- Location
- National Capital Region, USA
[X] Follow - it will be nice to catch up with the count
No need to be rude.
No need to be rude.
Meanwhile, those "Geniuses at Ohara" are figuring out where to stick the box lunches for the ~1300km+ flight."Not yet he doesn't, but I'll tell you the same thing he said to that tiny sweetheart from Akitsukini," His wife cut in, reaching out to poke at the portly man beside her "If they build a machine that will take people a hundred kilometres, he'd sell his company there and then."
War Plan BLUE: Yeah, no. We're not launching a trans-Auroric invasion. Good news, nobody else can do so the other way."Well nothing, really. I rather think they will be in fact, and they have plans for what to do in the event of a war with basically anyone, so we can't rely on any luck in that direction."
@open_sketchbook is the one who can really answer but I'd guess yes.Has the Haber process been invented yet? Historically, production started in 1913.
Without it, every nation is dependant on Albian imports and strategic reserves to produce explosives.
Well, as a start back it's certainly recaptured the confining shackles of state and ideology. On the surface it sounds so simple: Just Do Not. And yet it isn't. These are all people from nations who have agreed that only a select few may be trusted with power, much less advising those with it. The choices of their predecessors binds them, the will of the common working family binds them, the politicians bind them, the industrialists bind them, their generals bind them, their upbringing binds them... or so they all think. The chains we put on our minds are the strongest things invented by mortal hands.
And then you'll relax with something simple, like curing polio. You know, no pressure, no trouble. :/Maybe after you end war you could change the way that Europa views homosexuals. The latter couldn't possibly any harder than ending millenia of oppression and violence and barbarity.
"The LSD I just took should kick in soon, and I'll be mellow. Or not. At the least, I won't give a fuck until I come down."Bennhold looks just as nervous as you feel, chewing his lip as if there is something attached to it. He slips something from his pocket and drops it in his mouth. He swallows, breathing deeply. You reach out to touch his elbow and he almost jumps out of his skin, wide eyes staring at you with the biggest pupils you've ever seen.
"Hey. You okay in there?"
"Fine, my friend, fine. Just nervous."
Yeah, the drunk guy seems less amused and more a man trying to convince himself that the inevitable disaster will have a minor upside to himself. If he was really happy about it, he wouldn't be needing to soak himself with booze at these talks to avoid just screaming at them 'JUST GET IT OVER WITH, YOU BASTARDS!'. He seems to share the ubiquitous feeling of the crowd that death and catastrophe is bearing down like an avalanche, and there's nothing he can do about it but hope he can ride the wave and not be crushed under.These talks are not being taken seriously, you realise. The drunk man was right. All sides were just using it as an excuse to size each other up before the first punches were thrown.
It's this kind of simplicity and background that these people value. If ya'll forgive me for not fully knowing how Gaya-verse Classical and Medieval history went, having actually served in the military has long been a sign of fitness for leadership in politics. That she's come away with both visible wounds and medals strikes the two highest marks for honor these people know. A badge of honor, and a badge of courage. To serve, to come home with scars, and to have performed a great deed. From Hoplites to Praetorians to Knights to political Nobility, Valentina's record cannot be besmirched, so no matter her words people will sit and listen."I am not here today to seek aid, nor to find a shred of sympathy or to simply reminisce. I raise my story to ensure that you have the proper context; I am no pacifist, no ideologue with grand ideas and a cold agenda." The Count winces, smiling, at the description that could easily fit him. You touch the medals on your chest, smiling sadly, "I was an officer, a sailor in a Navy dedicated to protecting my home. When war came to that home, I gladly took up arms. I was swept in the fires of battle and baptised by the bitter sweat of hard fighting. So do not think of me as some naive babe in arms, despite my youth. I bought my place here in front of you with my own blood."
You pause, aware of the emotion swirling amongst your words, the anger and pain, the hot flash and cold snap ebbing and flowing in turn. A sip of water, a moment to yourself.
There's always something of a mix in the upper-eschelons of power when it comes to the cruelties of life. Maybe they're pampered and see war as a glorious excursion where everyone comes home, maybe they've been oppressed by very personal, individual cruelty and see only a machine whose crank they must turn to save their own skin. Maybe something in between. But no matter the background, this very straightforward speech cuts to the heart of the matter and reaches to any background. On the cusp of mental health gaining acceptance, to hear this glorious veteran say "yes, PTSD is real" is a shock to the system."I bought my place and I bear my scars. I can take off my foot and hide a flask of vodka in it if I so wish, and surely I could find someone to do the same with my cane." A few wry chuckles are elicited from the crowd, a warming in feeling. You'd make sure that didn't last long. "I will walk with a limp for the rest of my days, and I hope those days are very long indeed. I will also have nightmares. When I sleep, I see faces. I hear shell fire. I smell cordite and blood."
The chuckles were snatched away.
"I am fortunate. I only see those things in my sleep. I can walk, albeit with a slight limp. I am one of the fortunate ones, because I can see and hear and walk. That is fortune, in war. That I can still breath without the help of medicine or machine. I did what had to be done, I led many people just like me to their deaths and I… well, I got lucky."
There were people in this room who already understood the massive slaughter that is to come. But after this speech, I think there's alot more."I tell you all this because I have an agenda. I am no pacifist and no campaigner. But I will ask you, Ladies and gentlemen, representatives of the great powers, I will make a request. Look at me, and see in me the sons and daughters of your nations. Look at me and see your children, children who surely wish to follow their parents into uniform. See my prosthetic foot, see my cane, see the lines around my eyes from restless sleep. When it comes time to order thousands like me into battle, remember what you see here today. You are able to make a choice. You can choose to not roll the dice and find out how many are lucky enough to end up like me."
"Choose peace. Not for my sake. Choose peace for your children. Thank you."
To use her reputation as such a blunt instrument for something against their culture, against what they see as an inexorable calculation, and still get any applause? I think that's a good job. Especially since men and women in the trenches will now have someone who spoke of their conditions years beforehand.It would be a fine thing if the room had broken into thunderous applause. Men could have climbed on their seats and cheered. There could have been declarations of peace and brotherhood, of kindness between nations. There could have been a great many things.
Instead, as you return to your seat there is but a small amount of clapping and most of it simply polite. Nobody thunders, nobody cheers. Nobody even has the good grace to look angry. The Count gives you a wide smile, Sasha nods kindly and the Countess touches your shoulder. That's the extent of it. You weren't expecting very much, but there was some small part of you that wanted a little more than you'd been offered.
I'mma make a bit of a controversial statement here: I am fine with going to war. But only when the government gives the task the full seriousness and gravity it deserves. I am fine with this being the message the new meat recruits get, so long as they don't get this. Untrained and unprepared soldiers die, trained and prepared soldiers have a chance to live.It was hell, to sit there amongst a crowd who apparently found the coming war to be something unstoppable. A rock rolling down a hill so large that no person could stand in its way - war was simply something that would come to Europa whether the dignitaries, the diplomats and the generals wanted it or not. But it wasn't that, you wanted to scream in their faces. It's not some self-aware behemoth that hunts the lives of young men and women for sport, it's a choice made by people. Greedy people, powerful people, scared people. All just people. Scared people fearing what would happen if someone else started it and won, if someone else was able to take their power away. And so because they were scared they would throw thousands of young lives into an abattoir ten-thousand times the size of Polypavlosk. Children who would be told it was right, that it was necessary, that it was honourable and noble and patriotic to go off to die on some foreign field.
Whelp. We have a terror attack at a "peace" summit, not just a lone assassin. I'm not going to speculate if this is a communist group or if they just don't like Imperialist and their money-counters. But someone just captured our girl. Captured, and immediately fucked up the interrogation. Either that or their idea of 'keep my face secret' was to remove the obscuring darkness.An Ophyrian man climbs the shallow steps to the podium, looking for all the world like the condemned taking his last few steps towards the gallows. He is introduced as a Unionist, a businessman of some import with links to his government and his people both. You hide a grimace. He's just another war profiteer looking to make money out of suffering.
Everything that comes next happens so fast. A piercing cry of 'Murderer!'. A rattle of gunfire as someone stands from amongst the crowds and the Ophyrian man collapses like a puppet with cut strings. Other voices join the first, more stand, you see guns drawn. Guards shot down. A rough hand grabs you from behind and the crowd suddenly becomes a mass of swirling bodies and running and screaming and crying and oh god under it all is the whimper of wounded men. A sound you never wanted to hear again. A sound you'll never forget.
You half run and are half carried from the hall, fear paralysing your brain and body both. A turn, another and a door slammed shut. A moment, a light switch clicks, bright electric bulb flickers into life and a blow to the back of your head knocks you to the ground and beyond consciousness.
Dulce et decorum est...Children who would be told it was right, that it was necessary, that it was honourable and noble and patriotic to go off to die on some foreign field.
Did we just get kidnapped? In addition to the attack on the conference? Who'd want us in particular?You half run and are half carried from the hall, fear paralysing your brain and body both. A turn, another and a door slammed shut. A moment, a light switch clicks, bright electric bulb flickers into life and a blow to the back of your head knocks you to the ground and beyond consciousness.
... ah shit, this isn't a terrorist attack. It's a Revolution!The bitter tang of smelling salts filled your nose, an acrid scent that drags you into consciousness. Slumped against a wall, a splitting headache already forming just behind your forehead, you blink slowly as your vision returns. The room is some grim little office, only a few desks and filing cabinets and for all you can see only a single chair. That chair is occupied by a slight man in an ill-fighting pair of overalls. He is as distinct as any man, with a pencil thin moustache and messy fringe that's dearly in need of trimming.
"Who?" You croak out, trailing off. Something about the face is familiar, grimly stomach-turningly so. "Do I know…"
"Hello Valentina," He responds, well spoken with a perfect command of your native language. "How long has it been now?"
You stare at him blankly, still blinking away the blow to the back of the head. He knows you, but so do a lot of people. His is just another forgotten face.
"I'm sorry, the war… I don't remember much." He couldn't have been a comrade, could he? No, he didn't seem like a man used to uniform. A civilian, or from the bar maybe?
The spy's dead? And this guy from long ago is fully set up in a global group capable of massacring a global peace summit?"Ah yes, the war. I so wanted you to work with me, dear girl, and you decided to get in the way. How is it, by the way? The life of a hero? Is it everything you ever wanted, to be paraded around for a dead king's glory?" He grimaced, barbed words punctuated by the thrust of a finger tip. He holds your gaze for a long moment before spitting on the floor between your feet. "That's what I think of you. That's what you deserve, hero. I offered you a chance to make history and instead you gave me up to men like him."
He pointed at another figure you hadn't realised was there until he directed your attention. Lying face down, eyes wide open and yet seeing nothing was the Major's man. The spy you'd treated with such disdain slumped in a puddle of bright red blood. He was dead, that much was certain. You couldn't see a weapon on the man-
Wait, what had he said? That you'd given him up? Fuck, he couldn't be…
"Pietr?" The man who'd offered you a chance to be a revolutionary. It felt like it was years ago. It almost was.
"The very same." He smiled a horrible little smile. "I knew you'd remember."
Oh shit. I just realized what this is. This is The End. We're in Sarajevo. We're part of The Shot Heard 'Round The World."What are you doing here?" you ask, pulling yourself back to sit upright against the cold brick wall. "How the hell did you find me?" You had so many more questions, but perhaps it would be best to stick to the essential ones. Surely someone would be looking for you, Sasha must be. If she was still alive. Fuck, she might be dead. There was enough shooting that anything could have happened. Suddenly you feel sick. More sick.
"There are always revolutions looking for someone who can organise. Someone who can lead. You may have noticed that Europa is somewhat tense at the moment." he reaches up to scratch his nose, pushing at non-existent glasses. "As for you, well… I guess I'm just lucky. I saw my chance and I took it."
[X] Deus ex MachinaMake a choice for how it ends.
[ ] Deus ex Machina
[ ] Sauve qui peut
[ ] No Escape.