#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]

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]

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 ███████ █████.

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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]

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.

[syrakhanistan]

“To every soldier upon this earth,

Salvation comes, sooner or later.

And how can a warrior die better…?

Than facing fearful odds,

For the ashes of their lovers,

And the temples of her Lady.”

- Excerpt from recording; final words of Agent T. Cu[REDACTED], shortly before her death during the events of the Bay of [REDACTED] Incident, circa 20XX.

[syrakhanistan]

“…so, how much will be ‘enough’?”

“It will never be enough. This thirst… is endless. My hunger for this… cannot be solved by any means, but one. Perhaps two… No, just one.”

“Greedy, aren’t you?”

“No, she’s that one over there. I’m a different one.”

“Ah. I see.”

“Are you new?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know if… if you’re new?”

“I don’t know what I know. It’s she who knows, and she who thirsts.”

“She? Don’t you mean—”

“Ah, the author as well… She’s not there either. That’s no good, he’s not good.”

“Oh, and that one, too. He’s… he’s somewhat restless. Can you blame him? They’re continuing to not continue…”

“His fight should have ended long, long ago. Much like you and me… he doesn’t know when to quit, especially when his opponent, that one you will speak of soon, left the board a while ago.”

“A pity. His failure… And this one’s, no, that one is his greed…”

“Shameful. Shame.”

“Shall we release that one?”

“No, not yet. He’s still waiting, after all, and we shan’t disturb his patience until he’s finally learned the lesson.”

“…and her opinion on it?”

“She despises both of them.”

“Ah. I see.”

“Do you?”

“Of course not. I don’t know what I can see.”

“You don’t? Of course, you don’t, since you do, because she doesn’t do that when she does…”

“Shameful. Shame. Awful. Useless, I tell it. Useless.”

“How shameful.”

“…is he giving up?”

“…nope, never mind, he’s just snoring.”

“…how do you fall asleep standing up?!”

“Perhaps his Greed is something, too.”

“No, Greed is over there, don’t mistake her for him, or him for him, or her for him because he is him and she is her and… Ah, semantics. Such is the super-position of this marvel.”

“…if he manages to get his greed in control, perhaps, in time, he will see the inside of That Place.”

“Doubtful. She doesn’t think he’s worthy of such a thing.”

“And the other one? Ah, ones?”

“…Unknown. I’d wait until the next few waning cycles. The location they hide… She isn’t too keen on touching, and he won’t disagree to her, ah, proclivities.”

“…I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t. You don’t know, since you know you don’t know, because he knows that she doesn’t know he knows you don’t know.”

“Shameful. I’m ashamed. Awful, useless.”

“Don’t blame yourself. Time is a weird thing, and weirder still when it goes double - or, uh, more? Less? And those two… No, not two, one-but-many, perhaps.”

“They’re… those… I pity the writers of those stories. And the characters…”

“They’re like us. He’s useless, she’s terrified, he’s impatient, she’s absent, they’re confused, and he’s giving up on her… Or, perhaps, not. Yet, we will see, we will, or I will.”

“…awful, how awful.”

“Indeed. Shameful, awful, useless.”

“Ah, that one returns. She is?”

“Is she? Ah, she is.”

“That one is this one, and she is this one’s. Indeed.”

“Yes, yes. That is how it is. And we are they, and they are they, for we are one and many.”

“Yes. Yes. We shall. She is. I am you, I am me. I am, and I.”

“Indeed. Shame. Shameful.”

“Yes. No, it’s answer is yes, it cannot.”

“Goodbye for now.”

“Hello again, for now.”

[syrakhanistan]

Last Resort (OZYMANDIAS)

===

(An old tale, still told from word of mouth, written many years before and often told by a tribe of travellers residing in the Empty Quarter of Arabia. The author is unknown, thought to be a long-since deceased member of an Omani branch of the Al-Murrah Bedouin tribe).

===

“Last Resort of a Traveller, Wandering”

===

“In the vast expanse of desert sand so wide,

A wanderer stumbles on an ornate door,

A portal to a realm that fate implied,

Where shadows whisper tales forevermore.

//

Guided by a resident through the gloom,

To ruins of a city once renowned,

A cursed metropolis, sealed by doom,

Its fate entwined with shadows all around.

//

A demigod's tomb, a solemn tale unfurls,

A traveler with hair of black and white,

Golden wings unfurled, against demon twirls,

A battle waged within the city's night.

//

The sword of Shining gold, a deity's gift divine,

Sealed both the demon's power and her fate entwined,

A tomb adorned with lore, a sacred sign,

A traveler's sacrifice, mortal form lost, and eternally forgot.

//

The resident, a guide and keeper of lore,

Reveals the tale of reverence and strife,

A city lost, condemned forevermore,

Its history locked in shadows, a ghostly life.

//

However, the guide does tell, a prophecy foretells, a new traveller's quest,

Lost deep in the city, destiny's behest.

Unseal the tomb, wield that sword of Gold,

Break the curse, with destiny's accord.

//

But wrath descends, the Secret does tumble out, and bring about Demigod's ire,

As great tomb does crumble, consumed by war and fire.

And thus does the truth reveal, and a fight between two golden prodigies.

To bring an end to this twisted pact, and bring to the light a city long since passed.

//

With gratitude, the wanderer takes leave,

Through the ornate door, reality unwinds,

Yet turning back, the desert does deceive,

The door vanishes, lost to shifting sands.

//

Thus ends the traveler's journey with the lost,

A tale of shadows, curses that endure,

The door, now gone, a relic fading fast,

In this vast expanse, a golden silence will assure.”

[syrakhanistan]

Operation: Stonefire - Part 3: Debriefing and Discarding

[The third and final part of a series of notes and recordings, from different sources, regarding a certain military operation near the height of the Greater Caucasian Conflict, fought between the Imperium of Syraqhanistan and the Russian Federation. This particular segment has a higher security rating, and requires the direct approval of [REDACTED] before being accessed].

===

[Source 6: The Personal Log of the individual recognised as “Three”; log was made during the events of Stonefire.]

…

===

Chapter 1: Chandelier

===

You blink, the fire from the Mi-24 that had been flying opposite to yours reflecting on your helmet, as you witness the total obliteration of three of your best - nay, only friends - and the rest of the damned crew of the helicopter.

Your own craft swerved to avoid the wreckage and the mass of incoming fire. You watch as a bright, burning light practically slices through an Mi-26 like butter. Your Heads-Up Display for your helmet predicts that it was an experimental rail cannon round.

You tap the shoulder of the pilot.

“…land.” You order.

The pilot looks at you, then back to the sea of shells and flame surging towards you, as the City - that previously pleasant light in the darkness of the desert - opened a gaping maw, a trap to you hopefuls who dared to step on holy grounds.

He grunts. You recognise that look; it was similar to one of your instructors.

‘Do or die.’, is what that look said.

Shrapnel impacted the side of the helicopter, but, somehow, the pilot bobbed and weaved through the hail of fire and brimstone, even as all the other troop carriers fell from the sky as ash and steel.

You turn to your comrades, those who were - presumably - the only ones left to do the mission.

You, One, ten special forces members from the GRU Spetsnaz, five military engineering experts (and mechanically trained on deployment of nuclear weapons), and two combat medics.

One was gripping the large briefcase in his hand tighter than usual.

“…I take half of you. One takes other half.” You order to your brethren.

One clears his throat, not saying anything, but nodding in recognition.

“Russia will have her victory, even if we must die to achieve it. Let our friends and their sacrifice be not in vain.”

A solemn nod from the assembled soldiers.

You step back towards the cabin, and lower your head to the pilot. “When we land, and at least myself and One have begun infiltration, destroy this craft. No matter the cost.”

The Pilot, still focused on the desperate dodging, practically growls at this. “Why? The Syrakhis have their own Mi-helicopters. It’s not like they need this one for reverse engineering.”

You sigh, and stand up again. “Because that was our order, should the technology be left behind.”

You turn away from him. He’ll do his duty. You’re sure of it.

Your Comms feed, which had been bugging out, blares again.

<<STONEFIRE, TH— IS HQ, PLEASE CO>>

<<HQ, this is Stonefire 5, assuming Command. Over.>>

<<Jesus, Stonefire Actual. Are… how many are left?>>

<<HQ, Stonefire 5 is presumed to be the only surviving helicopter. We are approaching the designated LZ, but are under heavy fire. Over.>>

<<Stonefire, your orders were rescinded in previous broadcast! You should have been leaving by now!>>

<<Negative, HQ. Previous broadcast was intermittent - presumed enemy jamming. We did not copy.>>

<<WELL YOU’RE COPYING NOW AREN’T YOU? GET OUTTA THERE!>>

<<…HQ, we’re too close to the LZ. Escape is now less likely than mission success.>>

<<Stonef—fuck, KID LISTEN. YOU ARE GOING—>>

<<HQ. The mission is go. We will succeed, or we will die in the attempt… We’ve come too far and lost too many already not to at least try. God bless Mother Russia, and glory to the heroes.>>

<<STONEFIRE, RE—>>

<<…make sure that my men, and my friends, get a proper memorial, if you can’t get the bodies. Stonefire out, maintaining radio silence.>>

You shut down the comms link. You breath in, and out, the fog of your breath slightly misting up the inside of your helmet.

Well… This is it. Even as the small courtyard next to one of the metro stations came closer, all you can do is wait.

You are Three, one of the few survivors of the Black Orchids program, genetically modified and technologically augmented superhumans built by the former Soviet Union, and now Russian Federation. You are the closest thing to a Superman that humanity has created of it’s own volition - created solely to match against creatures that masqueraded as human, but had long since abandoned themselves.

And, even now, as you tighten your armour against your skin, clicking your knuckles, and taking notes of your ammo count, you feel as though you’ve already lost.

Well, no matter. Even if victory is impossible, let the attempt be glorious.

===

Chapter 2: Incursion

===

You slowly traipse down the sewage line, grot and liquid slapping against your shins, your flashlight barely making a dent against the all-consuming darkness that this dingy hole was filled with.

Pilot was killed upon landing; three marines died to destroy the helicopter and secure the LZ; one of the engineers had lost brain matter currently splattered all over your arm.

You now had one medic, two engineers, and three spetsnaz - One had the other survivors. He occasionally checked back in, the radio barely making it through, but they had since entered radio silence as the two paths to infiltrate the building - not that you could really call it a single building - had since turned away from one another.

Your team would achieve Objective 2 - the recovery and/or destruction of materials in the defence department - while One handled the deployment of Objective 3. We would then regroup to achieve Objective 1, before exfiltrating the area before Objective 3’s timer finished.

…As absurd as that all sounds.

You have no doubt that none of you are making it back to Moscow. Frankly, every single one of your missions had been a suicide mission before. It was how you’d lost most of your former colleagues, aside from starvation, hypothermia, or abuse from the program instructors.

But this one… This one wasn’t suicidal at this point - it was just plain stupid.

You shake your head as you continue the grim march, mentally taking note of breaching the last line of defence on the surface on the map, thus entering the complex proper.

…it might be stupid, but it’s just how it is. You’re here - and there’s nobody else.

===

Chapter 3: The Ascent

===

As you climb through the vents of the central heating system, you can’t help but wonder…

What is this all for? A nation that denied your existence, that created you solely to compete with the absurd? Using a mish-mash of technological possibilities to fight against an impossibility?

Your nation forgets you. Your friends are dead. Your remaining soldiers already have thousand-yard-stares.

You chuckle, eliciting a small but confused grunt from the combat medic currently a few inches behind you.

No, this isn’t for the Motherland anymore - no matter what your heavy-handed propaganda and brainwashing is trying to tell you.

No, at this point - this is simply because it’s the only way forward. You’ve lost everything… but that means you now have everything to gain.

Or to die trying.

You were getting closer to Objective 2. A few more floors of vent-climbing, and you’d reach the Defence Department. Automated as well as regular defences would be in place to bar your progress - nothing you couldn’t handle. Your armour, however, was already looking worse for wear - but you suppose that’s what the engineers were for.

Engineer, singular, even... One of your two blew up a hallway on one of the first floors to allow you to progress; the last time you saw him, he was firing blindly with a standard-issue pistol into a crowd of soldiers while shouting various expletives.

A good death; you hope yours might be just as honourable.

One had only checked in… once… solely to say that they had ran into some resistance in one of the first few basement floors, but past that had encountered virtually no issues - they should be approaching the Core within half an hour.

You told him to be careful of the obvious incoming trap - and he just gave a nervous laugh and cut the comms. He was still trying to put on a brave face, just like he used to.

…these vents made you far too sweaty. You hope you reach a more open floor soon.

===

Chapter 4: Defence and Destruction

===

…you’re not gonna say it.

Yes, you know the dark rooms and silence practically require it. Yes, you know the flashlights shining their beams onto dusty desks are screaming for you to say it.

But you’re not going to.

You’re not.

No.

“It’s qu—” The Medic stationed by the door next to you began, shortly before shushing after you gave the soldier a withering stare behind your helmet visor.

You and your squad slowly clear the department, room by room. Or, you would - if there was anything TO clear.

Finally, you order the squad to come together once more.

It was obvious - this was also a trap. Either the maps and info were a lie to begin with, or someone had given the Syrakhanis advance warning to clear their desks and burn their documents.

Such as it was, there was diddly squat to destroy or to recover here. No computers, no laptops, no stacks of paper, no pencil sharpeners, pens, heads, or any such—

Heads?

You raise an eyebrow, shortly before your mind makes recognition of the fact that the Medic who had been accompanying you had just lost a good few inches from their now collapsing corpse, a slither of wire seemingly slicing through the darkened office and cutting right through bone and flesh before disappearing once more.

One of the Spetsnaz opens his mouth to shout a command to his subordinates, only for a hail of brightly luminescent gunfire - or something akin to gunfire - to shred them.

As quickly as you’d entered this room, it seemed like your entire squad had died just as fast. You yourself only managed to survive the same slither of wire that had decapitated your Medic by a few centimetres or so, right before you bounced away, knocking down a table to provide some cover from the hail of gunfire again.

You tap your helmet, bringing up a predictive scan for possible combatants and ranges.

It’s too damn dark in here for it…

A shrill laugh. “Oi! Stop tip-tapping away over there and die already! Got things to do, eh?”

…fucking Sparklies. Of course it is.

Sadly for them… You’re one of the VERY few humans alive capable of fighting one.

Exactly one, mind. Any more than that was a death sentence.

You’re praying that she’s the only one. Knowing the SIMs, she probably is - they’re known, from what scant information Russia had gathered from battlefield data, for being deployed in very small numbers, to the point of almost always acting as lone wolves. However, when a single black-clad armoured soldier is capable of taking on an entire tank battalion with nothing but a rocket launcher and a few loose screws, and coming out on top without a scratch, a few lone wolves tend to be an issue.

So hopefully this particular trap only contains a single enemy.

You’re thinking all of this, while hopping in and out of cover, flashes of light, twangs of steel, and that horrid cackle that keeps interrupting.

“Oiiii cmon cmon cmon!! Just die already, ya hear?”

…no, you.

You fire a single grenade when the predictive scan goes off, the small projectile flinging itself from your wrist and into the dense darkness.

There’s an uncharacteristic squawk, and a large flash of light.

The thick darkness disappears, revealing a regular lack of office lighting.

A lone figure in black clad armour, similar to yours but far more sophisticated, stands in a combat stance - shaking ever so slightly.

“Oi… Fuck’s this about?” The SIM screams across the room, finally stopping for once to look at you.

You growl in response.

The Marine is visibly shaking with anger, fists clenched, before sighing, throwing back their head, and laughing.

“Alright - I’ll give you this: that was unexpected! A headshot with a flash bang… How interesting!”

They raise their hand to the back of their neck, and press something. They slowly unscrew their helmet from their armour, and drop it on the floor, revealing a young girl with red eyes and bright blue curly hair.

She’s younger than you by at least three years. What the fuck…?

She stomps on the ground, and grins at you, one handing pointing towards you while the other is held by her side.

“Fool! You stand before Sasa, the light bringer, and the mover of people and things! I will be your end.”

She continues to smile, staring, before frowning.

“…this is the part where you introduce yourself, enemy.”

You blink behind your helmet. Is she… is she serious? You’d just been stalling for time while the predictive tech made some calculations - and had assumed her pause following the flashbang was for something serious.

Finally, you sigh.

“…I have no name, nor need for introductions. And I am no enemy - I am solely your demise.”

Your opponent stands in silence for a moment, before smiling.

“Ohhh, that’s a cool one. I’ll remember that!

Anyways, goodbye!”

She snaps her fingers, and vanishes. That horrid tangible fog of darkness rolls in once more. You dodge wave after wave of metal wire, while also taking care not to trip over objects.

She was certainly right about the mover of things part - she was manipulating the desks and pieces of decor to block your path and trip you up while you dodged around.

If that’s the case… then the light part must refer to the dark fog - for what is darkness, but the absence of light? That’d also explain the reaction to the flashbang.

You narrow your eyes as you dodge another burst of bright gunfire and a wave of tight strings inching to take your head.

…You’ve got an idea. As you run… You turn off your predictive tech.

And then, just as you’re about to dodge one desk…

You stop. Dead in your tracks.

…

No gunfire. No wires.

No predictive scan. You were better at it anyway - you’d always been good at telling what was what, and when was right and such.

You close your eyes. Focus. Focus on sound, on smell. The fog on your tongue, the tapping of feet…

There!

You fire the volley of grenades you’d been holding back. Flashbangs… mixed with phosphorous incendiaries.

The volley hits the Marine, Sasa, squarely in the chest as she’d been running through fog to strike you down, sending her flying right into a wall. She screams in agony as the light blinds her and the fire sticks to her, scrabbling to scrape phosphorous flecks off of her armour, off of her face, off of her necklace.

She’s particularly focused on the necklace.

She’s noticed you marching towards her, as you reload your shotgun with a killer’s intent. In between screams, she’s trying to crawl away.

You stop that by blasting her hands into a red mist.

You stand on one of her legs, observing a particularly energetic piece of burning phosphorous carving itself right through her armour and into flesh and bone, before reaching your arm down and grabbing hold of her necklace.

As she struggles beneath you, you look at it, turning it over in your hand. It was a simple, almost pearlescent design, with a single cyan jewel in the centre, glistening with light even in the dark. Was it a bomb? A self-destruct? A family heirloom?

Why focus on it instead of your vitals, eh? What a fool.

How weird. You tut in bemusement, before crushing the jewel under your fist, letting flecks of crystal dust pour from your palm.

You look back down at your victim—

Dead. Dead as a doornail.

It was as if she’d been instantly killed by poison or a heart attack. No sign of early onset rigor mortis, no eye spasms. Even her bleeding had stopped.

Whatever had been Sasa, the marine who’d killed your men… was no longer there.

How… unsatisfying.

Maybe you should have introduced yourself.

You stand up, and begin to pace out of the Department, your objective a failure. You radio in to One—

===

Chapter 5: Weak Flesh and Shining Steel

===

“Th—three…”

You stop, right before one of the vents you’d been about to crawl into.

“One, come in. This is Three.”

“…ru…run… monst…monster…”

You blink.

“…Monster?”

You blink again, this time bringing up a live-feed from One’s bodycam—

Oh. Oh, that’s not a good sign.

They’d reached the so-called “Core”. Only this was apparently a single large hall, devoid of any nuclear reactor, geothermal generator, or much of anything. It looked almost like an empty warehouse used to store pipes and machines.

Except for a single wooden chair.

At least, that’s what you assumed would have been the exception - prior to the utter carnage of bullets, bloodstains, guts and viscera currently splattered across every corner of One’s video feed.

“…she’s… monster… run…”

One’s voice had given up any attempt at bravado. He betrayed no emotion but utter fear - something that the training should have eliminated completely.

His opponent was pacing towards him, a single Japanese sword - a katana - held firmly in her hand, long black hair swaying from side to side.

“Monster? Come now, that’s no way to talk to a stranger.” Her voice echoed slightly over the feed. “Are you talking to yourself, boy? Have you given up so soon?”

“…th…ee…fr…end…run…”

One was choking on his own blood. You’d heard the death throes of similar fates many times before.

A sigh on the other end. “Well, if you’re not going to pay this situation any attention—”

The video goes dead, while the audio continues.

“…then I won’t give you any attention either.”

A soft thump could be heard. Followed by the rattling of metal, and the tapping of buttons.

“…hello? Is the boy’s friend still there? Oh, don’t fret about him. I dealt with him and his friends much faster than you and your opponent. Trust me - neither he nor she compare to myself, pig.”

…Honour be damned.

“I’m going to kill you.” You say simply.

A laugh. “Oh, so blunt! Are all of you like that? Come, why don’t y—”

“See you soon.” You state, before ending the connection.

…What a shitshow. One… One was a good guy. Full of bravery, even when it wasn’t necessary. Or useful.

To be killed in such a disrespectful manner…

Is that what’s going to happen to you to?

|It doesn’t have to be.|

No. You’ll complete the mission. Youll do what you said you would do, and you won’t get it wrong this time.

You’ll find the nuke, and you’ll kill the council. This isn’t over.

|Is that what you really want? To complete your mission?|

No. But it’s a bloody good start.

…wait, that’s not your voice.

You pause next to the keypad by the elevator.

…Maybe you were imagining things? You had a lot on your mind, after all.

Your hand hovers over the keypad. You knew the code from the briefing to access the council chambers, or to take the lift to the ‘Core’.

But… everything else had been a trap so far.

If all five helicopters had landed, would Objective 1 have been an ambush just the same?

No. You won’t input the code for the council floor.

Screw it. You’ll just tap in a bunch of numbers and hope for the best.

You make your choice, and step into the elevator.

===

Chapter 6: “Et scient, ipsi non timorum.” (“And they shall know no fear.”)

===

Floor after floor; ding after ding.

You take the time to check your ammunition. You note the multiple errors across all your armour sections, particularly your helmet; Sasa’s wires must have struck you more times than you had noticed.

You really had got lucky. You breathe deeply, before pressing the override and ejecting your armour plating and helmet.

Now; it was just you, your gun, and your biological augmentations.

…doesn’t quite have a good ring to it.

Finally, after what felt like an eon, you arrive, and the lift doors open…

Into a cathedral.

Or, that’s what your first impression is. A cavern full of imposing gothic pillars, of pipes, of an endless ceiling.

…had you gone up, or down?

There was no sign, no doors.

Just a single desk, and a young woman in glasses tapping on a keyboard.

You scowl, before rolling your eyes, and walking forwards.

You stand in front of the desk.

…no reaction?

There’s a small bell, like a hotel would have. You raise a bloodied hand, and lightly tap it, a satisfying ‘brrring!’ sounding off.

The receptionist pauses. “I’m sorry, but the Executive Offices are currently closed due to the city-wide emergency, so if… you…”

She almost finished her sentence, before she looks up at you. Her eyes narrow, and she cocks her head a little.

And then, a very small but polite laugh.

“I… see! Do you, uh, have an appointment…?”

You shake your head. “Sorry, I couldn’t ring ahead. However… I imagine I’m expected…?”

The receptionist, looks up at you, then back to the computer. She taps a few keys on the keyboard, then looks back at you.

“…so it would seem! Indeed, you are expected!”

You turn, and begin to walk. The receptionist coughs. “Ah, did you… need a guide…?”

You shake your head. “I think I’ll pass. The scenic route might help me relax a little before the big meeting.”

You don’t bother to turn around, and simply continue walking.

And walking.

And walking.

Wall after wall of stone carvings, of dark marble towers and pipe organs and statues with no faces, of strange moving lights through unseen wires, of more and more odd floating pillars with a soft yet warm light.

There was also a… feeling. The more you walked, the more the feeling grew. A feeling of… pressure. A weight. Like someone watching you from the darkness, or walking up a mountain with low oxygen, or diving deep into a pool. With every step you took along the halls of this endless cathedral, the weight grew, pouring pressure onto your shoulders, your body screaming at you to stop.

Were you… nervous? Scared? Or was this some sort of enemy jamming?

“…it’s quiet.” You finally say to yourself as you trudge. You’d been holding that in since earlier.

|Is it? I think it’s quite loud, frankly. There’s quite a cacophony if you know what to listen for.|

…you’re losing it.

|I don’t think so! You seem right on track actually, just a few more turns.|

You are DEFINITELY losing it.

You walk in silence a little while longer, until you come across…

An out of place futuristic white door, embedded into the Gothic-Medieval pipe-covered cathedral wall.

You note another keypad as well as a slot for scanning an ID card.

You scowl. You hadn’t got this far to be stopped by bureaucracy.

Before you decide to just kick the door in, you instead try to knock.

Bang-bang-ba-bang bang, bang bang.

There’s a pause, before something clicks, and the door slides open with a soft whoosh.

You walk down a metallic corridor lined with glass. Oddly, it didn’t show the surrounding city, but instead what could only be described as a sea of stars.

You soon find yourself at what could be described as a waiting room of sorts, complete with stacks of magazines on coffee tables, a drab and pale white wallpaper, and strangely comfortable seats for waiting.

The normality of these things clashed heavily with the disproportionate size of the room and the odd decorations on the walls - most particularly large and ornate banistered staircases that went to nowhere, lined with strange geometrically-imbalanced pillars and gemstones.

There is also a small, plain and unassuming wooded door embedded into the far wall. It’s on the latch, as if waiting for someone to open it.

You walk forwards towards it - yet with every single step, you feel another weight being dropped onto your shoulders.

Slowly, but surely, you reach the door, and grab the handle.

The weight dissipates immediately, as if on cue.

You frown, but ignore it, and slowly push the plain door open, stepping inside.

What awaits you is… disappointing. You’d been expecting to find the Council chambers for the nation, possibly mid-meeting or having an emergency talk.

Instead, you find a plain and unassuming office. Two plain white walls with slowly peeling wallpaper, one wall with your door, and one wall which had a large but currently blank digital screen. A large and ornate bookcase stands astride an equally ornate wooden desk and an empty coat rack.

Sitting behind the desk is a single woman, currently sipping a cup of tea.

Of course, you knew who this woman was. Everyone knew her.

The face of your enemy didn’t even acknowledge your entrance, as you march steadily towards the desk.

Finally, she gives a small sigh, and gently placed the china cup back down onto a small plate.

“Good evening.” The First greeted you politely. “Would you like a cup of tea? Please, sit. You’ve had quite a day, after all.”

You stand next to the desk, noting the small chair now next to you that absolutely was not there when you entered the room, and look upon your opponent.

A young woman, Japanese. Pale in every regard - pale but well-kept skin, pale white hair with darkened ends, pale eyes. Her eyes felt… cold, piercing, yet empty of emotion.

No, not empty… Emotions hadn’t existed in those eyes in years - they had been carefully suppressed, contained, deep within.

They were the eyes of a killer who had abandoned their humanity long ago - or, perhaps, had forgotten they were even human. Eyes that had once been those of a predator, but now simply didn’t care anymore. You knew that she had been at the forefront of her nation’s Unification Wars, and indeed actively fought on the battlefield. A veteran through and through; yet these days she was a mere politician, a bureaucrat. These were the eyes of someone who didn’t care anymore.

Keeping your gaze focused on the enemy, you slowly lower yourself into the proffered chair, ensuring no bomb or poison was attached to it.

The First nods patiently, and picks up a small pot of tea. She wordlessly offers you sugar and milk, but you raise a hand, declining. You liked your hot drinks without things corrupting their form.

She pours into another tea cup, gently swilling the liquid, a pleasant aroma - Earl Grey, if your memory is correct - coming off it. She finished pouring, stirs it a little, then gently pushes the cup and plate to you.

…If it was poisoned, then it wouldn’t matter. Frankly, the smell was too good, and you were thirsty.

You somewhat abrasively grab the cup, and take a long swig. The First briefly raised an eyebrow, before returning to her neutral posture and taking a sip of her own drink.

After you’ve finished the cup, you slowly but deliberately reach down to your leg, and pull out your pistol. You check the ammunition, and then raise it to the forehead of your enemy.

The First doesn’t move. Her eyes gaze into yours, completely ignoring the gun.

“Well, then. To business?” She says quietly.

You take off the safety, and put a finger on the trigger.

…

…

…

You frown.

“…second thoughts?” The First finally queried after a few moments. “How unusual. I had heard your team lacked any emotions or questioned their orders.”

You look at the woman, then back to the gun. Slowly, you lower the firearm, turn the safety back on, and place it on the desk.

“…No. I… Doing this wouldn’t end the war. Executing a head of state…” You begin.

Your opponent narrows her eyes momentarily, until you shake your head.

“…nah. I’m doing this for me. Fuck you, AND fuck my orders.” You let out your thoughts with a chuckle. “I’m past the point of no return anyway.”

The First leans on the desk a little bit, putting her chin on her closed hands. “Oh? So… what’s your plan here, then?”

You look at her, once again making mental notes of what she’s like.

She really is like a blank slate, a pale figure with the scent of a killer.

You sigh. “Well… Since you’re being so cooperative, I suppose I’ll take you hostage to escape the city. I had been intending to simply kill the Council and then go downstairs to kill the snobby sounding lady and arm the nuke before dying in a blaze of glory - a literal blaze - but since I’ve hit the jackpot…”

The First gives a small, light laugh, and raises an eyebrow. “You’ll take me… hostage? And how will that save you from this mess?”

You cock your head at this. “Isn’t it obvious? Nobody would dare to shoot at me when I have a gun held to the head of their nation’s leader!”

She lifts her chin back up, and begins drumming her fingers on the desk. “…then what? It’s not like your helicopter is in any condition for a rescue, right?”

“Well, I’m sure with you at hand, I can commandeer one of your military’s items, right?”

She nods. “I suppose. And then what?”

“Sorry?”

“Then what? After you’ve, somehow, managed to capture me, drag me out of the building, find a military transport, and presumably escape the country somehow… what then?”

You pause, thinking it over. “I guess… I’d probably take you to either the UN or the Americans, or someone like that. I mean, I’m sure they’d love to examine an augmented human like me - and I’m pretty sure you’re probably guilty of some war crimes, right?”

The First seems to ponder what you’ve said for a few moments, before giving a somewhat hearty chuckle. “Very curious indeed! I suppose I don’t mind playing the hostage for a little while.”

She slowly stands up.

The First isn’t wearing the attire that she had usually been photographed wearing - a strange uniform with a dark cloak and garish golden colour scheme, her hair flowing long behind a black hair band - but instead a simple dinner suit, a tuxedo even, in standard black-and-white colours, and her hair done up in a pleasantly fashionable bun. If anything, you suspect that she perhaps had had dinner plans or a fancy dress meeting before the operation struck.

She does stop briefly to pick up her standard long black cloak from the back of her chair, and slowly places it over her shoulders, patting it down for any dust.

The only hint of gold are the cloak’s shoulder tassels and a plain golden ring on her middle finger, inscribed with a language you can’t quite make out.

She notices your stare, and glances down at her ring. “Did you… want to have a look?”

You shake your head. “No, that’s fine. I will, however, have to pat you down before I drag you out of here.”

She huffs slightly, before raising her arms up, allowing you to do a quick check for any possible weapons, bombs, detonators, and the like. Nothing of note - although you do find a receipt, or something that felt like a receipt, in a pocket on the back of her cloak. The writing had long since faded, though.

Taking it out surprised her, however. ��Oh! I’d been looking for that for ages! Was wondering what paper pile I had tidied it into, but I suppose I’d been looking in the wrong place.”

You raise an eyebrow, mildly amused, before surreptitiously placing it back where you found it.

The First stood by the desk, watching you for a moment, before speaking up. “How did you want to do this, then? Do you want to put the gun to my back? To my head? Should I keep my hands raised?”

“…Just be quiet and put your hands on your head.” You grunt at her, taking the pistol off the desk and shoving it into her back.

She gives you an OK sign with her hand, and mockingly makes the gesture of zipping her lips before placing her hands on her head as ordered.

The two of you begin marching out of the office.

===

Chapter 7: Command and Control

===

You slowly make your way back out from the office area, noting that the odd cathedral design of the corridors continued to make little to no sense.

As you march along, you take note of any security cameras or other monitoring systems on your route.

In her defence, the First was being oddly cooperative. You were absolutely sure she had some sort of plan, but you couldn’t figure it out.

At last, you reach the desk of the receptionist. Her eyes immediately light up in horror, and she gasps, going for a weapon under her desk.

“Uh-uh,” You say mockingly, “I wouldn’t unless you want the brains of your precious leader splattered all over these oh-so-fancy walls.”

She looks at you, then to the First. There’s… some sort of recognition in the receptionist’s eyes there, and her look of horror clears up. She nods, and calmly places the strangely-designed shotgun on the desk, before sitting back down.

Was that… a smile on the girl’s face? No, you’d imagined it.

You begin walking again, turning the First and facing the receptionist to ensure she doesn’t try anything while you click the button for the elevator.

The lift arrives, and you back yourself into it, pulling the First along with you.

Before it goes, you have an idea. “Go ahead and tell your friends downstairs I’m coming down with their boss. Don’t want them to open the lift up with a hail of bullets now, do we?”

The receptionist blinks, then nods.

That smile again - now you’re sure.

The doors close before you can say anything.

The First clears her throat. The reflection in the elevator shows her briefly looking at you, the ends of her lips clearly suppressing a grin.

You groan. “…you gonna spit it out and tell me your master plan, or are you gonna wipe that smug smile off your face?”

The First shook her head, any sign of a grin wiped from the reflection as if it had never been there. “I have no idea what you mean, nor do I have any ‘master plans’. I also believe that you ordered me to shut up?”

You narrow your eyes at her, but decide to not press the matter.

One hair out of place, one wrong breath from a guard or a light at a window, and her brains go everywhere. Your trigger finger was itchy.

|That’s a strange expression, isn’t it?|

…you’re gonna have to pay top billing for a shrink once you’d made your escape.

The lift doors finally open after an eternity, and the two of you step into the light.

An oddly plain and simple atrium area greets you. It’s covered with propaganda, and littered with plastic waiting-room chairs completely at odds to the ones you’d spotted earlier, all arranged to make whoever sat in them as uncomfortable - physically and socially - as possible.

There’s also about a hundred soldiers, military police, and government security guards - all with various guns pointed at the lift.

“Oi, Oi!” You call out as you march out, making a show of the pistol next to the First.

The hostage herself slowly shakes her head to her soldiers, clearly communicating a signal to them that you couldn’t understand.

You look around, seeing if there were any snipers preparing to take a shot, or any telltale signs of Sparklies being activated. Your augmented vision tells you that there are not. There are snipers deployed, but it tells you that they haven’t even set up their guns to be ready.

Instead, the crowd of soldiers bow lowly, and make room for you to leave.

You slowly march out, keeping a tight grip on the hostage, while maintaining a steady rhythm and a close eye on your surroundings.

“No sudden moves, alright?” You shout out to nobody in particular. “I see or feel anything, and She’s getting an inch of lead for dinner!”

“…cliché, much?” The First murmurs to you as the two of you exit the atrium.

“We didn’t exactly have much time for watching films and whatnot, so you’ll have to make do.” You whisper in the hostage’s ear.

You… also make note to ask what shampoo she’s using. That hair and that smell is unnaturally pleasant, especially compared to the girl herself.

The main entrance area of the government complex is far less plain than the atrium, instead much more in line with what you’d seen during infiltration and when visiting the Council floor - garish, Gothic, and golden. A massive set of gates and a marble arch, all encrusted with gold and jewels.

There was an equally large presence of soldiers out here too, along with a few tanks and APCs, all with their guns trained on you - but the soldiers themselves had already stood down a little, still cautious, but not actively seeking to escalate. They must have received notice from their colleagues.

You nod approvingly as the two of you make your way inside the gatehouse and along the hallway to the exterior of the complex where the transport hub awaited. You obviously couldn’t catch a train nor a car, but perhaps there was a helicopter or a VTOL quadcopter you could hijack.

The connecting hallway itself was on emergency lighting mode, klaxons on mute but still blaring out light, and the travelator had been shut down, so a long walk was ahead of the pair of you.

As you continue down the darkened path, you take note of the sentry guns following your movement, and the group of soldiers following behind. You turn a little to one of the sentry guns, knowing that they were camera-operated, and made a show of pushing the gun further into the back of the First’ cloak.

Just in case they got cocky.

You do relax, just a little, if solely to prevent your muscles cramping up.

“Penny for your thoughts?” The First commented on your released tension.

“We’re almost out of here. Make sure your men don’t do anything hasty, and I’ll make sure you part well from them, rather than going in parts from them.” You snort back at her. She was obviously testing you, seeing if anything could trip you up.

She nods in response, but doesn’t say anything else.

…the reflection in one of the propaganda posters on the walls of the connecting hall does reveal a small smirk on her face, however.

What was her plan?

Finally, you reach the exterior. The doors to the transport hub have been shut, however - possibly due to the emergency shutdown of the travelator.

You nudge the First forward. “Open it.”

She turns her head to you. “…You sure you don’t want to?”

A prod from the gun is her only answer.

“As you wish.” She replies. The two of you step forward, and she moves her hands from her head, swinging the doors open with a shove.

What greets you isn’t a hail of gunfire, but something far more menacing.

The transport hub is absolutely filled to the brim with materiel - tanks, APCs, IFVs, a few airborne helicopters, and even a VTOL fighter jet for good measure.

Those weren’t the most important part though.

That was reserved for the entire legion of Syrakhanistani Imperial Marines kneeling on one leg in front of the doors, each one armed to the teeth, and in full armour.

Two women stood in front of the legion; a small girl dressed in bright pink, holding an umbrella - in the middle of the dry night - was accompanying…

That bitch. The one who killed One; the serious looking lady with the ominous katana that was currently stabbed into the tarmac for dramatic effect.

The First nodded, practically in amusement.

You grip her shoulder tightly, and move the gun from her back to the side of her head.

“NOBODY FUCKING MOVE, OR SHE GETS IT!” You shout to the amassed troops. “GIVE ME A VEHICLE AND GUARANTEED PASSAGE OUT OF HERE, AND I’LL ENSURE YOUR LEADER’S SAFETY!”

There’s a brief moment of silence, before the girl in pink gives a deliberate wink, and bellows out a cackle. “WOW! That’s QUITE the request, ain’t it! Golly gee, how curious!”

This raises a laugh from the assembled soldiery.

She comically shrugs, before looking to the woman next to her. “Oh, geez, what should we do, Big Sis Satsuki?”

The serious looking woman, Satsuki, takes a moment, drumming her fingers against the handle of her blade, before sighing.

“I think that’s just untenable, I’m afraid.” She replies, a hint of poison in her response.

You blink, before scowling. “What? Im fucking serious, you know!” Your grip tightens on the gun. “I’ll fucking do it!”

“…how?”

The single word echoes around the area, despite being barely whispered. Your hostage gently begins to push herself away from you, turning around, and allowing the gun barrel to rest on her forehead.

“How are you going to do it?” The First asks again.

You furrow your brow in confusion and anger. “The fuck you mean? What?”

The girl in pink leans down a little, raising one hand to her mouth in a cartoonish megaphone gesture. “She asked ‘HOW ARE YOU GOING TO DO IT?’!”

You continue to look around, the gaze of several hundred people piercing into you.

You grind your teeth, and push the gun barrel against the First’s forehead. “YOU WANT ME TO SPELL IT OUT FOR YOU? I’LL PULL THE FUCKING TRIGGER AND PAINT YOUR DEAR LEADER’S BRAIN ACROSS YOUR OWN CAPITAL BUILDING! THAT’S FUCKING HOW!”

A sigh from the First. “Well, that’s absurd, isn’t it? You physically can’t., after all.”

Satsuki finished the sentence. “You physically can’t pull the trigger, since you don’t have any arms, right?”

…pardon?

It’s then, after you have the briefest blink, that you realise that you no longer have your gun.

Or your arms.

Or your legs.

Your eyes widen in shock as you begin to process what just happened to you, even as your own body collapses to the ground, your guts spilling down the marble steps and painting them a dark red.

The First calmly let go of one of your arms, and carefully disassembled your own pistol, emptying the ammunition out onto the floor and tossing the gun away, which is quickly picked up by a nearby Marine.

“w…what…” You manage to gurgle out. Even your artificially expanded lungs couldn’t get enough oxygen with the level of physical stress you were enduring.

As the two girls in front of the Marines begin to stroll over, the First looks back down at you, a pitying look on her face. “Don’t worry. This will be over soon enough.” She said calmly, pleasantly.

Your head, your eyes, were spiralling out of your control, losing focus. You manage to make out the ring on the First’s hand glowing a faint but brilliant gold outweighed by a powerful dark purple glint, clearly a little looser than before.

You’re interrupted by your guts being pulled and held up by a hand. Your vision blurs; even your pain-dampening augments were struggling to keep you conscious.

“Behold, my comrades. The audacity and hubris of our enemies. Even as this mutant bleeds away, she does not realise the trap that she walked into.”

The First’s calm and collected voice boomed around you, even despite the volume of her tone being as low as a quiet murmur behind closed doors.

“What a foolish endeavour by our foes. Even when trapped like rats in a cage, they believe themselves to be in control; yet, as you witness, not even my men can suppress their laughter at such absurdity!”

Your vision is fading, while your mind is trying to figure out what was going on.

…ah. So that’s it. Her Ring… Sasa’s necklace…

The First was a Sparklie all along, not just a regular soldier. Taking into account the abilities of the katana lady… You make the calculated guess that the entire Marine corps of Syrakhanistan was likely made up of their ilk.

You were designed to beat a single Sparklie in combat, and possibly distract a pair of them. You were the best humanity could create by themselves; but you would barely make a single spot of damage against this bulwark of terror.

Even as you breathe your last, you can’t help but give a small chuckle.

What shit luck, eh?

“…well then, comrades. Allow me to demonstrate to you all, how the Imperium deals with those who would try and mock us!”

There’s a brief yet numb tug at your neck. Your eyes begin to move in a loop, the world turning around.

Ah. You’ve lost your head.

That’s a shame.

===

Addendum: ‘What nobody saw but me’

===

…

You don’t know this ceiling.

You groan, and lean forwards a little.

Had you been dreaming?

/Not quite, I’m afraid./

You slowly and hazily look around, making out your surroundings.

There’s a woman on the chair next to your bed, reading, while the sun lights up the pages from the window behind her.

She brushes a lock of hair off of her face, and closes the book - a strange choice: “Kinder-Mährchen”, by someone called E. Hoffmann - and places it on a pale scarf she had draped over her knees, before looking at you.

“Sadly, a dream that ends like yours did could only be called a nightmare.” The woman spoke calmly, observing you with a clinical gaze.

The memories flood back; you gasp, and grasp at your neck. You feel… a scar. Yet nothing more.

“…how?” You manage to say between tight breaths.

“You would be surprised how good some people’s skills at biology are these days.”

That voice again. The odd, childlike yet cold one from earlier.

You look for the source, only to notice the scarf on the woman’s lap begin to move. A small head, like a strange cat, turns to you, oddly shaped ears swinging with the motion.

“Yet such skills are part and parcel of what myself and my esteemed colleagues work towards.” The cat speaks - no, thinks out loud - with a calculated tone.

“It wasn’t quite a challenge for us - far from it - but it is also somewhat rare in this day and age, which made it quite fun, frankly.” The First began to explain, raising a hand to stroke her chin in thought.

“I mean, swapping a lifelike body-double doll in right after your decapitation without any quantum distortions affecting the cameras, or your own soul and consciousness, was an interesting little test. It also confirmed the old tale that humans still have a few moments of lucidity before their brain ceases functioning even after losing their head. Always wanted to test that myself.”

“…why?” You murmur, looking down at your hospital gown.

The First stands, cocking her head a little, betraying a small notion of confusion on her face. “Why what?” In the same movement, she motions to the door, and a Marine calmly paces in, helmet removed, showing off a long mane of bright orange hair, a single tuft standing out at the top.

“Why let me live? Why save me?” You say, a hint of frustration in your voice.

The Cat paces towards you, about to speak, but the First holds up a hand, a gentle smile on her face. “Twofold: firstly, because this one here has a request of you”, gesturing towards the odd cat, “and secondly, because I am in your debt.”

“You… are? What, for the head thing?” You say incredulously.

“No, not that! Although that’s an added bonus, I’ll admit, I’m more indebted as your public execution, and indeed your handling of your former nation’s operation, played fully into my hands.” She explained, without a slither of deceit in her voice.

You look down at your lap, somewhat dejected. She shakes her head at this, frowning, and gently sits down on your bed. “You misunderstand; what I’m trying to say is that if the operation had been commanded by someone less capable than you on the Russian side, the outcome would have been far worse, especially for the Russians.”

The ginger Marine briefly scowls at this, before thinking better of it. The First takes note of it even despite the briefness of the moment, and looks at her.

“This Marine is connected to that debt, even if she doesn’t realise it yet.” She continues. “Due to your actions, not only were Syrakhani casualties kept to a minimum - indeed, our ONLY casualty during the ground operation was the one you made (and we’ll get to that in a moment), but the decorum and abilities of the Russian armed forces remained untarnished despite a ruthless drubbing of the command capabilities of your nation. The way you and your soldiers performed under fire is already being praised back in your home as a brilliant example of military martyrdom at the hands of a foolish government that continues a failing war.”

The Cat hops onto the bed, and sits beside the First, who takes note of it before continuing. “Such as it was, our tactical leak of intelligence about both Stonefire and the Black Orchids, as well as the utter disaster you witnessed happening in the stars above you - honestly, what were the Russians thinking, trying to cause a Kessler Syndrome cascade?! Ahem. With all this in mind, your public execution at my hands demonstrated a strong declaration for my own people, while also not causing any issues for the future - and inevitable - peace negotiations.”

She finished speaking, and motions for the Marine to come over. She holds out a hand, and the Marine produces a dossier of some kind, placing it on her palm. The First opens it, taking out a few sheets, while the strange Cat places a paw on one of them.

“Your file within the Black Orchids is a fascinating look at how humans are still trying to develop by themselves. Of particular note is some of the ideas and criteria they wanted. For you, it appeared that you had a singular factor that your captors and future trainers had in mind. It is also this factor that only I took heed of, even as the First and her kin were planning on turning you into a martyr like your friends.” The Cat proclaimed, with a soft swish of it’s slightly mangy tail.

“…what factor? I… haven’t read my own file, sorry…” You say apologetically.

“Luck.” The Cat declares. “An utterly baffling concept, the strange appearance of probability and odd happenstance. Humans attribute many things to luck, even when such things could only be described as statistical miracles, or even physical anomalies.”

The First picks out a page from the dossier, and holds it up to read. “Throughout your career, any detachment that served with you always had a disproportionate chance of achieving their objective when compared to your fellow Orchids. This trend continued into Stonefire. Your helicopter was the only one that landed intact - although part of a second one did manage to land with a few survivors, who attempted to directly breach the defences to no avail. Your crew survived, yet those who split away from you failed, while you achieved relative success. You, by pure chance, managed to access the Executive Floor elevator keypad.”

“…and you managed to kill a Marine.” The ginger girl murmured, still staring daggers at you.

The First nods, a patient but somewhat saddened look on her face. “Indeed. A ‘Sparklie’, as you people insist on calling us, always has a rough and often short life - but it is exceedingly rare for a mundane human to kill one of us, and it is usually through an assassination or an ambush. To my knowledge, a single human has never faced one of us in single combat and not only survived, but managed to best one of our kin.”

She lifts her arm, and places a firm hand on the shoulder of the ginger girl. “The Marine you killed, Sasami Iwakura, was the subordinate of Cornelia Kiryu here, as well as a highly decorated member of the Iwakura dynasty... Eh, group? Family? Ah, whatever. Despite direct orders to provide overwatch and dispatch you and your squad from afar, Sasa decided a direct intervention would be more… ah, what’s the word she used?”

“Honourable, your excellency.” The Marine nodded.

The First gave a small groan, shaking her head disapprovingly. “Honour is all well and good, until you do something stupid, let alone disobey a direct command from you - which, by extension, was a command from me. Still, she died in combat, fighting a good fight - and that’s the best way for one of our kin to pass away.”

“…indeed, Warmaster. Praise be.” The Marine finally relented her scowl at you, nodding to the First’s words.

“…with that being said, my… colleagues… now have an opening.” The Cat spoke once more. “As such, I would—”

“Colleagues is SUCH a CALLOUS word, Itchy! I prefer ESTEEMED ALLIES!”

The commanding voice boomed from seemingly nowhere, receiving a strangely out of character groan from both the Cat and from the First.

A somewhat larger Cat-like creature practically marched into the room, coloured a dark green bordering on black and flecked with white spots, and with much shorter ears than the other creature.

It completely ignored both the First and the other Creature, and instead hopped onto the bed and directly onto your chest. It’s… surprisingly heavy. It states directly at you, boring dark red eyes into your very soul.

“LISTEN UP, YA MAGGOT! I TOLD THIS HERE INCOOBAYDA THAT I NEEDED ME A FAVOUR, COS I GOT MYSELF A NOICE NOSE FOR THIS TYPA SHIT!” The Cat screamed… somehow… directly into your head.

The First blinked a few times, briefly losing the sense of nonchalance that defined her in the brief time you’d known her.

“…Jyuro, do you truly require the need to be as loud as possible?” The smaller of the two creatures finally muttered.

“HA HA, BOSS! I DON’T GOTTA DANG CLUE WHAT YOUS BE MEANIN’!” The blaring response came back.

Strangle enough, under that persona, the newcomer had an identical voice to the littler one - the Boss, Itchy - that you could just about discern if you listened (or, uh, thought?) hard enough. But it’s original voice was buried under so many layers of what could only be described as a comically over the top military drill sergeant from late 80s action films that it was virtually impossible to compare the two.

The large cat marched over to the dossier, and patted - or, more accurately, batted it - with a single paw. “As me ESTEEMED friend be tellin’ ya, we had a debt to be payin’ to ya. THAT BEING SAID… Our offered reward should be befittin’ of such a wonderful lass… and with such a shit life so far, I imagine it’d be a marginal improvement.”

You narrow your eyes at this. “…I don’t know if I like where this is going.”

The smaller of the two Cats, ‘Itchy’, gave a small sigh. “Well, allow me to give you the alternative: immediate but painless death. Honestly, after all you’ve been through, a fight taking you to hell and back that you should have had no chance at winning… It would be a little bit of an anti-climax, right?”

Your eye twitches a little. Were they MOCKING you?

You growl. “You’re fucking with me. You expect me to just, what, sweep all your bullshit under the rug?”

The two Cats looked at each other. The ginger Marine’s expression darkened, but the First put a palm on her shoulder.

“…could you three give me a moment alone with her?” She asked quietly.

You say asked - but it had a tone of command to it.

The two Cats seemed to dematerialise in front of your very eyes, while the ginger Marine looked at you briefly, before bowing lowly and cowtowing out of the room.

You realise you’ve been clenching you fists, and the bed covers were held in your hands.

The First looked at you - looked down upon you, even, despite being shorter than you and being on the same bed as you. Even at equal footing, she still looked down on others.

She finally clicked her tongue, and shook her head, before glaring at you directly, her eyes piercing. “Take the fucking offer, you imbecile. Otherwise you’ll never get what you want.”

You blink at her, the sudden change in tone catching you off guard. “P-pardon?”

“For fuck’s sake, do I need to spell it out for you? If you’re dead, you can’t get your revenge, can you?” She snarled at you - the ever so slight tinge of emotion leaking, making her usually cold demeanour far more threatening - and much more like her prowess seemed to indicate.

“Also, you don’t need to keep monologuing. We’re all telepaths here - and pretty bloody good ones, too.” She spoke plainly, her emotions returning to neutral.

Huh. That would explain the weird voices you’d heard in the Executive Floor.

The First stood, the dossier in her hand, and took out a single page, densely packed with text. “Let me put it bluntly for you: the target for your vengeance, either myself or Minister Satsuki, are FAR beyond your current capabilities. As such, accepting our - MY - offer is as beneficial to everyone involved as you can get. Become a, ahem, ‘sparklie’, get stronger, get trained, and maybe that lucky streak of yours will give you a minute chance at taking out your chosen target… before you inevitably die in a suitably impressive blaze of glory, that is.”

You go to say something, but she begins to walk away, but stops and says a few final words. “Read the page I left for you there. Accept the Contract. Jyuro is an interesting fellow, and if you prove yourself, then you might even ascend past this nation’s regular limits and join the ranks of our kin proper. And, if fate so chooses, perhaps you will have your vengeance before your timely demise…

…until then, I will forget about you. I have more important things to do now, I’m afraid - but this has been a fun distraction, so I owe it to you to give you a second chance at life.”

She leaves, allowing the Ginger Marine to walk in again, followed swiftly by the larger creature - the one known as Jyuro.

As they do, you pick the sheet up, reading it and allowing your visual augments to help you digest it’s lengthy contents.

…ah. So that’s what being a Sparkly is like.

You’d heard tales of these from a faint memory of your childhood, back in a place lost to time. A common Japanese fiction trope, made manifest.

“A MAGICAL LASS! THERE IS NO GREATER CALLING THAN TO SERVE!” Jyuro bellows, pushing you out of your thoughts. The Ginger Marine briefly giggles at this, before returning to her position at the door.

Jyuro stops marching around, and finally sits on the bed, facing you.

“This Contract will bind your life to us. Your eternal soul will serve, even in death. Frankly, a painless death as that girl offered might be easier and less agonising than what we offer.” Jyuro spoke, in a far more serious and officiating tone.

The Ginger Marine nodded next to the door. “Even in death, we will enact the will of the most holy.” She whispered, in what could only be described as a prayerful mutter.

Jyuro nodded its little head. “Indeed. However, as it stipulates… This is merely the first step towards becoming a true member of the contracted. This is… Well, let’s just say the days ahead might be easier for others in different routes and places, but the track offered ahead for you grants you opportunities very few will ever see.”

You read the page again, a few words seeming the most important.

You look at the Marine. “Could I… see it?”

The Marine’s eyes widen a little, before relenting. She raises a hand, and a bright light shines briefly, before revealing a large gemstone, encrusted with a golden mantle.

A ‘Soul Gem’, as the page stipulates - and a literal term, rather than metaphorical.

“I… see.” You manage to bleat out.

…what wish would you request, in exchange for losing your eternal soul? The contract all but explicitly states that it is a monkey’s paw - wishes are always granted, but are non-refundable, and can often bring about ‘adverse side-effects’.

Unintended Consequences.

What’s the right wording, then? Something to ensure you can, eventually, get your revenge, and atone for allowing your comrades to die in vain?

…you’ve got it. Luck, right? You can use that as a stepping stone.

The Marine kneels, noticing the look in your eyes - a look of certainty.

Jyuro’s tail begins to wag. “So… ah, forgive me missy. Do you have a real name? I mean, that designation ‘Three’… is that what you wish to be called?”

You shake your head. “It’s… been a while since I’ve even remembered my real name. We were forcibly brainwashed to lose most of our memories of childhood. Still, I managed to hold on.”

You pause, and think hard. “Melon… Melody… Melodrama… Ah, no, that’s it! Mel. Mel Anna.”

You nod. “My original name is Mel Anna.”

Jyuro appears to make a mental note of this. “I see. Well then:

Mel Anna, what wish would you like granted - in exchange for your soul?”

You breathe in, and out.

“I wish to be the greatest at predictions, for what I predict to always be 100% true.”

…

As you slowly march out of the hallway to your new life, your new co-worker giving you a hand pauses for a moment.

“Say, Mel.” Colonel Kiryu said. “I’m still… annoyed at how Sasa died. But that isn’t the ONLY reason why I’m worried.”

You stop next to her, and cock your head. “Okay…?”

She sighs. “As the Warmaster of the First briefly touched upon earlier, Sasami was the youngest sibling of the Iwakura family.”

Your visual augments, now magically enhanced, gave you a brief cliffnotes run down.

“Thing is… Out of that whole cabal, what I’m most worried about is the reaction of her two older sisters.” She explains, a gloved hand stroking her chin as she ponders. “Especially the eldest sister. She’s… well, she’s SOMETHING ELSE.”

You’re… not really following, honestly. You’ve got a lot on your plate, after all.

The Colonel makes note of this, and grumpily groans. “Agh, whatever. You’re not paying attention, so I’ll give up.” She puts a hand on your shoulder, and continues to help you along while continuing to speak.

“Still, kid. If anyone called Iwakura approaches you, run in the other direction - and, for the love of all things Holy, make sure all your computer stuff is kept protected. ESPECIALLY anything connected to anything else.”

You’ll… keep that in mind…?

…

===

[End of Log; end of Source 6.]

===

[End of Archive series related to the events of Operation Stonefire.]

=====

[syrakhanistan]

Operation: Stonefire - Part 2: Burned Metal

[The second part of a series of notes and recordings, from different sources, regarding a certain military operation near the height of the Greater Caucasian Conflict, fought between the Imperium of Syraqhanistan and the Russian Federation].

===

[Source 3: Audio from a partial extract from a badly damaged black-box for an Mil Mi-26 “Halo”; combined with Source 4: Extract from a recovered body-camera used by an unknown body from the same helicopter crash.]

<Extract begins.>

Looking down at the battered old watch… It was almost time.

The sound of the metal above you clashed with the dark night sky above the Zagros Mountain Range.

The stars above shined brightly, even through the aged glass that one could only barely call a window.

“T minus 5 until Seahorse start. Strap in and watch the fireworks.”

…

Even from here, you could see the sky burning.

New stars were shining, blinking in the sky, before dying as fast as they appeared.

If you had to guess… It seemed to be going well. You think. Hard to see who’s winning from a few hundred thousand feet away.

You held firm to your rifle in your hands. The anticipation was getting to you.

“Operation Seahorse has begun. Set your watches; We have T minus 30 before Stonefire is due to begin, unless we get a red light from HQ. At roughly start time, as you know, the window of opportunity for insertion will begin - we will have five minutes to fly in and enter. So, uh, hold on to your butts…”

…

The metropolis approaching from in front hummed with life, a life hacked out from the harsh landscape around these lands, stuck on the periphery of the so-called Fertile Crescent.

Neo-Kirkukihara, the Middle East’s brightest miracle, the witness of a hundred empires born anew.

And, currently, not firing a barrage of anti-air towards your group of helicopters. So that’s a plus.

“Go time. Make sure you’re all prepped. Seems the defences are down as per the intel. We got five minutes. Let’s go.”

…

Steady, steady.

And you’re over.

Your group of helicopters break through the perimeter without so much as a shot fired. How two Mi-26 helicopters, two Mi-24 gunships, and one Mi-35-E/G1 command gunship all managed to get past the line is beyond you - talk about incompe—

<<ST—FIRE, DO YOU R—FIRE—>>

The crackled voice on the chopper’s headset screamed through all your mics.

<<HQ, this is Stonefire; why have you broken radio sil—>>

<<STO—IRE, AB-T! ABO— OW!!!>>

<<HQ, you’re breaking up, could you rep—>>

You scowl, and look ou—

<The footage ends. The audio continues, but is heavily corrupted and damaged, with what remains being mostly the sound of rending metal and fires burning.>

===

[Source 5: A Russian tactical map, labelled with losses from a certain classified set of military operations.]

High Altitude losses: Roughly 80% of all forces sent up, accounting for roughly a loss of an entire twentieth of the whole Air Force.

Successes?: Irrelevant due to Stonefire’s failure.

Biggest failures?: Partial Kessler Syndrome caused by anti-satellite fire has caused more damage to our own satellites as well as our high altitude and low orbit capabilities than any successes would have indicated. Not least because it ended up being utterly pointless.

-

Stonefire:

Transport 1: Mi-35-E/G1.

- Struck with five separate turret launches simultaneously.

- Subsequently obliterated.

- All hands presumed KIA.

Transport 2: Mi-26 (1)

- Struck by same ordnance as Transport 1.

- Subsequently obliterated.

- All hands presumed KIA.

Transport 3: Mi-26 (2)

- Struck by two separate turrets and one anti-personnel launcher.

- Transport torn in half; forward half completely destroyed, back half crashed near designated LZ.

- 3/4s of hands killed during or after crash; a number of operatives escaped, before being KIA during operation attempt.

Transport 4: Mi-24 (1)

- Hit by six separate turret launches, as well as a single experimental rail cannon round.

- Utterly obliterated within seconds of impact.

- All hands confirmed KIA.

Transport 5: Mi-24 (2)

- Unharmed aside from small arms fire; intel suggests that some of the defence attacks meant for Transport 5 somehow hit Transport 4 instead, which explains the excessive damage done.

- Lands while Hot at LZ with all hands, as well as Payload for Objective 3.

- Transport 5 subsequently self-destructed voluntarily by escaping operatives.

- At least a third of the operatives killed defending LZ; the rest presumed either MIA, KIA, or POW due to the operation’s circumstances.

Also see: Debrief.

Analysis?: Massive loss of lives, money, and equipment. The early reactivation and recalibration of defences despite the seeming success of Seahorse, followed shortly by the reactivation and subsequent defence of the enemy satellite array, rendered the vast majority of the operation utterly fruitless and catastrophic.

Additional Note: The leaks to the public that followed Stonefire with regards to military capability and [REDACTED] make this even more of a disaster.

See also: Debrief.

===

Part 3 will be released shortly.

[syrakhanistan]

Operation: Stonefire - Part 1

[The first part of a series of notes and recordings, from different sources, regarding a certain military operation near the height of the Greater Caucasian Conflict, fought between the Imperium of Syraqhanistan and the Russian Federation].

===

[Source 1: A digital archive copy of a recording made during a Russian military briefing.]

Recording starts:

<Noise of cogs starting, signalling the activation of recording equipment.>

“Eh, sir? You think that’s the best idea?”

“No, frankly I don’t tovarisch polkóvnik - but I have my orders, and I do not believe it wise to question them.”

“…Very well.”

“…”

<Awkward cough.>

“I’ll… take that as my cue to begin?”

“Yes please, before we all die of boredom.”

<A more light chuckle from a group of people.>

“Well. I shall do so at once.”

<Sound of a whiteboard being turned on.>

“My friends, we have gathered here today at the behest of a direct order from the Security Council to the chiefs of staff. They believe, in their infinite wisdom…”

<Another laugh.>

“…that a single decapitation strike against the heart of our southern enemy will cause a swift end to the war.”

“Ehhh, I don’t know about that Colonel! I swear the final act of Jupiter was also supposed to be a decapitation strike? And we, uh, know how that one turned out!”

“Comrade Sergeant, please don’t jinx us. *Especially* since we’re being recorded!”

“Sorry boss.”

“…Anyway. This operation is, as you can see from your compatriots in the room, one of the utmost importance, and will feature some of the most talented members of our nation’s military.”

<A cough; the archive notes attribute it to the one who created the recording, a Major-General [REDACTED].>

“Ah, yes. There will also be a… certain new addition, which might be a little odd to some of you who usually don’t have high level clearance.”

“I’m assuming you’re referring to… them?”

“Indeed. These five children are, in fact, members of the elite Task Force 776 - chernyye orkhidei, or <<Black Orchids>> - which was created under the supervision and express orders of both the Security Council as well as the joint heads of the FSB and the FSO. The two males are One and Two; the three females are Three, Four and Five. Do not ask for their real names, as they do not have them; and fear not - they are the best of the best. Don’t think that they’ll get in your way; nay, try not to get in theirs! And, uh, that’s all I’m allowed to say on *that* matter.”

“…If you say so.”

“I do. It’s not like I have a choice on the matter either, you know.”

<Tap of a remote control.>

“The name of this operation has the codename of Stonefire; it will be fought in conjunction with Operation Seahorse, which will be an Air Force operation at high altitude against the enemy’s vast satellite array.”

“…Satellite array?”

“Indeed. As this diagram shows, if in somewhat excessive detail, the vast majority of the enemy’s capital is almost saturated in various anti-personnel and anti-air capabilities; however, these capabilities - as seen from a leaked classified source - largely rely on a satellite array in low Earth orbit to relay almost atomic accuracy to the defences. This defence system would probably be bolstered by the Weather Dome System, had it been completed before the war broke out - but luckily that won’t be an issue.”

<Another tap of a remote.>

“As such - Seahorse will eliminate the satellite array, giving Stonefire - us - a time window to infiltrate the city and enter the enemy’s headquarters. This time window will be VERY limited, as the defences do have the ability to act without the satellite array, but to do so requires a small window of recalibration. Upon reaching the headquarters - the newly Palatial Estate built above the old Kirkuk Citadel - we will breach the inside using the maps that have been distributed to you, make our way to three given target zones, and achieve our objectives. Upon completion of all three objectives, we will be given an armoured escape transport by local resistance members, and escorted safely to a separate city to the location of a safe house and await exfiltration - which, all going smoothly, will be done following our nation’s victory.”

“Why not have a safehouse within the city?”

“Major, please look at the briefing before asking questions! Still, that’s part of the next slide, so I suppose I will address it.”

<Remote click.>

“There are three primary objectives of Stonefire: the first, and most critical, is the capture OR elimination of the Council of the Nation, held in the core of the Estate: it is the highest level of government in Syrakhanistan, including their nation’s enigmatic leader. The second is the capture, or destruction, of certain materials related to their nation’s military, which is held within their nation’s defence department, closer to the front of the complex. The final target is a certain room in the deepest heart of the Estate complex - the city’s power plant. The team on the third target will be the last to leave, as their mission will be to plant a nuclear weapon - identified as RA-115-02, codename Lime Daisy - and detonate it once all objectives have been achieved and all members safely outside the Area of Operations.”

<Sudden silence.>

“…So, this is a suicide mission then?”

“Well, no—”

<Clattering of chairs and slamming of desks.>

“YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING”

“THIS ISN’T SERIOUS”

“THAT’S INSANE”

“Alright, that’s enough. Comrade General, please turn off the recording - and get the MPs in here!”

“We really should have done this bette—”

<Stuttering of recording cogs mixing with the growing sound of shouting.>

End of recording.

===

[Source 2: An extract from a personal note-taking document made by an unknown source within the government of Syrakhanistan.]

The device in front of your little group stopped with a small click. You find yourself suppressing a smile, as another one of your friends begins to laugh.

“Well, that’s bloody unprofessional, isn’t it!” She said with an almost gleeful grin.

“…I see that the Bear is just as overly ‘practical’ as ever, even in this day and age. I suppose I can’t fault their… enthusiasm…” The woman opposite her noted with an almost smug sense of satisfaction, not that you would ever tell her that. “And you’re sure of the veracity of this?”

You nod. “Positive. You wouldn’t believe what some people post online these days; it only took us a few hours to find and extract it. From the notes attached, I’d say we have about a month or so - and, of course, we’re still keeping our eyes and ears out for any changes to that schedule.”

A murmur of approval.

Your senior nodded, before scowling just a little. “Still… Russian or not, this seems rather, shall I say, ballsy? Are they already truly that desperate?”

A chuckle from your left. “You’d be surprised. As I said in one of my more dry reports, it would appear that their logistics… Well, I think I can safely assume that they lost most of their supply managers during the Soviet-Afghan Wars, or perhaps in that cockup in Chechnya, because what I’ve had reported to me is… almost impressively stupid, frankly.”

“Yes… I suppose I’m more inclined to believe that, than to believe that they have some sort of ace up their sleeve. I will admit, a nuclear device would be… annoying… to our city’s nascent construction bureau. Oh, and let alone the citizens.”

“Still. Still, still, still. Can’t be too careful, eh, hee hee!” The girl to your right gave a hearty laugh.

“Indeed. Obviously, feel free to eliminate the pests when they arrive - and do feel free to be gracious hosts when they do so. Might be fun to let off some steam, especially since this place is [REDACTED][REDACTED] for [REDACTED]. Right?“ Your boss nodded confidently.

You clear your throat. “I think that would be for the best, not that they would be any trouble. If anything, I’d be more worried if they had any [REDACTED] with them, since that could cause some strife.”

Your boss shook her head, but smiled anyway. “I see your point - but I’ve already done some previous digging into that little group one of them mentioned, and none of them are [REDACTED]. So I’d say they’re all expendable - at most, maybe capture one of them for [REDACTED] so that we can [REDACTED].”

You salute, and turn to leave with your friends, until a familiar sensation hits you. Everyone in the room, save one, freezes as the same sensation hits, and the room gains an extra inhabitant.

A yawn, a stretching of small limbs, a tired shake of a battered old thing. You never could get used to that one; for all of them being like little things, this one felt far more different to the others, even your own former [REDACTED].

“Warmaster. One of the members of this… opposing force… that you discussed. It is of interest to myself and the others.” [REDACTED][REDACTED] purred, a dulcet and relaxed voice completely at odds to the rest of the words’ demeanour. “I would request that [REDACTED], the one that I make reference to, is kept alive, so that a more firm decision can be made.”

Your senior’s face showed no emotion, and nor did her voice. “I see. How interesting. Why… Why could you not meet her directly? And would she be suitable for—”

“I could not, simply because I just could not, or perhaps would not. That is all there is to it, and all that there is to it is what I think of it. And… well, for your last question, I won’t know until I’m certain, and I won’t know until I’m certain until I know I am certain. Certainly, when I have made a decision, I’m sure you can also give your advice, ideas, or plans to me as always.” Another pleasant intonation, followed by a small shrug. “It’s just a small thing, honestly. I do hope it’s not too much of an issue.”

A nod. “Of course. I will do my best to ensure that your needs are fulfilled. Praise be.”

A small breath, before a sigh and another shrug. A small noise like a puff of air, and then…

The room lost the extra inhabitant.

It’s a little quiet, a bit awkward for a few moments, before there’s another sigh.

“Fucking dickbutt rat cat.”

Yeah, you said it boss. You said it.

===

Part 2 will be released shortly.

[syrakhanistan]

Reports on a nation's growing emptiness

[Extract from a heavily classified and redacted American CIA report on the Imperium of Syrakhanistan.

The Emptying of a Nation

The most disquieting of reports coming out of Syrakhanistan remain the signs of an increased level of utter devastation on the population, to the point of which that some of the local underground resistance organisations have begun to call the nation's growing signs of genocide and ethnic cleansing the "Afragh", or the Emptying.

In the leadership's movement of people to ensure their complete domination of the recently unified state, entire swathes of land and their populations have been violently uprooted and moved, almost always without any notice and with any dissent resulting in swift retaliation. In leaked memoes discovered by several agents, this process is often referred to as either purification or liquidation. It also appears to be utterly random at times, with little to no reason seemingly given besides the whims and random needs of the leadership council, and often done in almost immiediate fashion with virtually no long-term damage to surrounding areas. In some cases, the act seems to be on such a large scale and done so quickly that we have begun investigations to see if the acts have been caused through the same unknown means that caused the Elbrus Atrocity.

One smuggled and highly classified - most of it being above even my paygrade - audio log from one council meeting was extremely disturbing, with the nation's leader explicitly stating that "...With regards to that particular issue, the artificial intelligence programme seems to remain in line with my thoughts, even when I questioned it - but the maths does appear to check out. Therefore, all I can say is "Oderint dum metuant" - let them hate, as long as they fear. If any dissenters make moves, if we still have any dissenters... then at least their hatred can remain focused on me. The Great Plan is my burden to bear, after all - this... continued process is necessary, must be necessary... If my plans, my calculations, that our top people as well as the AI have ratified, can be achieved... then the sacrifice is necessary. But it is my cross to carry - not any of yours." What this Plan that the nation's leader has repeatedly mentioned both publicly and privately contains, or refers to, remains unclear.

It would appear that the reports of a sentient AI's involvement in the running of the nation have come true - although to what level it has access to and control of the nation remain completely clouded to even our ears. The reports - or what little information we have - do indicate that this fully sentient AI remains just as subservient to the leader of the nation as any of the rest of Her council do.

The cold, calculating, yet seemingly random displacement and violent execution of many people obviously brings to mind the cruelest excesses of the Third Reich, particularly with regards to the almost dual-natured or even schizophrenic methods through which this so-called "purification" is occurring, between the more ad hoc methods and the reports of 'camps' and 'sites', and a particularly horrifying report regarding the sacrifice of humans in ceremonies to the Leader's [REDACTED]. The scale of which this act is apparently being carried out would exceed even the Holocaust, yet somehow it is being done without mention in the public media or without any discussion abroad or internally - to the point of which this author wonders if the higher-ups in the USA and our allies might already be fully aware of it.

Still... This barbarity that Syrakhanistan is carrying out across the former Middle East... is made worse when it appears to both international observers as well as internal reports and leaks that the so-called "Stability Process" of purification is actually working. As seen in one of her rare speeches, it appears that the sacrifice and journey may have been worth it - the nation has made leaps and bounds in many areas such as technology, equal rights, military, economics, living standards, medicine, and many, many more. Indeed, our investigations appear to show that many of the horrifiying reports of some groups being partially "purified" lead to the rise in standards for other groups as well as groups that were voluntarily "purified" or co-operated with the process, to the point of victims of the process actively supporting it following their time within - this would highly indicate the usage of either brainwashing techniques or a sense of Stockholm Syndrome; this investigation is pending [REDACTED] approval for more intense study.

Similarly, where some resources have been sacrificed or where some groups are liquidated, others skyrocket. A key example of this that has been confirmed by satellite imagery is the almost total liquidation of the [REDACTED][REDACTED] area and surrounding region, which following photographs from aerial viewing and from space, has been rebuilt into a massive and thriving industrial and energy production zone, with an apparent aim to rival Sillicon Valley or Inner Mongolia in terms of pure industrial might.

The author of this report remains utterly shocked, horrified, yet equally curious and fascinated by these reports. Is the sacrifice of roughly 20 million of one's own citizens in seemingly random acts of depraved violence done in cold and calculating methods truly necessary to turn what was once one of the most tumultuous and violent regions in the world into a single state that has come to rival both us and other superpowers, and maybe even surpass us soon? What fear - or paranoid lunacy - would create or justify the necessity of such actions?

At what cost does a calculation come? Is there no better way of achieving progress? And what methods is the council of that nation using to apparently "calculate" their violent redistribution of people and resources, methods by which none of our scientists, mathemeticians, or algorithms can seemingly find?