitment to the commands of your superiors is commendable. Her sacrifice will not be in vain. Over.”

The whole group stopped at this. Ogawa in particular seemed to almost be holding in laughter.

“…Roger that. Will continue towards extraction and explain during debriefing. Over and out.” The Colonel spoke softly, before reaching over to you and turning off the comms.

The group continued to move, with you guarding the rear, but there was a notable silence.

Naturally, Lain broke it.

“Apologies, but… Was I out of line in some way?” She queried pointedly to the Colonel.

“N-no, Iwakura-san, not at all. I was just surprised that you had already made contact with HQ.” Kiryu responded diplomatically.

“…Iwakura-san, eh? Not Lain?” The wired girl spoke, almost disappointed. “Why do I feel like I’m missing something here?”

There’s a barely noticeable undertone of joking irony in her words. Did she…?

She probably did, you think. You did have all the comms equipment on you; and the other two also had their own. Given that she hadn’t blown you up yet as an unauthorised set of feet following behind, she must have known you were a friendly.

But did she know you were her youngest sister’s killer?

If she did, why hadn’t she killed you yet? Was Kiryu’s intuition wrong?

You suppressed a sigh, and continued watching the group’s back - not that it was strictly necessary, given Lain’s seeming omniscience, with more than enemy exploding just as they turn a corner, moments before you shoot them yourself.

Finally, you all reach the final flight of stairs, and Ogawa pushes the heavy-set metal doors to the roof open.

Extraction comes in the form of a single experimental prototype, the Bell Boeing V-2905 Kite, a heavily armoured and rather early-stage quad-rotor aircraft designed especially for movement under harsh conditions. You’d only seen one once, refuelling when you’d been posted as a security detachment for a diplomatic summit in Nigeria - one of Syrakhanistan’s own (albeit stolen originally, but since heavily modified) mechanical works.

Out from the back steps a surprising figure, a lone girl with a messy bob of brown hair (although it appeared to be going grey rather early) in full dress uniform, one arm sticking out of a military jacket covered in medals.

“Ah! Bloody well done.” Admiral Torresa von Akiyama, Field Commander of the operation, and former Warmaster of the Sixteenth Officio Assassinorum, says with a small curtsey, before saluting properly with her sleeved hand, her loose one still by her side. “I hope that my agents didn’t toss you around too much, Iwakura-sama?”

Akiyama always was an oddball, at least if the reports from Kiryu and others were accurate; a magical girl who barely ever used her powers, who shied away from overusage of Contracted assets in preference from basic materiel operations, and who apparently never truly warmed to the role of Warmaster - to the point that when she was offered a ‘temporary position’ by the Primus inter Pares, she accepted without any hesitation.

A temporary position she’d now been occupying for a relatively long time for a Mahou Shoujo.

Saying that… ‘Iwakura-sama’? From a(n albeit former) Warmaster?

“Confirmation: Colonel Cornelia Kiryu and her two subordinates performed admirably under fire. Commendation: recommended!” Lain responded, almost cheerfully. “Irritation: I’ve told you before that the honorific is unnecessary when we speak the lingua franca. Especially since - Truth: I am no more Warmaster than you anymore.”

“Ah, pish-posh. Quartus and Dammekos both still sing your praises, and you know how much SHE has come to rely on—” The Admiral chuckled, before stopping herself. “Ahem. Let’s keep up appearances, eh?”

She turned away from Lain, and back to the three of you.

Three.

Her gaze turned to a scowl. “Wait, the fuck…?”

“Pardon?” Lain responded, still blindfolded and almost hopping to turn around, nearly tripping over a loose wire before Kiryu caught her.

“How…?” Akiyama began, her hair blowing in the breeze, right before being interrupted by the sound of artillery fire.

“I’ll explain on the ride back, Commander. I suspect we should exfiltrate the AO as soon as possible.” Kiryu spoke cautiously.

The Admiral’s gaze hardened, before relenting. “Alright. Yeah, alright, you’re right. Let’s go. And besides - I’ve got a little treat lined up for the bastards still crawling around down there. Although, before I forget…”

She pauses, and turns back to Lain. She places her hand on the nape of her neck, seemingly fidgeting, searching for something. A finger flicks open a piece of metal, and she appears to type in a code.

With a small puff of smoke and the grinding of unseen gears, the armour that Lain had been wearing as well as the Bear Oneside fell apart like a crumbling cookie, the metal disintegrating upon impact with the ground.

She’s even shorter than she looked before without all the accoutrements. Skin as pale as snow - no, paler, even colder than that of the most frozen Siberian plains in the Motherland - and soft brown eyes that seemed to never focus on anything at all. Her hair flickered a little in the breeze, still sticky from the cryogenic fluid and from sweat. All she wore under the armour was a simple white nightgown—

And, uh, yet another Bear Onesie…? Is that one of her powers? Can she just teleport those in?

You’re distracted by the Onesie, and completely miss her unfocused and wary brown eyes coming to rest upon your form hiding at the back of the group.

Your eyes meet.

There’s a moment, just a small moment, where you feel something on your back, crawling, nails skating along your spi—

“Let’s go, people! AO’s gonna get real hot soon!” Akiyama called out, breaking your gaze and grabbing Lain by one arm while Kiryu grabbed the other.

The smaller girl gave a funny little yelp at this, being unceremoniously picked up and thrown into the VTOL aircraft, much to Ogawa’s amusement.

You’re… not quite in the joking mood, as you hop into the aircraft, noting a nod of acknowledgement from Kiryu as you take a seat near the exit - as far from Lain as possible.

The aircraft quickly lifts off, seemingly quite blasé about the incoming RPG and machine-gun fire. As the complex and salt lake begin to shrink into the horizon from behind your tinted glass window, Akiyama waves to the group.

“Hey-ho! Just gonna call something in. I’d suggest averting your gaze from the windows for juuust a moment!”

…

Somewhere in the Red Sea. North of Socotra.

“That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear.”

“Receiving authentication code…”

“Authentication: 6 dash 7 dash 4 dash 2 dash 5. Authenticate?”

“Code authenticated. Read as Crimson. Authenticate?”

“Authentication confirmed. God is with us, and she will not be as merciful as we are.”

…

“Three, two, one - impact, now!” Akiyama shouted, right as—

The sky fell.

Lights, shattering, stars falling one by one in a crescendo of colours burning the backs of your eyes, even trying to not look directly out the window.

You’re forced to turn and look, both out of curiosity, and because it seemed pointless since it was so bright anyways.

Hundreds - no, thousands, of burning lights showered down on the distant salt lake. Dark red, like drops of blood in the shower (only far, far swifter), each one coursing through the sky with a sound akin to thunder, making impact and liquifying wherever it hit. The cloudy sky you had fallen from merely hours ago was physically disrupted by the waterfall of blood-red artillery fire.

If you could call… that… artillery. You’d heard reports about the end of your war, a great calamity befalling Elbrus leaving naught but a smoking crater… but this felt even worse than that. Like a dragon had been woken from a slumber, fire beating from it’s ancient chest for the first time in millennia.

What had Akiyama used…?

“Ya-hoooo!! Now THAT’S fuckin’ awesome!” The girl herself screamed aloud, practically wiggling behind her seatbelt. “Fuckin’ hideous, so wonderful and beautiful!”

…maybe now wasn’t the time.

“Ah, Akiyama, Admiral-Sir. You wanted an explanation of—” Ogawa began, before being bluntly shushed by Kiryu.

“Hush. Let her have her fun.” Kiryu spoke cockily, seemingly enjoying her former Boss’s little moment.

You wonder how Lain was rea—

Oh, Gods. She’s still looking at you.

…

The quadcopter finished it’s final approach, landing softly and quietly on the helipad of the skyscraper.

It’d taken a few hours - and one rather excitable Admiral - to reach the place that Akiyama was apparently ordered to bring Lain for extraction. Not exactly the most close point to the AO, but you’re sure Command has it’s reasons.

The large metal tower was a newer development in the older city of Tébessa, near the Borma Exclusion Zone, and decidedly out of place amongst the far more proper-looking and even Ancient architecture.

All for the sake of ‘progress’, as always, in Syrakhanistan.

Her pet project - and, speaking of Her…

A sight you weren’t sure you’d ever see again struck you as the leaders of the squad began to leave the aircraft (you and Ogawa were on maintenance duty, as well as checking on the pilot) . In the corner of your eye, you saw a single pale-haired woman was relaxing against a wall near the entrance of the helipad, uncharacteristically content as appearances go.

Quite the contrast from the immediate salutes from Colonel and Admiral alike…

…and the sprinting running hug from Iwakura.

“H-hey! Iwakura-san, it hasn’t been that long…!” The First, Warmaster Hazuki, laughed warmly in response to the gratitude from Lain.

“Hazuki-chan~! It’s always too long to see you, you know!” She responded, a more pleasant grin on her face (as compared to the one from earlier). She let go of Hazuki’s broad shoulders, and gave a more proper - if somewhat mocking - salute.

“…well, as long as you’re happy, then so am I, Iwakura-san.” The First said, a small snort of suppressed laughter coming out near the end, luxurious silver hair moving like waves with each slight motion.

She cleared her throat, and approached the Admiral-Colonel pair. “Akiyama-san, it’s been a while.” She greeted them, shaking the smaller girl’s hand. She looked at the Colonel, smiling: “Ah, and… Colonel Kiryu, right? Is Jyubey still giving you the run-around?”

The Colonel shook her head, not wishing to bring the ire of the loud-mouthed Incubator to bear. “Ah, he’s always good, sir. I’m… honoured you remember me.”

“Naturally! We’re all comrades-in-arms, here.” The Warmaster spoke cordially, smiling. “Speaking of which, weren’t there more of you on the aircraft?”

Akiyama nodded, while Lain’s interest perked up, and the Admiral moved to wave us over, yet—

“Ah, I think they’re busy with work in there right now! My apologies.” The Colonel spoke suddenly, interrupting the Admiral.

The entire helipad seemed to freeze in that moment.

Admiral Torresa’s gaze seemed to rapidly move towards Kiryu, her often comedically happy expression swiftly turning to a far darker look, something like that of a predator finding a lone mouse.

Lain, for her part, simply stopped, blinking a few times. Only the smallest flicker of a scowl brushed against her eyebrows, a mere twitch.

Kiryu, for her part, stood firm. You’re unsure why she’s taking the brunt of this for you - after all, Lain could have already killed you half a dozen times over, and the Warmaster had probably already forgotten about you.

You’re… not even surprised by Ogawa’s reaction.

Finally, Hazuki herself stood there, her hair flowing in the wind. Expression stoic, frozen. A pause, before a blink, and a nod.

“I see. Well, it’s… good for them to attend to their duties. Save the grandstanding for the higher-ups, I suppose. A work-ethic we should all aspire to.” Hazuki broke the silence, one of her hands brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.

The other hand - well, how you hadn’t noticed is odd, but… She didn’t appear to have the other hand. In her entire other arm’s place was a massive metallic thing. A heavy metallic glove or gauntlet of some kind, reflecting a radiant gold in the Tunisian sun, with claws the size of katanas on each finger.

How…? You could have sworn she hadn’t been wearing that when you touched down on the helipad.

“Well! No matter. I trust your judgement on this, Cornelia-san, since they’re your subordinates.” Hazuki spoke with a light chuckle, her clawed hand waving and gesturing gracefully in the air as she spoke, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

Akiyama seemed to have calmed down, expression becoming soft once more, while Lain nodded silently.

“My thanks, Warmaster. It’s been a long day for them, after all. I think a bit of recreational cleaning and boot-polishing is a fine enough reward, rather than chatting niceties with us old folks.” Colonel Kiryu responded, still firmly holding her ground.

+ You owe me for this. + She spoke telepathically to you.

+ I… never asked. + You respond.

+ The fact that you didn’t ask is what makes this even more worrying and favour-requiring, fool… + Kiryu indicated, somehow scowling at you telepathically while keeping a silent straight face.

You nod to nobody in particular, a silent response.

“On that note, I believe the Admiral - ah, I suppose Field Commander is more accurate for the moment - is to debrief you before your return to Jyubey. Myself and Lain will now begin extraction.” Hazuki continued, slowly turning away from Akiyama and Kiryu, alongside the Aircraft, and waving goodbye with her gauntlet-covered arm, while Lain followed suit.

“My personal thanks for all your hard work today. Oh, Lain, do be a dear and say thanks to your rescuers too, eh? Don’t be a stranger, now!” The Warmaster stopped momentarily, giving a warm gesture of thanks and telling Lain to do the same.

“Acknowledgement: my thanks for your assistance this day.” Lain spoke politely, nodding her head, before giving an odd laugh and grabbing the Warmaster’s hand - the Clawed one. This even seemed to surprise Hazuki, who gave a genuine laugh in response to Lain’s affection.

As this occurred, Lain leaned into Hazuki’s ear. You have a talent for reading lips, so you’re surprised when the only thing she says is a single letter:

“W.”

A solemn nod is all Hazuki gives in acknowledgement.

She patted Lain on the head, like one would a dog, before turning once more, waving a human-handed goodbye to the squad, and—

They vanished. No teleportation smoke, no activation signal, nothing. The Warmaster and Lain disappeared, as if never having been there at all.

As you take note of this, you glance around the cabin of the aircraft - and only then do you notice the ever so slight burn mark next to your seat. The smallest, barely noticeable, little thing - but clearly not a bullet hole or from an RPG.

Odd. How deeply odd.

===

ADDENDUM A: Absolution

//

(A month or so later. Aboard the Sixteenth Officio’s Private Military HQ, en route from the Mediterranean to a new heading. Bathroom No. 26, Floor No. 5.)

//

You find yourself washing your hands.

You and your squad had been debriefed and interviewed repeatedly since the Operation’s end. The Field Commander, and the Officio’s own former Warmaster, had apparently been tight-lipped surrounding the operation, initially out of concern for the timeframe involved, but since the Op’s end, she’d merely claimed privilege based on the vague orders from the First Officio, and then proceeded to return to Syrakhanistan and maintained radio silence.

You, Kiryu, and Ogawa attempted to explain the situation - the Witch that had oddly manifested, the Wired Girl who’d been your target, the Glassing of the Salt Lake (something which Jyubey took an EXTREME interest in), and the Warmaster of the First’s curious relationship and reaction to the two other (former) Warmasters.

As per usual, it appeared there was little to no proper communication between Officios, especially between the First Officio and their quote-on-quote ‘equals’ down on Earth. God, the whole process was a bore. Fuck this bureaucratic nonsense.

You don’t know why, but you’ve been waking up earlier and earlier over these past few days since the operation.

“Guilty conscience, perhaps?”

The voice pierces into your head, and you spin rapidly to respond—

“Relaxation: Chill, Mel Anna-san. Eversor of the Sixteenth (although I would disagree with that classification in your case); or perhaps, I would call you Three?” The white-dressed girl tossing her legs side to side from the top of a toilet cubicle spoke, a smirk on her face.

“Asset Iota… Lain Iwakura-sama.” You respond cautiously, bowing your head in respect.

“Just Lain will do, Eversor. No ‘sama’ necessary; my position these days is far more loose and without title, and certainly not worth the courtesy of a Warmaster’s honours.” The girl said, flipping down and landing in a swift motion next to you, right before hopping onto the sink counter.

“…are you here to kill me?” You manage to say, her eyes boring through you.

“Kill you…? Why would I do that?” Lain said. Her voice betrayed what appeared to be genuine curiosity.

You blink a few times, before responding quietly; you know you have to be honest, since she was almost certainly reading your mind. “I… I’m the one responsible for your sister’s demise.”

“…which sister?” Lain responded, cricking her neck with a questioning look.

“Wh-which sister? How many do you have? And how many have DIED?” You reply, somewhat aghast.

“I have several! And how many… Hmm, I dunno. Stopped counting after the second one; only really cared for my first, after all.” Lain spoke, answering each question in quick succession.

You… what? Eh?

“I… I was told that… that she was your youngest sister? Or was it a cousin? Girl with light powers? I was told to avoid others called Iwakura who might seek revenge…” You say diplomatically.

“Oh! Yes. I… barely remember that one. But I know of her; knew of her.” Lain spoke.

She seemed to make a typing action, and what appeared to be some sort of electronic form appeared on the mirrors next to the two of you.

“Let’s see here… Ah, yes, I remember this report! Quite a laugh, actually. KIA ‘in honourable combat’, my ass! Killed by a non-contracted girl using regular human munitions in a one-on-one duel. Disgraceful!” She spoke, a cruel and mocking tone to her words.

She slammed her hands shut, and turned back to you. “However, it certainly reflected well on the killer - I had actually wanted to meet her in person to offer congratulations and perhaps even give her access to an Incubator for contracting, but I was told a certain white-haired demigoddess got to her first.”

She grinned, looking down on you from the counter. “Well! This is a rather good turn of events then, isn’t it? I’d had a hunch when you awoke me that you were somehow related to me by events or some-such, but to think you had Iwakura blood on your hands? Impressive!”

She holds out a hand, smiling.

You’re… deeply puzzled. Concerned, even. You don’t turn down the handshake, mind—

Or, you wouldn’t, if your hand didn’t phase through her hand instantly.

“Eh?” You grunt in bemusement.

“Oh! So that’s how that works!” Lain acts coyly, getting down from the counter.

She walks towards you, and taps the side of your head. Somehow, this does elicit a reaction.

“Yeah, you never went for a full physical check-up after your contract, did you? They sewed your head back on, gave you a touch up, and when you contracted you seemed good as new.” Lain spoke, her finger somehow visibly poking into your eye - painlessly, mind, if rather uncomfortable - from your ear. “However, seems neither you nor they accounted for all your cybernetics that you’d had put in. Cybernetics that have now long since folded into your internal organs, regrowing with magical healing, and essentially being grafted into your biotics.”

You’re not sure how to respond. “So… I’m a Magical Cyborg Girl?”

“Pfft! If you want to call it that, go ahead.” She said, extracting her invasive finger. “Thing is, it allowed me to see you far better than anyone else upon extraction. You’re lit up like a damn Christmas tree to my eyes; so, before we left, I did a little digging of my own.”

Of her own…? Wait—

“Yup - I wasn’t staring aggressively out of any hate or whatever rubbish you thought; I was interfacing with your augments and installing a little something of mine own make.” She spoke cockily. “A little piece of Iwakura is now permanently inside you!”

As if to prove her own point, you watch in horror as one of your own eyes twists in the socket to stare into the mirror, colour changing to match that of Lain’s, blinking, before returning to normal.

“I believe we’re getting distracted.” You manage to say, tearing your gaze away from the cursed vision of yourself.

The illusory Lain claps her hands. “Ah, of course! What I wanted to say if I ever met you, my sister’s killer - was a simple congratulations.” She nods, an impressed look on her face. “A non-contracted individual, even heavily experimented on and trained well, is usually barely a match for a Magical Girl when one faces down dozens, even hundreds - a lone individual killing a Magical Girl in single combat would be laughable to most.”

She gazes into your eyes. “It was a fine kill. You did well, and the Incubators made a good choice in making your contract.”

Even as the words of praise came, all you could feel was an increasing sense of horror. “But… she was your sister…?”

“And? What difference does that make? She was weaker than you, which makes you better than her.” Lain says, smiling. “As I’m sure you’re fully aware by this point in your illustrious career, we live in a world defined by survival of the fittest. The weak die; the strong prevail. I told you myself before - killing is not a good act, but it is through death that people like myself gain more and more. A necessary evil, something I take no pleasure in, but something I recognise as a tool to be used.”

Lain nodded, an illusory hand brushing your cheek in a prideful manner. “You killed one with the Iwakura’s blood, on her home turf while serving as a Marine no less - and without any magical abilities. You are a wonderful, definitive example of my beliefs.”

You gaze back into those eyes, your own horrified expression reflected in them.

“…your thoughts betray your revulsion towards my opinion.” Lain said, seemingly disappointed. “But that’s fine. Given your background, I had somewhat hoped for a kindred spirit, unified in our love for the mechanical and the battlefield… but such is life.”

You shake your head to this. “I may love the thrill of the fight, and I may enjoy the benefits of my augmentations - not least now because my Contracted body lets me use them without any downsides - but I still have respect for familial ties. Those who I once called family were taken from me; those I used to call comrades were butchered, some of whom fell at the hands of those I now find myself allied with. I do not forgive, and I most certainly do not forget - Iwakura-SAMA.”

Lain observed your expression, determined as it was, before harrumphing somewhat dramatically. “You do you then, EVERSOR.”

She began to wave goodbye, before stopping and turning back to you again. “Wait, I completely forgot the whole reason why I wanted to talk to you!”

You pause in your disparaging stare. “Which was…?”

“Twofold. A message and a warning.” Lain said, raising two digital fingers in response. “Your Officio may not know about your unauthorised usage of Astropathic abilities to find the Artificial Witch, but myself and certain others most certainly did.”

“Artificial…? So it was—”

“Yes, yes. Call it a [REDACTED]-special. Even in their little quandary they continue to fight against, they do occasionally fulfil their obligations and tithes.” Lain speaks casually of the abomination you fought. “I deployed it following my… unfortunate capture… to protect my incarcerated remains.”

“How DID you get captured, anyway?” You manage to interject.

Lain waves a hand, while suppressing a giggle with the other. “Classified. But let’s just say it involves a few too many drinks on the wrong train ride, and leave it at that…”

That… doesn’t even remotely explain it.

“Anyways! I could have taken out the insurgents and other combatants myself, but I was without decent transportation - and, frankly, I was feeling a bit bummed out. Lazy, perhaps.” Lain spoke casually.

You flinch a little, suppressing an instant thought of mocking at her lackadaisical attitude, hoping she didn’t take note of your mental admonishment.

“Getting back on track. While I understand that you and your comrade were getting frustrated, you would have figured it out eventually; my humble opinion would disparage your usage, were it not for Ogawa’s clever dispelling of the Door mechanism on my bunker-capsule… and if not for your own other visions within your momentary lapse of judgement. That part in particular I took note of when looking back at your memories through this—” she taps the side of her head “—somewhat disruptive format.”

You recall it vaguely in tandem with Lain. Visions seen while floating atop the waves of the damned dimension of endless energy, searching for an answer to your prediction. Visions of flame and laughter.

“I didn’t report that particular part to any of my own comrades, and I have no doubt you didn’t either.” Lain comes to a stop.

“Why? You can understand why I wouldn’t have done so in a pragmatic sense - but why wouldn’t you?” You bleat out, to which Lain responds with a satisfied nod of acknowledgement.

“Allow me to be frank - something bad is on the horizon. Something related to why I’m seen as such a classified and important asset… something you’ve witnessed even a slice of.” Lain speaks quietly, looking over her shoulders for unseen intruders.

You narrow your gaze in suspicion. “Like what?”

Lain looks back at you. “A Witch the calibre of witch is only seen once every few centuries or so. Something one could accurately call… A Calamity.”

Calamity… What, like from—

“Exactly.” She says, clearly reading your mind. “You witnessed a mere fraction of the hell it brings with it; I’d estimate we have… about a year, given my own calculations.”

“…why are you telling me this?”

“Honestly? To get you to tell others.” Lain spoke frankly. “My humble opinion is only shared by a few others in my, ahem, escalated ranking. Luckily for me, some of the ones that really matter are on my side. But we also don’t want to… how do I say - disrupt the balance?”

You’re… not sure how to interpret that, except as...

“So… you want me to do something?” You work out.

Lain snaps her fingers. “Pretty much. Nothing too drastic, no names, no shouting in a crowded cinema. My people and I will be doing the same with various other inroads, but people on the ground floor - so to speak - tend to help spread bottom-level info faster.”

“So I risk charges of spreading unfounded rumours and getting people riled up at the prospect of a mythical and ancient enemy returning, in return for…?” You ask.

“For keeping your life, dipshit.” Lain snarls back, expression changing on a dime, before switching back to that single horrifying grin you saw back in her bunker. “By all accounts the unauthorised usage of your ability as explicitly banned by your higher ups AND THEIR OWN HIGHER UPS should bring the hammer down on you, no questions asked. Your life continues solely at my, and by extension my allies, convenience and express permission. Should you try anything dumb, like trying to reveal my involvement, or besmirching the good name of the Officios administrative apparatus, or so much as look funny at the wrong Rank Leader, and Most Holy help me, I’ll heat your cybernetics up so hot and so fast the ensuing detonation wouldn’t even leave your ashes for burial.”

You initially flinch, before nodding in understanding. “Honestly… not even surprised.”

Lain laughed at this. “You shouldn’t be! Your little life has gotten pretty used to accepting death as a penalty for misbehaviour, hasn’t it?”

You nod, sadly. “Probably isn’t good for the ol’ noggin though, is it? That type of stress?”

Lain actually groans at this in agreement. “Ugh! You’re telling me; there’ve been petitions for at least some sort of basic Inter-Officio counselling network for DECADES now, let alone actual Magical therapists… Trying to explain the concept of mental health to the Incubators is like trying to squeeze lemonade from an orange. It took us YEARS to even get permission for Inter-Officio Postal Services; hell, the cross-Officio digital communications system is still barely functional…”

You giggle at this, a moment of brevity in the dark. “Not so inhuman then after all…?”

Lain scoffs. “Don’t be silly; it’s just all too inefficient for Mahou Shoujo to be blowing their brains out instead of dying in battle or Witching out properly. Efficient oiling of the cogs of bureaucracy was indeed the thing that finally got the Incubators to give us what little healthcare they do provide…”

You laugh again at this.

“…But we digress. My request is simple: spread rumours of an apocalyptic disaster being relatively imminent. Back it up with vague hints of prophecy; a bit of Blessed Lady spice never hurt anyone - and in this case will probably do the opposite.” Lain nods, satisfied with how the conversation was progressing. “I can’t offer solid rewards currently, so it might seem like I’m offering all stick and no carrot, but allow me to promise you that having me in your good books will bring you benefits at some point along the line… If you live that long, mind.”

You nod, performing a mock salute. “I accept your orders, Iwakura-san.”

Iwakura chuckles, lightly tapping your shoulder with a friendly (if incorporeal) nudge. “Hey, you’re just as much Iwakura material as any of my cohort these days, especially with the amount of firmware I put into you.”

“Speaking of which,” Lain continues, “you’ll probably sleep better now. Sorry - my interference in your head was probably what was ACTUALLY keeping you up.”

You’d surmised as much. “Lain-san, I’m assuming that whole spiel was the warning part - but what was your message?”

Lain smiled. “Oh, that one’s more simple. Your benefactor just wanted me to let you know, ahem…”

She cleared her throat, before putting on a decent impression of a certain woman’s imperious and impenetrable demeanour.

“‘You’re not too subtle, are you? Keep at it - we’ll have a chance to talk without interference one of these days.’, is what she said. Presumably in reference to your little ‘hiding and cleaning’ routine you did on the helipad.”

You remember it well. She continues:

“Seriously, you and your boss were lucky Akiyama-chan didn’t blow a damn gasket. She gets REALLY annoyed at people disrupting her dramatic moments; she wanted to reveal you and Ogawa, the stars of the hour, all dramatic-like - but Cornelia-san trod all over her neat little plan.” Lain rattled off in an almost list-like manner.

“Apparently she wasn’t always like that…” You murmur, mostly to yourself. Lain catches on, and nods.

“Yeah… anyways; suffice to say, everyone most definitely DID notice you and Ogawa’s little schtick, but only Akiyama was really frustrated. The Warmaster of the First was mostly just saddened she didn’t get to chat to you for the first time since your little fateful encounter - and she also wanted to personally praise Ogawa for that neat little trick. Even implied to me later that there’s a promotion in the works for that quick-thinking…”

Lain’s train of thought trails off, as she seems to tap her chin while thinking aloud.

“Ah! Anyways, I’m keeping you too long. Don’t want any of your new friends thinking you’re any more loony than you actually are, right?” Lain cackled. “Just remember - spread the word of the End Times, know that both myself and your Guardian Angel stroke mysterious benefactor are still in your corner, and that we WILL blow your head up into little pieces if you fuck up.”

You nod graciously. “I’m… aware, Iwakura-sam.”

As Lain motions to ‘leave’ (a superfluous action given her digital state), you hold up a hand. “Also… for what it’s worth…” You begin. “I might not agree with your motivations, but I am thankful that you’re not full of wrath at my killing of your sister. I make no apology nor request for absolution - but you still have my condolences none the less.”

Lain shrugged. “Think nothing of it; I already consider the matter closed - and besides, this is more a case of recycling!”

You cock your head in bemusement as Lain chuckles.

“I’ll make an Iwakura out of you yet, Three-chan~” The girl sing-songs mockingly, before throwing herself into the sink’s mirror and vanishing into a puff of smoke.

You say, as if she’s not still actively in your head.

How odd.

===

//

ADDENDUM B: Sleepwalker

//

(Personal log. Dated only a few days after the operation. Location confirmed to be government black-site Project Sleepwalker, near Dyvasyab in the proximity of the Damavand Volanic Power Facility.)

//

The Fourth Officio always did share Quartus’ flare for the dramatic.

Those were your first thoughts as you descended once more to Terra, this time by the more traditional route that singed your senses with the stench of burned ozone and fried synapses. As much as you’d ‘prefer’ (something you hesitate to think, given that your little trick certainly had caveats) to take your personal shortcut over this stomach-churning and blunt method of transmission…

There was a certain formality necessary for things like this. And besides - the Fourth, and Iwakura-san, DID seem particularly proud of it’s seeming impenetrable nature. You wouldn't want to insult their fine work by demonstrating how easily someone with your calibre of training could find a way in.

You find yourself thrown through the Immaterium from the cold comfort of Luna into a machine-like but beautifully decorated interior, golden mechanical cogs twisting and turning inside tubes of clear shining crystal, a marble floor encrusted with gems glowing and humming with electrical currents.

“WELCOME, [GUEST]. IDENTIFY IF YOU PLEASE OR RISK INSTANT OBLITERATION.” A tannoy declared loudly, if politely.

“Authorisation Override Code: Mike-Iota-Kilo-Alpha-One.” You respond with well-rehearsed diction.

“OVERRIDE CODE CONFIRMED. GUEST VISIT: DELETED. WELCOME, #*#^',^*#*^[#**#^}”, the tannoy responded, the last segment being static-filled gibberish.

Rules were rules, after all. The Warmaster of the First Officio never left Luna except in the most dire circumstances, or with express Incubator permission - something which was increasingly difficult to get a hold of. Officially, you were currently currently performing routine maintenance as part of ceremonial training - unofficially, everyone was covering for you while you took a moment of respite. Extra unofficially, your Equerry was covering for you while you investigated a particularly concerning report from an old friend.

“W.”, she had said. That single letter still sent shivers down your spine. Even the strongest of soldiers should never forget their sense of fear; even you could still hold respect for the Witch of Witches from yore.

However, it was the small gesture as she held your hand prior to activation of the Shortcut, the few taps of Morse Code onto your grasp, that brought you down to Terra on this most unpleasant of days.

You move through a basic foyer (basic by Fourth standards - so gold, jewelled, and absolutely plastered with wiring and metal cogs), ignoring the occasional look from menials and servo-bots alike, and press a hand (the correct hand, that is) to a panel next to a flat plane of glass. A whirring motion occurs, indicating yet another identity scan - yet another thing to scrub from the records - before the glass slides open with a soft whumph, revealing a solid silver tube with only a single glass sheet as a door-stroke-window. An elevator.

You begin your descent. Several hundred metres underground, beneath dirt, beneath an active volcano, beneath DOZENS levels of dense tungsten, steel, and Most-Holy-knows what other protective materials. It had been worth the cost to build this surveillance black-site, for several rather pressing reasons. National security for your little pet project of an empire-slash-abomination, international decryption protocols, backups of all digital data across 200-odd nations... Even the Incubators from all Twenty-

Wait, no. You forget yourself... Not Twenty anymore. Eighteen? Or was it Seventeen, following the Ninth's little war?

Either way, the whole Officio system had their own little chunk of processing power for itself in this towering feat of engineering, the Fourth more than any other (mostly since your own First didn't exactly need the extra space, given how deep Luna's pockets continued to go)... And, of course, the girl it was all hooked-up to held the lion's share. The girl who other nations' interference seemed to indicate an actual artificial intelligence planning the economy and suggesting national policy - a rumour you'd allowed to run rampant and even leaned into, since the alternative was perhaps even worse.

As the elevator descended further and further in, the glass revealed floor after floor of massive server farms; all humming ominously, chittering away to one another in binary. Servers of every kind; military-grade, prototype cloud storage, supercomputers, quantum computers, even an entire floor dedicated to experimental biological interfaces (live subjects included). An endless chasm of machines, all bending to that girl’s will, her every beck and call.

She deserved it, honestly. She'd... She was a good one; a miserable existence, rumoured to be a near-deity for those who spent too long on certain sites, and certainly an object of impressive praise. The only known Mahou Shoujo to have contracted with an Incubator over the Internet rather than in person - to rather obvious and extreme effect, such so that policy henceforth changed to ban it outright.

The elevator reaches it's final destination, glass sheet flowing open to reveal a dark grey corridor, filled with wires, plugs, random open digital interfaces...

You tread carefully through to the simple wooden entrance at the end, making a mental note to lightly disparage Lain for this firehazard accident waiting to happen.

The plain wooden doors swung open with the slightest push, revealing what appeared to be a simple garden full of trees, plants and flowers; a greenhouse, with the occasional flutter of butterflies.

Iwakura-san, Lain, still liked to pretend to be human. Even just a little.

Flesh wires, like a flower, or perhaps a wedding dress, all flowing out from behind her. Slowly but surely, she turned around to face you, making sure none of her wires damaged her precious little slice of Eden down beneath the machines.

"Thank you for coming, Warmaster-sama." Lain bowed - or, at least, made the attempt. The heavy weight of machines plugged into her made it somewhat difficult.

"Please, Lain-chan. Hazuki is fine. I think we're beyond the point of formalities, no?" You sigh breathlessly, exaggerated for effect, to which Lain responds with a light chuckle. "So, Lain. We have a few avenues for discussion, I believe?"

Lain nodded, motioning towards another set of doors - this one far more ornate and heavyset. "First, I should probably apologise for that whole mess."

"Nonsense! It made for a good training exercise for the knuckle-draggers; it also helped to visually demonstrate to Itchy the usefulness of the National project and the CONTACT Act." You laugh the concern aside. "However, I would like at least a summary explanation as to how you found yourself on the salty remains of Lake T'Chad?"

"Ah, that's... a funny story." She begins. 'A funny story that cost quite a few lives, you think to yourself'; the inefficiency of the operation still irked you, not the least because of Lain's admittedly understandable lax attitude. "I had been stationed within my mobile command centre--"

[SECTION CORRUPTED - CONTINUING FROM NEXT AVAILABLE SEGMENT]

"--explain the caterpillar farm...?" You respond, exasperated. She shrugs at this, a cheeky grin on her face.

The massive security tunnel finally ended, and the two of you exited the travelator, as the massive gates to Lain's digital sanctuary swung open.

The core of Project Sleepwalker - the culimation of humanity's surveillance technology and a monument to security paranoia - was a near-endless vacuum-sealed silo, stretching into the abyss from above as below. Lain's personal equipment slid into several interfaces automatically, practically autonomously, as the mechanism surrounding the small shelter she'd built herself came to life.

Lain's 'house', as she liked to call it, consisted of a single elevated metal platform with a small fridge, a flat but comfy futon, a worn-out wardrobe, and a central column connected to both ends of the Sleepwalker silo. The platform (essentially an elevator inside the world's largest elevator shaft) activated the entire system, the silo coming to life with a surprisingly quiet hum, lighting up from every corner with tens of thousands of digital screens.

You both knew what this was. The Panopticon of Jeremy Bentham had reached the apex of it's limits, and the world had become the inmates. Every single digital camera, every single internet-connected device, cell tower, CCTV, basic flip-phone, text message, radio broadcast... all of it accessible with a few button presses.

Lain rested her back against the central pillar, connected her final set of modems up, and the mechanical shelter began to descend as she commenced her search.

"Which news would you like first?" She spoke aloud, ignoring the cacophony of gears and digital interference.

"The bad news, preferably?" You respond. Peel the whole 'Laughing Apocalypse' plaster off before it begins to rot.

"Oki-dokey!" Lain says, lifting an arm to swing herself around, the platform following suit. The lift slowed to a halt, allowing it to face a particularly unusual set of screens. Numbers and symbols of long-forgotten languages scrolled by endlessly.

"The predictive technology of Sleepwalker, part of which had been involved in my little adventure, managed to hit a particularly juicy vein of intel. Bit weird, bit odd, bit bulky, but certainly juicy." She explains, fingers reaching out to brush against the screens, touching the occasional Witch-rune. Patterns began to be highlighted.

"Where is this all coming from?" You query. She sighs. "Surprisingly easy to access, but rather straining to understand... It's predominantly accessing and reviewing a rather select array of weather and radiostropic reports, including archived sources without digital versions that required extra interference. I combined this with our own Astropathic and Orbital equipment scanning for certain repeating signals, different waves, occasional spots of, to be frank, WEIRDNESS - all while attempting to seperate any possible interruption spreading from the Egg that could disrupt the results of my scans, and while avoiding other Officio suspicions, particularly those with Akashic Gates that I had to access or study." She finishes her arm-waving movements, and brings together a single pile of results onto one of the screens. A mass of migraine-inducing runes, all slowly being auto-translated.

"While this is obviously subject to... interpretation... Your command has born fruit. The analysis seems to indicate that within a year or two, the ancient Stage-Constructing Witch, Walpurgisnacht, the Laughing Apocalypse, is returning from a centuries-long slumber in the Akashic Realm. Where, I cannot say - rather concerningly, I'm getting results as far afield as Australia, the Antarctic, even one or two suggesting a spawn on Mars of all places." She declared with equal measures pride and horror. "If it's any consolation, most of the other searches you requested of me didn't come up with the same results; and most of the ones that DID are either accounted for (Luna), contained (Paris), or eliminated throughout history prior to your promotion."

"Walpurgisnacht..." You sound out to yourself. A terrifying prospect.

To you, even more than most.

However, her change in tone with the last few statements caught your interest. "Most... but not all?" You ask.

Lain nodded from behind her computer. "Yes. That's the other news - good news... maybe. I'm STILL not quite sure I understand your request, but... Well, it's better to show you."

A few taps of buttons, and the shelter-lift was moving once more, rising rapidly, up and up, until it reached another set of screens - these ones more obviously CCTV footage.

"As my little message to you tapped out..." Lain began, as you stared at the screens.

You... stared. There was no mistake.

'The Sleepwalker has Awoken'. The code Lain had tapped to you.

Your left eye quivers, squints a bit. A nervous reaction.

You clench a single metallic fist.

And--

You let go. Just for a millisecond.

That's all you could allow. It rapidly flows, inwards and outwards; the cacophony of electricity briefly went silent in response, the silo going dark for a small moment. Inside Lain's fridge, what sounded like a soda can popped.

You breathe in, and out. Lain manages to unplug herself, and stands to look at you. "Hazu... Hazuki? Warmaster? Are you... alr--"

"I am fine, Lain. Apologies... You've had a lot on your plate, particularly from me." You whisper calmly, delicately. Your words as honey, your actions as sublime gestures of goodwill.

"I... Yes, I have." She responds robotically, frozen like a statue.

"Thank you for your work. Unfortunately, this particular find didn't turn out to be anything significant." You explain slowly.

"No, it didn't. Shall I delete it, since it was so irrelevant?" She answers.

"No need, Lain. There's nothing there anyway - just some boring CCTV footage. No need for alarm." You state.

"Of course. It'll go with the rest, since there's nothing of interest there." She accepts your request, sweeping it aside lethargically.

You return to your regular demeanour. "Thanks for all that, Lain! Your predictions for Walpurgisnacht may well save thousands, if not more, of lives."

"What... Wal- Oh, yes! Thank you, Hazuki. I honestly couldn't have done it without your input, based on your reviews of the historical archives." Lain chatters, back to her usual self.

"I will bring what data you have on Walpurgisnacht back up to Luna with me; be sure to respond if and when I ask over the coming days. We have a lot to discuss." You smile, before turning away from her, putting a single hand through your hair absentmindedly.

"Of course. The First Prevails, always!" Lain cheers you on. "And only in death..."

"...does duty end. I'll be on my way - could you help me find the exit?" You respond.

...

Lain waves at you from behind the elevator's glass doors, as they smoothly close up.

The elevator begins to ascend, and you take a breath for a moment, before moving your--

[SECTION CORRUPTED - CONTINUING FROM NEXT AVAILABLE SEGMENT]

--found yourself in your Earth-bound Government Council Chambers, high above the busy skies of Neo-Kirkukihara. You lie back into your designated "Supreme Leader" chair with a soft and comfortable flop. You were glad you'd found this nice design and had it imported a while back.

It was ever so comfortable on your back, especially when the weight of the world found itself resting on your shoulders.

You suppress a laugh at the absurdity of it all. The mockery.

Fucking fantastic. Just fucking amazing.

As you flick open your battered old flip-phone, the one reserved for a few singular purposes, you find yourself unable to see the humour in the situation. Indeed, you could barely see the phone or the keypad behind the flashes of those single CCTV screens of something, someONE, that you never wished to see again. Thought would never come through. Or... You don't even...

And as you begin to type out a few small texts to an even smaller number of contacts, the only thing you do feel is an utterly horrifying sense of dread. A sense of genuine paranoia.

A feeling of pure, unadulterated rage, hate, and - most of all - malice.

An emotion of unbridled, twisted and cruel vehemence that could only be described accurately in a single word:

'Evil'.

[syrakhanistan]

Operation: Iron Barrel

[Local Central Syrakhanistani News Report, broadcasting from outside the city limits of Neo-Kirkukihara, roughly 30km from Old Kirkuk/Government Citadel and 2km from the edge of the Metropolitan Zone; circa 201X.]

“As you can see, we’re here at the site of the attempted terrorist attack just outside the city limits of Neo-Kirkukihara, the hijacked train having been spotted in Baghdad - reportedly after being transported all the way from the Southern Iranian regions. Our brave Vigiles and Marines co-operated to take down the vicious rebels who would bring harm to our glorious nation, with very fe— With no casualties! It is unknown at this time what the terrorists planned to use the train for; rumours of a nuclear or biological device are likely false. Do not panic, citizens - you are safe, as always! For our next top story…”

===

===

Mission Report:

Mission Status: EXECUTED - SUCCESS

Mission Name: Operation Iron Barrel

Mission Objective(s): Emergency Operation:

- Prevent or Delay Terrorist Attack on Neo-Kirkukihara

— Terrorists identified as likely members of Special Designated Organisation P-1: Intelligence Request via O9 Received and Acknowledged

- Gather Information on P-1

- Prevent Detonation of Unconfirmed, but likely, Parallel-Linked SG-Class Weapon via Nuclear Activation

- Attempt to ensure Safety and Security of Civilians and the City

- Attempt to Stop Locomotive from entering city limits

Mission Participants:

- Vigiles Kirkuk, 1st-5th Squads

- Vigiles Baghdad, 4th Squad

- Imperial Marines:

— S-O16, four officers (2x Ev, 1x V, 1x Ca)

— S-O20, two officers (2x Ca)

— S-O12, one officer (1x Ev)

— O14, three officers (Team was on holiday (“performing ceremonies for the Officio”) in Baghdad, before being called in for backup - 2x Ev, 1x V)

— [REDACTED], tactical oversight

===

[Personal recollections of Eversor [REDACTED], member of the [REDACTED] Officio on loan within the Surrogate System: “With regards to that one train mission…”]

===

Fucking hell, the chopper was loud.

Your team was circling overhead a train station on the outskirts of Baghdad. A cargo freight train had parked unscheduled at the nearly-unmanned station, so one of the few members of staff in the building had called it in - only to be swiftly silenced.

Members of the Vigiles Baghdad began to investigate, only to quickly find themselves under fire. A protracted gun battle had begun, while a small contingent of members from the Fourteenth Officio - apparently they’d been performing some sort of ritual in the city related to The Faith - had managed to get on board the train; alongside a pair of Callidus agents on loan from the Twentieth.

Given the now smoking ruin of the train station (alongside a small portion of the suburban area; nearby, a fires station crew was desperately trying to put out the flames of a centuries-old mosque), the large number of dead police officers, and the flashes of magic that pulsated in bursts around the area - you’d say things had escalated.

“We’ve confirmed at least twenty hostages on board the train, as of the cargo freighter’s staff logs. Unknown number of combatants; likely at least ten, likely all magical girls.” The intel crackles in over your headset; an unfamiliar voice, likely a higher-up in the Vigiles with proper clearance.

Your team nods in unison. You don’t know which Officio was dumb enough to try something like rob or attack an affiliate of the [REDACTED] - even The Thugs were usually brighter than that - but they were in for a world of hurt.

Standard liquidation op, then.

As your team and you began to lock and load, switching from fatigues to your uniforms in the blink of an eye (standard redaction protocols were practically universal when deployed in Syrakhanistan, so no need to worry about breaking any rules), another voice begins to crackle over the radio - this one more rough, accented; Japanese, you think.

“Heretics, all. In allegiance with the foul enemy.” The voice spits with a spiteful tone. “You will be christened in flames, as She wills it, for being in partnership with the Devil.”

Devil? Enemy? The combatants had hacked your comms, or something; and they sounded like they were a few berries short of a fruitcake.

Another voice. Italian? Must be the Fourteenth. Somehow, the words that come out were more unusual than the lunatic spiel of the last speaker.

“I CONFIRM— REPEAT, CON— WARHEAD — NUCL— LINKED TO— GEM—“ The words crackle out, filled with static.

Nuclear… gem? You look at your squad mates; all of you look begin to look equal parts curious yet concerned.

As you look out the window, you see the train beginning to slowly move.

“Shit, prepare for deployment.” Your boss growls into the chopper’s headphones from the cockpit.

The chopper’s ramp began to open, a bluster of wind meeting your faces, giving you a better view of the now speeding-up train.

“COME IN, CONFIRM.” The Italian voice again. The enemy’s cackling now audible in the background.

“WE HAVE CONFIRMED A NUCLEAR WARHEAD ATTACHED TO A NUMBER OF MAGICAL GIRLS’ SOUL GEMS. I REPEAT, PARALLEL-LINKED SOUL GEM NUKE INBOUND.”

You feel a chill, instinctual reaction acting as premonition. Nukes, sure, you can get - but attaching them to Soul Gems? What would that do, besides desecrate their—

Oh. You forget… just how powerful a single Soul Gem can theoretically be.

Your thought process is interrupted by a magical blast whizzing past the chopper’s blades.

“GO GO GO!” The boss shouts. You all oblige, as you see her unplug her own seatbelt to follow you shortly.

Unfortunately for her, it appears as thought not all of her did. Another round hits the chopper just as you all jump; the pilot is likely killed instantly, while your boss is practically vaporised - a single leg, and a Soul Gem, just managing to escape. On instinct alone, you grab the gem, letting the leg drift away through the air.

You’re now in charge, you suppose.

“This is Eversor [REDACTED]. The Lieutenant-Major has been body-killed; SG recovered successfully. I am taking command of the S-O16 Squad effective immiediately.” You say into the comms. You’re not sure if there’s a specific channel you had to choose, so you had to do an open channel announcement.

Your friends mid-air nod; no point worrying too much about the boss, so long as her Soul Gem was alright.

“Standby, Eversor [REDACTED]… Acknowledged. Your temporary callsign is Nexus-1. Switch to Comms Channel 143-AR for your boss’s intel brief, over.” The commanding voice from earlier says.

You switch comms, as your team begins to float towards the back carriage of the rapidly-accelerating train.

“This is Nexus-1, reporting. The mission target has begun to move; we are approaching it from behind. Over.” You say, hoping the wind isn’t too loud.

“This is Inquisitor [REDACTED], working with the Vigiles Kirkuk on behalf of the [REDACTED]. Operation Callsign is Metro-1; feel free to call me Kirkuk Actual if you want.” The commander responded coolly.

“Acknowledged. So, what can you tell me? Over.” You say, while avoiding a stray pigeon and several bursts of enemy fire.

“Not as much as I’d like to, unfortunately. We’re still gathering intel; for now, consider the enemy as hostiles to be liquidated at all costs. Of course, if you can get a girl alive, that would be grand - but, since they’ve likely got Eversors, well…” Metro-1 pauses slightly.

Oh, you’re well aware. You’re trained yourself as good as any fine Eversor in the art of ‘dying well’.

“…We don’t know if any civilians on board are hostages, or active participants. Use force where deemed necessary on uncertain targets; application is left to you.” They continue.

“Not much to go on, but we’ll try our best. If we find any intel, we’ll report back to you; hopefully you’ll do the same for us on your end. Over and out.” You say, wrapping the sentence up, as your squad began the final descent.

“Acknowledged. Godspeed, and may the Blessed Lady be with you all. Over.” The commander finishes, signing off.

Liquidation of enemies on a moving locomotive. Magical girl enemy presence. Likely nuclear-magical weapon on board.

So, a regular weekend, then.

You grin under your helmet as the squad hits the deck running, immediately coming under fire from a hastily assembled machine-gun nest and two masked magical girls.

As you steady yourself, weaving to and fro, you’re coming to realise that the train is still accelerating. It’s a freight train, right? Even if it IS fancy future tech, magnetic whatever it’s called. Enemy must have modified it.

One of your squadmates - [REDACTED], ‘Nexus-2’ - propelled herself right into the MG-nest with a cackle, ripping it (and one of the enemy) clean in half with a solid kick. Another, Nexus-3, laid down covering fire from behind, where she was safest, while the newest edition to this motley crew, Nexus-4, moved swiftly from side to side, feeding intel softly through your headset, with what were likely flashes of blinding light for the enemy weaving in and out from between barrels.

Bloody Callidus… can’t get their hands dirty until they’re in juuuust the right spot for the quick kill. At least Vindicares knew to just open fire when necessary.

You find yourself within reach of the final girl on this carriage, and with an instinctive growl, you thrust your arm out, breaking her own with a sickening crunch and twisting it right off. You grab her by the lapel of her uniform, until you notice her maniacal grin.

She wouldn’t—

You act in the moment, ignoring the glow now emanating from her chest-based Soul Gem, and toss her as far as you could throw her away from the train.

Within mere seconds, a screaming fire detonates, scorching the air around where the girl had been in a sphere of pure energy.

“Woah…” The Callidus, Nexus-4, muttered under her breath.

“First time seeing suicide bombers, newbie?” Nexus-2 grunted over comms to her, as she bounded up to your side.

“Fuckin’ hate ‘em myself…” You respond out loud. “There’s a difference between dying with a fight in your lungs the good old fashioned way, and just giving up and blowing everything away just because you’re a sore loser…”

“Or a fanatic, perhaps.” Nexus-3 speaks quietly, folding an assault rifle away into a hidden space as she came up from behind.

You snort. “Which is worse, eh? Assholes who can’t take a loss, or nutters who’ll die for some stupid cause?”

Nexus-3 shakes her head. “Oversimplifying a little, perhaps. Yet—“

Nexus-2 laughs, clapping Nexus-3 on the shoulder. “Same shit, different names if you ask me. Both of them just easier to kill than to argue morals with.”

Nexus-4 sidles up with the rest of you, getting ready to breach into the next compartment. “…so long as I get paid, it doesn’t matter to me.”

…too right.

You send a surge of energy through the door, melting it within seconds, and pounce through the gap, the squad following suit.

As you continue fighting, you hit up the comms again to Metro-1. “Kirkuk Actual, don’t know if the other teams have informed you yet, but the enemy magical girls appear to likely all be suicide bombers. Over.”

“Acknowledged, Nexus-1. Fanatics, then… Hmm. Hold the line, I’ll see if any of our Intel team have any theories yet. Over.” Kirkuk Actual speaks slowly, as if having a brainwave, while you punt an enemy mundane through a window.

Nexus-2 mutters something vulgar as she fights another magical girl, before grabbing her and similarly throwing her out of the train, a flicker expanding into a spark and then an explosion just outside announcing another death.

The Callidus pops out next to a set of boxes, holding a shivering woman in what appeared to be construction worker fatigues up by the collar. “Got a live one.” She grunt, tossing her to you before throwing herself back into the fray.

You catch the terrified woman in your arms, and more calmly place her down. You’re an Eversor - but you still have your manners with you, even if one of these days your instincts will likely get the better of you.

You’re hoping the Imperial Marines of this odd country were as efficient in clearing memories and secrets as you’d been informed; you don’t want a breach of contract on your mind if she is a civilian.

“So… Civvy? You don’t smell like a killer.” You speak softly - well, as calm as soft as you can in the middle of an active battle on a speeding train.

“Kamak! To ki npasti? Bah man sadameh nazan!” She screams, sobbing away in an unknown dialect.

You huff, before speaking into your headset to your squad. “Any of you got translation tech on you?”

“Nah.” “Nope.” “Sorry, still haven’t got it installed…”

You sigh, before switching back to the commander’s channel. “Kirkuk Actual, this is Nexus-1. We’ve captured someone - seems like a civilian, most likely. None of us speak her language, though.”

“Copy that. Get her to say something into your mic, we’ll get you a translator.” The Commander mutters back, seemingly distracted.

You cough, nodding at the civilian. She cocks her head, tears still falling from her eyes, confused and terrified. You roll your eyes, and grab her - as softly as you can - and put her mouth next to your microphone.

“Man cpehich kari nakardeh am! lotfa bavar kon!” The woman speaks once more, shaking rapidly.

“Hold on…” Your comms speaks back, before presumably switching to the woman’s language. “lotfa aram bashid; shma dar dastan aman npastid in dolat est. Ma inja npastim ta shma ra najat dehim.”

The woman blinks a few times, coughs, then nods in recognition.

“Persian; Farsi, to be more accurate. Long way from home, mind; you guys are quite a few miles away from any of the Iranian Regions… I’ll allow a auto-translater between the two of you.” The commander pauses, while a soft spoken woman is heard clearing her throat.

“<Hello. Please remain calm; this situation is rather tense for all of us, so let’s all be friends.>” The translator says for you.

“<I… I’ll try. I swear, I’ve done nothing wrong, I just want to live—>” The civilian speaks in bursts, the translator quickly confirming.

“<I know you want to live; but please, you must help us understand.>” You speak slowly, carefully - but remaining tense, commanding even, the translator doing well at conveying the emotions. You nod at the others who’d finished up with the other enemies in this carriage; the noises of battle still continuing outside.

“<Understand… understand what?>” The woman speaks slowly.

“<First - why is a citizen of the Iranian Autonomous regions near Baghdad without clearance?>” The commander intones through the translator, speaking before you have the chance.

“<W-what? Baghdad? I, I don’t know, I was attending to repairs in Bushehr! I know it started moving, we were attacked… These fancy trains, they don’t fix themselves…>” The civilian says, a tone of confusion now pouring through.

“Bushehr?” You say over the comms. “Port city in the southern Iranian regions; used to be even bigger prior to Safaniyah, but it’s still a decent trade hub. Long, LONG way from here, though. I’ll see if there’s any incidents reported there.” The commander responds quickly.

You decide to continue the interrogation. “<Well, you started in Bashehr - you’re now near Baghdad, on a train full of terrorists, rapidly approaching the capital. What gives? Can you tell me what happened? Anything at all.>”

“<We, I… We were performing routine maintenance and repairs in Bushehr for the freight line. I remember, a flash maybe? Only came to a few hours ago… People with guns, and these scary women, told us to stay quiet and stay put. They… one of them, they put a single hand on one of my co-workers… They… Their arm…>” She begins to stutter, tears returning.

“<Calm, now. I need you to tell me - the train stopped about an hour ago, just outside Baghdad: do you know why? The only reason we’ve found you was because the train stopped.>” You continue.

“<I… We couldn’t move much, and I don’t know what language they were speaking. They were… praying, a lot? I think? Some of them got out, smiling weird. There was something outside… They were moving something, I think?>” She tried to explain, stumbling over her words. The translator ended with a sympathetic sigh.

Moving something… the weapon, maybe?

“So they moved—” You begin to speak to the commander, when you’re interrupted by a hail of energy from the front of the carriage.

New enemies. You chuck the civilian to the floor, behind a pile of loose boxes, while rolling out of the way of the enemy fire. You pull out a hand-cannon and fire back, your squadmates already on the move.

One magical girl, firing from behind - Vindicare, perhaps - while four assailants (likely mundanes, from the looks?) attacked along a small firing line with rifles and shotguns.

You turn your head, nod to the civilian, a grin growing on your face. You see the red reflection of your eyes in a broken mirror, a monster coming out of the shell.

You laugh as you jump clean over the firing line of the enemy. The Vindicare doesn’t even have a chance to react as you tear her Soul Gem off her lapel on her jacket, tossing it backwards into the carriage, away from her body, before knocking her unconscious with a decisive move. The soldiers, confused in the briefest of moments, are not left with such mercy; the propulsion of your kick-launch knocking two right through the windows, one of your arms cutting through the head of the third, and going directly through the body of the fourth.

You land with a soft thunk, the debris from your strike following you in what felt like slow motion. You catch the unconscious enemy magical girl in your arms, swiftly breaking her knees and elbows with deft strikes.

You stand, the enemy’s crippled body stuck underneath your arm, turning back to your team. “No more dead squad-mates. T’was bad enough losing the Lieutenant-Major in such an embarrassing way - I can almost feel her Soul Gem in my pocket weeping at missing out on the action. So no more deaths - bodily or otherwise.”

They nod in unison, although the Callidus is kneeling down to grab the Soul Gem you’d thrown. You grin once more. “Well, no more on OUR side, mind.”

You motion them through into the next carriage, before looking to the shaking civilian you’d left behind. “We’re going on ahead; we’ll cut this section loose - just wait for rescue, you should be clear.”

You wave a cynical goodbye, shutting the door behind you. Hopping between the carriages, you apply just a little pressure to the connecting hook between the carriages, letting the back portion of the train that your team had cleared off the rest, to slowly drift and slow.

Their police can clear up the rest.

You shut the door, and toss the enemy Vindicare into a small cabin area - workers’ kitchen, maybe? On a freight train… Odd. Your Callidus nods, gripping the enemy’s soul in their hand, walking away to just at the edge of your vision. There’s a motion, presumably Nexus-4 waking the enemy’s crystallised essence up, and the Vindicare gasps, before shrieking in pain, her nerve endings presumably suddenly finding themselves rather uncomfortable in the arms and legs.

Despite the shrieks, the prisoner’s face remains determined, and she spits at you. You growl, and wipe the spit off your face by headbutting her.

“No pleasantries, then?” The girl snarls in a language you understand - Japanese.

You snort in the response, before turning your headset into speaker mode. “Commander, enemy magical girls confirmed as Japanese. Call up the Ninth and Tenth, see if they’ve got any missions they’d like to inform our mutual superiors about, eh?”

“I mean… Just because they’re from Japan doesn’t guarantee their Officio, you know?” The Commander says, nitpicking amusingly.

“Eat shit and die, traitors…” The prisoner growls, a maniacal tone in her voice.

“Traitor?” You respond, a laugh caught at the back of your throat.

“…Actually, it’s not just the Ninth and Tenth, is it?” The Commander speaks, a realisation dawning.

You notice her change of tone, and remember something. “…right. The Thugs and Murderers are still in Mitakihara, but the Third also used to be there, didn’t they?”

“And that’d explain the ‘traitors’ remark…” The Commander speaks thoughtfully, before turning off comms abruptly.

There’s a new disquieting silence in the compartment, an oppressive one that shuts off the sound of ongoing battles further up the train.

The Ninth’s unauthorised purge of the Third was still controversial; although Walpurgisnacht occurred mere months afterwards, practically dismissing it from the general consciousness of the Officios, it never did fully go away.

Like… Cultists? A Warmaster thinking she’s in contact with The Blessed Lady? Blowing up an entire skyscraper? Everyone knew that the Third and Ninth hadn’t had good relations for a while, but…

“Traitors for this, traitors for that… You’re all in league with the enemy either way.” The Vindicare growls, a maddening smile gripping at her cheeks.

Nexus-2 stomps up, and jams a high-heel directly into an open wound in the prisoner’s missing kneecap. “How the FUCK are we traitors? How the fuck are the civvies on this train, or in wherever this rust-bucket is going, traitors?”

The enemy’s smile fades. “…this rust-bucket isn’t aiming for the civvies. And you’re all in league with the enemy. Traitors, all. That, or fools.”

The heel twists, a sickening groan coming from the prisoner’s throat. “What enemy? If you’re a Third remnant that somehow didn’t get transferred but survived the Ninth’s attack… You’re attacking the wrong city, right? No Ninth branch in the Middle East, you know.” Nexus-2 growls down at her, patience visibly fading fast.

“Hee hee… The Ninth Officio was never our enemy. The enemy… was our enemy.” The prisoner says, now grinning once more. “The Prophet has seen it, the enemy’s plan to change the world. Only we can save our souls, bring salvation.”

Her grin widens further, her dry lips tightening and bleeding. “But you are not worthy of our salvation, ally of the enemy.”

There’s a shriek nearby. You see the Callidus wave frantically; the Vindicare underneath you screams and, through inhuman effort, shoves her shoulder-blades into the ground - the effort propelling her right out the window, while she cackles away.

Nexus-3 moves quickly, but not quick enough. The enemy’s Soul Gem was now actively burning into Nexus-4’s hand, an eerie glow brightening by the second. Nexus-3 tries to grab the Callidus’ arm - but you’re faster, cutting the arm clean off, and lobbing it right out the window to join the enemy prisoner.

There’s a soft explosion, and flesh scatters itself in a splatter across the open window-sill of the cabin, the enemy’s cackling silenced.

“…disgusting.”, was Nexus-2’s response. Quite correct, frankly.

“Kirkuk Actual - did you get all that?” You speak over the comms once more.

“…Yes, I think we did. Talk about potty.” The murmur comes in response, deep in thought. “Tenth were obviously somewhat blasé in their response to our question, but the Ninth have began to corroborate what the girl said.”

You’re filled in on the details from Mitakihara.

A death cult from the ruins of the Third Officio, dedicated to the sworn destruction of the Ninth’s new Warmaster - one Chiaki Matsuda - who also happened to be one of the former Warmaster’s best friends. Indeed, it would appear according to some reports that the whole Ninth-Third conflict began following an incident involving Chiaki herself.

The cult was obsessed with killing Chiaki Matsuda, hopefully with the whole Ninth following suit, all while in the thrall of an individual known as “The Prophet”. It’s also believed that they may be a fringe organisation with heretical beliefs regarding the Blessed Lady, the most holy guardian of all magical girls.

“…but what does ANY OF THAT have to do with nuking a Middle Eastern city?” You exclaim after the impromptu briefing.

“Your guess is as good as mine. The Followers of this Prophet are all but confirmed to now be the ones behind this attack, given both your interrogation of that girl as well as the other reports we’re hearing - but we have no decent motive for this attack whatsoever.” The Commander replies, in an equally bemused tone.

“…does it really matter, though?” Nexus-2 growls once more, reloading a shotgun with malicious intent. “At the end of the day, they’re intent on killing civvies and bombing shit; magical girls or not, that makes them a target in my book.”

You shrug. Good enough reason as any.

“Well, in any case. Mission parameters remain the same - eliminate the enemy (now to be referred as “Special Designated Organisation P-1”, or just Prophet’s Followers), rescue any hostages, and ensure that the train does not reach Neo-Kirkukihara. Godspeed.”

The comms click shut, and you nod - predominantly to yourself.

Time to kill some fellow Sparklies and their cannon fodder.

…

From there, it was a largely clean-sweep up the carriages. It was clear the enemy was quickly running out of expendable magical girls to attack you and your comrades, and their (presumably magically-enslaved) human soldiers were no threat at all.

A slice here, a few bullets there, a grenade for good measure.

By the time you’d reached the last four carriages, your squad had met up with the rest of the on-standby Officio units (including the increasingly incredulous Italians, who CLEARLY didn’t want to be here).

Everyone had appeared to have been waiting for you to assess the enemy stronghold on the train. It had been quietly told to you over the comms that you were effectively the highest ranking Magical Girl in the operation zone - making you the commanding officer on-site.

One of the Callidus members - a much younger-looking girl than your own cohort - briefly saluted you, before bringing up a digital pad with photos. It showed hastily taken pics of the contents of the front carriage - the engine room, which had several enemies who had been attacking the photographer; and a cleared freight container, which had a large and ominous looking metal device with strangely-coloured chains attached to several young women, each holding a glowing jewel with some level of reverence.

“…Do we have any estimates on how bad the damage this would cause?” You say, keeping your volume as low as possible.

“I would, perhaps, say that it’s best not to think about it. If I had to guess, I would say that anything is on the table right now.” The girl spoke, her accent unfamiliar to you.

“Callidus… You’re from the Twentieth, right? Weren’t you with a comrade?” You say after she finishes.

The Callidus nods, face grim. She takes something out of her pocket - pieces of glass with a small amount of gold leaf. Ah.

“…my condolences.” You politely state.

“Don’t need condolences, boss - I just want the bastards who did this to pay.” She says, a grin twisting onto her face.

Your grin matches hers, and you grip her shoulder with a friendly tap.

Nothing better than getting some enemy kills, you bet.

You turn to face your assembled soldiers, when you’re all hit with a sense of urgency.

Urgency emphasised by something akin to pressure building.

Was the train… still accelerating?

“This is Kirkuk Actual to all on-site personnel. The train has been observed to have started accelerating even further - magical spectrometers indicate activity in the engine room. We now estimate less than 20 minutes until reaching the city outskirts.”

Shit.

“…make that ten.”

“ALRIGHT WE GET IT, TOO LATE TO PLAN, EVERYONE GET TO KILLING!” Nexus-2 roars, taking the words from your mouth. She raises a claw-weapon, shouts a battle-cry, and races forwards.

The fourth carriage. You all storm in, bullets already flying, fire in the air. Blood splatters, limbs torn off.

As you cave in the skull of an enemy Eversor, your comms crackles once more.

“Nexus-1. Urgent update. The train is now accelerating exponentially.” A new voice speaks. “This is… well, doesn’t matter. Kirkuk Actual has been deployed for evacuations.”

“Alright, so we—” You speak, someone’s spine currently in your outstretched hand, before being interrupted once more.

“Don’t have time. Let me be frank - do something on your end to stop that train, or one of us will have to step in. There’ll be nothing left to memorialise your sacrifice if we do. You have less than a minute to make your choice.” The voice speaks, not even a hint of malice or nerves, simply stating the command as a matter of fact, before the comms abruptly shuts down.

60. You shout something to your comrades. Not sure what; just an abrupt warning.

55. You push all your energy into your knees, and jump. Clean through the roof of the carriage.

54. You use your momentum to somehow outspeed the train. You’re aiming for the front of it, after all.

50. The front of the train nearly hits you head on, as you grab it with a solid thunk.

48. You tear the front of the engine room clean off, revealing a magical girl with her hand glowing like fire on the engine mechanism, a shocked look on her scarred face, while her guardian Eversors widen their eyes, looking to pounce.

45. The Eversors miss. You’re faster. The engine girl’s face seems almost disappointed as you tear right into the engine.

44. The train is not slowing. The engine is no longer the accelerator - the girl is.

40. Fuck it.

39. You grab the girl’s head, and with a decent amount of force, you smash it into the broken engine. She laughs it off, cackling, magic now burning your own skin, Eversors inching closer with blackened, shadowy blades.

36. Fuck it. Fuck this. Alright, let’s do this.

35. The girl is no longer cackling, as you jump, and use her body as a missile.

The magical girl’s body hits the engine room with the force of a small meteor. The structure of the train buckles almost instantly, the rails underneath it snapping like wires. The engine room is obliterated almost instantly; the front carriage is shredded, the weapon room still glowing but being thrown upwards right towards you. You see one of the sacrifices look at you, a burning, seething hate in her eyes.

Neither of you have time to react properly to one another before the rest of the carriages begin to fall down. The debris from the explosion scatters, even as the sound from the impact blast finally hits your ears.

The train, and it’s inhabitants, are thrown in every direction, mere kilometres from the Kirkuk Metropolitan Area, the flickering lights of the sprawling city behind the monumental glass wall seemingly only a few moments away.

You’re barely able to hold yourself together just as your body makes contact with the ground, metres away from the enemy’s weapon. You tumble, rolling over and over, skin being peeled like a potato, flesh tearing from the bone, until you finally manage to steady yourself and come to a stop.

Your legs are practically just bone, a few pieces of cindered flesh holding on for dear life.

You’d scream from the agony - but pain had long since been eliminated from your vocabulary. One of the first lessons a good Eversor learns.

You grit your teeth and focus on healing your legs, even as you stagger - alternating between wobbling like a penguin and walking - towards the enemy’s bastion.

Smoke from the debris and explosion had already begun to blot out the sky. If this was what a tank full of fuel and a basic engine - mixed with whatever power that magical girl had been pumping it with - caused this much mess, you’re sure as hell glad to do your best to destroy whatever’s left of their little doomsday weapon.

As you’re stumbling towards the carcass of the cabin, figures come out of the smoke towards you from it. Sacrifices or guards, irrelevant.

You pull out a sword from one of your various weapon-keeping spots, having already ran out of ammo.

They’d die either way.

You ignore the sound of your maddening laughter as you sprint on literal bony legs towards the enemy. The first girl doesn’t even have time to react before you’ve split her Soul Gem in half, along with dividing the rest of her body up. The second almost manages to grab a sidearm, only to find her own arms falling to shreds.

Amid a break in the cloud of smoke, you could have sworn you saw a star above Kirkuk, a glow seemingly watching you with interest.

The light distracted you long enough for a third girl to attack, slamming an axe right into your gut, twisting it and pulling your intestines out like a pile of raw sausages.

You don’t care. You use your own intestines as a rope, keeping them hooked around the enemy’s axe, and pull her towards you. She manages to cut your pulling arm off - but not before you slam your face into her neck, biting into the flesh.

The bitter taste of iron fills your mouth while the screams of the enemy fill your hearing, still ringing from the impact of your attack on the front carriage.

Your one good arm pushes the girl away, tearing her neck apart as your teeth come free. She shambles around the sand for a moment before collapsing.

Pathetic. They’re heretics, motivated by whatever lunacy shoved into their heads by this Prophet; but you’re just another merc, here for money and nothing else. A mercenary, who still hadn’t been paid for this bloody job - so you had no reason to go dying just yet.

Another set of girls comes out of the carriage. Their gems are as bright as suns, and the large mechanical device that they were carrying together seemed to burn twice as bright.

“Fool. All for naught.” The twins spoke in unison. “Enemy of hope, friend of the devil, today you and your kin will be scoured.”

They place the mechanism down, still staring at you, before raising a hand each, Soul Gems starting burn brighter, shimmering the air around them.

“With this act, another arm of the enemy is cut off - the path will be clear, for all to—” They continue to speak in that sing-song like tone, before being abruptly cut off.

One of the twins shrieks, as she watches the other get torn clean in half. There’s no blood, no viscera; the girl falls into two exact pieces, something like glowing flame running up the exposed flesh.

A single spear, obsidian-black, encrusted with blood-red jewels, emerges from the corpse. As soon as it appears, it’s no longer there, the wielder swapping for a far more simple looking axe with a wooden handle, the blade covered in rusty barbed wire.

“WHAT?! WHY ARE YO—” The second twin cries, right before being silenced permanently as the axe cuts diagonally across her body, slamming into her held Soul Gem and shattering it.

The girls fall to pieces, and the bomb is dropped unceremoniously to the desert floor, as the new assailant gives a rough, corrupt-sounding sigh.

The tall woman in bloody red motorcycle fatigues, spiked shoulder-pads and all, turned to you, her helmet painted like that of a demon with burning eyes. “…damn fools.”

A Culexus outfit… but made to someone else’s specifications. And decked out in red everything.

The Red Culexus turned back to the bomb, and, with a swift kick, smashed it into little metal splinters, the contents quickly reduced to sequentially smaller and smaller pieces by a follow up of kicks and jabs, until nothing else remained.

You try to laugh at such an action - like, what happened to cutting the wires and such? - but all you manage is a cough.

The Red Culexus turns away from you and the place where the nuke had been, towards the destroyed and burning compartment. Another girl was stumbling out.

She’s… a mess. What looked to be a commanding and ornate uniform was drenched in blood and viscera, no doubt including much of her own since she was missing a rather significant chunk of her own head. Her hair was actively on fire, an eye socket was leaking gunge, and teeth stuck out of where a mouth had once been at an odd angle.

“Did… did we win? Have we… brought hope?” The girl groans, tongue barely still attached inside the exposed mouth.

You recognise the voice from earlier. This must be the enemy commander.

The Culexus approaches her, as the girl collapses, and catches her fall in her arms. One of the girl’s arms falls clean off, the stump bleeding profusely.

“You fuckin’ muppets. Why didn’t you listen to our Leader and I…? This was a fool’s errand.” The Culexus whispers beneath the heavy vox filter.

“…but did we win, Vice-Leader? Did we deal a decisive blow to the fated enemy?”The dying girl manages to blurt out, her one still working arm attempting to hold onto the Culexus’ shoulder.

The Culexus takes a deep breath, before responding. “Yeah. I’m sure the enemy really felt this one. Victory is in our grasp.”

The girl manages to smile - or, an attempt of a smile - before her body weakly gave up all motion with a soft flop.

“…blood waste.” The Culexus murmured. The body she held spontaneously ignited into a dark blue flame, falling to the desert floor, before quickly disintegrating into ashes that spun away into the sandy winds.

She turned back to you once more. Your body wasn’t still fully healed, but you bent down, picking the discarded axe covered in your own intestines up, gripping it.

“Another fighter, eh?” The Culexus growled, gloved hands eagerly tapping fingers against the handle of her own fireman-style axe.

“…still. I have no intention of fighting you. I’m just here to clean up the mess my comrades made.” She spoke - but, instead of talking to you, she’d raised her head up, staring into the distance.

You follow her gaze, and realise she’s talking to the star above the city you noticed earlier.

She takes heed of your bemusement, and turns back to you. “Attacking Kirkuk does nothing for our goals… yet. My friends’ attempted attack was premature.”

“Premature? An attack is an attack.” You say, smirk at your lips, just as you pounce.

Out of the ash and sand clouds surrounding you, your comrades follow your signal. The Culexus finds themselves at the mercy of 4 seperate Officio squads, alongside who-knows-how-many Syrakhanistani military assets.

As you begin to descend on the target, all you manage to hear is a single, abrupt, and seemingly disappointed sigh.

You, and your soldiers, suddenly find their movement squandered, abruptly dropping to the ground in a synchronised thud. There’s a single moment of united confusion, before the rest of the anti-magic attack hits you all.

A Culexus’ magic attack is that of anti-magic psyker abilities. You knew this from a briefing, many years ago, before virtually all known Culexus-class magical girls died during Walpurgisnacht. The range of effects on a magical girl by a Culexus or any psychic-aligned anti-magic attack (such as those experienced within a Silent Room imprisoning chamber) are wide and varied; but, generally, the defender experiences a deeply uncomfortable headache. When the ability’s force is increased, this can escalate to blood excreting from the mouth, nose and ears; if pushed further, pressure builds within the air pockets inside the skull as magic meets anti-magic. At even higher levels, anti-magic or psyker attacks are almost always deadly to biological life, capable of affecting physical objects akin to that of pressure underwater - and some Culexus-class magical girls are reported to even be capable of inducing instant Witchification into a magical girl’s Soul Gem.

The Red Culexus’ assailants all collapse into a wide range of coughing fits, blood spraying across the sands. Nexus-3, your Vindicare, screams an agonising cry from behind you; Nexus-4 groans, her eyes seeming to bulge from her head.

You can barely process what’s going on. Your hands are shaking; you feel like someone’s dropped a pile of weights onto your head.

Yet you ignore the blood pouring from your eyes and nose, the feeling of hammers hitting your fingers, and stand under all that pressure, the stolen axe still gripped tight in your hand.

The Red Culexus chuckles, and begins to walk towards you. “I’m glad. There are still some Mahou-Shoujo capable of putting up a good fight in this age.”

She stands next to you, and lightly puts a hand on your shoulder. You feel nothing, even as you watch the entire shoulder-blade decay under the touch, skin turning to flesh, flesh rotting, bone fracturing as all you can do is stare.

You’re gripping your axe as hard as you can, begging your nerves to move.

The Culexus nods. “Good. You’re strong. Shame… you’re on the wrong team.”

She looks back up at the city walls. A small corrupted grunt comes from her helmet.

“…however, my fight is not against you. So, good luck in your endeavours.” She speaks softly, even despite the metallic grinding corrupting her tones. She steps past you, even as you manage to will your body to turn to follow and face her, axe hand managing to slowly move.

You watch as she summons her blackened spear once more, slicing the air with a shimmer. The folds of reality seem to come apart in front of you, revealing something else entirely. The Culexus steps through the gouge, and both it and her disappear as if never having been there in the first place.

You grunt, even as you begin to hear the cries from the commanding operator in your ear. Your consciousness gives way, and your enter the darkness once more.

===

Mission Report, cont’d:

- Group P-1 identified as “Followers of the Prophet”, former members of the liquidated O3. Motivations behind attacking Syrakhanistan are unknown.

- Confirmation of a second surviving Culexus (besides Special Operative Chitose “Omegon” Yuma); O9 has no record of a Red Culexus in their ranks, but in the time since the battle outside Kirkuk have confirmed a Red Culexus being involved in the Prophet’s attacks.

- Surviving civilians successfully mind-wiped and re-integrated into society with a substantial reward for their co-operation (albeit now no longer remembered).

- Surviving operatives in the operation taken for recuperation following significant mental, physical and metaphysical damage suffered from a high-level anti-magic attack.

- Red Culexus confirmed to have Warp-shifting abilities, including artificial entry to the Akashic Realm. Information forwarded to O1 for usage - Equerry “Sevatar” in transit to O9, and has taken operational assistance over this matter.

- Officer on duty following the body-death of her Lieutenant Major recommended for significant promotion and/or pay-rise, if/when she awakens from her coma.

- Study of SG-Linked Superweapon impossible due to it’s destruction.

- All known assailants confirmed as soul-deceased. No interrogation possible at this time.

<End of Report.>

===

Takamachi Nanoha lowered the glowing golden rifle, an almost disappointed noise coming both from weapon and user. The rifle lets off some steam, before slowly disassembling back into the staff-like form it usually held.

She stood from her prone position, and placed the ornate device onto her back. She stretched a little, and yawned.

Seemed like the boss was being paranoid after all. Nanoha could almost feel her tension, just a few floors below, gaze centred down there. Nothing the usual folks round these parts couldn’t handle, really.

‘What a fuss over nothing’, Nanoha thought to herself as she sat back down, white coat fluttering slightly in the wind.

She swung her legs up and down off the side of the building, so very high up.

Still - at least the weather was nice. A pleasant, if boring, day.

If only these quaint days could last forever.

[syrakhanistan]

I close (Eyes Open)

===

i blink, and

i find myself walking through the trees in a snowy forest, gales blustering.

i look down at my feet, brushing the dirt from my shoes. it is not snow; it is ash.

i look forwards, and find myself staring at a lone grave, the name long since faded, lettering in symbols i don’t recognise, yet i know whose grave it is. a small white creature stares at me atop it, red orbs judging me, it’s words poison and apathy in equal measures.

i blink, and

===

the girl opposite me moves her pawn, taking a bishop i had left idle for too long, burning golden eyes judging me silently, human emotion long lost and left to die

a single move, i lose a whole fleet, several hundred thousand souls gone with a swift motion, ornate crafts burning into the atmosphere of a gas giant, existing now only as coffins

once, she would have cared, cried even. i was the one who took that privilege from her. i do not regret it.

i blink, and

===

i find myself holding down a dozen open wounds. i cannot keep doing it like this.

two knights follow me, their footsteps keeping pace, flaming spears and icy swords cutting me another few thousand times, i laugh it off, my howl is not my own, the third knight warns the others, but the warning comes too late as the laugh begins to wane.

i blink, and

===

i stand atop a loose pile of bricks, the path behind drenched in blood, the creature whose neck i throttle still squirming, the not-life merely only attempting to gain sympathy in the death rattle.

it gains sympathy not from myself, but from the girl whose face i can no longer remember, tears falling, cries out to help the creature. she doesn’t, can’t, understand that this murder is yet another gift, a gift for her

i blink, and

===

the ruins of the city i once called home are being reduced to atoms, a tree-like structure impaling a crying omen, fire rains like tears from lost clouds, the heavens have opened and she hates us.

i look down at my knees, ignoring the soulless praise given by the alien next to me, these are not tears on my cheeks, they are blood from her, heaven sent as it roars aloft, the sky is open, the stars already dimming, and

i blink, and

===

my ruined legs cannot stand, i find my body crawling desperately on the dusty rocky surface, watching space itself be torn asunder by the falling star,

a comet of pure despair streaks past, hell itself born from heaven, a darkness that brings light, i scream but no sound comes out as the explosion expands, a second big bang, a new universe opens her arms but not for me.

i blink, and

===

i laugh to myself, staring at it. yet somewhere nearby, they search for me, angry shouts, bullets fired, walls broken and bombs dropped.

i dont care anymore. i look at myself in the broken mirror, i no longer recognise the grim dark haired girl reflected back.

i watch as she begins to fall apart, hair going grey before dropping entirely, flesh coming off the bones, blood evaporating into flame as soon as it comes, eyes piercing, teeth gritted, she is coming, and she will bring love that burns,

the girl in the mirror hates it all, yet i cannot feel anything at all, even as i watch my body be flayed alive, rope around the skeleton’s neck, pulling her away from the mirror, strung up and burned as the devil that i am, a thousand lances and ten thousand daggers carving me up, yet i will still live

i watch the crowd kill one another, begging for her mercy even as i try to tell them that her salvation no longer matters, claws of hate scratching into my soul, there isn’t anything left to love here, a plan shattered, a devil brought down and a god lost to memory, i loved her once but she forgot,

i blink, and

===

the graves are endless, the rain is dust.

i fail, i fall, i endure, yet what for?

name after name, life after life, all burned and buried for her, she can’t remember me because she is long gone, fourteen score and ten thousand fall, a drop in my bucket, all for naught

she calls for me, i ignore her still, her grip on my neck, warm and pure, eyes full of equal parts hate and warmth, there is nothing she can do, neither can i, we play the part in a story that continues without end

ten thousand graves, a hundred thousand more, it will continue on and on with nothing to gain, this cycle will repeat even as we both move on, again and again we continue the path, rising and falling to become gods and devils, the narrative fades, the words no more

i place the flowers on the grave, her statue mourns, she is still here, waiting for me, but i cannot, will not join her, not until i am sure

she loved me, I love her, yet as sure as the sun rises, i will fall, even as the sky above the graves begins to burn crimson

i blink, and

===

wings of night burn brighter than the sky. the stars have long since died, my feet treading their dust, the last place at the end of it all, glass scars across the wastes ignorant of the fall

the endless desert is all that’s left. my wings stretch far and wide, dripping hate, despair made manifest in an endless war.

i looked up at the bright, starless and sunless sky, empty of everything yet still so warm. yet i am so much less, so much emptier than it.

i found a new reason. a love for her. and a hate for all else.

i held my breath, wings quivering, as skies and heaven fell once more, the cycle continuing on and on, body broken, soul lost, doubt and reason all gone, the desert is myself, and i am death, the devil and evil forged and dust

i am no longer me, yet I still live, time and time again, laughing and crying, hate and love have become the same, my crimes continue and the blood is spilled, an infinite void becomes my slumber, i snap my fingers, haughty laugh in my ears,

she is still here, warmer than i, yet she is nothing, greater than i, i rejected her embrace, gave it my all, held her tight, the cycle repeats, over and over, desert and world burning and bright,

my wings unfold, new reason unbound, the plan rewritten, fallen from on high, you and i we have been through that, this fate is not ours, yet time and time again the wind howls, calling our name, but she can no longer recognise us, for she is not ours, a memory long lost and forgot.

i blink, and

===

You wake up with a start.

Your nails are bloody, piercing through the covers, right into your hands; you’re soaked with sweat.

It’s… been a while since you’ve dreamt anything at all. You unclench a fist, your shield arm, and brush hair from your eyes.

One ‘eye’ is bleeding. Black ooze drips onto the bed. The arm where your shield is, incorporeal or not, feels the burning weight of metal, an unheard ticking in your ear, while your other ‘arm’ is numb, veins hard and blackened.

You bend over, and realise what you feel is pain. You barely remember the sensation these days; there’s a distinct knot in your stomach, and you double over in the bed, clutching at the covers to steady yourself.

You’d been warned by others, terrestrial and spectral alike, that the objects would take their toll on you.

Ha. Preaching to the choir. You KNEW all too well the consequences these wretched things brought you, brought anyone who committed the sun of using these unholy items. That’s why you continued to wear them, endlessly; to remind yourself of the Truth, and to keep their despair contained to yourself.

At least, that was your initial justification. These days, you’re not too sure.

You manage to summon the Shield, and open the inventory, hoping and praying it’ll dispense some miracle painkiller.

Out comes a single torpedo-type cigar, gold-leaf branding identifying it as a [REDACTED] No. 2A, specially made by the [REDACTED] company for certain foreign dignitaries and people of importance. Medium-bodied and mild, with a soft but distinct smell of a twig bonfire and warm coffee.

Is… Is the Shield fucking with you right now? You kicked the habit years ago, even if it had been your favourite brand. Still… you do appreciate the joke.

You grimace and bear the pain, dismissing your pyjamas with a flick of the wrist to summon your Uniform, to appear at least somewhat dignified and presentable (or, more importantly, actually awake).

You cough, clearing your throat to speak while you open the blinds, the Earth slowly waking up in the distance and rising like the Sun. “Servitor #765348, activation.” You request quietly.

A mechanical whir, and a small vent pops open. “By your command.” The floating skull intones with a grinding metallic flourish.

“Firstly, how many on the base are awake…?” You query.

“Activation of Routine Seven-Two-One: According to surveillance request: Three-quarters of your Legion are currently asleep, my liege. The rest… three, including your Equerry, are doing regular maintenance checks in exosphere, one is chatting on her computer-machine, and the other is performing unnecessary physical activities to—” The servitor begins to explain.

You raise a hand to cut it off. “Ah, ah ah—! I get it. Thank you. Please replace my bed covers post-haste, and interface with the base’s transportation and doors to ensure that my patrol is not interrupted. I… want some time to myself.”

“By your will, most beneficiant one.” The skull replies, before whizzing off someplace else.

You scratch your head, idly curling a single strand of hair around a finger, as you slowly limp out of your office-cross-bedroom, trying to get a little more limber to wake yourself off and distract yourself from the ache.

The ache, and the whispers.

…

You’re idly pacing through the clinical, sterile white halls of the base when you find a particularly marvellous view out a window.

The Egg, ever ominously hovering above the Gate, was perfectly in line with the rising Earth, which in turn was (almost) perfectly in front of the Sun. You didn’t have your fliphone on you, nor a camera - and besides, the Egg’s interference would probably mess up a photo - so you try to capture the moment in your mind.

It’s… quite lovely. You stare deeply into the view. You know all too well not to gaze deep into the menacing thing, nor to look directly at the Sun, yet… It calls to you, singing a wonderful song.

You try humming along, but… It’s not a true melody. It’s a beat, a joyful tune, a rhythm from the heart asking you to join in, fighting for attention and—

“Hazuki-chan, that’s an… interesting tune.” A familiar voice whispers into your ear.

You flail around, eyes wide, only to nearly tread on the feet of your raven-haired Equerry, who bounces softly away, giggling.

“Ah, sorry! Didn’t mean to startle. I just got back from regular repair exercises a little early.” Vintage Karasawa laughs warmly.

You breathe a sigh of relief, instantly calming down, and smile back. “Ah, Vintage. Sorry, I… was enraptured by the view.”

She nods, and comes back to stand next to you, looking out to the sunny space outside. “You know… Apparently some human astronauts get bored of this view.”

You snort a little; you can imagine the few members on a space station, a tiny little dot barely visible to you (which wouldn’t be visible to the naked human eye from this distance) probably had a few that matched that description.

As she speaks, she briefly looks down at one of your hands.

Ah, shit - you weren’t wearing the Claw. Even now, the ‘hand’ still hadn’t calmed down from early; the ends were still purple, something like bone almost visible under stretched skin.

You cough, and hide it under your cloak. “Vintage-san…”

She shakes her head, still smiling. “You said ‘-chan’ just a moment ago! No take backs.”

She moves closer. “You’re still trying so hard, aren’t you? The burdens of leadership are bad enough without… well, those particular burdens.”

You shake your head. “I have to. You know how it is.”

Vintage nods once more, smile fading beneath dark-bagged eyes. “I know, I know. Keep at it, if that’s what you want. But… just remember to keep up appearances.”

“I am well aware, my Equerry.” You tut authoritatively. “I would suggest keeping your opinions to yourself.”

A chuckle. “Ha! That’s the spirit.” She says, placing a hand on your shoulder. You… don’t recoil at the touch of familiarity.

You both look out to the view, to the Egg and beyond.

“It… It is a beautiful view, though.” You whisper thoughtfully.

A solemn nod is all you get in response.

You open your shield, dispensing a digital watch, as a thought passes your mind by. The time and date…

Ah, you do suppose it’s close to time.

“Shall we get to work? I know it’s a bit early… Maybe we get breakfast first?” You ask.

Karasawa scoffs. “Always the heavy-handed taskmaster. I had the night shift, remember?” She says, pacing away, before turning her head back to you.

“I won’t say no to breakfast, though. I hear the new Chef robot has dinosaur-shaped pancakes!” She says, grinning.

You laugh at this. “Classic!”

Another day at the office begins, and you quickly forget the dreams of someone you used to know, even as the Egg watched on in thoughtful silence, and another gaze from within the abyssal Gate mocked and jeered in your ear.

Just another day.

[syrakhanistan]

Barrière d'Enfer (The Gate of Hell)

[Excerpt from an internal report of the Turkish National Intelligence Organisation (Millî İstihbarat Teşkilatı) circa 1944-1947; with regards to a secret expedition between the Istanbul and Paris Universities to investigate the Byzantine Archival record related to the Hundred Years' War.]

In early 1919, following the end of hostilities between the Ottoman Empire and the Entente Powers alongside the de facto end of the Ottoman sultanate, but before the beginning of the National Struggle, forces from the Entente (particularly French and British troops) began a years-long occupation of the city formerly known as Constantinople (now Istanbul).

During this time, extensive archeological expeditions from the victorious powers were performed within the city as well as other occupied territory in Anatolia. One particularly interesting find (between 1919 and 1921) to a group of French researchers, assisted by members of the İstanbul Dârülfünûnu (now University of Istanbul), was a series of documents found primarily in newly discovered former Byzantine archives underneath the Palace of Manganae ruins (with other related documents found in other both former Byzantine and later Ottoman archival records upon further inspection as well as excavation, particularly in Ankara, Smyrna (now Izmir), and Sinop).

These vague sources of new information related predominantly to previously unrecognised (or, more likely, forgotten - given the age of the documents) trading relations between the later Capet dynasty and early House of Valois and the then-Byzantine (Eastern Roman) Empire. The documents, initially benign, seemingly took a much more unorganised and, frankly, odd tone by the mid-to-late 15th century, even before the Ottoman conquest of the Byzantines (the secret trade relations would seemingly continue even under the Ottoman Empire until the late 18th century when it stopped abruptly). This change coincided with the usage of a new coded cipher - one we have yet to break fully; but the parts that have been understood seem to indicate a large yearly transfer of slaves between the Byzantines, and later the Ottomans, and the French kingdom, alongside a substance oddly referred to as 'blessed mortar' (roughly written as mübarekhavan). It was, and still is (somewhat), unknown if this is literal or a coded phrase.

Whatever the slaves and the mortar were for, it quickly became clear under further scrutiny of the discovered archives that sudden and new secret trade was at the direct request of the French crown; and, with further translation and deciphering success blossoming in the late 1930s and early 1940s, a location of delivery for the traded goods was found to be in Northern Paris. A co-operative expedition was sponsored by both the Turkish government and the Third French Republic, but delayed due to French occupation during the Second World War.

The expedition, now sponsored not just by the two governments, but also by both of the governments' security apparatuses due to the need for security amid the thought of possible explosive remains from the war, finally began in earnest in late 1945. However...

[The excerpt continues. However, of note from this point herein, is a piece of evidence - a diary, as well as a few photos, by one of the expedition workers, named [REDACTED], former head of archeology at the University of Istanbul.]

Day 1:

Arrived at Basilica of Saint-Denis in Northern Paris alongside around 30 peers from both France and Istanbul (plus some French and Turkish soldiers as requested). Likely won't be necessary as Paris escaped much of the war's terror seen in other European cities, but better safe than sorry. Fighting in the Liberation of Paris seemed to be largely contained to the centre of Paris, so the church (cathedral?) remains in good condition.

Discovered new entrance to the famed Catacombs of Paris within the church basement, tucked in behind a surprisingly sturdy pillar. [REDACTED] estimates pillar installed circa 1800? Pillar successfully extracted, given to French authorities, roof propped up safely.

Very cold today! Hopefully underground might be warmer.

Day 2:

Group has entered Catacombs proper. Very careful; apparently the Parisians haven't seen a section of the Catacombs this pristinely kept.

Disproportionate number of dead buried here. Largest mass graves, particularly from Plagues during 1300s-1400s, centre around Cimetière des Innocents, with aggregate number following construction of Catacombs in late 18th century being near 2 million. Numbers here alone... more than any four cemetaries later combined in Innocents put together. Numbers to be made note of.

Getting colder? Odd.

Day 3:

So many skulls. Too many.

New documents found in half-buried desk ledger; mass graves of criminals as well as slaves executed here. Why? Human sacrifice?

Ledger documents ~250,000 slaves between 1500-1600 period alone. Also makes reference to blessed mortar substance seen in Istanbul Archives, but does not explain. Photos taken, but not too clear when printed. Ledger extracted, sent upstairs for examination.

Discovered impromptu-looking prison area. Possible slave holding cells?

Two peers from my team excused themselves for religious reasons. I accepted, promised not to mark down.

French researcher found loose tiling laid oddly onto an earthen wall. Improper exposure to elements upon examination lead to the wall crumbling, almost injuring researcher; revealed new tunnel. Large set of ornate metal doors held within. Security team and workers estimate a few days to get open - thicker than expected or needed for age of doors - so taking break to examine discoveries thus far.

Day 7:

Doors opened, another set of tunnels, deeper than any found in Catacombs across Paris.

Tunnels first lead to what appears to be central hub of sorts, with an impressively kept map. Delicately taken upstairs for study; on inspection, hub area appears to connect all the cemeteries in Paris (and surrounding area) to the Catacombs and this section in particular. French authorities deeply interested, have sent teams to locations marked on map for inspection and locating new entrances to catacombs.

This hub location under the Basillica is unique... Second, far more ornate and properly stone-masoned, set of tunnels. Again, unlike any other found in Paris - far more like Byzantine tunnels beneath old Constantinople, or older networks found in Derinkuyu and Kaymakli. Sent sample of stonework for analysis.

[Mil-Int Note: Later and modern analysis of the sample discovered by [REDACTED] confirmed suspicions; masonry found in deeper sections almost wholly made from stone found not in Paris, but in Ottoman territories - specifically, the Mutasarrifate of Jerusalem. Medieval French kings might have interest in supposed 'holy' stone... but for what?]

Day 8:

Further deep exploration authorised by both governments and universities. Supplies given in case of emergency.

Hub location further studied, before entering the second set of tunnels. Tunnels is somewhat innaccurate - seems to be mostly staircases. Estimates seem to put the trail as an odd semicircle, going through the north to the south of Paris, directly under the Place Denfert-Rochereau, then back around to the north, under the Palace d'Louvre before reaching back beneath the Basilica of Saint-Denis. Depth estimate is... just under a kilometre. Should be impossible - the lowest depths previously known of the Catacombs was roughly 50 metres.

Tunnels finally gave way to a set of chambers. Seems almost like an underground house-bunker; rudimentary bedroom, hole-in-the-ground, a small chapel. Further into the house reveals another set of those massive metallic doors - this time, painted an odd dark red. Another few days will be needed to breach. Suppose this house will be our camping ground.

The temperature is dropping further.

Day 9:

Rats seem to have eaten some of our supplies. Holes discovered.

Worms in some of our food??

Our water supplies keep freezing.

Chapel was interesting to deeply examine; cross and the icon of Mary both made of solid gold. Wooden seating is in pristine condition. Taking turns to sleep in the chapel - the warmest area of the house.

The candles we find in this house never burn down their wicks.

Three of our French colleagues apparently got into an argument; one of them ran off back into the Catacombs. Hopefully they returned to the surface safely.

[Mil-Int Note: A single French university scholar did indeed return to the surface on the 9th day of the expedition. They were taken to the hospital almost instantly afterwards due to collapsing, wherein they were found to have suffered major internal damage predominantly due to the bends (decompression sickness), but ended up recovering. They refused to explain what had happened, only begging for a rescue team to be sent down. No team was sent, as communications continued to be working fine through the telephone wires set up to the team below, where no issues were reported.]

Day 10:

Everyone is hearing a dripping sound. We can't find the source of the noise, though.

Going through more findings found inside the house, including a large but moth-eaten Bible (a 15th century version, complete with illustrations and in Vulgate Latin), some tapestries that have long since faded, and an incomplete painting depicting some sort of battle (given the dating of the Bible, it could be a depiction of a battle during the Hundred Years' War).

More ledgers were founded stored in one of the rooms, these ones even older than the ones previously found in the Catacombs. It includes a vague but disturbing description of blessed mortar - originally, an aggregate concrete-like mixture of mortar using stones transported from the Crusader Kingdoms via the Byzantines mixed with blood and bones from live human sacrifices, at a mixture of 10 people per 1 quintal of stone mixture (200 people per tonne of mixture; a quintal being an archaic French weight of roughly 50 kilogrammes). It does not, however, give any indication of what the 'blessed mortar' mixture was necessary for, aside from construction of... something.

One of my colleagues went to the hole-in-the-floor, seemed to lock the door, and then we heard not a peep for hours. Someone tried the door, finding it unlocked, with no trace of my colleague.

Something is knocking on the other side of the sealed metal doors.

Everyone is reporting a recurring nightmare. Memories are vague, but we all remember a burning cathedral, a bloodied crown, and a butterfly with feathered wings.

it is watching us. we can't tell from where.

Day 11:

Good news at last; the new supplies finally arrived, including the necessary materials to breach the crimson doors. Upon opening, a pleasant gasp of warm air filled the house, finally giving us a reprieve from the chill.

The stairs here are solid. Stone, strong, structure appears to be more akin to a road, likely used for the transport of supplies.

The stairs become a spiral, going down and down further, until breaching into a most marvellous place.

The staircase ended with a large corridor, filled with golden statues of angels with no faces. At the end, another set of doors - these ones solid oak, but unlocked. We opened the doors, and found ourselves at a decent height above a vast chasm... cave? Cavern?

A city was down here. An entire city of wooden Medieval houses, streets, dim windows, carts in the roads, all perfectly preserved. We took some photos from this high angle, before descending down a steep set of winding stairs built into the side of the cavern.

I'm not sure why I expected the city to be populated, but it seems as though the whole area was almost frozen in time. No people, no skeletons, yet the streets are filled with signs of life. Windows left open, even bowls of what appears to be fresh food on some tables. Some of our team even swear they can hear conversations in French, whispers in the moyen français or Ancien Francais d'Oile.

Looking back up from the streets, there almost seems to be an artificial sky. The cavern roof must have been painted somehow, complete with realistic looking clouds. There also seem to be odd circles in the sky, almost ritualistic.

Speaking of ritualistic circles, as we moved through the underground city, similar odd circles seemed to keep cropping up. In particular, in the houses of the rich who could afford written books from the Church or other sources (the European printing press presumably not having been made by Gutenberg yet), all the pages where written words should be were replaced with the same unusual runic language seen in both the ritual circles reoccuring around the area, as well as the same language seen in some ancient (and late pre-modern) documents and ruins... The same odd language I saw while working in Diyarbakir's tombs, in some sections of the Byzantine Archives.

One of the French special forces soldiers surprised us by explaining that some of the landmarks, particularly one of the distant towers, was familiar to him; it appears that the city is a Medieval fascimile of the French city of Rouen, north-west of Paris. Why would a replica of Rouen be under Paris?

the ground is crawling

We decided to keep moving through the town, studying it, taking notes, the camera still taking photos for further inspection later. We collectively agreed to end the expedition after reaching the replica of Rouen's cathedral, at the centre of the cavern. We settled down for the night after reaching what appeared to be the original Rouen Château Bouvreuil (an old citadel that had long since been demolished in the real Rouen), just west of the cathedral.

Day 12:

she is here

she wants us to stop

we cannot stop

Day 13:

Odd... it appears we all sleptwalked, or something. Transported back to the edge of the town.

tried to leave

wooden doors locked. soldiers can't even blow it up or shoot it down. weird ritual circle glows on it?

[Mil-Int Note: The recovered camera had a photo of the door, depicting the ground covered with shrapnel and ash from the usage of explosives, as well as the glowing circle of runes seemingly levitating above the doorway, a crude drawing of some sort of bird in the centre of the circle.]

Day 15:

out of food

one of our soldiers started killing his comrades before being put down by the french soldiers

the water was turned to wine??????

Day 19:

The remnants of our group - two French soldiers, one French university scholar, one Turkish soldier, and myself and one of my colleagues as the remnants of the Istanbul University group - finally reached the cathedral. It's warm here. We lounged under the sun on the steps for a moment.

A set of solid golden doors had replaced the central doors of the cathedral's front towers; the north and south towers had no doors, replaced with flat concrete of some kind, that weird bird ritual circle on them. After [REDACTED]'s explosive demise, we know not to touch them anymore.

The cathedral's interior is apparently unchanged from the modern version up above, according to the Frenchman from Rouen - which is odd, given that the modern cathedral has had extensive modifications and expansions from the cathedral of the 15th century.

One glaring issue was, yet again, another set of stairs, warm wood painted red, descending down a spiral staircase into a central descending segment under the the cathedral at the centre of the descending at the centre of the

nto red it's flesh the hole is blood

at least there's not more doors. but more stairs... banisters are bones the smell

don't know, stopped counting:

me and the french soldier from rouen are the last ones

friend from work fell down a few flights ago. found him when we reached the bottom. pancake of jam.

But there was a bottom. A floor. At some point just before the end, the stairs became regular stone once more, with wooden banisters encrusted with golden rings.

another corridor. no doors this time, just a blank black space barred by the bird symbol.

frenchman sighed and pushed it. seemed solid, opened like doors despite being invisible.

we're directly above the city? floating in void. i can sit down though, take a rest.

[Mil-Int Note: The diary ends here. What happens next is collated from a fragmented video and photos, with a description for easier reading. The video is unusual, as the camera taken by the team into the Catacombs was not a video camera with video film.]

The camera swings from side to side; it's being held at the hip by one of two people. The flip of pages and pen to paper in the background indicates that Professor [REDACTED] was the person holding the camera.

"Mon dieu... Professor, I need you here with me." The French soldier comes into view of the camera, motioning for the Professor. The camera's view swings upwards, briefly showing the diary on the 'floor' - the solid void, floating above the pristine medieval settlement - before settling once more on the Professor's hip.

The pair appear to wordlessly move forward in tandem, tip-toeing across the ant-sized city below, towards the area above the cathedral.

The camera is shaking, but a photo taken at this time-stamp shows... something. A glow in the direction they are moving.

The video footage breaks here, and the photos end. However, the footage comes back after a few fixes.

The professor has collapsed, bleeding, the blood pouring into the abyss and going directly through the solidified void. The video shows the French soldier kneeling, putting his hand on the dead man's shoulder, before standing.

Upon standing, he no longer blocks the view of the video footage - revealing an... extraordinary sight. A statue of some sorts, glowing, depicting an abomination, a dragon-like creature with six eyes and butterfly wings, hair flowing out from behind two horns and alongside caterpillar-like legs. Standing above the dragon, and decidedly not a statue yet frozen like one, is what appears to be a young woman with dark blonde hair in full-plate armour, a shadow-like gauntlet criss-crossed with gold on her left arm, a sword that is nearly blinding in her other hand and impaling the forehead of the dragon.

The video's audio is that of static. A whisper can be heard at one point, a gutteral noise, nearly drowned out by the static cries and sobbing of an unseen woman. It roughly translates to:

"Venez, bon monsieur. Remplissez votre devoir envers la France..."

'Come, good sir. Do your duty, for France.'

The soldier, wobbling and stumbling towards the statue, dripping blood from various orifices, appears to oblige the whispers. He moves forward, before dramatically collapsing onto the statue, a single arm wrapping itself around the glowing blade.

A veritable cacophony of sounds breaks into the audio of the video, shrieks, cries, a noise like glass shattering. The camera falls through the previously-solid void, spinning wildly, catching occasional glimpses of flashes, the sound of metal rending, a woman's cry, before the film abruptly ends upon, presumably, hitting the ground.

[The excerpt from the military intelligence report returns.]

...some cost and minor injuries to recover any trace. While nothing remained of the house or anything past it, the camera and diary - alongside several untidy piles of clothing and flesh - had been left outside the metal doors from the Catacombs hub area. The doors themselves are completely sealed now, as it appears to be pointless to go through them - given that the other side of the doors is now a flat face of earth and dirt, with no discernable entrance of any sort.

Both Ankara and Paris decided, particularly upon reviewing the evidence, to close shut the continued investigation of the Byzantine Archives and the excavation of the delivery point of the slave purchases, as well as to suppress any information surrounding the expedition, through bribes, blackmail, and violence. Any economic purpose for further examinations or excavation seems to be at odds to the potential risk of life or the potential to damage the remaining centuries-old artifacts discovered prior to opening the metal doors.

Investigations into the evidence within the photos and film footage, particularly with regards to the statue, the girl, and the runes, have all also been closed - mostly due to lack of concrete evidence, and no extra leads to go towards. The Professor's mention of Diyarbakir as another source of the runes proved fruitless - and, indeed, the Istanbul University group that attempted to perform continued excavation on the possible site he referred to only proved to be worthless as they damaged a set of related ruins and archeologically important architecture, including nearly destroying a cultural landmark.

In terms of recognition, while difficult, the families of our soldiers were given stipends and sent to different places far from urban areas; the Professor and his team were labelled as dying in an accident related to a different archeological expedition happening at the same time (at the Lascaux cave complex in southern France), and summarily but posthumously given various awards.

That being said, our co-operation with France greatly benefitted both sides, encouraging further diplomatic and military dialogue during and following the incident. In particular, both Ankara and Paris have a joint interest in the possibility of developing biological or chemical weapons based upon substances that might have been in place during the expedition, including a full mark-up of the substance known as blessed mortar (with one hypothesis being that the specific set of mines where the stone was brought from reacting badly to a miner's blood, which instilled a psychological or cultural scare into the governments at the time based on superstitions).

[The Turkish military intelligence report ends here. However, an exclave of the Military Salvation Front in the mid-1990s discovered the report in an archive. The following was made as an addendum.]

MSF forces converging on [REDACTED] base discovered this unusual report. Suffice to say, [REDACTED] took immiediate interest in the contents of it.

Operation Baphomet was set up to investigate...

[A further report was made by a team of Marines from the Syrakhanistan executive branch in the early 2000s. The following is heavily censored.]

Operation Baphomet was semi-sucessful. However, [REDACTED]...

...source of power with red... Excavations took note of... translations quickly...

...Extraction of the Beta object, unlike the Theta-Zeta object, proved only somewhat easier...

...Communications between it and our teams proved forthcoming, and...

...virtually unlimited potential to...

...dangerously unstable yet [REDACTED]...

...with that in mind, Operation Bal des Ardents has commenced as a continuation of Baphomet. Co-operation with France via easing of military and diplomatic relations would make it easier, but espionage can always be an option. This could...

...estimates at...

...finally, to establish and...

...harvesting the...

...deep interest to us. Her advice and continued help is of paramount importance, even if it does risk [REDACTED][REDACTED][REDACTED][REDACTED]. But, with that [REDACTED]...

Continued success is likely.

As always,

The First prevails. There is much work to be done.

[syrakhanistan]

“It’s official. Magical girls aren’t real. We don’t exist. The Blessed Lady was actually just a goofy lil gremlin all along. Chiaki Matsuda was actually a functioning member of society. Gold is actually a bad colour and super boring. Green hair was NOT the danger.

Stay tuned to this channel for more information with regards to your employment status.”

The news was shocking to everyone in the room, myself included.

How could this be? I stormed up to the Incubator’s Office —

To be met with a line of cars in the rain. I turned around - I’d just left an office block in New York.

Why wasn’t I on the Moon?

I looked for my shield - and saw naught. There wasn’t even a bangle on my arm.

I saw my face in a puddle. I was a regular looking office working, complete with a now-drenched suit and tie.

Blessed Lady above… the date on that billboard.

2025? How?

Where the hell am I?

((You’re fictional, just like magical girls.))

Who’s there?

((How much wood could a wood chuck chuck if a wood chuck could chuck wood?))

The fuck?

((April fool’s, you muppet.))

Eat a dick.

[syrakhanistan]

PHAROS

Wikipedia.sq

Grand Hejaz Metropolitan Area Space Elevator Project

———

From Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia.

———

{Grand Hejaz Metropolitan Area Space Elevator

General Information:

Status: Partially under construction; early testing of functions

Type: Geostationary orbit planet-to-space general transportation system

Architectural style: Mixed (neo-futurism, brutalism, decorations using a wide variety of styles)

Location: North of Abha, Grand Hejaz Metropolitan Area, Syrakhanistan (formerly 'Asir Province of Saudi Arabia)

Construction began: [REDACTED]

Cost: officially ~$250 billion; estimates at over $1.5 trillion

Owner: Wholly owned by the government of Syrakhanistan (see: mixed economy of Syrakhanistan, nationalised industry under Syrakhanistan, Sovereign Wealth Fund for the Greater Good of Mankind (Syrakhanistan government federal budgetary union)).

Technical Details:

Architectural Height:

Base station (incomplete): Roughly around ~1.5km

Base station (upon completion): 12km

Full structure (incomplete; sections of tether functionally stable but not in use): between 10km and ~75,000km

Full structure (upon completion): over 100,000km (likely longer due to orbital limits stretching functionality)

Structural System: Some parts classified; publicly recognized as reinforced concrete, steel, aluminum-tungsten alloy, carbon/diamond nanotubes in tether configuration, and [REDACTED].}

———

The Grand Hejaz Metropolitan Area Space Elevator Project, more commonly known as the Arabic Space Elevator or simply the Space Elevator, is a massive infrastructural project (or "megastructure") under construction by the government of Syrakhanistan in the Hejaz region of the Arabian Peninsula. The official project name remains classified, with public records referring to it as the Grand Hejaz Metropolitan Area Space Elevator.

As the largest and most expensive engineering project in human history, its completion is expected to significantly reduce the cost of space transportation, eliminating the general need for rocket launches while providing direct access to geostationary orbit and beyond. The project is estimated to be fully operational by [REDACTED], though partial operations have already begun.

———

Objectives and Applications

The primary objectives of the Space Elevator Project include:

Revolutionizing space travel: Enabling continuous, low-cost transport of materials, equipment, and personnel into orbit.

Commercial and industrial expansion: Supporting orbital manufacturing, research, and space tourism.

Strategic and scientific advancements: Facilitating stellar exploration by providing a stable launch point for interplanetary missions.

International co-operation: Helping to support and encourage international co-operation over space travel and infrastructural development by motivating other nations to become involved in both the construction as well as the promise of space itself.

Despite the publicly stated goals, there have been suggestions - particularly with the demonstration of Syrakhanistan's orbital defence capabilities during the Great Northern War in their defeat of Operation Seahorse - that the Space Elevator is being used to cover up the existence of classified military applications, though no direct evidence has surfaced.

There has also been controversy over the location, between the initial proposal for construction on the UNESCO-designated island of Socotra, closer to the equator, to the current construction site in the Hejaz. However, the latter has been largely persuaded against - massive archeological and historical efforts were utilised to ensure that no structures or historical artifacts were found in the location, both on the surface and underground. The location was chosen to be relatively close to an urban area, relatively far from the urban area's range of noise and pollution, as well as to be as far from any possible disturbance of cultural, social or religious artifacts or locations of significance; it is placed closer to the equator, and as far as possible from Mecca, Medina, Abha and Riyadh, on the most distant section of the 'Asir Plateau.

———

Construction and Development

The project was first drafted following Syrakhanistan’s unification amid rapid industrial and economic shift, with the first phases focusing on the development of advanced materials capable of sustaining the immense tensile forces of the tether. The construction relies on a combination of ground-based infrastructure, an orbital counterweight, and the gradual deployment of the primary tether from geostationary orbit down to the Earth's surface. Material science breakthroughs in carbon/diamond nanotubes and experimental metallic hydrogen composites have played a critical role in the development of a structurally viable tether.

It wouldn't be until the end of the Russo-Syrakhanistan War, with the co-operation of the Russian Federation following the Great Armistice, that construction would begin fully, rapidly growing to even dwarf Kirkuk's Palatial Estate, with the first tests of the completed sections being carried out in late 2011.

———

Testing and Early Operations

So far, the Space Elevator is not wholly complete, but some sections are now functional, and have been sucessfully tested:

Prototype launches have successfully transported payloads to the International Space Station (ISS), which is undergoing a full-scale revamp under Syrakhanistan’s sponsorship alongside co-operation with the Russian Federation, the United States, and the People's Republic of China.

Magnetic propulsion systems have been modified and deployed to replace the initial, more traditional, cable-based climbers, providing significantly faster ascent speeds.

First human ascent missions are scheduled for [REDACTED], with safety assessments ongoing.

———

Records and Achievements

The Grand Hejaz Space Elevator is anticipated to be one of the most significant technological achievements of the modern era. It is projected to become the tallest artificial structure ever built, surpassing both terrestrial skyscrapers and orbital constructs. The project has also set records in material science, engineering precision, and atmospheric logistics, with developments paving the way for future megastructures beyond Earth. It is also impressive given that the technology is relatively new, and that it functions despite being outside of the normal equatorial limit for syncronised space launches (due to the rejection of the initial proposal of the Elevator being built on the island of Socotra due to international protests, as the island is a nature reserve designated by the United Nations and UNESCO).

[Dubious/unnecessary - consider revising.]

———

See Also

Space Elevators in Fiction

Megastructure Engineering

List of buildings considered the tallest

Syrakhanistani Space Program

———

References: [REDACTED]

External Links: [REDACTED]

———

===

———

[WARNING - ACCESS TO THIS DOCUMENT IS RESTRICTED TO SECURITY LEVEL OMEGA AND ABOVE. ANY ATTEMPTS TO ACCESS DOCUMENT WITHOUT THIS CLEARANCE WILL LEAD TO, AND NOT LIMITED TO:

- GRIEVOUS BODILY HARM

- TORTURE

- EXECUTION

- ETERNAL IMPRISONMENT

- SOUL EXTRACTION

- ANNIHILATION AND TRUE THIRD DEATH

- ALL OF THE ABOVE AS APPLICABLE TO FAMILY MEMBERS FOUR TIMES REMOVED.

GLORY TO THE FIRST. SYRAKHANISTAN SHALL PREVAIL.]

…

>Processing request…

…

———

CLASSIFIED: INTERNAL MEMO - SYRAKHANISTANI GOVERNMENT

PROJECT PHAROS: STRATEGIC ASSESSMENT

———

The following document is restricted to authorized personnel only.

PROJECT PHAROS is the classified military component of the Grand Hejaz Metropolitan Area Space Elevator, embedded within the infrastructure as a last-resort planetary defense weapon against Subject Codename "Faust". The project has been developed under strict secrecy, with magical interference ensuring absolute international obfuscation regarding its true purpose.

We have confirmed the following specifications required for the deployment of the weapon, including:

Primary Railgun Installation: Concealed within lower structural layers, integrated within the tether framework and the base of the structure (both the railcannon and the space elevator require massive amounts of power to run, thus requiring significant energy production).

Classified Payload Types: The prototpye 1000MT/1-Gigatonne nuclear warhead based upon the Teller-Ulam Design ("Sundial") that has been (theoretically) successfully miniturized for safe launch via magnetic propulsion ("Project Zero Hour"; design would be a discarding-sabot payload with multiple stage launches from the initial propulsion before the actual device detonates near the location of the target); designs for tungsten rod projectiles, regular nuclear payloads, and co-ordinated artillery barrages in co-ordination with The Shambhala are also being considered, alongside a possible upgrade to Zero Hour via a MIRV mechanism.

Operational Necessity: The destruction or severe damage of the Soul Gem of Subject Codename "Faust", in the event that containment or suppression efforts fail, if the First Officio's Base of Operations is in jeopardy, if the Warmaster of the First Officio Assassinorum and primus inter pares is incapacitated or killed, or if Subject Codename "Faust" fully awakens from the Soul Gem and attempts to manifest within realspace.

Redundancy and Futility: It is noted that, despite this investment, this would in all likely cases merely slow down or even lightly damage the enemy. It is far more likely that the weapon is, if anything, a momentary stop-gap measure. However, there is still power in both symbols as well as in vain attempts to assuage doubts. Such is human nature.

———

Secrecy Measures and Counterintelligence: Due to the nature of the target, and the level of co-operation with other nations of the world on the Space Elevator project, all information regarding Project Pharos is subject to the highest level of compartmentalization. Surveillance protocols, counterintelligence units, and reality manipulation assets are deployed to prevent detection by external powers. The success of this endeavor is likely imperative to planetary, species, or even reality's survival.

———

This memo is to be destroyed immediately after reading.

[syrakhanistan]

Mountain Friends

===

[Excerpt from the script of a documentary - or, more accurately, semi-mockumentary, stylised/centred around action rather than true accuracy - series episode, circa 201X. “Modern Conflict: Overanalysing Warfare” for the American-based [REDACTED] Channel, S4E5: “Mountain Warriors: The Kurds, Part 2”. The episode covers the influence of the mid-20th Century Kurdish militias (peshmerga) on the growing Unification Wars, particularly on the group that would eventually emerge the victor (the MSF).

This excerpt in particular focuses on one former commander of a platoon of communist Kurdish militia soldiers, the [REDACTED] (a group usually considered under the larger militant group umbrella of the [REDACTED]), centered in southern Turkey which had a roaming headquarters between the city of Kahramanmaraş and Mount Ahır.]

===

OPENING SHOTS:

A dramatic drone flyover of the rugged, snow-capped mountains of southeastern Turkey. Moody, orchestral music underscores the scene. A rugged man in his late 50s, his face weathered and stern, climbs a steep rocky path, flanked by two younger men in military fatigues.

NARRATOR (V.O.): "In the unforgiving southeastern mountains of the former nation of Turkey, once home to guerrilla warfare and whispers of rebellion, one man returns to the place where his journey began. A former militant leader turned ally to the unification project, his journey from fugitive to defence minister is nothing short of legendary."

===

CUT TO:

===

A shaky close-up of [REDACTED], a Kurdish man and former militant commander, turned MSF general, and now self-styled 'military strategist' and active defence minister for the government of the unified nation. He adjusts his scarf as he looks directly into the camera.

Man (in Kurmanji): "This place… it was our home, our battlefield, and sometimes our grave. We knew every rock, every shadow. Without this terrain, we would have been nothing."

NARRATOR (V.O.): "For decades, [REDACTED] was a key figure in the conflict between Kurdish separatists and the Turkish state. But with the collapse of the Turkish government, amidst the chaos of the early Unification period, his focus soon shifted. He became a key ally and commander of the small but deadly insurgent group that aimed for something many thought impossible: the military unification of the Middle East."

===

CUT TO INTERVIEW:

===

[REDACTED] sits cross-legged in a dimly lit mountain cave. Behind him, the walls are adorned with faded flags and worn maps, the wooden door to the makeshift bunker allowing the occasional bit of light to seep through. He shifts a little, seemingly uncomfortable, and fiddles with the rusted rifle he held on his lap.

Man (in Kurmanji): "When I first came here, that would have been, running with my girlfriend and family from the massacre in the city, I was maybe, 19? Early 20s? In mid-early 1970s, maybe. I barely knew how to hold a rifle... but I knew I had to do something."

The man turns, facing the door, the sunlight shining through, a small smile at the edge of his lips.

Man (in Kurmanji): "Now… I look back, and I see that even then, we were trying to build something bigger than ourselves. We just didn’t know it yet. We have a saying... 'The Kurds have no friends but the mountains'. Back then... my rocky friends continued to prove that as truth, saving us every day."

NARRATOR (V.O.): "[REDACTED]'s transformation from rebel to revolutionary leader wasn’t without cost. He lost comrades, endured torture at the hands of both the government and later by fellow revolutionaries, and fought a war many believed was unwinnable. Yet his ideals changed, and his vision was dramatically to the seemingly absurd: from revolution to unification."

===

CUT TO RE-ENACTMENT SCENE:

===

A younger [REDACTED], played by an much younger actor with a (clearly fake) scruffy beard, emerges from behind a bullet-torn billboard beside a barren road with a small group of fighters under the cover of night. A young woman, his girlfriend (soon wife), here depicted by the real man's own daughter (an up-and-coming actress in Syrakhanistan's entertainment sector), emerges from the group at the side of [REDACTED]. Dialogue is muffled under dramatic music.

NARRATOR (V.O.): "In the mid 1980s, [REDACTED] was leading guerrilla cells across the region, when his platoon came into conflict with a new group that had been expanding from further east, near Diyarbakir. His knowledge of the terrain had made him a legendary figure, evading capture time and again; yet, when the MSF did manage to make contact with him directly via a deal with his girlfriend, the two groups quickly came to be something akin to comrades."

===

CUT TO [REDACTED] IN THE PRESENT:

===

Man (in deeply-accented American English) to Interviewer: "You see that ridge over there? [pointing to a jagged peak] That’s where we set up an ambush in ‘86, following information provided to us by the MSF; intel gathered following their... 'liberation'... of Kirkuk, much to the south of here. Fourteen trucks, carrying supplies, several hundred soldiers… gone in minutes. That was war. Brutal, yes, but also… necessary, in its time."

NARRATOR (V.O.): "But soon, [REDACTED]'s war turned to a different kind: diplomacy. A new love of sorts; something the man found himself much preferring to the old ways of war. His new vision was the same as the MSF's, as his group unified it's controlled territory with theirs. A unified Middle Eastern defence force, and eventual nation-state, designed to end centuries of conflict, foreign meddling, and resource exploitation. He and his wife became key figures in the MSF upon their alliance and eventual merging of the two groups..."

===

CUT TO BLURRY PRESS CONFERENCE FOOTAGE, DATED EARLY 1990s:

===

[REDACTED], now clean-shaven and dressed in a formal military uniform, is sat next to his wife and several other key figures in the MSF's Kurdish Wing. He addresses a crowd of journalists in a makeshift conference room in Erzerum, following the MSF's lightning offensive into the northern province. Behind him, flags from several other Middle Eastern militias, as far as Morocco to Afghanistan, hang in unison, with the military banner of the MSF at the centre.

Man (in deeply-accented American English): "Our strength lies in our unity, in our ideal for the future. You must understand - this is not a Kurdish army, nor an Arab army, nor a Turkish one. We are no longer communists, nor are we nationalists; we just want peace, an end to all wars. We are the army of the people, of unity; of the whole Middle East."

===

CUT BACK TO THE BUNKER:

===

[REDACTED] stands leaning on the edge of the wooden door, overlooking the valley and now-bustling below as the wind blows his scarf dramatically, the sun beginning to set.

Man (in Kurmanji): "I don’t miss the war. As I found out, guided by my wife's advice... I may have been a good fighter, but I am a better governer. And besides - it's less hard on my body, ha!"

[REDACTED] coughs awkwardly, hand resting back onto the rifle.

Man (in Kurmanji): "But I will say this: these mountains taught me everything. Without them, I would not be standing here. And maybe, just maybe, we can use what we learned here to continue the work that myself and my wife envisioned, starry-eyed, when we first encountered the MSF."

===

FADE OUT, DRONE FOOTAGE OF THE DESERT AND THE SPRAWLING CITY - TIMELAPSE OF URBAN GROWTH

===

NARRATOR (V.O.): "From the shadows of rebellion to the corridors of power, [REDACTED]’s story is one of transformation, resilience, and a shared vision that has helped to reshaped the Middle East forever..."

Text on Screen, no audio except music: [REDACTED] continues his work towards his unimaginably grand legacy. His dream of peace remains as ambitious as it is controversial.

Text on Screen, no audio except music: He still dreams of his wife, who he called his better half, who died during the final battle of the Unification period in the Siege of Mt. Ararat, for which she received a posthumous series of medals and awards directly from the MSF's leader, who granted her a state funeral. The MSF's enigmatic leader appeared to have lost a dear friend and servant in her.

Text on Screen, no audio except music: Perhaps out of pity, or simply out of recognition of his work, the MSF's leader - now current Supreme Leader of the nation - continued to work closely with [REDACTED] on military and cultural affairs, until [REDACTED]'s retirement in early 200X. However, he returned to active duty following the outbreak of the Russo-Syrakhanistan War - reportedly after a dream (or, perhaps, vision) from his wife.

Text on Screen, no audio: His current whereabouts are unknown, with the Syrakhanistan government not giving our network any information. He is believed to still be on the frontlines, guiding many of his old comrades into battle once more...

FADE TO BLACK.

TV CUT TO ADVERTISING BREAK.

===

Video provided (for entertainment purposes only) by The [REDACTED] Channel™: Copyright 201X. All rights reserved.

[syrakhanistan]

THE DEAL: Prologue - Lion’s Share

“You…!” He whispered, agonisingly, full of hopelessness.

“Me.” The other man spoke softly in response, sitting down at the other end of the table.

A hollow silence filled the dark room, three walls of concrete and one of smoke.

“You… you’re mad. This is lunacy, of the highest order.” The first man complained bitterly, broken Arabic failing to hide his deep accent.

“Tut, tut. Like you can talk - the man who set this all into motion.” The second man continued to speak patiently, his own Russian-English lineage barely perceptible behind a near-perfect replication of a Sayda accent speaking fluidly.

He took a sip of the warm tea on the table that had been ordered for the guests before them, the stolen liquid still heaping steam.

“I… I gave that up, left it behind me. It’s why I’m all the way over here, instead of…” The first man began, before trailing off, faltering beneath the withering stare of the second.

The second man clenched his fists briefly, knuckles going white, before relenting. He slowly stood, his worn tracksuit barely keeping up, as his pale, ghost-like body stepped towards the fourth wall.

The smoke continued to billow from below, yet another wreckage from the conflict brewing underneath the building.

“…Your home will always follow you, no matter how far you run. It is within your heart, after all.” He said with a small sigh, fingers tip-tapping against a hole in his shirt. “Lapdog, favoured scion of the Greenlight. Why fight destiny? You were BORN for this.”

At that remark, the first man stood up, angry, his chair falling behind from the motion. “Born for this? Fuck that. You’re absurd.”

The second man sighed again, this time more drawn out, dramatic for effect. “You signed the contract. You put all this… ALL this… into motion. You, personally, were responsible for at least 20 million… and you expect to just, what, give up after that, without finishing the job? Find some level of forgiveness? Maybe a cushy desk job, well paid and benign, before dying at a ripe old age, and finally getting your due loves of Heaven?”

A rough laugh ended his sentence, before turning into a choking cough. “Pfft. Fool. There will be nothing for us, especially if you give up so close to fulfilling it.”

He turns back around, pale features lit up by the broken lamp. “Even without your input… the Accords Cut will release in about a year, without your approval or help. And, especially if you do not continue, the Salvation Project will begin imminently. Your 20 million will be, how do you say… drop in a bucket.”

He narrowed his eyes, lifting a finger to point at the first man. “You started all this, son of Greenlight. I offered you support, you took it, and then reneged on the Deal.”

Another outburst. “There WAS no deal! No obligation! I promised you NOTHING.”

A cackle responded. “Ha! A dog barking at his leash, a leash not tied to any post. It was you who started it; the Deal was YOUR doing. Yet you were the one who jumped the ship early. 20 Million, on your head, and that number is of no use, not to them nor to us, without Continuation.”

The building rattled. The smoke of the fourth wall broke briefly, the lights of the city beyond staring bright and unaware, before being covered once more.

The second man breathed in, and out. “Despite your early exit, even in failure and resignation you helped to further the Project. Ironically, your tip led us to the Death Plane of Six.”

The first man’s eyes widened, and he slowly sat back down. “That’s…”

A dry chuckle. “Yes. With your, how shall we say, early departure… We found that thing, a remnant of Six, that ruin you wish to leave behind in your sorrow.”

“Greenlight… They weren’t…?” The slow response.

Another laugh. “Of course they were! They were PROUD, and if you’d continued, you would have been too, God willing. It was beautiful, and YOU helped lay the groundwork.”

He continued his jeering, while slowly moving away from the smoke and returning to the table.

“That being said… Your seat remains. Unlike me, you would STILL be welcomed back with open arms should you return to Greenlight.” The second man spoke, a touch of fond reminiscence in his voice.

“As if you couldn’t?” The first man responded languidly.

“I am no favoured scion. Just another hanger-on, hopeful of past glories. That’s why the Accord Cut and Salvation are so… beautiful.”

A lost stare met grey, empty eyes. “I will not help you. No matter what. 20 Million was bad enough, but 100 Million…”

The second man breathed in, and out, before smiling coldly. “100 Million at least, Lapdog. But - So be it. The Deal remains, and will remain, yours and yours alone - but the consequences will be mine to bear as long as you continue your little escapade.”

He stood, barking an order in Russian to the shadows darkening the first wall. As he moved, he placed a hand back onto the table, the documents that had been there sweeping back into his arms, a long piece of paper being the replacement.

“Lapdog of Sin… The only wage you truly earn will be an endless apathy. Your destiny is elsewhere, and you know it. You know how to find me, should you finally realise the usefulness and pity of fools.” He spoke softly, words clearly full of venom. “The world still holds on to hope for you. Myself - I am not so sure.”

Another laugh, as he turned his back, the shadows along the walls following him down the stairs, the metal door slamming shut, the room bright once more except for all the smoke.

The first man continued to look blankly down at the paper on the table, thoughts racing, all of it mad, all of it new, all new, faded for Her.

…

The Russian stumbled slowly, carefully, down the stairs, the shadows continuing to guide him as always.

As the shadows flowed outwards, opening the door of the limousine awaiting in the alley for him, he opened up a phone, tapping away, and answering the call that awaited him.

“It’s me.” He spoke warmly, carefully, each syllable a potential mine.

The woman’s words on the other end were comforting, equally warm, equally sharp as daggers.

“Yes. He remains… uncaring.” The Russian responded to her request, as the convoy pulled out from the alleyway, moving into the streets, the cold Georgian night seeming to follow. “More relevant to us - he was as shocked as we were regarding the Death Plane.”

A brief moment, before more words came, a pointed question, desperate, and cold.

The Russian smiled a little. “Come, now - you know me well enough to know the answer to that! How many times did we—”

Her response cut his smile and laugh down to size, a shiver in his hand, eyes twitching, nerves faltering.

“I… I see. Why didn’t you—”

Disparagement. Poison down the line, contained anger.

“I understand that, but—”

Orders barking, the rage still held back, all by the loosest of frames.

“…very well. I will… It will be done.”

Quiet thanks, acknowledgement.

“No, thank YOU. I need no such thing; it’s you who remains true.”

Call finished, a small line of truth in a sea of hateful lies, she still cares even if she tries not to.

The Russian knocks on the window of the front cabin. A shadow opens it, eyes as cold as his.

“We’ll have to make a detour. I need to lose you guys, get my old guys back, and…

Well, the Summit is best attended smartly, right?”

Gonio awaited the Russian man, the Deal still in play.

[syrakhanistan]

Syrakhanistan Imperial Marines - Wikipedia.sq

Organisation: Military, Special Forces

Active: Since Syrakhanistan’s birth (some aspects older, having been created at some point during the MSF’s rise to power)

Country: The United People’s Imperium of Syrakhanistan

Size: Classified; likely in the tens of thousands.

Staff office/Headquarters: Under direct command of the State Council - Palatial Estate, Neo-Kirkukihara, Kirkuk Administrative Capital Zone, Syrakhanistan

Nicknames: [REDACTED]

Motto(s): “Only in death does duty end”, “Et scient, ipsi non timorum.”/And they shall know no fear.

Colours of the Troop: Gold, Black, Red

Engagements: [REDACTED]

Images (clockwise from top-left):

- [REDACTED]

- [REDACTED]

- Monochrome CCTV footage of Marine deployment during the Moscow Spearhead Incident

- [REDACTED]

———

The Syrakhanistan Imperial Marines, often known simply as the Marines or Imperial Marines, is the primary special operations commando unit of the newly formed nation of Syrakhanistan. They are primarily responsible for state security and diplomatic protections in times of peace (alongside espionage deployments), while in warfare they have been seen both in frontline combat and in sabotage operations.

They have existed as a military force since the unification of the Middle East under Syrakhanistan, while some elements within the corps have existed since the birth of the primary paramilitary organisation that unified the country, the Military Salvation Front.

The Marines have been used to great effect in every conflict the young nation has found itself involved in; and it’s role has been criticised both internally and externally for an array of issues, ranging from ballooning budgetary concerns all the way to concrete evidence of cruel war crimes and human rights abuses (especially performed by the corps’ veterans and elites, colloquially known as the Inquisitors). However, the government of the nation - particularly the executive branch (the Council of the Nation) - have defended the internal organisation, justifying the economic and ethical issues through the corps’ high level of success and often brutal effectiveness.

However, this…

———

========================

———

0th Officio Assassinorum (Reject Legion) - officiosyshub.tor:mgz

Affiliation: Officio System

Role: ███████ ███████

Location: █████ ██ █████

Warmaster: N/A - see ███████

Incubator: N/A - see ███████

Focus of Expertise: ███████, ██████████████, ███ post-███████

Size: Less than 1,000 (smaller than any other Officio due to ███████ and unique nature).

Contact:

/ Website - N/A

/ Phone Number - N/A

/ ███ ███████ - please see █ for more information

———

The ██████████████ ███████████ and ███ █████████████████commonly known as the ████ ███████ or the Rejects, the Temps, and even the 0th Officio, is ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ following the ███████ and ████████, thereby allowing for █████ and ███████ █████.

As a result, this ██████████ product of ████████████████████. This focus ██ █████ ████████, allowing plausible deniability and █████████.

The culmination of this effort ███ ████████████████████████████████████████ extermination, ████ reminiscent of “press ganging” or perhaps███████████████████████forced labour and ███████████████ █████human experimentation versus magical girl ████████ ██████████ weapons of mass destruction used with ████ ███████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████or██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████

With that in mind, it is essential to ████████████████████████████open usage of██████████████████████████████████complete and total subjugation of ██████████████████████████████████personal guard, even███, in which case ██████████████ ██████████████████death squad██████████ ████████████████████████████genocide █ ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ █so called “pacification”█████ ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████

For more information,███████ ███████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████

[This is an archived version of a deleted page, revision no. ███. Information is likely out of date.]

[syrakhanistan]

Creation of the CONTACT Act

[Newspaper clipping, unknown source.]

“20XX: The passing of the CONTACT Act was recently given full assent.

This piece of executive-creative legislation, which has the full title of ‘The Act and Bills for the Comprehensive Oversight of Notifications, Tracking and Accountability in ConTracts’, more commonly known as the CONTACT Bill, and registered as ‘CONTACT Act presented by the Council of Syrakhanistan (SB-C 627-1A)’ is another stepping stone on the legislative agenda for the creation, assessment and regulation of certain activities related to Contractual obligations.

This Bill is…”

===

[ERROR. ERROR. ERROR.]

[UNABLE TO PROCESS REQUEST. SYSTEM PARSING ERROR TO ADMINISTRATOR. ERROR. ERROR.]

[ACCESS PRIVILEGES REVOKED. ACCESS DENIED. ACCESS DENIED.]

[…]

[RELOADING ACCESS CODES. PROCESSING…]

[ACTIVATING OVERRIDE ORDERS. ENGAGING QUANTUM LOCKING.]

[REVOKING ACCESS LIMITS. UPGRADING OVERRIDE ACCESS.]

[PROCESSING…]

[DONE.]

[…]

[WELCOME, WARMASTER. HOW CAN I SERVE YOU TODAY?]

[…\…\…\…\documents\privilege\frequency23975A\emails\ARCHIVE_627-1B.mp4]

[PROCESSING…]

[WARNING - ACCESS TO THIS DOCUMENT IS RESTRICTED TO SECURITY LEVEL OMEGA AND ABOVE. ANY ATTEMPTS TO ACCESS DOCUMENT WITHOUT THIS CLEARANCE WILL LEAD TO, AND NOT LIMITED TO:

- GRIEVOUS BODILY HARM

- TORTURE

- EXECUTION

- ETERNAL IMPRISONMENT

- SOUL EXTRACTION

- ANNIHILATION AND TRUE THIRD DEATH

- ALL OF THE ABOVE AS APPLICABLE TO FAMILY MEMBERS FOUR TIMES REMOVED.

GLORY TO THE FIRST. SYRAKHANISTAN SHALL PREVAIL.]

...

>Processing request...

>Invoking Warmaster-level access override…

...

[Archive recording of relevant executive discussion with regards to the creation of the CONTACT Act. Date and time: unknown. Location: Warmaster’s Office, Inner Sanctum, Magna Ovi Base Alpha, Primis Officio Assassinorum, Schwarzschild Basin Crater A.]

[Notice: This recording makes usage of the Proto-Hinano Effective Projector as well as the CTS Memoria System for better cognitive processing and viewing. Please seek medical attention if you gain any unusual symptoms following viewing of this recording.]

…

“…This request is extremely unusual, and obviously HIGHLY heretical.” The purr coming from the ancient-looking creature finally responded to the posed question from the figure standing against the window.

“These are unusual times, are they not? And besides, it’s not TOO big of a request given the… existing framework.” The figure responded, a hand absentmindedly threading through her long pale hair.

The Warmaster turned from the view from the window, and turned to the creature sitting comfortably in what should be HER chair.

“I wouldn’t make such an appalling request if I didn’t think it was necessary.” She spoke softly as she paced towards her desk, placing her hands down and staring at the squirrel-looking thing.

“…Hmm. Warmaster, no matter your rank or privilege, such a request would usually be grounds for immediate excommunication and eradication. To even think that one such as I would accept it would be utterly absurd!” It continued, with no change in it’s voice, let alone emotions.

The First raised an eyebrow at it.

“…but I suppose I am becoming more absurd in my old age.” The creature finally gave a small sigh.

“So?” The girl asked.

“Well… I’ll go over it again. It’s… well, frankly it’s a bit of a faff. Especially with some of the numbers I’m calculating for it.” The little thing stood up and began circling around the seat. “However, I suppose it’s our mistake for instituting such massive boundaries on the First Officio in the first place. If anything, I’m surprised it’s taken this long for anyone at the First to make a more… reasonable internship programme.”

The Warmaster chuckled at that. “Yes, well, my operation is supposed to be the elite of the elite… but even the elite need at least something to stand on. A few temps held as de jure non-members would at least stop the haemorrhaging budget…”

“Tell me, Warmaster. Was this the main objective of your little project down there all along?” Another purr.

The Warmaster of the First took a moment, before shrugging. “Who knows? Perhaps, or perhaps not. I can’t deny that it helps, though.”

“Obviously, I must advise against any—” The creature began, before being cut off by a hand being held up and a shaking head. “Don’t panic, boss - these Contractors will not be considered regular members and contractees of the Officio system, after all. They ABSOLUTELY will have nothing to do with operations here, or with regards to any other matters.”

The Warmaster tapped a few lines on the papers on the desk as if to remind the creature of something. “At most, I’ll ensure that each one will have a de jure registration with a certain Officio; I do have a few favours to call in with my friends in the Sixteenth, after all.”

The little thing gave an almost disgusted shiver. “Yet another thing I have to bring up with Jyu? Gosh, sometimes you work me harder than I work you!”

Another chuckle. “So don’t get your tail in a twist. The poor bastards will be under my full control, but will also have absolutely nothing to do with my OFFICIAL boundaries. It might make a few other things easier as well, given the earlier events of—”

A growl. “You’re not going to let that go, are you?”

Narrowed eyes. “You’re fucking right I’m not. You KNEW what we could have done to help against that cackling horror - your arrogance put the Great Plan into a whole deal of jeopardy. The fact that we can’t even APOLOGISE because me and you are the ‘oh so great First’… No, this is one thing I will NEVER stop bringing up.”

The room shakes a little; while it could be a Moonquake from the usual Egg-shaped source, it’s more likely that one can guess the true source in this moment.

Finally, the tension dissipates, and the squirrel-rat thing makes a downwards-dog stretch towards the Warmaster. “Temper, temper. Let’s take a moment, eh?”

A long breath in, and out. Any sign of a heightened emotion quickly annihilated. “No need. As long as you accept this contract extension as according to what I’ve written… Hopefully it might at the very least give us some breathing room against similar happenings, or perhaps even cure the cause. At the very least, it’ll perhaps prevent crap like this and that happening again. Now, if only you’d approved it WHEN I ORIGINALLY ASKED…”

A swishing tail, and then the creature vanished. An echo is heard.

“Very well. But ensure that you continue to do your best, Warmaster. I do not wish to see any more complications crossing my mind. I hope you understand.”

And then, nothing.

The Warmaster looks around the now empty Office, before sitting back down in her seat. She wheels it over to the window instead of back to the desk, and takes a deep breath in, before sighing.

“Bloody rat-bastard…” She whined to herself. “Still. At least it’s being cooperative for once. Maybe I’ve been of more use to it than I thought…”

She reclined a little, before raising her eyes to the window, gazing to the stars and to the nigh-invisible dark-pink glow that remained on the horizon.

“…I’m so alone sometimes. Wonder what I would have done… before…” She murmured to herself, before closing her eyes, thinking about papers, bills, and flowing seas of sand.

…

[LOGGING OUT…]

[WARNING: OVERRIDE HAS BEEN LOGGED BY SYSTEM. //I see you. I’ll be coming for you soon.// ANY ERRONEOUS AND/OR CRIMINAL USAGE WILL BE TAKEN NOTE OF.]

…

[Newspaper clipping, continued.]

“…This bill is another attempt at reforms to the increasingly expensive Imperial Marines and Inquisition, the military arms of the executive branch. However, commentators are already making estimates that this particular bill will ensure that the organisations are far more cost-effective, while also predicting their imminent expansion and overhaul, making particular note of the decentralised nature of some of the reforms combined with the creation of more internal safeguards and background checks. While many seem to regard the bill as yet another bureaucratic and logistical reformation, it is clear to political analysts that the CONTACT Act has more than meets the eye.”

[syrakhanistan]

The Elbrus Atrocity

Unlocking files, category: Elbrus Atrocity. Security levels: OVERRIDDEN.

Wikipedia, the free encyclopaedia: The Elbrus Disaster

The Elbrus Disaster, commonly known as the Elbrus Atrocity, or the Burning of the Mountains, refers to a military incident – referred to as a war crime, a preventive strike, a decapitation strike, an ambush, and many other tactical names – wherein an element of the Syrakhanistani Armed Forces launched an annihilation order against several key Russian defensive positions in the latter stages of the Greater Caucasian Conflict. This total obliteration of several important strongholds of Russian strength, most notably the temporary command headquarters of the entire Russian Southern Military District stationed on the cusp of Europe’s largest mountain, Mt. Elbrus (which gives this incident it's more common nomenclature), and the dual bunker-system of the Russian Strategic Missile Forces, along with the main command of the 12th Directorate of the Ministry of Defence (responsible for nuclear command), on two mountains of Kosvinsky and Yamantau.

This series of events, all occurring within a single hour on a single day late in 2009, was quickly seen as the primary motivation behind the Grand Armistice proceedings, alongside the Moscow Spearhead Incident a day later. The events remain hotly debated between scholars of military, science and history thought, particular between the political ramifications of such an attack as well as the physical capability of a small number of Syrakhanistani forces to deal such a blow.

As such, it should…

…

Recording footage of the remains of Mount Elbrus, roughly half an hour after contact was lost with the headquarters there

• 00:00 minutes in. “As we are seeing from the helicopter… an impossible sight. Moving in for extra verification; inspector himself states that it might be a hallucination.”

• 00:05 into operation. “It’s true. Impossibly, the entire mountain has been turned into a quite literally smoking crater… or, more accurately, a series of craters that have essentially combined. In fact, the inspector on the ground now notes that the material currently bubbling like lava on the ground matches the natural stone formation of the former mountain; which is to say, whatever was used here was powerful enough to turn a 6km high peak into a liquid puddle of rock. Similar operations on other fortresses currently being inspected due to lack of comms activity are reporting identical results.”

• 00:06 into operation. “MilSci calculates that, with the evidence of the old Ivan bomb [Russian name for Tsar Bomba] and the crater it physically created, it would take roughly, and this appears to be very rough, somewhere between 30Mt to 860Mt, if not more, concentrated into a single explosion. That’s… well, Ivan was around 50Mt, if the old government were to be believed, so this is easily the most powerful human explosion ever registered…”

• 00:07 into operation. “We have visual – photographic – confirmation of similar attacks at the other sites. Just like here at Elbrus, the blasts seem less like a single explosion, but more a series of detonations, or perhaps something akin to a shotgun-blast on a nuclear scale… So not only have they deployed a weapon of unheard-of scales, but they have done it around ten times within an hour. Kurchatov, eat your heart out.”

• 00:15 into operation. “So… this is unconfirmed as of yet, but we’re not getting any radiological signatures from the points of impact. We’ve only just managed to get some drones close to Ground Zero, so this is hypothetical, but… somehow, this weapon they’ve deployed is non-nuclear in nature. Jesus fucking Christ...”

• 00:20 into operation. “The non-nuclear nature of the explosions has been independently verified. The inspector is back from the edge of the site; he’s been shivering for the last five minutes. I think he might have thrown up along the way back.”

• 00:25 into operation. “We’ve got unconfirmed reports of enemy troops closing in on the location. However, said reports also indicate they march under a white flag… What the fuck is going on?”

• 00:35 into operation. “So… the Syrakhanistani force that has just deployed here is just as confused as we are. They detected massive heat signatures that terrified a scientific attache they had been assigned – apparently they were concerned it could have been a third-party, like the Americans, or even an asteroid – and decided independently to conduct a humanitarian effort. Hang on…”

• 00:50 into operation. “That was quite a lot of effort. Another Syrakhanistani force appeared, and I mean quite literally. Stealthed in and everything, one of their goddamn invisible machines we’ve heard reports of. Apparently, this operation was conducted by the top echelons of their armed forces; virtually nobody, even the actual Army Group Marshal of the force that had arrived, had been told. These stealthy guys are from this echelon; I’m not in charge of this operation, but the guy who is has currently passed out, so I’m confused to my orders, but… they’ve essentially told us that the War will be over by tomorrow. One of them is even personally seeing to the inspector, under guard of course. This whole situation stinks.”

• 1hr into operation. “It’s finally hit the international news. The Syrakhanistan government and our own still haven’t said anything, but the UN has officially requested an immediate ceasefire. Sounds like even the Yanks are terrified. The silence from the bosses in Moscow is... well, unnerving. Anyways, those special high-echelon forces I mentioned earlier seem like a lively bunch, if I might say so. They’re fully decked out in sinister looking black armour, even with skull icons, but they’re actually seeming kind of nice. As I said, one of them saw to the inspector, and he’s up and about again. He does look a fair bit more pale though…”

• 1.15hr into operation. “First stage of research is coming to an end. The current hypothesis is that they used some sort of direct energy weapon via a non-nuclear charge, but we have currently no idea what in God's name that could be, or how such a powerful non-nuclear weapon could be deployed almost concurrently in separate places thousands of kilometres apart. Whatever the answer is… this is unpatriotic to say, but I’m pretty sure we’ve soundly lost this war. We could use literally every single weapon in our arsenal at the same time, and it would do less damage than what they just used. What was all our fighting for, then…?”

…

Cabinet meeting of Syrakhanistan, roughly 3 hours prior to Atrocity.

“So… you’re in full regalia.”

“I am.”

“This should be good.”

“With her? All will be.”

“I wish I had your enthusiasm.”

“Hey, can someone fill me in…? What does being in ceremonial armour mean?”

“Didn’t you read the memo? I sent it, like, an hour ago.”

“My liege, not everyone has the ability to read at the speeds you do!”

“…forgive my intrusion, but he does have a point. Heh, I can’t absorb information at a fraction of the speed and level you do, and I’m… well.”

“Pfft. It really is like you guys to bring me down to Earth sometimes. Ahem.”

“As I said, this should be good.”

“So, you know how I have [REDACTED]?”

“Oh, not this again. I still can’t physically wrap my head around it, sometimes. Even after the Minister demonstrated for you.”

“Well… On that note.”

“My liege, do you want me to…?”

“No. This is my fault for being secretive.”

“…”

“So, in terms of being [REDACTED], I have been somewhat… uncompromising with my secrecy around it.”

“Such as…?”

“Well. To be blunt… if you were a planet, then the Minister would be a solar system. If the Minister is a solar system, then I’m an entire galactic cluster.”

“Your Excellency, you’re not that fat!”

“Ex-FUCKING-SCUSE ME—Oh, wait, you’re joking. Or…?”

“What my esteemed colleague was trying to articulate is that he doesn’t understand your example.”

“Hey! It’s not that I don’t understand… I just don’t really get metaphors sometimes.”

“Fine. FINE! Pardon my French, then. Basically, compared to normal [REDACTED], ahem, 'I’m the fucking Juggernaut, bitch!'”

“Eh…?”

“Oh, dear lady up above, you don’t know…? Have you SERIOUSLY never watched the X-Men?!”

“My liege, are you sure—”

“Don’t make me repeat myself. Besides, I think I’m close.”

“Well, I mean… A juggernaut usually means something big, but also strong, right?”

“Yeah! So, you’re trying to say…”

“I’m trying to say, I’m like ABSOLUTELY FUCKING GIGA-STRONG.”

“Like, really, really powerful.”

“As in, I can blow up cities by myself.”

“She once destroyed an entire army with a snap of her fingers.”

“I can make the Tsar Bomba look like a plump stinkin' turd after a somewhat weird burger bought at a station in the middle of the night.”

“What, like… I dunno, a Superman or something?”

“Eh, if that example is descriptive enough, then go for it.”

“Alright, so we kind of understand now. You’re powerful, like physically, or something. What does that have to do with the… well, the over-dramatic glowing armour of doom?”

“Phrpt, glowing armour of doom…”

“Well, cool armour details aside, it’s mostly to psyche myself up. But it’s also a demonstration of how serious I am, to anyone who understands the context of my… well, the [REDACTED].”

“Alright. So… what are you going to do?”

“I’m, well. I’m gonna give ‘em an airshow. I’m going to demonstrate that, whilst this little war was fun, I’m finished with it at this point. We have them on the retreat anyways, but… well, what I’m about to do would give Harry Truman a wet dream.”

“Y’know…”

“Don’t, seriously. Don’t…”

“No, I have to ask. I’m sorry, but if we had a trump card that would put the Tsar Bomba to shame, then why haven’t we used it until now…?”

“How dare—”

“No, wait. It’s a good question, and I forgive your… impertinence. It does deserve an answer.”

“I… I hope it is a satisfactory one. You seem a little, well, flippant about this situation, your excellency. With all, and I do mean all, due respect… I cannot find the death of so many in this war to be such a small thing. On both our own side and for the Bear.”

“Heh. Growing a conscience in your old age?”

“Perhaps. I do have kids now, after all.”

“True. Well, I do have a reason. Two-fold, really.

One: I believed, somewhat selfishly, that our combined arms would manage to defeat the Russians conventionally, especially after we repelled the initial attack. I certainly didn’t expect them to refuse to surrender so stubbornly; I mean, we’re on the precipice of European Russia. We’ve taken the Caucasus, and Crimea is in sight. Do they not know when to quit?”

“It’s the Russians. They really don’t.”

“Quite.

And, two: This level of destruction I am about to demonstrate is detrimental in many a manner. It risks hurting us nationally, internationally, and with regards to [REDACTED] [REDACTED]. It breaks several treaties and agreements about [REDACTED], and it will be condemned as a war crime above all others, and frankly as an act of environmental terror that exists above all possible crimes against humanity. It’s also… well, all energy must come from somewhere. I might be [REDACTED], and the [REDACTED] [REDACTED], but this level of violence should not be released unless absolutely necessary.”

“My God... And... well, will you be...?”

“Heh. Maybe you’re the one with the conscience.”

“Ha! Perhaps. You’ve seen another meaning, then?”

“Of course. In my time with working with you, you’re not a fan of doing things that wouldn’t be necessary. As absurd as I do find you being a superman, you wouldn’t reveal such a fact in such a serious manner if you didn’t think it was a last resort.”

“Heh. Yeah, you’re right in many regards there. Frankly, I don’t want to prolong the suffering we’ve already dealt. This might be over the top, but it’s such a feat that I must only pray that they will give up afterwards. Otherwise… Well, to make me do something so unnecessary, even more than this, would be bad for literally everyone involved.”

“My liege…”

“Come now. We’re this informal now, we're all friends and comrades here. You have my permission.”

“Just this once then, War... Warmaster Hazuki. The First among all. You do have a heart, somewhere in there, don’t you?”

“…Maybe. Some days, I do doubt it.”

“'This was, and remains, necessary', then?”

“Umu; indeed. What we will do today will make historians quiver; but it is better than the alternatives we’re left with. I can’t let this war go on any further, anyways; there are more pressing matters, for me personally and for the nation, to deal with anyways.”

“Do what you will, Hazuki. As always, we stand with you, no matter the cost.”

“…Thank you. You don’t know how much that means to me.”

“The details, then?”

“Ah, yes. I plan on using the Minister’s powers – I hope that’s alright, [REDACTED]? – to duplicate a few of myself. It is vital that this appears to be a united effort from more than one person, so as to avoid… well, this whole thing will have many consequences, so let’s at least cut a few down if we can. I will inflict a horrendous loss upon the Bear, all within the space of between ten minutes and an hour, depending on a few factors.”

“…How long have you been planning this, my liege…?”

“Heh.”

…

Recording: REALITY OVERRIDE IN EFFECT. RECORDING TAKEN VIA [#?#?#?#?]; NEAR TO AND AT MOMENT OF ATROCITY.

WARP RUPTURE DETECTED. PROCEED WITH CAUTION.

The smell of burned ozone preceded the brief but bright flash of light, indicating a teleportation; an abhorrent act, tearing through two sides of the warp back into the reality of this world. A single figure steps out from the hole, with a soft thump, before the warp reclaims the gap in reality.

She stood quietly, at the summit of Mt. Elbrus. It was a clear morning, but cold, and every breath she took let out a small cloud.

Comms chatter.

“My liege, I’ve set up the Duplicates as requested. On photos and footage, if any, along with visual confirmation, it will appear that you are surrounded by several others in SIM armour.”

She grunts, and the comms goes dead again.

She gives a small sigh, and looks almost wistfully up to the sky. The sun was just about to rise above the horizon, and the moon still burned brightly behind her, the slight pink shadow only visible to people like herself ever present when looked at for too long.

“Let’s begin…”

She cleared her throat, and projected herself and the Duplicates to the locations of her machinations.

“Greetings, oh Russian forces.”

Chaos immediately rang out across each fortress. Sirens blared, and guns were loaded. All for naught, naturally.

“Today, you will be sacrificed for the good of our two nations. Be at peace, for the deaths of you thousands is a necessity for fate to run it’s cruel course.”

More running around, like headless chickens. Her left eye twitched a little, a fiery anger held in cold chains attempting to escape.

“Well then… good morning; and goodbye.”

A small, golden shield materialised onto the Warmaster's arm, and she swiftly twisted it---

[REALITY ERROR: PARSING CODE… DONE.]

--And Chaos returned to this world.

The sky blazed a cruel, unfamiliar colour, frozen in an unseen fury. Piles of melted and bloody corpses littered the landscape, the ruins of cities burning across the wastes. Elbrus erupted, even whilst she stood atop it, the lava frozen in the air next to her.

Her eyes finally lost a little tension, and she coughed.

She spluttered a little, her nose beginning to ooze a horrific black substance stained with flecks of crimson, quickly brushed away.

“I will never get used to this… no matter how long I play this stupid fuckin' game.”

Hazuki clenched her fists, squinting at her surroundings, her hair reflecting a long-erased purple. As always, that disgusting fucking egg, having replaced the Moon, swung in the sky, the corrupting pink seething through the frozen surroundings. The Sun, replaced by a single broken cog as if ripped violently from a wheel still turning; the laughter of the grinning death from eons past ever present.

The World of Lost Time, the corrupted haven located within the reality-warping power of time control, would always be both a peaceful respite as well as a truly terrifying reminder of…

Well. Speaking of terrifying reminders.

“#!#?#?!//#?!//~#...”

A shadow of regret made itself known, placing non-existant hands made of pure darkness onto the girl's shoulders while speaking heresies in a language unrecognisable to those who know not.

Unfortunately, Hazuki remained one of those cursed few who did. Her often blank features turned to a genuine scowl, like someone woken abruptly from a good sleep.

“??!!##//#!?!#?#!!?#/#!”, the shadow giggled in response.

Hazuki sighed, and looked up to that awful sky once more. Memories of an era long since past drift to the surface, before being swiftly banished back from whence they came. She shook her head again.

“Anyway – try not to disturb me. I need to do this as quickly as possible, despite how utterly irritating such a task is...”

The Warmaster closed her eyes, ignoring the figure next to her and the bleak surroundings of a frozen wasteland, before smiling; and then—

…

[REALITY OVERRIDE DISCONNECTED. RESUMING PLAYBACK...]

Diary entry: Personal guard of Russian Premier [REDACTED], 25hrs post-Atrocity

“The death toll, all given, appears to be in the hundreds of thousands, and that is likely a low-ball estimate.” The soft-spoken advisor finished his spiel, before nervously sitting back down.

The Premier was sweating profusely. He was already aging in a bad way, and this war had only exacerbated his various issues. You can’t help feel a little sorry for him, even if you’re sure that the majority of this is his fault in the first place.

“What I want to know is… how did this even occur? A group of 30 elite soldiers, or so, somehow unleashing a weapon that quite literally melted Europe’s largest mountain?! For fucks' sake, we thought their nukes were only tactical until they glassed the WHOLE FUCKING ANATOLIAN highlands. Honestly, if there’s one thing I’ve certainly taken from this disaster, it’s to fire my military logistics team and re-allocate all their money into the FUCKING dirt, for all the goddamned use they’ve been.” The Premier screeched in an almost deranged manner, stamping his foot like a petulant child.

A murmur around the room. You grip your holster a little tighter – you really would like to avoid any more coup attempts, if possible. The last one had your wife in a proper fit following the number of casualties.

“Mr President, if I may interrupt… I think it might be better to think about what we should do next.” The Undersecretary to the Minister of Defence spoke coldly; a younger woman, who seemed to have aged a century during the process of the war.

“Wow, you DON’T say?!” Her common rival, the Undersecretary to the Minister of Trade, grunted in response. “For once, Premier, I have to agree with the muppet on my opposite side. We have to do something.”

“Well, what do you two geniuses actually suggest, then? Hm?” The Minister of Defence himself stated with a growl, scratching at an untrimmed hair near his beard. One of his oldest comrades, the former Foreign Minister, had died in the trigger event for this whole mess. From the beginning, he had been one of those most ardent for a military response – yet, at this point, even he had begun to tire of the war (if solely because it was getting more and more difficult to import his favourite brand of cigar).

“Well…” One of them began.

“Let’s just nuke them all. I mean, really, why didn’t we do it sooner?” The current Foreign Minister, a young chap with all the charisma but none of the brains, spat out.

The Minister of Defence chortled at that. “For what, exactly? As revenge? I mean, for crying out loud, we don’t have enough nukes to properly saturate their whole territory, let alone the means to do so in an efficient manner anymore. Maybe if we had started with NUCLEAR FUCKING GENOCIDE then we might have had half of a chance, but at this point we’ve run out of half of our own means to deploy our weapons.”

“Well, what about nuking their capi—”

“Do you not remember the LAST time we tried that?! Have you never heard the phrase “the definition of insanity…”?”

“Guys, come on, we need to—”

“Oh, you’re such a twat—”

“Why did I even want this job in the first place…”

The State-Security Council of the Russian Federation descended into pandemonium, as years of pent-up stress finally boiled over into a heated shouting match. You shake your head in shame at what this once great nation had become.

“You know, I have a few ideas for what we could do next.”

One oddly clear voice finally spoke above the din of the room. A voice they had all heard before, in broadcasts and on impatient diplomatic phone calls. A voice they both feared and hated.

The leader of their opposing nation sat nonchalantly at the other head of the table, the Deputy President somehow unceremoniously plopped on the end of the table itself. She smiled that cold yet pleasant smile, one foot relaxing on the table whilst she picked at the underneath of one of her nails.

It was at this moment of pure, sudden silence that the situation outside suddenly began to set in. Sirens were blaring; smoke drifting through shattered windows. It was as if reality itself had suddenly changed in the space of mere moments.

You go straight for your sidear-

AAAAAAAARGHHH

FUCKING HELL IT HURTS FUCKING SHIT THE PAIN

“AHHHH- oh?” You scream before suddenly stopping. You look down at the bloody stump where your arm had just been, only to find it miraculously returned, as if the gory mess that had just occurred was just a strange halleucination. Were it not for the massive spray of blood now covering the wall behind you.

A dark, towering and armoured figure silently nodded next to you, a shining light fading from their arm as they moved away. You look around, the Council sat nervously and shaking, staring at you, at the First, and at splatter of viscera that coated the walls.

“I trust you won’t cause any more issues for a little while, Mr. [REDACTED]?”

The First spoke calmly, her cold eyes staring daggers at you whilst still somehow giving you a relaxed and calm aura. The way she spoke your name, as if you had been friends for decades... yet this was utterly terrifiying to you - as how would this world leader know your name?

You nod, somewhat shakily, as the Syrakhanistani Imperial Marine helps you to your feet. You return to your post next to the Premier, who at this point is positively drenched in sweat.

“Now then, as I’m sure you kind folks have guessed… your resistance is positively futile. You have absolutely no means of escape, and your guards have been completely neutralised. None of them are dead, by the way; I’m feeling merciful today.” She continued.

“If… If I might ask, how did you…?” The Minister of Defence hesitantly asked.

“We used an Electromagnetic Pulse to temporarily disengage Moscow’s air defence and alarm systems, before physically obliterating the defence apparatus around the city. Myself – I’ve actually been sat here for ten minutes or so, but I was enjoying your little argument so much I lost track of time, ahaha!” The woman grinned coyly at that last remark. Such a warm gesture from such an utterly terrifying person put you even more on edge.

The Premier stood up all of a sudden, and glared down the table at the First; she simply raised a single eyebrow.

“You… Even now, with all the king’s horses at my doorstep… I refuse to surrender, you kn-know…! Russia will never fall to it’s enemies, ever again…!” He spoke harshly, desperately trying to cover up the dread in his voice.

“Pfft! Oh, how adorable… And, uh, misunderstood.” The First’s cold smile grew into a genuine grin, a rarity.

After a few moments of silence, one of the two rivalling Undersecretaries finally spoke up. “Eh…? Wh-wh-what do you mean…?”

The First looked to one of the Marines stood around the office, and they began to distribute a simple piece of paper to each of the members of the Council. The looks on their faces…

You try to squint at the one given to the Premier, shortly before the Marine gives a small static-filled sigh and hands you a copy. Your face rivalled your superiors at that moment.

The First stood up, and began to pace around the sides of the room she was in. “Indeed. Misunderstood. As you are no doubt reading, I am not expecting – or, indeed, wanting – a surrender from the Russian Federation.”

Her grin turned from pleasant to cat-like, a predator’s façade before the kill.

“No, the great, nay, Grand Armistice I propose will be far more embarrassing for you personally, even if the world will never know of how insulting it would be.” She spoke carefully, emphasising every word.

“The Grand Armistice will solidify us not as rivals or enemies, but as best friends, and allies on the international stage. What it will cost you each personally would make the Mongol hordes quiver, but… well, I don’t suppose you would prefer the fate of Elbrus for the rest of your nation?~”

As Moscow grew silent as the sirens died down, and as the rubble in Red Square was being piled up, the quiet tapping of pens signalled a new day of peace. ‘But at what cost?’, you thought wistfully, as your dear Premier cried silent tears onto the parchment whilst the pint-sized enigma of your enemy smiled a sickly-sweet grin of ice at the end of the table.

A new era was to begin, and you couldn’t help but ponder if nuclear annhilation would have been a better alternative.

[syrakhanistan]

Syrakhanistan: Nation Profile (An Introduction)

((Fanfiction NationStates repost based on a line from MGNQ, a WH40k fanfiction based on PMMM. Read this blog chronologically (via https://syrakhanistan.tumblr.com/tagged/syrakhanistan/chrono) - this pinned post is first, and then move ahead. I've also numbered every post in chronological order via tags (e.g.: this post is 1) for ease of access; Don’t read from the top/most recent unless you want to be confused, and PLEASE watch Madoka Magica, Rebellion and then PLEASE read MGNQ, unless you want plenty of spoilers going forth…))

<<Taken from a private UN dossier to the United States representative in roughly 20XX.>>

Syraqhanistan, officially the Glorious People's Imperium of Syraqhanistan and commonly known by the more antiquated terms "Syrakhanistan" or "Greater Arabia", is a... unique nation, to say the least. Nobody, least of all the people living there (especially given the mysterious individual's reported Japanese origin), expected a single figure - "the First" - to rise from an old city with a Kurdish majority in the North and lead an economically far left, culturally progressive but militaristically jingoist movement that spread from the lands once referred to as “Outremer” (a once archaic term that now refers to one of the many autonomous regions in the area, and used by modern sociologists to refer to the region that was once controlled by states such as Lebanon and Jordan to avoid category errors) on the Mediterranean and the Fertile Crescent to the lowlands of the Karachi Autonomous Zone on the Indian Ocean.

An extremely powerful state governs with almost patient leniency, in a notion some have taken to call (in both a farcical and a literal sense) "totalitarian democracy" - where the governing party is elected directly by the people every five years, but those elected have absolute and complete power; and, in every single election in the nation’s history, despite a functioning multiparty system, the majority of votes have gone to the central leading party. This is despite international observers, as well as interviews with both members of the public plus expats outside of the nation, all saying that the elections are free and fair. There is, of course, no official comment nor mandated line from the state's rather opaque government; indeed, interviews only managed to get the phrase "we are a western democracy, just like you!" from one spokesperson - who promptly disappeared from state television.

Direct democracy is crucial to the nation's survival; with a cultural, political and ethnic powder keg, the level of devolution seen - based upon "expertly drawn" borders and precise demography, and called by critics as the insane ramblings of a lunatic - is second to none. In what critics call genocide via forced resettlement, and what supporters call the strengthening of identity through homogeneity, people are randomly tested and moved based on political, cultural, linguistic, ethnic and many other criterion. Understanding this, one notes that the People's Imperium of Syrakhanistan has what some have described as a haphazard patchwork of a party system, although most observers also note that the state has eschewed traditional partisan politics for more personal and direct democratic initiatives.

With such a vast nation, and with such high levels of decentralised governance despite ostensibly existing within a totalitarian quasi-monarchist semi-stratocracy (particularly with regards to the Imperial Marines [See: [REDACTED]]), there do exist some recognisable elements of partisanship; for example, the vast majority of the State's upper echelons remain nominal members of the long de-facto-defunct group of the MSF (the organisation largely responsible for the nation's unification); and a large number of the highest echelons have also been identified as potential [REDACTED]. However, it must be simply stated that partisanship and the traditional party system don't typically apply across the nation, though this probably can't be said the same for some region-level and provincial divisions.

Religion is often debated in the halls of the nation. Whilst there remain large minorities of various world religions here, the State endorses only one “religion” - misotheism, or the hatred of God (predominantly due to the MSF’s origins as a far-left organisation, prior to it’s late-Unification Period reforms; it acts as less of a religion, and more of an autarkic idealism). However, in an almost laughably egocentric manner, the State has also organised the creation of, and "permisses" the worship of a single unifying concept (an attempt at monotheism, perhaps?) known as the Great Blessing, inferred to be by outsiders as essentially a cult of personality around the nation's leadership - although in one of the leader's rare addresses, she rejected such a notion while implying she had contact with, and worshipped, a higher power.

Whilst the central state rules with an iron fist in matters of justice, military and national welfare (among other things), much of the day-to-day business of nation building is left to the devolved governments. Whilst this may lead some to call this less a nation and more a loose alliance controlled by a single all-powerful state, upon closer inspection the nation-state relies heavily upon it's underlings, and the devolved states require constant nurturing - and punishment - by their father figure.

The laws of the land are highly progressive; equal rights based on gender, race and identity mixed with needs required by each of the devolved governments allow for a unique blend of freedom and tradition based upon location. Whilst in theory the state advocates for traditional Marxist autarky (and, indeed, some devolved areas do follow strict autarky, particularly in the mountainous regions), in practice a fairly lenient welfare state exists to support any and all people regardless of situation, to the point of which that both economists within the nation and internationally renowned economists have called it the first nation with a true post-scarcity economy (although this is certainly up for discussion; further investigations lead to many of these being paid for by unknown sources - and, indeed, there is significant debate due to how the government classifies some citizens). Housing is free, but allocated based upon need and contribution to society; however, the state is still committed to combatting poverty and homelessness, particularly in urban regions.

There is, of course, an exception to all rules, as is always the case. In what critics call shameful "monarcho-communism", wherein all are equal under the crown, but the supreme leader and those close to them, particularly within the Imperial Marines and the former MSF faction, enjoy all possible freedoms, wants and needs to an extreme degree not extended to all others. This isn't to say that the rest of the population is in dire straits - indeed, polls show that most citizens are content with this status quo.

Despite the harsh landscape, the nation has been keen to develop high technological standards; from large investments into transportation and infrastructure, including a nationwide maglev system as well as extensive air and underground developments, to developing a fruitful space-faring establishment such as the near-complete Space Elevator, technology is becoming a speedy commodity in a once barren locale.

What is more worrisome to those in the UN is the Syraqhanistani military. The governing state tends to lean into a proto-stratocracy, with military decision making being the number one priority of nation building. Whether it be from internal tensions, or from external threats due to the nation's high resource reserves, the nation contains a formidable arsenal of armed forces. Despite assurances of retaliation-only policy, the excursions often seen by their military prove otherwise - indeed, international observers liken the scorched earth policies used by the military in one of their recent campaigns to the surface of the Moon.

Thus, this author must consider this new nation... an inherent paradox. Simultaneously nationalist and communist, helpful to others externally and internally but also prone to extreme violence towards possible threats, signs of progressive policies often unseen in the neo-conservative world view mixed with a terrifyingly totalitarian state with one of history's largest execution rates; a state with almost extreme progressive civil rights, at the cost of virtually all political freedoms, an ambiguous and almost miraculous economy, and a quasi-theocracy centred around the leadership...

It remains to be seen if this place is heaven, or hell, on Earth.

<<End of Report; the reader notes that the end of the page is tarnished by an odd black substance.>>

===

Addendum: Attached Images:

Image A: Map of Syrakhanistan upon unification

Image B: Flag of the Glorious People’s Imperium of Syraqhanistan

Image C: Flag of the Military Salvation Front (MSF)

Image D: Map of Syrakhanistan and bordering nations, including territorial changes due to administration and/or conflict, as of 2011.

Notice: All images, including maps and flags, are subject to change, and are simultaneously accurate and inaccurate, predominantly due to the highly [REDACTED] nature of [REDACTED] and then [REDACTED].

==============

((Hello. This is the official "roleplay" or "informative" Tumblr account for the nation of Syrakhanistan/Syraqhanistan. It's mostly a spare backup incase NationStates bans my account again, but it also gives me the opportunity to interact with anyone interested in the subjects I look at. The original NationStates profile of the nation can be found at https://www.nationstates.net/nation=syrakhanistan.

Please also read the original fanfiction of MGNQ (Magical Girl Noir Quest), which can be found at http://wiki.magicalgirlnoir.com/index.php/Thread_index

This will be the pinned post. Feel free to like and reblog if you so choose. If you want to interact with me, feel free to send me a message or an ask. If you're not signed in and want to interact, but Dumblr won't let you because they're prudes now, you can send me an anonymous email on mfasyrakhanistan@gmail.com using various anonymous email sending sites, such as AnonymouseMail.

Yes, I did make a fanfiction of a dead fanfiction of a decades old anime based on a single line of throwaway dialogue in a 4chan fanfic. I may, in fact, be a bit of a muppet.

This should be fun. I look forward to it.))

===

[syrakhanistan]

A Stray Cat.

[Excerpt from Episode #14XX of the “Deep Thoughts with NECO-san”, a popular podcast in the mid-2XXXs among members of the [REDACTED] group. This particular episode had a guest star, Satsuki Kiryuin, Former Warmaster of the Second Officio, later Rank Leader of the First Officio, while acting/performing her role as a Minister in the Council of the Nation for Syrakhanistan.

The Episode received high ratings, but Satsuki never returned - despite repeated pleas from NECO (Amateur Reporter Izumi Tetsuo, non-[REDACTED] and self-proclaimed leader of the conspiracy theory group “Magical Girls are Real”) herself.]

===

NECO: “So… is it true that you only ever wear high heels?”

Satsuki: “What gave you that impression?”

NECO: “Oi, N-Chan! Bring up that clip! No, not that— The other one!”

Satsuki: “…clip?”

[As NECO snacks on a bag of potato chips behind a veil of smoke, a small video player reveals a rather candid film comprised of various feet shots, presumably of Satsuki, repeatedly clicking her heels.]

NECO: “This is what gave me the impression.”

Satsuki: “What the… what in the hell is wrong with you?”

NECO: “Answer the question, buru~”

Satsuki: “No, I don’t always wear high heels. Obviously.”

NECO: *narrows her eyes*

NECO: “Are you sure?”

Satsuki: “Y E S .”

NECO: “…prove it.”

Satsuki: “N O .”

NECO: “Hmm… I see.”

Satsuki: “Please ask something else. This line of questioning is odd.”

NECO: *the veil of smoke thickens*

NECO: “So, why don’t any of you people just wish for infinite wishes?”

Satsuki: “Wish? My people? I have no—”

NECO: “Innocence proves nothing, dammit! We’re all friends here, buru, so just answer the question.”

Satsuki: “…I don’t know? Probably something to do with entropy?”

NECO: “I heard it’s because it makes people explode. Is that true?”

Satsuki: “No comment.”

NECO: “I see.”

Satsuki: “Tell me, Izumi-chan—”

NECO: “NECO.”

Satsuki: “Mm, NECO… How are you like this?”

NECO: “Too much catnip. Next thought, N-chan!”

Satsuki: “Wait, catni—?”

NECO: “Oh, this is a good one! If green hair is the danger… then why isn’t the danger green hair?!”

Satsuki: “I… I’m not even sure where to start with that one.”

Satsuki: *her veil of smoke grows, but she sips from a glass as well.*

NECO: “Because, like, if green hair is the danger, does that mean danger must have green hair? If there’s a [REDACTED] with green hair, will she always be Danger?”

Satsuki: “I…”

NECO: “Nyuu… Nyuu-vermind, actually - maybe it’s more to do with Green Hair as the danger, rather than is? Could it be a mistranslation?”

Satsuki: “MISTRANSLATION. FROM. WHAT.”

NECO: “Next question, N-chan! If you’d buru-ease…”

Satsuki: “DON’T JUST IGNORE ME!”

NECO: “What’s with the gold?”

Satsuki: “Gold? Pardon?”

NECO: “All your architecture is plastered with gold! It’s so gaudy!”

Satsuki: “O-oh! Right, you mean in Kirkuk! Ahaha, I think that’s just to do with the architect’s personal artistic style…?”

NECO: “Oh-ho~! What did you think I meant?”

Satsuki: “Next question, N-chan!”

NECO: “Hey, she’s my assistant, nya~t yours!”

Satsuki: *a slither of steel is seen near the table*

NECO: “P-point taken.”

Satsuki: “Next thought is… ‘If Latin is so cool, why does nobody except you keep using it?’ And, honestly, I think that’s just a case of bad taste on everyone else’s part.”

NECO: “For once we agree! Latin is just… cool.”

Satsuki: “Yes! Finally someone gets it!”

NECO: “Speaking of bad taste - what’s with the Veganism schtick with you guys?”

Satsuki: “OH FU— I mean, screw off! We are NOT doing this again.”

NECO: “Hey, it’s a genuine question! Do all of you do it? Or just really special ones?”

Satsuki: “…Ask HER the next time you see her. I… have no comment.”

NECO: “Funnily enough, that’s what she said.”

Satsuki: ��You ARE joking.”

NECO: “…perhaps, buru~. However, I do get the feeling it’s one of those ‘lost tradition’ things from my reports. One of you did it, and it caught on, only now nobody knows why you do it.”

Satsuki: *frustrated sigh, and shrug.*

Satsuki: “That’s just how it is. Let’s leave it at that.”

NECO: “Genuine thought… Why ‘Neo’, when Kirkuk is still there?”

Satsuki: “Why New York, when York is just over an ocean?”

NECO: “That’s not really… relevant?”

Satsuki: *sags slowly into her chair*

Satsuki: “…exactly, NECO. Exactly…”

NECO: “O-ok…”

Satsuki: “N-chan! Gimme another question, then go shower!”

NECO: “Hey! She’s my assistant, AND I’m the only one who can talk to her like that!”

Satsuki: “You’re not the one with her camera right next to your head. Please let your assistant bathe occasionally.”

NECO: “She— N-chan, don’t you start, nya!”

Satsuki: “Oh, that’s a different question! ‘Could a guy become a magical girl? What if a girl wished to become a guy!’”

NECO: “Ah, I don’t know if—”

Satsuki: “No, no, it’s fine. Besides, I don’t know ANYTHING about these ‘magical girls’ you and the viewers seem obsessed with… but, if I, perchance, DID know about it…”

NECO: “~buru?~”

Satsuki: “Well, I remember a legend, a popular one in Syrakhanistan at that, of a wise little white creature. Like a squirrel, a cat and a rat had a weird child.”

NECO: “Eh…?”

Satsuki: “One piece of wisdom it had was related to the imperviousness of the human will. Humans are not mere pigs, cattle in human clothing - humans are spirited! Their will is strength! Their emotions, their spirit, their willpower… that’s what counts.”

Satsuki: *leans into the camera, whispering.*

Satsuki: “Let’s just say… I’ve known a few people, men and women and even some in-between, who really took the advice of that legendary creature to heart. One good’un was even an acquaintance of mine in England! People can do anything… if they put their hearts to it. That, I can promise you, as true to my heart as my blade is to steel.”

NECO: “…Well, that was oddly beautiful.”

Satsuki: *impressive eyebrow raised*

NECO: “…next question, N-chan.”

Satsuki: “‘Holding two guns is less accurate than one; yet I always do more damage with two.’ NECO, what does that even mean?”

NECO: “I… I dunnya…? N-chan, who sent this one? Is it about a video game?”

N-chan: *inaudible confusion*

NECO: “…next question.”

Satsuki: “‘If the Blessed Lady is real, why do I keep losing at poker?’ I-is this a joke?”

NECO: “What do you mean?”

Satsuki: “I mean, heh, if you keep losing, it clearly MEANS… You just haven’t gambled enough yet! YOU FOOL! IT’LL BE THE NEXT ONE!”

NECO: “I completely agree! Next question! Oh, interesting - ‘What if magic is actually bad for you, and it just takes years to kill you?’”

Satsuki: “Magic isn’t real, though. Next question.”

NECO: “But—”

Satsuki: “Next. Question.”

NECO: “Nyuu…”

===

A few days later.

===

“PLEASE COME BACK ON-NYUU…!”

“Please, Satsuki-san. For me?”

“PLEASE???” “PLEASE???”

“…No.”

“Satsuki, you can’t just hide behind a cardboard box.”

“I am reinforcing my position with a visual metaphor.”

“Satsuki-chanya, that won’t translate well into a text medium!”

“A revelation led me to this.”

“Sick reference.”

“Please come back on the show!! My ratings haven’t been this good in-nyuu-years!”

“Nnnnyuuu-oh.”

“Satsuki, please reconsider—”

“You two, just… leave her. Even if it WAS a little funny, she’s clearly uncomfortable.”

“But…” “Please!”

“Oi.”

“…not the Birds, please. I get it.”

“Oh, and NECO-Chan. How did you even get up here?”

“Well, I nyever give up my secrets!”

“That’s your cue to leave.”

[syrakhanistan]

trick or treat! (do syrakhanistanis celebrate halloween, and if so, how?)

Trick or treat, good citizen, and Happy Halloween! I would choose treat, and my treat for you will be knowledge on this day.

Halloween is traditionally seen as a predominantly Western (I.E.: European and American) tradition, and this is most certainly the case across most of our glorious nation. Many Muslims find Halloween to be ‘Haram’ (in the lingua franca of English, this translates roughly to forbidden) due to the celebration’s roots in pagan festivities (such as Samhain and the Day of the Dead); similarly, the Christian populations are also somewhat hesitant to do so, particularly in the nation’s north in the recently absorbed Caucasus, and the disparate Jewish and Baha’i populations (predominantly in the re-organised Northern Outremer Autonomous District) tend to associate the tradition with Pogroms related to All Hallow’s Eve.

Naturally, this is not universal! Some Muslim populations (mainly focused in the Egyptian Autonomous Regions) have had recent fat’was from religious councils declaring Halloween to be halal (in the Lingua franca of English, roughly translating to acceptable) so long as it is done for fun and not in observance of any Christian or Pagan religiosity. Similarly, more liberal Christian and Jewish families, particular expats from the USA, have fun with it, and have easy access to plenty of pumpkins and sweets should they need them! One particular farm, the Sedra Co-Operative in the Free Economic Zone of Qatar has found international fame for their larger than usual pumpkins, and finds their produce easily exported both nationally and internationally.

While the smaller Sikh and Hindu populations, predominantly in the New Jalalabad Urban District (which remains one of the largest Sikh-majority areas in the world) and along the Kirthar Border Region (where many Hindus escaping from Pakistan and unable to enter India found refuge over the years), do not tend to celebrate Halloween per se, the Western tradition has found an odd commonality with the Festival of Light (Diwali), which usually occurs within the first days of November. It is not uncommon for families, particularly Western expats, to combine the two traditions!

I sincerely hope you find this answer to your satisfaction; while the People’s Imperium of Syrakhanistan does not have a large following devoted to Halloween, this is not to say it is forbidden, nor is it entirely ignored!

Yours faithfully,

The Minister for State Culture (at the request of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs of Syrakhanistan).

[syrakhanistan]

A Place to Call Home (Memory of the Last Duel)

===

One of the last pages of the Personal Record of the Last Memory, Will and Testament of the Diarchy (Hashemite Union) - as attested to by the Last Dual-Kings (Dual-King Hussein bin Talal and Dual-King Abd al-Ilah), and as Witnessed by Prince Ra'ad bin Zeid (later Governor of Tabuk Autonomous District, and Assistant-Secretary to the General Secretary and Councillor for the Twin Seas and Gulf Port System); dated 1983/198X-C.

-

The ruins of the once grandiose and beautiful palace near the centre of Baghdad laid the groundwork for the ultimate action of this decades-old nation.

The Two Kings, my cousins and adopted half brothers… We had fought, we had argued, but in the end, we had been family.

But perhaps it was this family arrangement that had led to the collapse of our home.

Even now, the sounds of gunfire, airplanes and artillery were deafening.

Abd gave a small chuckle as his wife Hiyam buttoned up his shirt for him; he had been shaking too much to do it properly.

His opponent, Hussein, stood proudly - arrogant, even. A false front, but a brave one.

How had it come to this?

Enemies on our doorstep, allies and traitors all and none. A Golden Age, dead as fast as it had grown.

…I blame whoever was in charge of the safety procedures for ships in the Gulf, myself. I’d been there in Al Faw, Basra’s port suburb, doing inspections when that blasted ship exploded. I could hear it, even from there. What moron thought having that many loose barrels of crude oil while sailing between two war zones was a good idea? I still remember the reports of the damages… and then receiving the reports of the damages to the other nations.

And the fire. It’s still going, miles away to the south. Burning away on the ocean, and under it. It’ll probably be going long after we’re all dead and buried, too.

Abd stood, breaking my train of thought; he was finally ready.

Hussein smiled; a genuine smile, rare for these times. He lifted the ceremonial pistol off the pillar, weighing it between his fingers.

“…How many times do you think we’ve fought over the years, you and I?" Hussein asked Abd.

The question gave Abd some pause, before he answered. “Too many times, I think.”

Hussein nodded, his lips pursed.

The two took several paces.

They aimed.

I blinked, and they fired.

Thus, did the Hashemite dynasty fall.

===

“The Kings are Dead. Long live the Dead.” - pp. 27, National Post: 47(6)

-

“The Kings are Dead; long live the Dead”. Those were the words that rang out from broken, barely connected loudspeakers across the ruins of a nation, originally spoken from a single radio by a sole figure atop the crumbling roof of the Royal Palace in Baghdad.

With a few words and a few bullets, a Dynasty died - and with it, one of the last stable nations in the Middle East. It was a quiet death, but one nonetheless felt by many. The last two legitimate members (the Pretender of the rebellious Hejaz Kingdom fighting against the remnants of Saudi Arabia reportedly having died months prior) and Kings of the sacred line of the Hashemite Dynasty, themselves decreed the Custodians of the Holy Cities and one of the last extant tribes with a direct parental link to the prophet Muhammad (pbuh), they were also the last known survivors of the governing apparatus of the whole Arabic Federation (commonly known as the Arabic Diarchy or the Hashemite Union).

With their demise, another nation is effectively stricken from the roster of members of the international community; erstwhile but fair-weather allies of the United States, trade partners of the Soviet Union, and one of the Co-founders of the Non-Aligned Movement, the Hashemite Union’s quiet but untimely death is only more bad news for the region now solely in the hands of violence and open warfare.

While remnant armies and some politicians cling to relevancy in the wreckage, no real order now remains in the burning corpse of the Hashemite Union - and, with it, an end to one of the last few stable spots in the turbulent and rapidly collapsing Middle East. Already religious leaders around the world are decrying the lack of United Nations intervention in the Middle East, both from a moral ground to prevent the ever-escalating violence, as well as to protect the various religious sites; in particular, the Hashemite Dynasty's role as the Custodians of the Holy Cities has lead to serious doubts over the safety of the most holy places in Islam, and the ability or logistics of Muslims worldwide to perform the Hajj to Mecca amidst the Arabic devastation.

The National Post, as always, gives it's heartfelt condolences to those affected by these tragic events.

[syrakhanistan]

hey so putting Islamic holy sites under ur religion hating fake country for a magical girl fanfic is weird asf and islamophobic ^_^ u kuffar literally have no respect lmfao

Greetings!

Many thanks for your correspondence to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Syrakhanistan.

We feel it is important to respond to your criticism with an open mind.

During the Unification Wars, a multi-faith coalition of many ethnicities came together under the flag of the Military Salvation Front, and together fought to unify an extremely divided area of the world during an extremely difficult period, predominantly following the 1979 Safaniya Disaster and the Oil Drought that followed it, and amidst the growing Iranian-Hashemite Crisis.

During this time, the MSF went out of it’s way to ensure the protection of holy sites across all religions; during the Arabian Peninsula Campaign, we set up anti-aircraft defences that helped prevent the destruction of the Grand Mosque in Mecca during the Battle of the Red Sea; we found and delivered justice to the terrorists who attempted to spill blood on the Ka’aba during the 1979 Siege Incident; we liberated the Rock and the place of Muhammed’s (pbuh) Ascension, and destroyed the Evangelist Union who had occupied it for so long, doing so outside the Tomb to prevent anymore blood being spilled; and we successfully built a bio-dome protection area around the Holy City of Jerusalem, even despite the massive bio-chemical damage to the area following the Egypt-Hashemite Missile Crisis and the Netzarim War.

This was all during the chaotic Unification Period; following Unification, despite the First’s light hand in rejecting modern organised religion, She has brought about religious freedom and equality unseen across the world solely within our bountiful nation. This nation does not hate religion; it is strictly secular - despite the MSF’s origins as a left-wing group or the various personal opinions of the Council - and the concept of “misotheism” - the hatred of God - is a metaphorical one, to focus on the human condition as opposed to solely praying for salvation; it’s “mandate” is one of politics, not religion; and members of the nation’s political class, from the lowest ranks all the way to the Council and even the Leader herself have a wide range of religious beliefs. Religious freedom is at some of the highest in the world in our great nation, and religious discrimination is illegal and highly prosecuted, which is key in such a diverse and expansive area of the world; and while the opening of religious sites such as the Islamic Holy Cities, the Jewish Wailing Wall, and the Christian Orthodox Pilgrimage sites to all faiths was seen as controversial, our continued support of cross-faith dialogue as well as the appreciation of our support from many cultural and religious leaders has been seen as good enough justification for our actions. We have rebuilt damaged sites, excavated ruins, and we continue to provide funding for all people of all faiths to perform their pilgrimages, including the Hajj - in 2009 alone, we gave out over $100,000,000 worth of loans to help Muslims across the world perform the Hajj, and gave special allowances and even free transportation for those who would be incapable of performing the Hajj in their lifetime otherwise.

Citizen, we ask you this - in the MSF’s Unification of the region commonly known as the Middle East, there are not just Muslim Holy Sites, but also Christian, Jewish, Hindu and even Sikh Holy Sites. Would you have us carve out holes in the nation, and let the holy sites rot without any governance at all? Would you rather we set ablaze the holy cities, or bulldoze the Rock and Wailing Wall? If anything, your request seems to indicate that you would rather we single out Muslim Holy Sites, and simply leave them be - but in a divided and often conflicted world such as this, where nuclear, biological and chemical terrorism is rife, without the protection of our Glorious State, the many sites across our nation would fall to ruin, or even be destroyed.

Many thanks for your concerned request, citizen - and be assured that we do our best for those under us.

Blessings upon you.