If Mahan Could See Us Now

It's hard to fight the urge to go and explore the extents of the house; how often do you have the run of an entire castle, after all. But it would only be polite to accede to the requests of your host given that it is entirely down to the decisions that he has made that you are here at all. With a nod you take a step forwards as the woman sweeps about, her skirts rustling with a swish about her ankles, and climb the age-worn stone steps into the house. The man gives a silent nod of welcome as you pass but he doesn't turn to follow, remaining on the steps in quiet sentry, presumably waiting for another guest.

You have the sudden image of the pair running relays, him receiving men, her women, in some sort of harried approximation of a baton pass and you have to stifle a laugh at the mental image of her skirts pulled up and him jacket tossed aside as they sprint through the house.

The house - no, the castle, you remind yourself - is exactly as you expect and nothing you could have imagined. Suits of shining armour flank the entrance way, stone floors detailed with thick rugs that match the wall hangings giving a warm feeling despite the cold stone. Heavy looking iron braziers which may once have held torches but were now fitted with gas lamps lit the room and showed the artfully carved doorways that lead from the massive atrium.

A hall leads North, wood paneled and wood floored, aged oak with a deep patina that almost shines under your shoes. The castle must be massive you realise as you turn yet another corner, a maze inside even in just the 'upstairs' areas without considering the servants access, the kitchens and everything else that's hinted about by the presence of the woman who's leading you. A few steps, another turn, a few more metres and the woman suddenly stops, turns, and hammers a fist against a door recessed into one of the walls. A faint 'Enter!' can be heard before she swings the door wide.

"Miss Mikhailova, Miss Ivanova" the woman says loud enough that the names almost echo back and you take the brief moment of distraction to look around. The room is brightly lit, huge bay windows set into one wall allowing sunlight to flood in. Every available surface is crammed with books bar one low shelf arrayed with bottles and decanters and what must surely be crystal cut glasses from the way they shine.

Three armchairs are pulled around the unlit fireplace, facing towards the door, and all of them are occupied by friendly looking men, one of whom is Count von Zeppelin himself.

"My girls! Welcome, welcome," he booms in much improved Kevian, "Come, fetch a drink, pull up a chair."

"Your girls?" The Countessa Magdeburg-von Zeppelin appears as if from nowhere, emerging from behind a bookshelf with a glass in one hand and a thin volume in the other, "I think you'll find that at least one of them is mine."

Her eyes flick to Sasha and a tiny growl of possessiveness births itself in your chest. Nonetheless, she walks over to her husband and plants a gentle kiss on his cheek, which does nothing to quiet the newborn monster but at least she can display some faux affection for the old man.

"Count, Countessa." Sasha beams at the pair and you can't help but risk taking her hand. Sometimes your feelings get the better of any attempt at hiding your relationship. She squeezes gently in response. Can she tell how you're feeling? Can she hear the beast roiling in your belly? Or is it simply love that prompts her action.

You, Jealous? Heaven forfend.

Nonetheless, you find chairs and drinks are poured and after only another few minutes the six of you are sitting in something approaching a circle and settling into comfort. A glass of particularly strong smelling brandy is in one of your hands and a lit cigarette is in the other and frankly you couldn't imagine a better way to relax after a day and more of travelling. Well, there could maybe be exactly four less people and a lot more of Sasha's skin and perhaps a bed or a floor or really any flat surface.

But that's enough of a distraction for one afternoon, at least until you can make it a reality.

"I'm glad you made it safely, Valentina, I was very much looking forward to introducing you to some of my friends." The old man says, tugging at the length of his beard with a free hand, "Hauptmann Willhelm Karkoff, a man firmly committed to our cause." He gestures to a man who, while not currently in uniform, is clearly of the sort who is very used to wearing one. You recognise some of the same mannerisms in the way Sasha holds herself as he does, the set of his shoulders and the way he squares himself as he says hello, "And Bennhold Herzog, one of the most talented aircraft designers in my home nation."

"Please, Count." The youngest of the men in the room protests in a thick Dyskelande accent, "I am simply an engineer-"

"Yes? And I suppose I am simply a businessman. No, Bennhold, you're a talent I say and you're about the only hope Europa has of staying ahead of Akitsukini in the plane game, what with their geniuses down at Ohara."

"You think so much of heavier-than-airships?" Sasha asks, the surprise clear on her face.

"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."

"Have they managed it yet?" he teased back with a chuckle.

"You still own your company, dear one, so I'd assume not."

"If we can reach the point?" The military man, Willhelm asks.

"Of course, Hauptmann." The Count becomes severe again, "We four- six, I should say," he says with a nod to Sasha and his wife, "Are those I have found willing to commit not jut privately, but publically to the pursuit of peace in Europa. There will be others amongst the conference who would back our cause, but I doubt many of them will step beyond the boundaries of their own self-interest or that of their nations."

"So how do we convince them to?" You ask. Four amongst many thousands is but a drop in the bucket and certainly not the sort of group that can affect such massive change as you hope for.

"We don't. Three days is not enough to change the minds of individuals. Instead, we must simply show these groups that war is not the answer. We are here to find a common cause for peace - They will share it readily enough in time."

"Oh, is that all?" Sasha's comment isn't cruel. It simply sings of a frustrated woman who has seen enough fighting.

"Well quite. Willhelm has offered to give us the rundown on who we have the best chances with. Willie?"

"Thankyou. So, we have ten key players in Stralsten for the next three days. Gallia, Otrusia, Hesperia and Edellia, representing the League of States, also known as the Ganymedian League. They're one of the big alliances in Europa currently. The other big one is the Central Concord, which is Caspia, Kyburg, our sweet Dyskelande, and Varnmark. All of our planning has gone into fighting the Southern states and if a war breaks out then that's exactly how the battle lines will get drawn."

It was hard to imagine a war so big, with so many parties, ravaging its way across Europa. Almost every nation would have fighting directly on its borders and the forces arrayed against each other… they were unimaginable. And if Varnmark was going to get caught up in the fighting, what would you do then? You couldn't go back to service. Would you run away? Would you prefer cowardice over duty? The monster that had been born in your stomach turned inwards, raking its claws across your belly. You are not a coward, you know that much.

"You said there were ten." Bennhold looks frightened. You wonder if he makes aircraft meant for war.

"Yes, I'm getting there. Albia has spent the last hundred years sitting on the sidelines of any conflict on the mainland, building its empire and strengthening its armed forces. It maintains a greater strength than the next two nations, at least in its Navy, and there is great strength it can call on beyond that as well."

"So why haven't they picked a side?" You ask, not really sure whether you actually want to know the answer.

"Who knows. Are they waiting to see who starts winning? Are they staying out of it entirely? Either way, they're not giving any indication that they'll be swinging for either side if it all kicks off."

"And New Alleghany?" Sasha says, "Europa might not be their backyard, but they're getting awfully used to swinging their weight around when it comes to fighting. Who's to say they won't be courted by one side or another?"

"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."

"Sorry, sorry, stop me if I'm wrong but it rather sounds like you're preparing for the very war we're trying to stop!" Bennhold snaps. The Countessa reaches out a hand to comfort him but he shies away from it. "What are we even doing talking about war plans and who's going to fight who?"

"Dear boy, if we don't know what we're up against, we cannot know where to direct our efforts." he says something in Dyske, something apparently poignant because after a moment, the young man nods and settles. "Carry on, Willhelm."

"I'm about done. Those are the big ten that we have to worry about over the next few days. There are a few others that are going to be floating around - visiting representatives from Lydia, Ophirius and Meridia. I'd especially keep an eye on the Akitsukini contingent. They're beating the Caspians in their latest scrap, and that makes them important in Europan calculations. None of them are going to be party to the negotiations proper, but nobody here is going to be foolish enough to ignore a potential ally."

"No, they certainly aren't." The Count seems to ponder for a moment, "Ganymede, Concord, Albia. Those are the three that could destroy Europa - or save it, if we manage the next few days well. There is a reception tonight at Castellogrande Stralsten, an opportunity for all the delegates to meet. It is our chance to play our first cards and see where the others lay." He rises from his seat slowly, using the arm of the chair to hold himself up. His glass, left on a side table, was still almost full. "For now, I'm going to retire. An old man needs his rest if he's going to stay up all night partying."

He leaves, and so do the others, slowly but surely. Eventually it is just you, Sasha, and a lit cigarette. She has moved to sit almost in your lap, balanced on the arm of your chair, and your arm is wrapped snugly around her hips.

"Are you scared, my love?" She asks, murmuring quietly as the sun slowly dies in the great bay window.

"Terrified."

"Do you think we'll succeed?"

"I don't think we can know until we gather the mood. If the other nations want war-"

"Then I doubt there is much the six of us can do to stop it."

"Well quite."

"Shall we make like the Count?"

"And retire, my love? You know, I'm quite enjoying having you perched like this." You squeeze her thigh for emphasis, eliciting a squeak of protest.

"Be that as it may, I think my ass might prefer a more comfortable setting."

"Bed, perhaps?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

You will have an opportunity to approach a faction at the reception to try to garner support for peace. Who will it be?
[ ] The Ganymedian's - the least friendly to a Varnmarkian proposing peace, but also potentially the biggest threat to stability.
[ ] The Concord - Likely the most receptive, but potentially the hardest to convince that peace is key.
[ ] The Isolationists - Albia and New Alleghany could swing the way this all goes. They might be able to enforce peace. They may be able to demand war.
[ ] The Neutrals - Akitsukini, Cathay, Meridia, Ophiruius and beyond. All may have some involvement in what is to come.

The nausea of anticipation was as difficult to cope with as ever as you strode up the stairs into the castle in the company of your little party. At least for once yours was not the only cane tap-tapping on the stone flooring what with the Count and his wife leading you all. Sasha walked on the other side, arm in arm with his wife in an attempt to maintain some public distance between you two. What you wouldn't give to have her on your arm instead.

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.

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."

"Tell me about it." You pause at the door, watching the others enter. Sasha catches your eye, a brief smile warming you heart even as snatched as it is. "I think we're all a little nervous about the next few days."

"I-" the man, a boy really, pauses, staring at the open door less than a few feet away, "If war comes, my company will have to work for the state. I will end up designing aircraft for war that will kill so many people. It has already happened in the Far East. To good people, good engineers, I… I can't be a party to that."

"Trust me, I understand," You slip your hand through his arm in some vain attempt to steady him, "We had better be our most charming selves then, hadn't we."

"I guess we better had?" he forces a smile. It stirs nothing in you, not like that of your lover, but at least he is trying. You will all have to see the next few days through, if there is any hope of saving a continent from disaster.

The doors swing open to a party with none of the atmosphere of revelry that you have grown used to in such spaces. There is music but it is muted, haunting in it's faux-jovial nature. The conversations barely rise above a murmur and as much as there are a hundred chests laden with medals there are as many backs turned to the other so called revellers. There is a group that must be the Ganymedians, the Central and Southern powers with olive skin and dark hair who glare so earnestly at the Concord representatives. Amongst the latter is Major Beresev's man who raises a single eyebrow in greeting as your gaze sweeps over him. Your contact, the Zaschita secret policeman. Spy, you correct yourself. It's a more fitting term, more filled with all the bitterness and disgust he deserves.

Alone, seperating the two tense war-parties, are the Isolationists. Albians and New Alleghanians with similar uniforms and divergent attitudes. They are perhaps the best hope for peace from outside Europa-proper with the great power each commands. But they are also both historically war hungry nations. A difficult conversation to have, though no harder than any other on offer.

The last few scattered parties were, much like your own, either representatives of neutral parties or invitee's from other concerns. A diplomatic delegation from Akitsukini took up one corner, severe looking men with cold eyes and impeccable lines. Businessmen, trades women and clerks of all stripes were scattered, many picking up on the grim mood and seemingly unable to find the right way to act amongst it all.

Scattering, your party (the Counts, you chide yourself) goes to work. The Ganymedians give you a cold shoulder, the Akitsukini group only have a single harassed looking interpreter with them and it takes far too long to simply introduce yourself and the further you can stay from Beresev's man, the happier you'll be. That leaves the independants and somehow you end up alongside a drunk Albian man who has just enough Dyske to communicate.

"How long do you think?" he slurs at you, ale sloshing from his glass and onto his half sodden uniform jacket.

"How long for what?" You ask, sipping gently at a glass of something strong and alcoholic and vaguely menthol in flavour.

"Until it all goes up. Till the shooting starts, girl." He seems to be annoyed that you aren't able to decipher his euphemistic language.

"I'm rather hoping it won't." You tap your cane gently against the floor, "I've seen quite enough shooting for a lifetime.

The man laughs. You decided that the sooner you can escape such a pointless and disheartening conversation the better.

"They're set on it, why do you think they're here? They're sizing each other up. Might as well put them in a ring now, they'll start swinging fast enough." he gestures at the two groups with a spare hand and sways gently. You wonder if he'd fall, if you gave him just a little push.

"You seem to be rather taken with the idea." You half-snap, disgusted that someone could be so blase about a continent spanning war that might start.

"Why wouldn't I be? Albia will stay on the sidelines as ever and my brother will sell arms to the highest bidder. War makes men rich, girl."

It makes girls dead, and boys too, you think. Better that morbid thought is kept to yourself though. You doubt you'd win much favour by sharing facts that all these people must already know. You'd simply be labelled a sad little pacifist, even with your medals and your war wounds still so fresh about you. That was the problem with generals - they only trusted their own, and they all believed the same things.

Finally the party is broken, a toast offered by the Count for positivity, good will and good trade. It is met with only the barest smattering of applause and more than a few quiet jeers. The tension, so thick it could be cut with a knife thickens even more so until uniformed attendee's simply begin to leave.

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.






"I don't understand it." You say into your lovers chest, her strong arms wrapped around your shoulders, holding you tight. The bed is warm and feels warmer thanks to the night time chill. Your breath isn't coming out as mist but it feels like it could at any moment. You say a silent prayer for whoever invented thick blankets and warm, soft skin. "Do they really want war?"

"No, Valya, they don't." Sasha murmurs from above, her eyes closed and voice filled with fatigue.

"Then why won't they talk to each other?" You protest, scrambling to lift yourself on aching arms so you can look her in the eye. "They could work it out!"

"Pride. Power. Strength and weakness. History, even. A thousand reasons." She sighs and, untangling her arms, rolls onto her back. You whimper at the loss of contact but she fixes you with a sharp look. "Who goes first? Why would they risk looking vulnerable or weak when they could simply go into a war they believe they can win?"

"That's… stupid." You spit.

"Yes."

You are both silent for some time, still touching but a little more distant. Neither of you like to talk of war. It has taken so much from both of you. Polypavlosk is just the latest city in a long line which has fallen to fighting. Sasha has seen much more of it than you. So much more. You slide a hand down below the covers and entwine your fingers in hers, resting your head on her shoulders.

"What will we do?" You ask in a very small voice. You speak it into darkness, as much a question for yourself as it is for her. You will do all you can, but… you can't fight. With one foot you can't do much more than fear what the future may bring. You would be more than useless in war, you would be a burden, surely.

"Do?" She asks. She speaks so plainly, fitting whole sentences into a lilting phrase or intonated word. You can't see her in the darkness but you find yourself imagining the shape of her lips as she forms the word.

"If it comes to… that." Suddenly you can't name it. "If they start fighting. I don't think I can bear it again, Sasha." The scares you bore from the city fighting in your home town were already fiercely felt.

She is quiet for some time. When she does speak, it is with a distance you hadn't expected.

"Will you leave?"

"I don't think Europa will be a place for us, if the war comes."

"Valya, I- Varnmark is my home, my love. I can't leave when it's under threat." She sighs, "I can't run from this. If they'll have me, I'll serve. If not, well; there's sure to be a triage station or nursing ward that needs a strong pair of hands. I'll find a way to do my part."

"You'd fight?"

"I'll do what I have to."

"You'd leave me?"

She doesn't answer. Perhaps she can't, perhaps the question is unfair. Perhaps levelling such expectations on her is unfair. You wonder, not for the first time, how a woman so punished by her home is still so fervently patriotic. In the wrong hands, she could be used so dangerously. You understood, you thought, her desire to serve. To do her part. But that didn't make thinking about it any easier.

The silence only deepens as time passes. Eventually you feel yourself sliding into sleep.

The nightmares were bad that night.

Surprise! I want to finish this a year later. It wont be a traditional quest - I wont be taking votes. But I'd like to finish writing it. Comments very, very welcome.

"You may know me." You look over the assembled men and women and swallow. There are few kind looks in the sea of thunderous expressions. The day has already been hard for many and you are yet another speaker standing before them with an idea. A proposal for something entirely alien, entirely too radical for such a collection of distinguished members of society. "You may have read my story or, at the least, heard the plight of my City. Polyapavlosk, jewel of the Dazakhin Sea, burned in revolutionary warfare. Violence. Bloodshed."

"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.

"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."

"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."

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.

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.

It had worked on Sasha, after all. She still believed all those things, with all her scars and hurt and bad dreams. With all her hiding who she is and her fear of being found out. Somehow through all that she still believed it would be noble to go off and die for Kevia. You hadn't realised you had fallen for a fool. A beautiful, proud fool.

You think then of the drunken man the night before, the sullen faces in the audience today and of the small, anxious man taking drugs to get through this who even now is sitting only a few seats away. Of all the people in this shining establishment of Europan wealth, only one really believes you can achieve anything of note in these short days. Count von Zeppelin and his idiotic thoughts of peace. There was no peace on Europa's horizon, not when it was led by a hundred warmongering politicians and kings. To a one, they believe war will come no matter what. To a one they see no reason to put it off for any longer than they must. It is no longer a question of if war will come, it will sweep the continent in fire and blood. Instead it is only to ask when will it take hold.

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.

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?

"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."

"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."

He bares his teeth in an ugly grin. He's a professional revolutionary, no better than a mercenary. Did he believe everything he'd said back then, or was he just taking advantage of an opportunity? Did you even really care? He's a threat to your ideals of peace.

Or was he, really. Would you support him, if he was using less violent methods? No, you couldn't. He's a brute, nothing more.

"Are you going to torture me?"

"No, no, dear Valentina. Do you think I'm sort of savage?" he draws a gun, a simple little pistol, "I am going to kill you though."

Make a choice for how it ends.
[ ] Deus ex Machina
[ ] Sauve qui peut
[ ] No Escape.