Just something I'm writing for the fun of it. It's based on a scenario I crafted for my WWI CP...
Black Eagles: The Swan of Corfu (Mecha Central Powers Victory TL)
- Thread starter Remitonov
- Start date
- Sci-Fi Alt. History Action
- Created
- Status
- Ongoing
- Watchers
- 6
- Recent readers
- 0
- Threadmarks
- 21
-
Statistics (21 threadmarks, 43k words)
User Total Remitonov 21 Threadmarks Reader mode
Part 1
- Location
- Singapore
Just something I'm writing for the fun of it. It's based on a scenario I crafted for my WWI CP victory map, and hearing the trailer soundtrack for the new Legend of the Galactic Heroes anime had gotten me hyped. Here goes. :3
Original story thread is posted on Alternate History.com. However, login is required to view it. You're highly recommended to check there, as it contains additional material and specials from other writers.
The Weltkrieg, the war to end all wars. Fought between the rival empires of Europe, its outcome was to decide the fate of the world order after. On one side was the Entente, an unholy alliance of rivals driven only by their mutual ire for the rising German Empire. On the other was the Central Powers, a coalition of decaying realms led by the upstart power. And between the great empires were rising nation-states, all eager for a pound of flesh. In the end, an entire generation of young men were wasted in the slaughter that followed. An era of disillusionment and civil strife, the 'Bitter Peace' that came with the Treaty of Versailles was to torment both victors and defeated, setting the stage for another world war…
Port of Famagusta
Gazimağusa (Famagusta), Cyprus Viyalet, Ottoman Empire
Dusk, 16th April 1936
Famagusta, eastern Cyprus. The former bastion of British naval power in the eastern Mediterranean, the island had since been reclaimed by the flagging Ottoman sultanate. Its ancient buildings, dating back to the rule of the Byzantines, Crusaders and Venetians, now play host to an Islamic empire that, for a moment, had halted its long decline into obscurity. But indebted to German banks and its authority on its vast empire caving way to ambitious provincial warlords, the sultanate could no longer hope to regain the past glories of Mehmet II and Suleiman the Magnificent. But matters had taken a turn for the worst for the unsuspecting sailors of the Sublime Porte, as Famagusta's medieval port was ablaze beneath the night sky.
"Get the AA guns," screamed a watchman as sirens blared for the startled defenders to awaken, "where are the Einherjar!? I want that thing out of the sky-"
Before he could finish, a sudden explosion detonated right on his feet, vaporising him in an instant as the unwitting guards around screamed in pain at the searing blaze and shrapnel. Streaking in the night sky, a bright-pink, feminine-looking bipedal machine darted through the defences with startling speed, firing shot after shot of its rifle to devastate the port. The guards and sailors, despite having a clear view of the enemy, stood no chance, as ship after ship of the Ottoman Fleet was sent to the bottom of the harbour. As the command observed from their base in Dhekelia, the commander was hardly worried about punishment from Istanbul at this point. What he feared was that thing, the unknown Einherjar rubbing out the garrison like it was nothing.
"By God," he blurted, horrified at the devastation, "what is that thing."
"Sir," screamed a radio operator as he tried to listen in on the carnage, "air assets are engaging the Einherjar! They've lost two fighters, no… three fighters. They're requesting more support!"
Over the horizon of the city skyline, a squadron of jets, accompanied by two flying mechs, were still trying to handle the unknown unit. Their sights trained at the powder pink machine, the jet-driven interceptors unloaded their lead at the mysterious assailant. But with a finesse of a ballerina, the raider merely ran circles around the Turks. With a flick of its wrist, it unleashed a violent flurry of bright red, slicing the enemies apart with brutal precision.
"M-Monster," a pilot cursed, as his mono-eyed mech struggled tried to rain shells from its machine gun. Pirouetting in the sky, the faceless machine's head suddenly engulfed the hapless Turk's camera. The pilot did not even have time to scream, as white hot death sliced down on top of him.
Eyeing the destruction around like a merciless goddess, the mysterious mech watched as the port blaze began to spread. Nearby, the mech could see a Gothic-style building in the distance, as crowds choked into its Frankish halls in search of respite. But the minaret, built during the British era as a reconstruction, betrayed the true nature of the cathedral. Once, it served the faithful of Christ in worship, though of the Latin Rite. Now, it is no different from the thousands of churches throughout the Ottoman empire, turned into a mosque in a vain attempt to usurp its beauty for their God.
Hovering over the mosque, the crowds of civilians below could not help but stare in awe. Apprehension gripped the hapless dwellers, as if fearful of judgement. And yet, despite its prowess, it merely stared. While its metallic façade was unmoving, the decision to judge the Turkish civilians for their government appeared to weigh heavily on its shoulders.
"Run," threatened the ominously distorted voice of its pilot, blaring loudly amidst the blazing night as its shadow cast over the mosque, "this is your only warning. The next time we come will be your last. Until the last Turk occupier leaves our homeland, every last one of you will be made to suffer. Greece will be united."
Watching the stranger melt away into the night sky, mercy was probably not something the civilians were expecting. Having scorched everything in its path, it seemed unlikely the insurgent was going to spare any Muslim in the city. But that mercy was conditional, demanding the expulsion of every Cypriot Turk from the island. Unreasonable as it seemed, it was a warning some would come to heed at the threat of their lives, even as the Ottomans in the mainland awake to news of the devastation...
Old Fortress of Corfu
Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
17th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
Corfu, on the coast of the Adriatic.
One of the more minor prizes obtained during the World War, the annexation of the Ionian islands by Austria-Hungary was just one of the long list of punishments exacted on the Greek people, who had chosen to abandon their king's neutrality to follow Venizelos' mad ambitions. Much of what they had gained in the Balkan Wars – Western Thrace and many of its Aegean islands – were stripped from their possession, and their dream of a united Greek nation was dashed for all time. I could not say I did not sympathize. News of massacres and deportations by the vengeful Ottoman authorities throughout the Greek-speaking domains were widespread. But that was the price paid by the vanquished, and one I expect to be repaid in blood at the first opportunity.
Looking out at the idyllic Mediterranean waters from my bedroom window, I could hardly think this was a chaotic time. The calm of the trees and clouds contrasted with the grim atmosphere that plagues our generation. But even in our little slice of paradise, schemes by Italian and Greek saboteurs plot our downfall at every opportunity. They know our fragile empire has effectively broken apart, and they now seek to reclaim what they view as rightfully theirs.
Stepping out of into the courtyard, I peered in a mix of awe and derision at the giant metallic guards standing watch on the gate. Painted in pale khaki, the portly, mono-eyed Dvergers are some of the more advanced models of the Imperial German military. Designed for breakthroughs into enemy fronts as per the infamous Prussian manoeuvre strategy, these heavy Einherjar – mechanized bipedal weapons – are armed with powerful bazookas to take out any real opposition. The only drawback was its complicated design and paltry numbers, far unlike the mainstay Jotunn series, much less actual combat vehicles. The Hapsburg kingdoms do not have the collective wealth or connections to the best. The crown army alone could only a handful of the Dverger models, collectively part of the royal guard. Its silver sleeve regalia said as much, with as much subtlety as the crown jewels in the middle of a slum intersection. The only reason these two were here was because of me. After all, a princess in the middle of a city populated by hostile natives is just a shot away from joining the last Hapsburg to do such a thing.
Shaking my head, I tried hard not to think too much. The practicality of legged machines in armoured warfare eludes me, and the mythical status of the Einherjar stemmed merely from the emergence of first, the Black Eagle. That our entire war was snatched from the jaws of defeat from one lucky break was hardly a cause for celebration. Had it not devastated the Entente lines at Amien and paved the way for the Germans to march on Paris, we would have easily lost the Great War. And yet… it still feels like we actually did. The Hapsburg monarchy, bound by will of God, had drifted apart. The crowns of Hungary, Galicia-Lodomeria and Bosnia-Herzegovina no longer entertain even the very pretense of a personal union. And to think that their kings, suzerain to His Majesty, are our own kin…
"What business do you have in the New Fortress, Your Highness," the driver queried me as we headed down the busy street.
"Nothing in particular," I merely scoffed, unwilling to divulge the impulsiveness of it all, "I just wanted to inspect the machines."
I could not take holing myself up in my quarters, the eerie silence of my study could really drill at the mind. I admit, I do not like Einherjar. Machines of the kind have a grave number of weaknesses, and treads have proven to be far more economical in travel and maintenance than a pair of machine legs. But the hysteria of the bipedal giants never waned, and now ever major nation measured their clout in these walking statues. Regardless, the technology behind them is… astounding. I could never truly figure out why, but much of what makes an Einherjar were years, if not decades ahead of our time, parts of which looked as if they should be impossible to make with our current technology. It was a secret few know, and even I admit not to have the information. But I have realized this; those that number in a mere dozen or so were leaps and bounds ahead of the ones made for mass production. It was as if they were alien in make, with poorer-performing but mass-producible machines pale imitations of their more powerful counterparts.
Arriving at the hangar and the associated salutes and small talk, I took a brief glance at what the garrison had to offer. Most are simply dated Jotunn Is, with their distinctive Stahlhelm-like heads and mono-eye pieces. In contrast, our very own Kürassier and Husar models have a more, gas-mask look, though its miniature size had given Berlin much to laugh about. Not a particularly substantial presence, overall. I have seen far greater numbers deployed at the Austrian-Italian border than here. I was actually starting to worry we might not hold the islands against anyone, not even the green-eyed Greeks off our coast.
"I see your innate curiosity has led you here, Your Highness," went a cordial voice from the a distance.
Peering back, I could see the familiar face of my old piloting instructor, Johan Arigi. Suave, gold-haired and an eyepatch over his right eye, it was hard not to see why so many girls were so infatuated with him. Adventurer, scholar, pilot, he was everything a woman could dream of an ideal man. And yet, somehow, I was completely unfettered. While it is true that I found his arrogance off-putting, part of me felt… disturbed at the idea that I may be incapable of attraction to the opposite sex.
"Captain," I mused, putting on a small, courteous smile, "yes… I didn't want to coop myself up in the castle all the time. Vacation or not, a person can go crazy from prolonged isolation."
"Well, I suppose it is fine to have some fresh air," Johan concurred, "though you don't come across as someone interested in the smell of grease and smog."
"I assure you, Sir," I joked back, "I don't."
Operations Room, New Fortress
Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
17th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
Stepping into the operations room after the usual inspection and small talk with the crews, I finally found some time to check the defence plans. A large world map sprawled over the table, I browsed through the contents with the other charts and inventories as I tried my hand at strategy. The results were… abysmal.
"This is asking for trouble," I grumbled, "rubbing my forehead. Four hundred troops, four Jotunn Is, three Kürassiers, one custom-type Husar… This isn't a garrison. This is an open city."
"I understand the concern, Your Highness," a senior officer with a silver beard remarked apologetically, perhaps worried about offending me, "but the bulk of the Imperial Army is deployed in Venetia against the Italians. We simply do not have the resources to spend protecting the Ionian islands."
"And if the Greeks were to ignite an uprising here," I questioned grimly, "what would you do?"
Watching the old man stammer for a response, I could not help but feel guilty. I admit, I really did not want to put him in a spot, but I could not overlook how poorly we were guarding our possessions. The leftover bones from our German 'brothers'… If I were my grandfather, I would have refused outright. But I could not just invalidate the sacrifices of our soldiers in the Great War. Too much was spilt for so little, and for what reason? To satisfy Prussian greed?
Shaking my head, I assured the old man, "I'm not here to make your life difficult. I just want to make sure we have things in order. Even the Ottomans have Jotunn IIs deployed in the Aegean. We cannot take our defences lightly."
"Speaking of Ottomans," Johan interjected, moving a newspaper across the table in front of me, "this just came up on telegram."
A quick glance at the headlines, I tried not to scoff at the sensationalist rhetoric being spewed by the press. 'Famagusta in Flames'… could a more repulsive pun be made than that? But a closer inspection revealed a lot more. On the front cover was a strange, blurred image of an Einherjar, svelte and elegant like a dancer, floating on an aerial stage amidst an audience of embers.
"'The Swan'," I queried, baffled by its strange appearance as I read the moniker for the assailant, "what kind of Einherjar is that? It looks alien."
"Indeed," Johan concurred, "based on the make, it looks like it's been derived from the new Ottoman Ejderha (Turkish for dragon) mechs. This is far too advanced for anything the Ottomans could make, and yet…"
"Eighteen years ago," I spoke, "we used to think that anything like the Einharjar was impossible to make. And yet here we are. The Ottomans must have found help somewhere. They just wouldn't say from whom."
"You think the Germans might be behind it," Johan theorized, looking concerned.
Shrugging, I admitted, "I don't know. Americans, Japanese… could be anyone. Whatever that thing is, though, it came from the same place as the Ejderha. Maybe the Ottomans didn't want to admit that some insurgents managed to steal their machine. Who knows?"
"Whatever it is," Johan said, "it's clearly Greek, or at least affiliated with the Greek resistance around the Aegean sea. It had already struck several locations throughout the Aegean; Famagusta, Rhodes, Dedeagach[1], Smyrna… Hell, Greek insurgents have even claimed they'll strike Istanbul next. The only place they haven't struck-"
"-is here," I concluded his words, biting my lips a bit at the thought, "yes, I noticed. So far, its attacks have been restricted to Ottoman and Bulgarian military targets, though it had threatened to kill non-Greek civilians too if they refuse to abandon the Greek-speaking territories. Given what the sultanate had been doing to them since the Great War, it's not surprising. As if Vienna cared at all about colonizing the Ionians."
Ottoman treatment of the Greeks had been nothing short of atrocious. With increased assimilation and persecution by Istanbul, the Greeks of the conquered Aegean and Cyprus were beginning to feel the heat. Athens, too, dreaded the continued Turkish settlement on the islands, an act that would erode their claims over the Greek-speaking regions. But Austrian treatment of the Ionians had been surprisingly lenient, despite its important geographic location. An appointment of an ethnic Greek as the islands' governor, support for Greek language and culture and autonomy for the islands' government had done well to mitigate violent resistance. At the very least, it gave an avenue for pro-union Greeks to work towards their goals peacefully, something the Ottomans adamantly refused to allow. But much of it, I sensed, was due to pure apathy, with the Austrians more worried about growing independence from its non-German constituents. For Vienna, losing an idyllic beach resort to the Greeks was the least of their concerns.
"Anyway, who's the current governor of the islands," I queried, "I heard that Vienna had recently appointed someone from the peerage with a Greek background. May I speak with him."
"This…" the officer went, biting his lip at my request, "this might be a problem."
Considering the tone and awkward silence, I probably should have guessed what disappointment was laid ahead.
OOC Notes:
Cast
Original story thread is posted on Alternate History.com. However, login is required to view it. You're highly recommended to check there, as it contains additional material and specials from other writers.
_________________________________
The Weltkrieg, the war to end all wars. Fought between the rival empires of Europe, its outcome was to decide the fate of the world order after. On one side was the Entente, an unholy alliance of rivals driven only by their mutual ire for the rising German Empire. On the other was the Central Powers, a coalition of decaying realms led by the upstart power. And between the great empires were rising nation-states, all eager for a pound of flesh. In the end, an entire generation of young men were wasted in the slaughter that followed. An era of disillusionment and civil strife, the 'Bitter Peace' that came with the Treaty of Versailles was to torment both victors and defeated, setting the stage for another world war…
Port of Famagusta
Gazimağusa (Famagusta), Cyprus Viyalet, Ottoman Empire
Dusk, 16th April 1936
Famagusta, eastern Cyprus. The former bastion of British naval power in the eastern Mediterranean, the island had since been reclaimed by the flagging Ottoman sultanate. Its ancient buildings, dating back to the rule of the Byzantines, Crusaders and Venetians, now play host to an Islamic empire that, for a moment, had halted its long decline into obscurity. But indebted to German banks and its authority on its vast empire caving way to ambitious provincial warlords, the sultanate could no longer hope to regain the past glories of Mehmet II and Suleiman the Magnificent. But matters had taken a turn for the worst for the unsuspecting sailors of the Sublime Porte, as Famagusta's medieval port was ablaze beneath the night sky.
"Get the AA guns," screamed a watchman as sirens blared for the startled defenders to awaken, "where are the Einherjar!? I want that thing out of the sky-"
Before he could finish, a sudden explosion detonated right on his feet, vaporising him in an instant as the unwitting guards around screamed in pain at the searing blaze and shrapnel. Streaking in the night sky, a bright-pink, feminine-looking bipedal machine darted through the defences with startling speed, firing shot after shot of its rifle to devastate the port. The guards and sailors, despite having a clear view of the enemy, stood no chance, as ship after ship of the Ottoman Fleet was sent to the bottom of the harbour. As the command observed from their base in Dhekelia, the commander was hardly worried about punishment from Istanbul at this point. What he feared was that thing, the unknown Einherjar rubbing out the garrison like it was nothing.
"By God," he blurted, horrified at the devastation, "what is that thing."
"Sir," screamed a radio operator as he tried to listen in on the carnage, "air assets are engaging the Einherjar! They've lost two fighters, no… three fighters. They're requesting more support!"
Over the horizon of the city skyline, a squadron of jets, accompanied by two flying mechs, were still trying to handle the unknown unit. Their sights trained at the powder pink machine, the jet-driven interceptors unloaded their lead at the mysterious assailant. But with a finesse of a ballerina, the raider merely ran circles around the Turks. With a flick of its wrist, it unleashed a violent flurry of bright red, slicing the enemies apart with brutal precision.
"M-Monster," a pilot cursed, as his mono-eyed mech struggled tried to rain shells from its machine gun. Pirouetting in the sky, the faceless machine's head suddenly engulfed the hapless Turk's camera. The pilot did not even have time to scream, as white hot death sliced down on top of him.
Eyeing the destruction around like a merciless goddess, the mysterious mech watched as the port blaze began to spread. Nearby, the mech could see a Gothic-style building in the distance, as crowds choked into its Frankish halls in search of respite. But the minaret, built during the British era as a reconstruction, betrayed the true nature of the cathedral. Once, it served the faithful of Christ in worship, though of the Latin Rite. Now, it is no different from the thousands of churches throughout the Ottoman empire, turned into a mosque in a vain attempt to usurp its beauty for their God.
Hovering over the mosque, the crowds of civilians below could not help but stare in awe. Apprehension gripped the hapless dwellers, as if fearful of judgement. And yet, despite its prowess, it merely stared. While its metallic façade was unmoving, the decision to judge the Turkish civilians for their government appeared to weigh heavily on its shoulders.
"Run," threatened the ominously distorted voice of its pilot, blaring loudly amidst the blazing night as its shadow cast over the mosque, "this is your only warning. The next time we come will be your last. Until the last Turk occupier leaves our homeland, every last one of you will be made to suffer. Greece will be united."
Watching the stranger melt away into the night sky, mercy was probably not something the civilians were expecting. Having scorched everything in its path, it seemed unlikely the insurgent was going to spare any Muslim in the city. But that mercy was conditional, demanding the expulsion of every Cypriot Turk from the island. Unreasonable as it seemed, it was a warning some would come to heed at the threat of their lives, even as the Ottomans in the mainland awake to news of the devastation...
Old Fortress of Corfu
Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
17th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
Corfu, on the coast of the Adriatic.
One of the more minor prizes obtained during the World War, the annexation of the Ionian islands by Austria-Hungary was just one of the long list of punishments exacted on the Greek people, who had chosen to abandon their king's neutrality to follow Venizelos' mad ambitions. Much of what they had gained in the Balkan Wars – Western Thrace and many of its Aegean islands – were stripped from their possession, and their dream of a united Greek nation was dashed for all time. I could not say I did not sympathize. News of massacres and deportations by the vengeful Ottoman authorities throughout the Greek-speaking domains were widespread. But that was the price paid by the vanquished, and one I expect to be repaid in blood at the first opportunity.
Looking out at the idyllic Mediterranean waters from my bedroom window, I could hardly think this was a chaotic time. The calm of the trees and clouds contrasted with the grim atmosphere that plagues our generation. But even in our little slice of paradise, schemes by Italian and Greek saboteurs plot our downfall at every opportunity. They know our fragile empire has effectively broken apart, and they now seek to reclaim what they view as rightfully theirs.
Stepping out of into the courtyard, I peered in a mix of awe and derision at the giant metallic guards standing watch on the gate. Painted in pale khaki, the portly, mono-eyed Dvergers are some of the more advanced models of the Imperial German military. Designed for breakthroughs into enemy fronts as per the infamous Prussian manoeuvre strategy, these heavy Einherjar – mechanized bipedal weapons – are armed with powerful bazookas to take out any real opposition. The only drawback was its complicated design and paltry numbers, far unlike the mainstay Jotunn series, much less actual combat vehicles. The Hapsburg kingdoms do not have the collective wealth or connections to the best. The crown army alone could only a handful of the Dverger models, collectively part of the royal guard. Its silver sleeve regalia said as much, with as much subtlety as the crown jewels in the middle of a slum intersection. The only reason these two were here was because of me. After all, a princess in the middle of a city populated by hostile natives is just a shot away from joining the last Hapsburg to do such a thing.
Shaking my head, I tried hard not to think too much. The practicality of legged machines in armoured warfare eludes me, and the mythical status of the Einherjar stemmed merely from the emergence of first, the Black Eagle. That our entire war was snatched from the jaws of defeat from one lucky break was hardly a cause for celebration. Had it not devastated the Entente lines at Amien and paved the way for the Germans to march on Paris, we would have easily lost the Great War. And yet… it still feels like we actually did. The Hapsburg monarchy, bound by will of God, had drifted apart. The crowns of Hungary, Galicia-Lodomeria and Bosnia-Herzegovina no longer entertain even the very pretense of a personal union. And to think that their kings, suzerain to His Majesty, are our own kin…
As always, I tried hard to keep myself occupied. While I had hoped some time away from the palace would loosen my nerves, the pressures of the court refuse to leave me be. So I parted for the city in my sedan, a simple suit over a shirt to keep people's eyes off me. I had hoped the minders behind me would take a hint, but considering the consequences of my uncle's demise, I could not really blame them for feeling on edge.
"What business do you have in the New Fortress, Your Highness," the driver queried me as we headed down the busy street.
"Nothing in particular," I merely scoffed, unwilling to divulge the impulsiveness of it all, "I just wanted to inspect the machines."
I could not take holing myself up in my quarters, the eerie silence of my study could really drill at the mind. I admit, I do not like Einherjar. Machines of the kind have a grave number of weaknesses, and treads have proven to be far more economical in travel and maintenance than a pair of machine legs. But the hysteria of the bipedal giants never waned, and now ever major nation measured their clout in these walking statues. Regardless, the technology behind them is… astounding. I could never truly figure out why, but much of what makes an Einherjar were years, if not decades ahead of our time, parts of which looked as if they should be impossible to make with our current technology. It was a secret few know, and even I admit not to have the information. But I have realized this; those that number in a mere dozen or so were leaps and bounds ahead of the ones made for mass production. It was as if they were alien in make, with poorer-performing but mass-producible machines pale imitations of their more powerful counterparts.
Arriving at the hangar and the associated salutes and small talk, I took a brief glance at what the garrison had to offer. Most are simply dated Jotunn Is, with their distinctive Stahlhelm-like heads and mono-eye pieces. In contrast, our very own Kürassier and Husar models have a more, gas-mask look, though its miniature size had given Berlin much to laugh about. Not a particularly substantial presence, overall. I have seen far greater numbers deployed at the Austrian-Italian border than here. I was actually starting to worry we might not hold the islands against anyone, not even the green-eyed Greeks off our coast.
"I see your innate curiosity has led you here, Your Highness," went a cordial voice from the a distance.
Peering back, I could see the familiar face of my old piloting instructor, Johan Arigi. Suave, gold-haired and an eyepatch over his right eye, it was hard not to see why so many girls were so infatuated with him. Adventurer, scholar, pilot, he was everything a woman could dream of an ideal man. And yet, somehow, I was completely unfettered. While it is true that I found his arrogance off-putting, part of me felt… disturbed at the idea that I may be incapable of attraction to the opposite sex.
"Captain," I mused, putting on a small, courteous smile, "yes… I didn't want to coop myself up in the castle all the time. Vacation or not, a person can go crazy from prolonged isolation."
"Well, I suppose it is fine to have some fresh air," Johan concurred, "though you don't come across as someone interested in the smell of grease and smog."
"I assure you, Sir," I joked back, "I don't."
Operations Room, New Fortress
Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
17th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
Stepping into the operations room after the usual inspection and small talk with the crews, I finally found some time to check the defence plans. A large world map sprawled over the table, I browsed through the contents with the other charts and inventories as I tried my hand at strategy. The results were… abysmal.
"This is asking for trouble," I grumbled, "rubbing my forehead. Four hundred troops, four Jotunn Is, three Kürassiers, one custom-type Husar… This isn't a garrison. This is an open city."
"I understand the concern, Your Highness," a senior officer with a silver beard remarked apologetically, perhaps worried about offending me, "but the bulk of the Imperial Army is deployed in Venetia against the Italians. We simply do not have the resources to spend protecting the Ionian islands."
"And if the Greeks were to ignite an uprising here," I questioned grimly, "what would you do?"
Watching the old man stammer for a response, I could not help but feel guilty. I admit, I really did not want to put him in a spot, but I could not overlook how poorly we were guarding our possessions. The leftover bones from our German 'brothers'… If I were my grandfather, I would have refused outright. But I could not just invalidate the sacrifices of our soldiers in the Great War. Too much was spilt for so little, and for what reason? To satisfy Prussian greed?
Shaking my head, I assured the old man, "I'm not here to make your life difficult. I just want to make sure we have things in order. Even the Ottomans have Jotunn IIs deployed in the Aegean. We cannot take our defences lightly."
"Speaking of Ottomans," Johan interjected, moving a newspaper across the table in front of me, "this just came up on telegram."
A quick glance at the headlines, I tried not to scoff at the sensationalist rhetoric being spewed by the press. 'Famagusta in Flames'… could a more repulsive pun be made than that? But a closer inspection revealed a lot more. On the front cover was a strange, blurred image of an Einherjar, svelte and elegant like a dancer, floating on an aerial stage amidst an audience of embers.
"'The Swan'," I queried, baffled by its strange appearance as I read the moniker for the assailant, "what kind of Einherjar is that? It looks alien."
"Indeed," Johan concurred, "based on the make, it looks like it's been derived from the new Ottoman Ejderha (Turkish for dragon) mechs. This is far too advanced for anything the Ottomans could make, and yet…"
"Eighteen years ago," I spoke, "we used to think that anything like the Einharjar was impossible to make. And yet here we are. The Ottomans must have found help somewhere. They just wouldn't say from whom."
"You think the Germans might be behind it," Johan theorized, looking concerned.
Shrugging, I admitted, "I don't know. Americans, Japanese… could be anyone. Whatever that thing is, though, it came from the same place as the Ejderha. Maybe the Ottomans didn't want to admit that some insurgents managed to steal their machine. Who knows?"
"Whatever it is," Johan said, "it's clearly Greek, or at least affiliated with the Greek resistance around the Aegean sea. It had already struck several locations throughout the Aegean; Famagusta, Rhodes, Dedeagach[1], Smyrna… Hell, Greek insurgents have even claimed they'll strike Istanbul next. The only place they haven't struck-"
"-is here," I concluded his words, biting my lips a bit at the thought, "yes, I noticed. So far, its attacks have been restricted to Ottoman and Bulgarian military targets, though it had threatened to kill non-Greek civilians too if they refuse to abandon the Greek-speaking territories. Given what the sultanate had been doing to them since the Great War, it's not surprising. As if Vienna cared at all about colonizing the Ionians."
Ottoman treatment of the Greeks had been nothing short of atrocious. With increased assimilation and persecution by Istanbul, the Greeks of the conquered Aegean and Cyprus were beginning to feel the heat. Athens, too, dreaded the continued Turkish settlement on the islands, an act that would erode their claims over the Greek-speaking regions. But Austrian treatment of the Ionians had been surprisingly lenient, despite its important geographic location. An appointment of an ethnic Greek as the islands' governor, support for Greek language and culture and autonomy for the islands' government had done well to mitigate violent resistance. At the very least, it gave an avenue for pro-union Greeks to work towards their goals peacefully, something the Ottomans adamantly refused to allow. But much of it, I sensed, was due to pure apathy, with the Austrians more worried about growing independence from its non-German constituents. For Vienna, losing an idyllic beach resort to the Greeks was the least of their concerns.
"Anyway, who's the current governor of the islands," I queried, "I heard that Vienna had recently appointed someone from the peerage with a Greek background. May I speak with him."
"This…" the officer went, biting his lip at my request, "this might be a problem."
Considering the tone and awkward silence, I probably should have guessed what disappointment was laid ahead.
- OTL Alexandroupoli, Greece, renamed in 1920 in honour of the Greek king Alexander I. ITTL, it retains its old name of Dedeağaç/Dedeagach.
Cast
- Princess Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine (CV: 西木野 真姫)
- Lieutenant Johan Arigi (CV: ザビーネ・シャル)
Last edited:
Part 2
- Location
- Singapore
Testing Range, Hangar, New Fortress
Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
17th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
"WELCOME TO MY LABORATORY!"
This was not my idea of a state visit. Clad in a greasy maintenance uniform, Paul von Karajan, the newly assigned governor of the islands, was not someone I would consider 'appropriate' for the job[1]. A half-dismantled Kürassier lying behind him like a Frankenstein awaiting operation, the man seemed more suited for the university or engineering firm than administration. But the Karajannis family, as they were once known, were of Greek descent, and Vienna was clearly nervous about appointing a local of dubious loyalties.
'Pity his ethnicity was all he could show for', I thought at first.
"Welcome, Your Highness," he proclaimed, hastily wiping his hand on his apron as he offered it to me. Realizing the considerable grime still left, he nervously withdrew the hand, saying, "it is a great honour to have you grace my workshop. Paul Ritter von Karajan, Professor of Mechanics at the Vienna College of Technology. Well… former professor... There's honestly not much to do besides this little hobby. I'm currently testing some reworked engines for performance boosts."
"I see…" I blurted, raising an eyebrow as I tried to stifle my urge to make a grating comment, "what about paperwork?"
"Oh, those," he waved off, looking a bit grumpy as he heard the mention, "I really can't take that sort of thing. I left this to my aide to check while I tinker. I've already requested a transfer, but you know Vienna. 'They'll get back to me', they said…"
So the man had already wanted to leave… if that were the case, perhaps I could help him along. With the sort of energy he was putting, he really should not be here. But the peerage was, if anything, beyond hope, the Hungarian magnates, the Austrian peerage… everyone.
Shaking my head, I finally answered, "how in the world did you get here? Did you lose your doctorate at the college or something?"
"Well, not really, Your Highness," the hapless-looking old man stammered, "it's just that I have a double degree in Political Science in addition to my main work, something my father pressed me to obtain as condition for my passion. I guess it's how I got here."
'Ridiculous' was probably the first thing I felt tempted to say. What on earth was the civil service thinking putting a press-ganged grease monkey to work? As much as I like to doubt his story, his lack of enthusiasm for his governorship pretty much said for itself. However, there was little I could do in this case. I could not just speed up his transfer for the heck of it, fairness and all.
"You have a job to do, Professor," I stated in a flat tone, "I would feel better if this were just a 'hobby'… Have the Kürassier put back into operation as soon as possible. We're going to need it."
Quietly, my eyes began to drift to towards a strange mech, draped in a large sheet of tarp beside the mangled Kürassier. Pointed at the machine, I questioned, "what is that?"
Something bothers me about that. It looked like it was hiding a Jotunn, but for what?
"Oh, that," Arigi suddenly spoke, shoulders stiffening as he observed my stern look, "it's… some cargo we found off the island coast. Must have come from a shipwreck of sorts."
"Cargo," I went, feeling sceptical about the man's words, "why didn't you report this to HQ about it?"
Bowing his head, the one-eyed pilot quickly apologized, "forgive me for my insolence, Your Highness, but I felt it was necessary to expunge such information from High Command. We do not know of its origins for certain, however, if there are informants within our chain of command, I fear that whoever this belongs to might be upset at its... existence."
Unbelievable… I always believed Arigi was dubious, but I did not expect him to hide critical information from our commanders. Were they that untrustworthy? As much as I would like to say 'yes', rules were rules. Impatient, I was already on my way to the mystery mech, as the blonde ace tried to explain away his actions. One grab of the tarp and I hastily yanked the sheet down from its contents. What I found was beyond anything I had ever seen.
Before me stood an Einherjar, pure white as a stallion as it laid like a broken knight. Its sleek white armour created an intimidating facade, though its face - and the cameras within it - appeared smashed in. It reminded me of the state-of-the-art Jotunn IIIs that paraded past the German Reichstag, far unlike the roguish looks of our own mechs. And yet, it looked… stronger. It was clearly not a Jotunn, but what was it?
"An Einherjar," I blurted, astonished by the sight of it, "what is it?"
"We don't know, Your Highness," stated Arigi, "that's why I'm reluctant to report my findings at the moment. I want you to know of it personally, lest subversives within and outside the Empire attempt to take it by any means."
"But if it belonged to another nation-state," I replied in discomfort, "doesn't that make us looters?"
A cocky smile on his face, the ace refuted, "you cannot steal what 'doesn't exist', Your Highness. There have been no reported shipwrecks in the area that are yet to be accounted for since the end of the Great War. Moreover, we found signs of sabotage on the machine. Whoever once owned it was trying to destroy its OS system to prevent its recovery by anyone else. A extraordinary run of ill fortune, I would say, but for us, it's 'finders, keepers'.'
This appeared like a bad idea. If the machine was so secret, then its former owners would stop at nothing to obtain its remains. To hold on to a potentially powerful weapon… tempting as it was, was to risk angering a power greater than our own. And there are plenty of great powers that are more than capable of tearing the empire apart.
"Check the records of all vessels passing the Adriatic," I ordered, "look out for signs of abnormal sailing patterns and prolonged pauses in transit. If we can discern who the owners might be, we can decide what to do with the machine."
"As always," Johan remarked with a smile, "nothing gets past your sharp mind, Your Highness. I'll get to it right away."
Arigi… I could not control the reflex to roll my eyes at his every praise. I had heard flattery all my life, and most of them ranged from insincere to outright mockery. But Arigi never appeared like the many nobles who spewed sweet nothing to earn my favour. No, he seemed genuinely impressed, though a bit too eager to lavish praise, still. I could not tell whether he was just that good at flattery, or increasingly deluded over my talents as a stateswoman.
"Enough flattery," I grunted, trying to hide my growing distaste for empty commendations, "get to it. And Professor," I implored Karajan, "try to do your job…"
Sometimes, I wonder if I am workaholic.
OOC Notes:
Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
17th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
"WELCOME TO MY LABORATORY!"
This was not my idea of a state visit. Clad in a greasy maintenance uniform, Paul von Karajan, the newly assigned governor of the islands, was not someone I would consider 'appropriate' for the job[1]. A half-dismantled Kürassier lying behind him like a Frankenstein awaiting operation, the man seemed more suited for the university or engineering firm than administration. But the Karajannis family, as they were once known, were of Greek descent, and Vienna was clearly nervous about appointing a local of dubious loyalties.
'Pity his ethnicity was all he could show for', I thought at first.
"Welcome, Your Highness," he proclaimed, hastily wiping his hand on his apron as he offered it to me. Realizing the considerable grime still left, he nervously withdrew the hand, saying, "it is a great honour to have you grace my workshop. Paul Ritter von Karajan, Professor of Mechanics at the Vienna College of Technology. Well… former professor... There's honestly not much to do besides this little hobby. I'm currently testing some reworked engines for performance boosts."
"I see…" I blurted, raising an eyebrow as I tried to stifle my urge to make a grating comment, "what about paperwork?"
"Oh, those," he waved off, looking a bit grumpy as he heard the mention, "I really can't take that sort of thing. I left this to my aide to check while I tinker. I've already requested a transfer, but you know Vienna. 'They'll get back to me', they said…"
So the man had already wanted to leave… if that were the case, perhaps I could help him along. With the sort of energy he was putting, he really should not be here. But the peerage was, if anything, beyond hope, the Hungarian magnates, the Austrian peerage… everyone.
Shaking my head, I finally answered, "how in the world did you get here? Did you lose your doctorate at the college or something?"
"Well, not really, Your Highness," the hapless-looking old man stammered, "it's just that I have a double degree in Political Science in addition to my main work, something my father pressed me to obtain as condition for my passion. I guess it's how I got here."
'Ridiculous' was probably the first thing I felt tempted to say. What on earth was the civil service thinking putting a press-ganged grease monkey to work? As much as I like to doubt his story, his lack of enthusiasm for his governorship pretty much said for itself. However, there was little I could do in this case. I could not just speed up his transfer for the heck of it, fairness and all.
"You have a job to do, Professor," I stated in a flat tone, "I would feel better if this were just a 'hobby'… Have the Kürassier put back into operation as soon as possible. We're going to need it."
Quietly, my eyes began to drift to towards a strange mech, draped in a large sheet of tarp beside the mangled Kürassier. Pointed at the machine, I questioned, "what is that?"
Something bothers me about that. It looked like it was hiding a Jotunn, but for what?
"Oh, that," Arigi suddenly spoke, shoulders stiffening as he observed my stern look, "it's… some cargo we found off the island coast. Must have come from a shipwreck of sorts."
"Cargo," I went, feeling sceptical about the man's words, "why didn't you report this to HQ about it?"
Bowing his head, the one-eyed pilot quickly apologized, "forgive me for my insolence, Your Highness, but I felt it was necessary to expunge such information from High Command. We do not know of its origins for certain, however, if there are informants within our chain of command, I fear that whoever this belongs to might be upset at its... existence."
Unbelievable… I always believed Arigi was dubious, but I did not expect him to hide critical information from our commanders. Were they that untrustworthy? As much as I would like to say 'yes', rules were rules. Impatient, I was already on my way to the mystery mech, as the blonde ace tried to explain away his actions. One grab of the tarp and I hastily yanked the sheet down from its contents. What I found was beyond anything I had ever seen.
Before me stood an Einherjar, pure white as a stallion as it laid like a broken knight. Its sleek white armour created an intimidating facade, though its face - and the cameras within it - appeared smashed in. It reminded me of the state-of-the-art Jotunn IIIs that paraded past the German Reichstag, far unlike the roguish looks of our own mechs. And yet, it looked… stronger. It was clearly not a Jotunn, but what was it?
"An Einherjar," I blurted, astonished by the sight of it, "what is it?"
"We don't know, Your Highness," stated Arigi, "that's why I'm reluctant to report my findings at the moment. I want you to know of it personally, lest subversives within and outside the Empire attempt to take it by any means."
"But if it belonged to another nation-state," I replied in discomfort, "doesn't that make us looters?"
A cocky smile on his face, the ace refuted, "you cannot steal what 'doesn't exist', Your Highness. There have been no reported shipwrecks in the area that are yet to be accounted for since the end of the Great War. Moreover, we found signs of sabotage on the machine. Whoever once owned it was trying to destroy its OS system to prevent its recovery by anyone else. A extraordinary run of ill fortune, I would say, but for us, it's 'finders, keepers'.'
This appeared like a bad idea. If the machine was so secret, then its former owners would stop at nothing to obtain its remains. To hold on to a potentially powerful weapon… tempting as it was, was to risk angering a power greater than our own. And there are plenty of great powers that are more than capable of tearing the empire apart.
"Check the records of all vessels passing the Adriatic," I ordered, "look out for signs of abnormal sailing patterns and prolonged pauses in transit. If we can discern who the owners might be, we can decide what to do with the machine."
"As always," Johan remarked with a smile, "nothing gets past your sharp mind, Your Highness. I'll get to it right away."
Arigi… I could not control the reflex to roll my eyes at his every praise. I had heard flattery all my life, and most of them ranged from insincere to outright mockery. But Arigi never appeared like the many nobles who spewed sweet nothing to earn my favour. No, he seemed genuinely impressed, though a bit too eager to lavish praise, still. I could not tell whether he was just that good at flattery, or increasingly deluded over my talents as a stateswoman.
"Enough flattery," I grunted, trying to hide my growing distaste for empty commendations, "get to it. And Professor," I implored Karajan, "try to do your job…"
Sometimes, I wonder if I am workaholic.
OOC Notes:
- ITTL, Paul belongs to the Karajan noble family, descended from the Greek Karajannis brothers, and granduncle to OTL's Austrian conductor Herbert von Karajan. He doesn't exist IOTL.
- Princess Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine (CV: 西木野 真姫)
- Lieutenant Johan Arigi (CV: ザビーネ・シャル)
- Professor Paul von Karajan (CV: ジダン・ニッカード)
Part 3
- Location
- Singapore
Study, New Fortress
Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
Early Morning, 18th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
"Ugh… how long has it been?..."
Resting on a nest of scattered paperwork and new articles on my desk, I found myself waking to a numbing headache in my skull. It must have been hours, and the light of day had long faded. An officer coat over my back pointed to Arigi's handiwork. He never ceases to take the chance to show an act of kindness to me, the chum…
Pacing back out into the hangar, I could see the crumpled heap that was my governor snoring away, with bottles of Greek raki scattered around. As much as I wanted to snap back at him, part of me had to relent to his insubordination. Peering up at the freshly overlaid tarp on the mysterious mech, I had a suspicion he had spent the day on it. Oh well.
Carrying the empty bottles in a box out of the compound, I could not help but chuckle at my current disposition. A princess, doing recycling… if anything, at least the locals would not suspect me of being more than a clerk for the Austrian 'occupiers'. Passing the saluting guards, my mind quickly wandered back to my days before arriving at Corfu. After everything that had happened, I suspected that my 'vacation' was an excuse to get the spotlight off me.
House of Magnates
Budapest, Kingdom of Hungary, Austro-Hungarian Empire
Afternoon, 2nd April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
"Never!"
The House of Magnates… Never had I had never seen a more toxic hive of bloated egos. The Hungarian magnates who controlled the other half of the country were understandably irate. My federation plans – a last hope to save the empire from dissolution, was akin to partition to the Hungarian nation-state. Croatia, Slavonia, Upper Hungary and Transylvania; regions that had been part of the Crown of St. Stephen for centuries was to be separated as autonomous regions under the new Danubian Federation. The Croats and Slovaks, predictably, were more than happy to throw their lot with my cause. In fact, many throughout the Balkan territories had clamoured for a united Croatia, uniting with their free compatriots in Bosnia-Herzegovina. But the Hungarians were not so easily swayed. Many of their own would find themselves outside or separated from the Hungarian crownlands. And part of me suspected they wanted it all once the empire is formally dismantled. Perhaps if I were the regent-admiral, I would have done likewise.
Even so, I could not deny I felt sickened to the bone.
"We will not be partitioned," heckled a representative, shaking his fist violently as his comrades shouted me down.
"All or nothing," barked another.
"Go back to Vienna, German sow," a particularly irate woman hissed with a twisted expression.
All this, to my dismay, was expected. I never believed that the Hungarians would accede to the division of their country. The Ausgleich of 1867, which guaranteed the autonomy of Hungarians, and Hungarians alone, was the one way for them to maintain parity with the Austrian crownlands. Disenfranchising their Slavic and Romanian subjects, the power to dictate their policy without their consent was all too intoxicating. And now that Ausgleich was all but dead, the Hungarians feared losing much of their 'rightful' land to their minorities. Romania, Serbia and Bosnia-Herzegovina, for one, would eagerly seize the chance to claim what they believe was theirs.
Pacing out of the building just hours later, I tried my hardest to keep the appearance of a stern, mildly-outraged royal. Years of tutoring by a bevy of talented teachers had hardened my nerves, but experience, as it turned out, once again proved more valuable than schools. Beside me, the regent tried his hardest to assuage my concerns. But at the same time, he too was unwavering, perhaps already sensing the demise of the empire as well.
"…you have to understand, Your Highness," Admiral Hrothy appealed, "we are a prideful people. To demand from them separation… Are you not asking for too much."
"The longer we delay," I spoke, faking ignorance as before, "the more the Slavs and Romanians will campaign for independence. When that happens, even I cannot guard against any future losses your country would suffer. I do not wish for civil war. The moment we fight will be the death of all our nations. Your representatives claim to oppose partition, but if and when the other Great Powers intervene, we won't even be given a choice."
"I understand, but," the admiral replied, "to abandon Croatia-Slavonia, of all places. Do you will us to become landlocked?"
Stepping in front of the sedan as the guard opened the door, I retorted in my coldest tone, "no, but in the end, it wouldn't matter, would it? Not as long as we're still united."
Unfortunately, unity, as I dreaded, was waning fast. I hate to imagine the possibility of partition, but if I could not secure the federation, then the Germans… I dare not even consider that possibility.
Gate, Old Fortress
Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
Early Morning, 18th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
Arriving back at the Old Fortress, it took me a while to notice the basket of Raki bottles still in my hand. It felt embarrassing. I had wanted to dump it at a recycling bin somewhere, but my train of thoughts had led me all the way back. Hungary, Galicia… there appeared to be no hope for a continued empire. And while the magnates hurled abuse at me, the representatives at Lemberg were dead silent. My uncle Vasyl… I know fully well his heart belongs to Ukraine now. I could not blame him. After all, the will of his people compelled him to bind the crown of Galicia to Ukraine. Come my father's death, Galicia would formally join the growing Ukrainian Tsardom. At this rate, even the so-called Gothic Republic – the failed pet project of Germany's colonization plans – would have no choice but to yield.
However, as my mind returned to the present, a strange sight caught my eye at the gate. It was a young girl dressed in a blue milkmaid outfit, a head of bright orange tied into a braid. Watching her hand out bread to the cheerful guards, I had half the mind to walk in on them. I could not stand the sight of soldiers behaving unprofessionally. After all, Arigi had once commented that a soldier who could not stand on guard was one that could not stand under fire.
But I hesitated, unwilling to chase the local away. It was rare for a Greek to be on friendly terms with the people who had annexed her home, but it at least gave me a shred of hope. If I could win over at least one villager, one city-dweller, it must mean we are doing something right. And so, I waited; hiding behind an alley as she began to walk away. At first, her appearance piqued my interests, and I felt tempted to greet her. But it was late, and I was not sure I should surprise her.
"Why am I still carrying these," I realized too late, the chest of empty bottles still weighing down on my hands. Well, perhaps I could find some uses for it. Who knows…
Port of Famagusta
Gazimağusa (Famagusta), Cyprus Viyalet, Ottoman Empire
Morning, 18th April 1936
Famagusta, two days after the raid by the infamous 'swan'. Scattered across the port, rescue workers and reinforcements were greeted with scenes of devastation all around them. Concrete buildings reduced to rubble tombs, floating, oil-burnt bodies drifting along the coast... The wretched stench of ammonia wafted in the air as workers struggled to clear the remainder of the debris and dead. It was hard to fathom how one unit could do this. For one young man, it was the breaking point.
"The fiends," a guard hissed as he and his ward watched a mangled corpse carried out from a collapsed bunker in a stretcher, a sheet covered overhead to mask the injuries, "this is the fifth attack since it first appeared, and the kafir cowards are still dancing around us in circles! We must act immediately. Just give the order, and I'll have every Greek in this city dragged out for questioning!"
The blonde ward, however, appeared to have other ideas, holding his hand up to stop him. While bitter over the incident himself, he felt cautious about acting on emotion. The Swan and its Greek allies had run amok in the Aegean for too long, and its latest announcement threatened to turn two age-old communities against each other. If the Greek rebels intend to trick the Turkish people to making their entire race scapegoats, then they were clearly succeeding.
"Calm yourself, Rashid," the blonde lad demanded sternly, "it's what the rebels want. The moment we blame the entire Greek community for their actions would be the moment we surrender the Aegean to Greece. EOEA will use every means to spread anger among our subjects and divide us; our god against their god; our people against theirs. By making this a problem of ethnicity, they can gather popular support to drive us out of the islands. And I fear it won't stop there…"
The Ottoman empire, the legacy of a five-century old empire tying together races and beliefs of all shades… The surge in nationalist fervour had put the empire in grave danger, and not even the sultan's position as caliph could command any respect from his fellow Muslims anymore. On paper, the empire stretched across most of northern Africa, a hard-won reward for its sacrifices in the Great War. But the truth was that the Arabs had become too strong a force to pin down, with Egypt and the Hashemite kings pulling the balance of power in its own favour. If the Turks start purging Greeks from the islands en-masse, what was to stop fear and revulsion from spreading among other groups, many of whom also despise Turkish domination of their homeland?
"Damn that Lawrence," the young boy uttered instinctively, pondering over the consequences. Things would not have come to this had it not been for the British. Too strong for even the Germans to defeat, the Britons felt content to leave as many headaches behind to spite the Central Power.
"Ayla," he uttered, clutching his fist tightly, "where are you?..."
Cast
Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
Early Morning, 18th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
"Ugh… how long has it been?..."
Resting on a nest of scattered paperwork and new articles on my desk, I found myself waking to a numbing headache in my skull. It must have been hours, and the light of day had long faded. An officer coat over my back pointed to Arigi's handiwork. He never ceases to take the chance to show an act of kindness to me, the chum…
Pacing back out into the hangar, I could see the crumpled heap that was my governor snoring away, with bottles of Greek raki scattered around. As much as I wanted to snap back at him, part of me had to relent to his insubordination. Peering up at the freshly overlaid tarp on the mysterious mech, I had a suspicion he had spent the day on it. Oh well.
Carrying the empty bottles in a box out of the compound, I could not help but chuckle at my current disposition. A princess, doing recycling… if anything, at least the locals would not suspect me of being more than a clerk for the Austrian 'occupiers'. Passing the saluting guards, my mind quickly wandered back to my days before arriving at Corfu. After everything that had happened, I suspected that my 'vacation' was an excuse to get the spotlight off me.
House of Magnates
Budapest, Kingdom of Hungary, Austro-Hungarian Empire
Afternoon, 2nd April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
"Never!"
The House of Magnates… Never had I had never seen a more toxic hive of bloated egos. The Hungarian magnates who controlled the other half of the country were understandably irate. My federation plans – a last hope to save the empire from dissolution, was akin to partition to the Hungarian nation-state. Croatia, Slavonia, Upper Hungary and Transylvania; regions that had been part of the Crown of St. Stephen for centuries was to be separated as autonomous regions under the new Danubian Federation. The Croats and Slovaks, predictably, were more than happy to throw their lot with my cause. In fact, many throughout the Balkan territories had clamoured for a united Croatia, uniting with their free compatriots in Bosnia-Herzegovina. But the Hungarians were not so easily swayed. Many of their own would find themselves outside or separated from the Hungarian crownlands. And part of me suspected they wanted it all once the empire is formally dismantled. Perhaps if I were the regent-admiral, I would have done likewise.
Even so, I could not deny I felt sickened to the bone.
"We will not be partitioned," heckled a representative, shaking his fist violently as his comrades shouted me down.
"All or nothing," barked another.
"Go back to Vienna, German sow," a particularly irate woman hissed with a twisted expression.
All this, to my dismay, was expected. I never believed that the Hungarians would accede to the division of their country. The Ausgleich of 1867, which guaranteed the autonomy of Hungarians, and Hungarians alone, was the one way for them to maintain parity with the Austrian crownlands. Disenfranchising their Slavic and Romanian subjects, the power to dictate their policy without their consent was all too intoxicating. And now that Ausgleich was all but dead, the Hungarians feared losing much of their 'rightful' land to their minorities. Romania, Serbia and Bosnia-Herzegovina, for one, would eagerly seize the chance to claim what they believe was theirs.
Pacing out of the building just hours later, I tried my hardest to keep the appearance of a stern, mildly-outraged royal. Years of tutoring by a bevy of talented teachers had hardened my nerves, but experience, as it turned out, once again proved more valuable than schools. Beside me, the regent tried his hardest to assuage my concerns. But at the same time, he too was unwavering, perhaps already sensing the demise of the empire as well.
"…you have to understand, Your Highness," Admiral Hrothy appealed, "we are a prideful people. To demand from them separation… Are you not asking for too much."
"The longer we delay," I spoke, faking ignorance as before, "the more the Slavs and Romanians will campaign for independence. When that happens, even I cannot guard against any future losses your country would suffer. I do not wish for civil war. The moment we fight will be the death of all our nations. Your representatives claim to oppose partition, but if and when the other Great Powers intervene, we won't even be given a choice."
"I understand, but," the admiral replied, "to abandon Croatia-Slavonia, of all places. Do you will us to become landlocked?"
Stepping in front of the sedan as the guard opened the door, I retorted in my coldest tone, "no, but in the end, it wouldn't matter, would it? Not as long as we're still united."
Unfortunately, unity, as I dreaded, was waning fast. I hate to imagine the possibility of partition, but if I could not secure the federation, then the Germans… I dare not even consider that possibility.
Gate, Old Fortress
Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
Early Morning, 18th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
Arriving back at the Old Fortress, it took me a while to notice the basket of Raki bottles still in my hand. It felt embarrassing. I had wanted to dump it at a recycling bin somewhere, but my train of thoughts had led me all the way back. Hungary, Galicia… there appeared to be no hope for a continued empire. And while the magnates hurled abuse at me, the representatives at Lemberg were dead silent. My uncle Vasyl… I know fully well his heart belongs to Ukraine now. I could not blame him. After all, the will of his people compelled him to bind the crown of Galicia to Ukraine. Come my father's death, Galicia would formally join the growing Ukrainian Tsardom. At this rate, even the so-called Gothic Republic – the failed pet project of Germany's colonization plans – would have no choice but to yield.
However, as my mind returned to the present, a strange sight caught my eye at the gate. It was a young girl dressed in a blue milkmaid outfit, a head of bright orange tied into a braid. Watching her hand out bread to the cheerful guards, I had half the mind to walk in on them. I could not stand the sight of soldiers behaving unprofessionally. After all, Arigi had once commented that a soldier who could not stand on guard was one that could not stand under fire.
But I hesitated, unwilling to chase the local away. It was rare for a Greek to be on friendly terms with the people who had annexed her home, but it at least gave me a shred of hope. If I could win over at least one villager, one city-dweller, it must mean we are doing something right. And so, I waited; hiding behind an alley as she began to walk away. At first, her appearance piqued my interests, and I felt tempted to greet her. But it was late, and I was not sure I should surprise her.
"Why am I still carrying these," I realized too late, the chest of empty bottles still weighing down on my hands. Well, perhaps I could find some uses for it. Who knows…
Port of Famagusta
Gazimağusa (Famagusta), Cyprus Viyalet, Ottoman Empire
Morning, 18th April 1936
Famagusta, two days after the raid by the infamous 'swan'. Scattered across the port, rescue workers and reinforcements were greeted with scenes of devastation all around them. Concrete buildings reduced to rubble tombs, floating, oil-burnt bodies drifting along the coast... The wretched stench of ammonia wafted in the air as workers struggled to clear the remainder of the debris and dead. It was hard to fathom how one unit could do this. For one young man, it was the breaking point.
"The fiends," a guard hissed as he and his ward watched a mangled corpse carried out from a collapsed bunker in a stretcher, a sheet covered overhead to mask the injuries, "this is the fifth attack since it first appeared, and the kafir cowards are still dancing around us in circles! We must act immediately. Just give the order, and I'll have every Greek in this city dragged out for questioning!"
The blonde ward, however, appeared to have other ideas, holding his hand up to stop him. While bitter over the incident himself, he felt cautious about acting on emotion. The Swan and its Greek allies had run amok in the Aegean for too long, and its latest announcement threatened to turn two age-old communities against each other. If the Greek rebels intend to trick the Turkish people to making their entire race scapegoats, then they were clearly succeeding.
"Calm yourself, Rashid," the blonde lad demanded sternly, "it's what the rebels want. The moment we blame the entire Greek community for their actions would be the moment we surrender the Aegean to Greece. EOEA will use every means to spread anger among our subjects and divide us; our god against their god; our people against theirs. By making this a problem of ethnicity, they can gather popular support to drive us out of the islands. And I fear it won't stop there…"
The Ottoman empire, the legacy of a five-century old empire tying together races and beliefs of all shades… The surge in nationalist fervour had put the empire in grave danger, and not even the sultan's position as caliph could command any respect from his fellow Muslims anymore. On paper, the empire stretched across most of northern Africa, a hard-won reward for its sacrifices in the Great War. But the truth was that the Arabs had become too strong a force to pin down, with Egypt and the Hashemite kings pulling the balance of power in its own favour. If the Turks start purging Greeks from the islands en-masse, what was to stop fear and revulsion from spreading among other groups, many of whom also despise Turkish domination of their homeland?
"Damn that Lawrence," the young boy uttered instinctively, pondering over the consequences. Things would not have come to this had it not been for the British. Too strong for even the Germans to defeat, the Britons felt content to leave as many headaches behind to spite the Central Power.
"Ayla," he uttered, clutching his fist tightly, "where are you?..."
- Austrian Crownlands
- Princess Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine (CV: 西木野 真姫)
- Professor Paul von Karajan (CV: ジダン・ニッカード)
- Corfu Residents
- 'Milkmaid' (CV: あひる)
- Ottoman Empire
- Prince Suleiman Osmanoğlu (pictured) (CV: トゥグリル・マフムート・パシャ)
Part 4 and Part 5
- Location
- Singapore
Gate, Old Fortress
Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
Early Morning, 19th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
"…the Siege of Seville continues on to its two-hundredth day as Republican militias attempt to assault the battered Nationalist defences yet again. Fighting at the historic Hospital of the Five Wounds have been especially fierce, as the Nationalist garrison held off contingents of Spanish and French communist fighters. The Experimental Mechanized Brigade has also been heavily involved, taking out several Commune-delivered Delescluze mobile weapons in the infamous 'death strip' of Andalusia Avenue. However, the week's fighting has seen mounting casualties for both sides, with relief from the south still dogged by Republican aerial bombardment."
"British Prime Minister Oswald Mosley has commended Franco's forces during his recent visit to Rome to discuss further aid to the Nationalist war effort. While roundly criticized by opposition leaders for his expensive foreign adventures and bloody crackdowns, the National Labour leader continues to insist on a policy of communist containment in collaboration with the Italian fascist regime. In his address, he reproached the Central Powers' apathy to the growing communist threat, and affirmed the continuing friendship between London and Rome. However, he stopped short of backing Italian claims to Austrian territories along the Adriatic, particularly the autonomous Italian-speaking regions of Venice and Trient."
The Spanish Civil War, a violent struggle boiling over between the leftist, republican movement borne out of the ideals of the Napoleonic era, against the old order of Carlists, Falangists and other –ists that seek to preserve the centuries old power of the Catholic, conservative monarchy. So far, the greater powers that seek to intervene in the war had turned the struggle into a bloody stalemate, with Communard France backing the Republican cause against the alliance of Anglo-Italian fascists. With the communist power seeking to topple its exiled colonial brother and its allies, there was no question Chairman Thorez would want Spain as a bulwark for the revolution. All the better, if I have to say so myself. The more Forzas Il Duce has to throw at the communists, the fewer he has left to attack us. But wars have to end at some point, and I did not like to think that prolonging them was a desirable option for anything, even in the interests of the Dual Monarchy.
Tapping on the table as I stared at the document before me, I struggled to drown my mind in work, the radio softly announcing the latest morning telegrams. The old fogey, who was meant to be at my seat, took to playing with his toys at the army hangar again, despite my warnings the previous day. I wondered why I opted against a harsher line. After all, a princess' word was law, and disobeying that was tantamount to treason. But Arigi, for reasons I have yet to fathom, insisted against it. Maybe he preferred not to have 'abuses of senior citizens' mar my reputation? Or maybe he did not think I was none the wiser about his ideas?
When my focus finally caved in, I took to the nearby piano as I stared deeply at the mirrored keys before me. I wonder who else had set upon this stool to play its melodies, and if so, if they were my forebears.
I could not resist…
As I finished the brief piece of song, a faint applause outside caught my attention, ringing like an excitement canary just below. Peeking out, I spot an excited milkmaid, the same girl from before, looking up at me, before jumping at the sight of the noblewoman bearing down at her. Watching her flee in embarrassment, I felt guilty for scaring her off. I could not blame her for eavesdropping. I can not be that petty, can I?
Getting off my seat, I briskly paced for the one place I knew she would head. From the gate, I could see the girl bowing at the guards frantically, as if trying to avoid the wrath of the German blueblood whose privacy she had callously invaded. But there was something else amiss about the milkmaid. She appeared empty handed this time, the usual bread basket and milk tray from yesterday conspicuously missing. Unless…
"Oh dear," I uttered, moving back to the scene my audience left behind. True enough, the basket and tray had been left unattended, the empty glass bottles abandoned in a hurry. Picking up the containers, I hated to imagine the look on her face when her boss inevitably questioned the whereabouts of her bakery's property. Fortunately, there was a clue on the milk tray for me to follow. I recalled a bakery along the route between the Old and New Fortresses with that symbol, and if not, there was always the map.
Achilleion Bakery
Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
Early Morning, 19th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
"…and that was the new single from Hollywood's up-and-coming starlet, Winny Everheart. Strong vocals, strong melody and the apple in everyone's eyes… Next up, Stacy Neumann speaks of the hottest movie hits across the Atlantic, featuring Fritz Lang's newest German crime thriller 'Wut'!"
Even in the far-flung islands of the Adriatic, the reach of American media had proven unstoppable. While German cinema had remained largely undisputed, increasing pressure from the imperial censor board over seditious content proved too much for some up-and-coming filmmakers. In the land of the free, Hollywood provided an avenue that conservative German society could not. And its effects were already being felt. 'Wut', or 'Fury' as it was known in English, was to be Lang's last film before his move and contract with MGM begins.
Looking up at the sign of Achilles hanging from the post, I felt a bit unnerved by the sight of it. Based on the local German-owned palace of the same name, the bakery, if I recalled, was hired by the garrison to be their daily supplier, something I suspect would have been very distasteful for the locals. A hanging picture of my father and brother sat within its interior in a glass cabinet, likely as a safeguard against vandals who had a thing for destroying images of the dreaded German occupiers. My worst fear, however, was the sign of any presence of his childrens' images. I hated to imagine how the workers and customers react seeing the princess of Cisleithania was in their midst. Fortunately, it did not appear I would be seeing myself any time soon.
As I stepped in, though, I could already hear the aftermath of my little performance being played out.
"Mein Gott," yelled the hapless, moustached baker in a gaudy, phony German accent, swapping to an equally broken Greek tongue as he berated the milkmaid, "what do you mean you lost them!?"
"I… uhh," the milkmaid blurted, "I was holding the baskets a moment ago… I knew I had them before, I just-"
"Do you know how expensive those bottles are here," blabbed the baker, as the milkmaid held her tongue nervously, "and we can't get them from the mainland on short notice, Mein Gott…"
"Suchen Sie nach diesen?"
Holding up the baskets in my hand, I tried hard not to feel nervous. After all, in my time here, I had only truly interacted with fellow Austrians. Not once had I ever spoken to the local Greeks. And as much as I desired to understand them, I had a feeling I would be chased out with a broom wherever I went. My eyes darting between the baker and his hired hand, I waited on their reaction. The girl's tearful eyes gleaming at me, I could tell she dreaded my arrival, especially with the lost items on hand.
"Oh, my dear," blurted the baker, looking a bit too distressed at my presence as he adopted a much friendlier, even appeasing tone, "thank you so much! Danke sohn, is it? Sorry, I'm still trying to learn the ropes."
"Greek is fine," I told him, "I took up some back in Vienna. Please don't blame her. She was just distracted by my piano. I should be the one to apologize."
"Of course not, Madam," declared the baker, dusting my coat as if dreading my reproach, "it's so hard on you to take time off your busy schedule to bring back our items. Diana, what're you doing? Thank the nice lady."
"Ah," blurted the milkmaid, hastily bowing as a show of gratitude, "t-thank you, miss. Sorry about the… eavesdropping. I couldn't help it. It was… beautiful."
"Thank you," I answered, trying to avoid the glaring stare of my family hanging in front of me, "and you are?"
"Oh," answered the large baker boisterously, "Giuseppe Durazzo. I'm the owner and head baker of Achilleion. You are?"
Pursing my lips a bit, I racked my brains for a decent alias. I assume simply introducing myself as the daughter of Emperor Charles would be a bad idea. But pretending to be Greek was already not an option either. My initial greeting already gave me away as a German Austrian, so that leaves any generic German name. Hesitating a bit, I blurted over the first name I could recall, "Maria... Maria Luisa von Karajan. My grandfather is the governor of the islands. I'm here to help."
Me and my big mouth...
Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
Morning, 19th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
The Achilleion Bakery... God knows why I bothered coming. Taking a sip from the immaculately brewed coffee, I found myself bombarded by small talk from the head baker, evidently eager to curry favour with the 'granddaughter of the governor', or perhaps cracking under the strain of a flagging business. And it's not hard to see why. A quick scan of the dining area revealed few patrons, and out of the group, perhaps only one, maybe two Mediterranean-looking folk, probably Corfoit Italians or Maltese. The rest, to my dismay, were Austrian soldiers and officers, people who have very good reason to be nervous taking a lunch break in front of a royal going incognito. Fortunately, the garrison had some tact not to expose me, though I find it hard to fathom how the baker and his employees fail to notice the growing apprehension centered around an unassuming young girl.
"Sicily," I blurted, "you were one of the evacuees?"
"Yes," Durazzo told me, "when the fascists jackals overran Palermo, I fled as fast as I could to the docks. The Blackshirts would have loved to hang anyone who didn't sing praises for the Il Douche. Bourbon royalists, communists, men of honour..."
Choking on those last words, I found myself coughing up the drops of coffee that had surged down my windpipe, the bitterness of the beans growing sharply. I was not sure if I was concerned at being this close to a mafiosi sympathizer - the soldiers behind me would have certainly sprung into action otherwise - but I was not one to enjoy consorting with criminals. My American tour had already gave me some close calls. And much as I disliked the haphazard methodology of Il Duce's attack dog in Sicily, I admit I would have treated these bandits harshly. Holding up my hand as the panicking baker tried to offer his, I hastily laid down my cup and wiped my mouth with a napkin. On hindsight, I wondered if I was too quick to judge. After all, I had no proof of Durazzo's criminal background. He did not seem like the extortionist thug I picture from Hollywood films.
"Sorry," I apologized, "must be tough for you to be here."
"Quite," he admitted, "the local Greek treat us like pariahs. Perhaps they suspected the Italians would treat them just as harshly as the Ottomans."
"They had the Dodecanese before the Great War," I surmised, "I'm guessing they're basing their suspicions there. In any case, I do hope you could someday return to your home. The Council of Nations may have turned a blind eye, but we won't."
It was a truth laced with falsities, to say the least. Sure, the Austrian government would not ignore the Sicilian refugees now, but had my father not forced their hand, they might have already left the Sicilians to die. The planned dismantlement of the Italian kingdom, celebrated by the Bourbon kings who had their crown stolen by the Savoyards' stooge Garibaldi, had been thwarted with frightening results. With the K.u.K. too weakened to enforce the partition, and their German allies apathetic to a reinvigorated, united Italy, the dreams of a restored Two Sicilies and a Papal States came crashing down at the behest of Mussolini and his goons. How long did the Sicilians last before revolution overran them? Few months? A year or two? The final act of mercy by my father for our failure to protect them was figurative trying to kiss my boot right now... How can I not feel guilty, when I myself looked upon my father's scratch rescue flotilla with such disdain?
"Of course, Your Excellency," the baker mused, "His Majesty is a great man, a most kind ruler."
Too kind, unfortunately...
My eyes peering at the milkmaid waiting by the side with her tray, I could not help but feel my interests piqued. The other store hands, for good reason, kept to themselves, and the local townsfolk seem to avoid the place like the plague. But there was something different about the milkmaid's eyes. It was not anger I was sensing, or at least, it was not just anger. There was a glitter in her eyes that spark of curiosity, a morbid fascination for the other, particularly one of 'enemy' background. That she snuck in to spy on my recital was evidence enough. Maybe I could speak to her more.
"That's quite adorable milkmaid you have," I remarked, "is she local?"
"Ah, I suppose..." the baker answered with a bit of uncertainty, "Diana came in only a week ago. Clumsy girl... but she works hard for her pay."
"A week," I went, peering back at the frightened young teen, "I see."
Her inexperience, as far as I knew, explained her presence so deep inside the Old Fortress, but surely she should have at least known not to wander off in case some guard mistook her as an interloper. Giving a small wave and a smile, I felt some inkling to see the life of a common Greek villager. At least she would not try to stone me, I hope...
Bus
Near Pelekas, Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
Noon, 19th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
Pelekas, just about a half-hours drive from Corfu. A seaside mountain town overlooking the Adriatic, its inns and eateries were brimming with local and foreign visitors. Like the city itself, many off-duty officers and men have taken to its iconic beach in Avramis for some R&R. Fortunately, I need not try to conceal my identity there, as the bus from the city rolled towards the countryside.
"Umm..." the girl mumbled to me as we set on the half-empty bus, "why're you coming with me?"
"Well, who told you to spy on me while I'm playing the piano. Let's see how you like it when someone intrudes on you," I teased, putting on a fake pout. As I reverted to a smile, I answered honestly, "to be frank, I was planning on visiting the outlying villages at some point, just to see how they feel about the governor's... my grandfather's administration. All I see is him skiving all the time. If he's not doing a good job, he might find himself out of one soon."
"You mean the Einherjar," blurted the milkmaid, looking rather surprised by my scathing remarks. For a moment, I raised an eyebrow when I heard her mention that. Twiddling my thumbs, I felt ashamed to had let his behaviour pass. Old man or not, there was no excuse for his obsessive hobby.
"Nothing but pieces of junk..." I grumbled, leaning my head on the window, "if the world needed a land vehicle, tanks would work perfectly. Tracks can traverse terrain just as well as legs. It's an effort in sheer vanity."
Giggling over my rant, the milkmaid appeared to have lightened up considerably. Sure, I did not exactly appreciate being the butt of jokes, but at least she was willing to open up for a little bit. Swinging her legs, she told me, "I don't really think so... They look like giants to me; collosi standing tall over mortal men. Some can be beautiful too, though most Einherjar are masculine, in design, mh."
Smiling, I remarked, "that doesn't justify having them around. I can make several tanks or planes out of one Einherjar. If you like their aesthetics, you might as well make statues instead. Less complicated and all."
Sharing a laugh, the girl finally introduced herself, "my name is Diana. Diana Michelakos."
"Marie," I answered, "Maria Karajannis."
Michelakos Farm
Near Pelekas, Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
Afternoon, 19th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
The farm itself seemed quaint. A plain, whitewashed cottage with little barn animals and an orchard, it seemed like an idyllic place for a retirement. Squatting down as I watched a gaggle of ducklings follow their mother along, I could not hide a growing smile on my face. I almost forgot why I even came, or perhaps, this was all a part of my trip.
Welcoming me to her home, Diana stammered a response, "well, this is my house. Just... make yourself at home. I need to tend to the animals."
"I'll help you," I offered my aid, "I don't see anyone else around at the moment. You could probably use an extra hand. Your parents?"
"Uh," blurted the girl, avoiding my gaze as her mood dampened dramatically. I... should probably not have asked. Buttoning my lips, I quickly hammered out an apology in haste.
"Sorry," I said, "I didn't mean to..."
"It's fine," Diana answered in a forlorn, distant voice, "I don't expect you to understand-"
'But I want to understand' was what I felt like saying, but given the situation, I did not think it felt appropriate. Shufflign my legs, I quickly detoured, offering again, "I'll help you. I feel on edge if I don't have anything to do."
My words seem to have taken her by surprise. I suppose she was simply worried about having a girl of higher standing get her hands dirty, but any concern she might have had on that seemed to have disappeared with those words, and thank God for that.
"Ah..." she mused, eyes wide with surprised as she offered to lead me over, "I guess..."
Avenida de Andalucia, Sevilla, Nationalist-held Spain (Contested)
Noon, 19th April 1936
'Callejón de la muerte' - Death Alley. Defending the vital road junction towards the city centered, the battered companies of the Nationalists' Experimental Mechanized Brigade had been holding out against waves of menacing Republican waves. As artillery finished saturating the zone with high explosives, hordes of Parisian-armed Delescluze mobile weapons are trying for another push. But what the Spaniards and French volunteers have in courage, they lack in talent and leadership. Holding the passage as piles of junked Republican mechs laid before it, a lone red, knight-like Einherjar stood with its sword standing on the ground, hands on the pommel as it silently challenged the enemy pilots. Watching the lone machine from his main camera, the Thorezite commander had no idea what to make of it. It had a unique appearance with no known data in their archives, and it had already laid waste to several squads.
"Sir, should we regroup," a pilot on the intercom pleaded, "that red machin are unstoppable!"
"Never," demanded the commander, irate by the suggestion, "that thing is no match for the people's iron will! It must be running out of power already! One more push, and the road to the city's heart would be open!"
"But sir, that monster singlehandedly took out thirty Mobile Armour," blurted a second, "we can't fight it!"
Drawing his mech's pistol level at the offender, the commander barked, "cowardice will not be tolerated! We are the people's militia! The arm of the new France! These reactionary exiles are but relics of the past! We will vanquish them as the scum they are!"
Raising his pistol as he switched on his loudspeaker, the jumpy squad leader ordered in haste, "onward! Onward to victory, men! He who take the red mecha's head shall earn a lifetime of glory and greater rations! Now go!"
As a chorus of yells radiated into the sky, the opposing pilot observing them, dressed in a scarlet pilot suit and visored helmet, could not help but scowl. Despite her growing body count, she had yet to find any enemy that could put up a real fight, and this time would not be any different.
"Tch, I'm going to need to refuel soon," she told her command, gripping her controls as she braced for latest advance, "these clowns never learn. Alain, you here yet?"
"Really sorry about that, Abbi," a feminine, child-like voice spoke in the radio, "some of the energy cells needed replacing. How long can you hold."
"Three minutes," griped the female pilot, "five minutes maximum. If I die before then, I'll make sure you join me, you hear?"
"Ok, ok~," chimed the receiver, "no need to be so huffy about it~. I'll be right there."
As the Delescluze began to close in, a hail of bullets began to rain upon the French State mech. Raising her massive blade, the red mech diver under the shots, surging forward as its pilot swung its blade at an opponent. Cleaving it by the torso, the mech began to cut down the shocked communists one by one, a mad berserker dashing head on at her competition. Horrified as the first few Delescluze were vanquished, the Republicans began to disintegrate in the face of the dreaded 'knight' before them.
"AHHHHHHHH," screamed one of the desperate pilots, his gun blasting away at the lightning-fast machine, "DIE! DIE! DIE-"
"We can't fight it," wailed another, watching his comrade's mech impaled at the torso cockpit as the enemy turned to him, "fall back! Fall back-"
Observing his ranks thinning rapidly by the vicious red 'knight', the unnerved commander blasted in defiance, "cowards! There will be no fleeing! I will shoot anyone who retreats! Keep fighting!!!"
Unknown to the Thorezites, the red 'knight' was, in fact, wearing thin. Despite her latest display of prowess, the dwindling energy bar on her screen was starting to blare alarms already, annoying her to no end. Frustrated, she demanded, "any time now, Alain!"
"Hold on just a bit more, Abby," a female commander pleaded, "he's almost there."
"I won't be if he doesn't arrive soon," the pilot cursed, "a few more swings and I'll be a sitting duck!"
True enough, with each dodge and swing of her blade, her mech began to glow more sluggish by the second. Her will to compel her machine was steadily proving insufficient, as its power whittled away from the Republicans' reckless onslaught. Impaling her last mech, her machine finally gave away to the inevitable. Kneeling down, the mech's eyes finally dimmed as the jittered girl tried to force the controls again. This time, there would be no answer, and no way out.
"Shit," she cursed, yanking at the controls with all her strength, "get up, you piece of junk! Get up!"
"T-that thing stopped," spoke one of the Thorezite pilots, bewildered by the sight of the Nationalist going silent. Cackling madly, however, the commander hissed, "HA HAHAHAHAHA! It's out of juice!? This must be my lucky day! What the hell are you standing around for!? I want that legionnaire rat carved apart like a pig!"
Sweat rolling down her nose as she saw the hordes of Delescluzes drawing their blades, the female pilot could only grit her teeth at the inevitable. Her hands still yanking at the controls, she could only hope against God that her mech come to life. But just as one of the Delescluze loomed overhead with his chopper, a shadow suddenly hit the ground with a thundering impact. Dust and debris kicking up in a giant plume, the stunned Reds found themselves blinded, and confused.
"W-What was that," one of the Reds cried out, his screens clouded with dust. Without warning, the Delescluzes were run through by the mysterious interloper, its shadow barely visible in the dust cloud as the frustrated commander watched. As it finally cleared, the gleaming facade of the assailant was standing before its comrade, sword on hand as it readies to take on the last few Reds.
"Who dares face Alain Fabian," cried out the silver mech to the Thorezites, brandishing its lance before them, "the Blade of Oran challenges you!" Hailing his opponents with his speaker, the young effiminate-looking boy with strawberry pink hair with black ribbons gripped his controls with anticipation, wearing a long braid and dressed in a pink pilot suit.
Red with outrage, and with much of his squad now decimated, the commander himself could not help but grip his controls. His first thoughts, much to his consecration, was to flee. But to do so was to risk imprisonment or execution for cowardice, an unthinkable prospect for any Armée rouge soldier. The alternative was to face another uphill battle against the newcomer, in defence of his weakened ally. Veins pulsing at his temples, he screamed at his remaining soldiers to push forward. But the mass of scrap before them told a different story, and one they were slowly catching on.
"F-fall back," a pilot declared over the radio, cracking under pressure. Like a cascade, the offending Delescluze began turning around, driving at full speed towards the Republican lines. But a shot into its engine caused his machine to explode, the metal goliath falling forward as the blast ripped it apart. Its killer, much to everyone's shock, was not Alain.
"Coward," yelled the Thorezite commander, his mech's rifle smoking at it remained trained at the fallen deserter, "I will not tolerate defeatists in our ranks!"
Taken aback, Alain yelled through his speaker instinctively, "what the hell is wrong with you!? He's your ally!"
"Do not criticise me, traitor," blasted the commander, increasingly irate as his mech pointed angrily at him, "the new France has no place for weak-willed revisionists! Exiles who cling on to the obsolete ways of the Third Republic will be swept aside by revolution! You cannot fight the inevitable!"
Pouting, the boy muted his speaker for a moment, commenting to his comrades on the radio, "what's he yapping about? I'm Canadian."
"Just get rid of him," Abby grunted, "take him out, and the rest would surrender or flee. People like him are unworthy to lead others into battle. That goes for everyone."
"I guess," Alain replied, licking his fang as he prepared his lance. Turning his speaker back on, he announced, "I don't know what this revolution is, Mister, but if you drop your weapons now, I won't have to kill you. Same for everyone else here. What do you say~?"
"Silence," berated the officer, finally charging forth with his blade as the Delescluze flailed like a madman. Alain did not even need to try. A swift charge of his mech, lance couched, surged forth in a blink of an eye. Within second, it punched a great hole right in the opposing mech's torso, the Red commander presumably vaporized, mangled or crushed by metal. Watching their commander fall, Commune morale finally shattered beyond recovery. Those that did not flee at the sight of Alain's machine hurriedly the mech's equipment in surrender. Heaving a sigh of relief as she laid her head on the dashboard, Abby could not believe her bad luck.
"What kept you, ladyboy," she grumbled, "they nearly chopped me up like a pig."
"Sorry, sorry," chimed Alain, playfully making a carefree pose with his mech, "repairs took a bit longer than I thought. Good news is, you're still here. I'll carry you back. The Nats are bringing in reinforcements already."
Abby's watch was over for the moment. As Nationalist tanks and mechs of various assortments arrived to take over the defences, the red Legionnaire machine was being carried off by the shoulder by her comrade. Not the most glamourous change of guard, perhaps, but at least they were still alive to fight again, in the endless quagmire that was Sevilla.
Forward Nationalist Army HQ
Universidad de Sevilla, Sevilla, Nationalist-held Spain
Noon, 19th April 1936
Arriving back at the HQ grounds as Nationalist mechanics and soldiers hurried with maintenance and supply, the disgruntled blonde legionnaire could only kick the dirt with a pout, her emerald eyes glaring at the girlish partner she was assigned with. With frazzled golden hair tied into a bunch, she seemed like a perfect contrast to Alain. Brash, tomboyish, and fiery, Abigail Remington lacked the feminine charm of a noble lady. Indeed, even Alain was more of a 'girl' than her, despite his... 'equipment'.
"Abby, you alright," declared a bespectacled young girl in a lab coat, rushing over as her short, silvery bob fluttered in the breeze.
"Barely, Celine," Abby griped, "I nearly got swarmed by grunts earlier."
"I'm sorry," Celine blurted timidly, upset by the girl's words, "the Astolpho's batteries were close to melting. I needed to let them cool down before I could change them."
"No, it's not your fault..." Abby tried to assure her, looking away with a blush as she felt a pang of guilt at her rant, "that ladyboy's just a bundle. He knows his Mobile Weapon can't take dashes too frequently..."
"They're not called 'exploding coffins' for nothing, Abby," teased said ladyboy, "you should be lucky you're piloting a Paladin instead."
Skipping in with another blonde girl in a dark violet pilot suit , Alain appeared nonplussed, hands behind his head as he winked gingerly at the British legionnaire. Watching the girl berate her partner over his teasing, the French commander could not help but give a soft smile. A French State commander leading a squad from the famed French Foreign Legion was not for the faint of heart. But seeing the bonds between her men in such trying times, it was hard not to see why the French State still survive, banished from the continent by the communist scourge.
"Alright, enough chatter," chimed the commander, "we can save that when we hit the showers. And, no, Alain, you go to the mens'. We're not going to pretend you're just a child or a girl at heart for whatever reason you can think of."
"But it's so boring heading there alone," Alain whined, "all the guys talk about is ball games and dirty jokes. They say I'm a sissy."
"You are a sissy, Alain," Abby sneered, "who here ever heard of a dandy boy in the Legion? People might think the recruiters are desperate."
"And who ever heard of a butch in the Legion," Alain teased, "maybe the lads might not notice if you join us~."
"You bloody man-bitch..."
However, before they could continue, a large shadow cast over the pilots as they noticed a familar facade. Lumbering to the hangars were the infamous Einherjars, its momoeyes swerving around as it scanned the area. Besides the familiar Jotunn Is and IIs that made up Germany's mainstay weapons, the legionnaires could see the towering facade of some of their less well-known weapons. From the Bantu-looking Dschinn to the thuggish Dvergers. There was even a Minuteman walking anong the pack, painted in a grim green hue with the Prussian iron cross emblazoned on its shield. But the one that stood out was the purple, spiky Dverger type. Something seemed... off about it, not unlike their own ace custom mechs.
"What, did the Jerries finally care enough to help," Alain remarked, significantly less cheerful than before as he watched the German machines dock.
"Bullshit," grunted Abby, "they're here to test their new toys. They even have a Minuteman to play with. Probably trying to test its specs.
Ahead, they could see the German pilots getting off their mechs, as the Nationalist commanders breifed their new German allies on the proceedings. From the looks of it, many of the mechs seemed to be simple deliveries to the Nationalists, but the sheer number of German troops told a very different story.
"Ah, Captain Domrémy-la-Pucelle," went a monotonous voice, interrupting the legionnaires, "I see you've done with your rounds."
Approaching the Free French, a pale-skinned, almost demonic-looking officer glared sullenly as the new German reinforcements followed behind. Saluting, the French commander responded dryly, "Major Iglesias, what a surprise. I see your shipment of Einherjar has arrived. How unexpected..."
"Yes," stated the major in his monotone, "well, we've had problems trying to avoid interception from the Commune fleet, but here we are. Oh, I would like you to meet Corvette Captain (Lt. Com.) Emil Löwenhardt, from the Imperial German Navy marines. Major, Commander, this is Captain Jeanne de Domrémy-la-Pucelle of the French Foreign Legion."
"Ah, a great honour, Captain," Emil greeted, offering a hand to the legionnaire, "I've heard your men had done a number on the Republicans assaulting the eastern approach. Such strength with so little... No wonder the Communards could not vanquish you.
Forcing a sarcastic smile on her face, Abby answered wryly, "that would be terrible, wouldn't it? One less distraction at the demilitarized zone. Who would have thought that a nation heavily saddled with a clipping war debt would break out in revolution?"
Focusing their gaze at the legionnaire, the German pilots and even the other legionnaires did not appear too amused with Abby's offhand remark. The French captain, in particular, seemed all too nervous, worried about the Briton's provocation, Observing the spunky young woman, a sullen-looking German with a chiseled jaw questioned coldly, "Miss, you seem to imply that the Red Revolution was somehow our fault."
Ignoring her commander's nervous head-shaking at her, Abby retorted gleefully, "oh, no, I'd never imply something like that... not at all. Instead, I'll flat out point out the fact that had your emperor not saddled the French Republic with three lifetimes of reparations, stripped the northern border of its resources and plied the balls off the French military with a pair of rusty tweezers, we wouldn't be wasting our time fighting this mess... Or do you people get a kick at sending Marxists to cause trouble across your borders?"
The Germans' mood, to no surprise, considerably soured, its pilots glaring at Abby with malice. The female in the group, a young woman with curly strawberry red hair, looked absolutely livid, ready to sock a punch right into Abby's jaw. But for all their ire, Emil himself seemed nonplussed over her insults. Raising a hand to hold back his subordinates, he replied with a sarcastic smirk, "oh, we would never dare. The Bolshevik and Communard Revolutions were... grave miscalculations. We had little idea just how dangerous they could become once in control of their countries. Their toxic brand of far-leftist agitation would never make them friends of Europe. Which is fortunate the French Republic still survive. If your people require assistance holding down the Arabs and Bantus, we'll be more than happy to extend a hand. At least, we're in a better position to assist than the Anglo-Americans, cowering behind their walls of sea like little turtles."
Jeanne could sense how the conversation was going. Paling at the sight of Abby's rapidly souring face, she could tell he had hit a sore spot. She doubted if Emil even knew she was British, given their status as French-speaking legionnaires, but just the suggestion that the Free French should beg Berlin for help was enough to raise anyone's ire. Her other subordinates fared little better. Alain's usual preppy face was distorted by shame, and Celine could not even look at the Germans eye to eye. As for Abby, well, she was tempted to break the major's jaws herself. Stepping in in front of Abby, she quickly apologized, "I'm sorry, you have to forgive her. She's... not happy with exile. We all aren't."
"Captain," blasted Abby, clearly outraged at Jeanne's apology, "don't apologize! Who do you think landed you and Celine in this situation!? Signing a surrender agreement at Versailles to these animals!? Living in constant fear of a native uprising or communist takeover!? Where have your sense of pride and arrogance gone!? Do you really think they would want France united again, and able to challenge them-"
"I said 'that's enough'," Jeanne finally snapped, raising her voice as she silenced the fiery pilot. Bowing her head as she gazed at Abby's shocked eyes, Jeanne ordered, "I said 'that's enough', Remington. Talking back at a superior officer. I'll deal with you at the HQ later. Again, Major Löwenhardt, I apologize for my subordinate's behaviour. I will with her accordingly."
To her surprise, Emil's smirk faded immediately, heaving a sigh of relief as if able to drop his act. Putting back a serious look, he answered, "no need... I've seen this before. To be honest, I got carried away a bit too. I apologize for any injury I've done to your people."
"But I stand by my words when I said that Versailles was a just enough settlement," he proceeded to insist, this time in a burning, stern conviction, "you have no idea how much more our politicians desired to humiliate the Entente. Tell me, legionnaires; if we were in Versailles to negotiate not the Entente's surrender, but the Central Powers, what do you think your governments would have done? Do you honestly believe they will treat us as gallant losers and be magnanimous? Or do you think the penalties imposed on the French nation would be forced upon us instead? You yourselves know the answer to that."
Buttoning her lips, Abby's boiling anger had slowly given way, bitter over the major's crude critique of the Entente. Despite everything she said of the Germans, there was something of Emil's words that really made her dread. What would the Entente had not done if the Central Powers were the broken party? Why would the French not be tempted to exact vengeance for their humiliation by the rising Prussian kingdom? Why would the British not take the opportunity to expand their already massive colonial empire? In another world, Emil would be the one ranting at her over the unjust penalties forced by the victors, instead of her. And who would blame him? Chivalry in the modern age, despite her reservations, seemed truly dead.
"In any case," Emil said, "this isn't the time nor place for politics. Save that anger for the communists waiting outside the city. We're going to need it. If you excuse us..."
"Yes," Jeanne merely blurted, "another time then."
Watching the Germans take their leave, Jeanne could only rub her eyes at the entire episode. Abby's outburst, while uncalled for, was understandable to an extent. Though, why she would speak up for the Free French was still beyond her. As a legionnaire, she had no obligation to France itself. Was it something personal she was frustrated about?
"Abby, what's the last article of the Legion's code of honour," Jeanne reminded her. Biting her lip, the Briton muttered grudgingly, "act without passion and without hate... respect defeated enemies... don't abandon your dead, wounded or arms."
"Exactly," Jeanne stated, "Abby, I know you're a brilliant pilot, but there are times when you act with anger, especially now. I appreciate you speaking up for us, but that's not your job. Like it or not, we're on the same side, for now. Treat them as such. As for your punishment... I'll let Alain decide."
Giving a small chuckle at their distraught expressions as they exclaimed of each other, Jeanne felt that she had reclaimed some measure of ease. The battle for Spain was not just a civil conflict, but a defence against the red flood on the Straits of Gibraltar. But the trials of the French Foreign Legion, the one remnant of the Third Republic not to be divided by the révolution rouge, was far from over. Should Seville fall, there would be nothing left to separate the Parisian radicals and their exiled rivals in Algiers.
Cast:
Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
Early Morning, 19th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
"…the Siege of Seville continues on to its two-hundredth day as Republican militias attempt to assault the battered Nationalist defences yet again. Fighting at the historic Hospital of the Five Wounds have been especially fierce, as the Nationalist garrison held off contingents of Spanish and French communist fighters. The Experimental Mechanized Brigade has also been heavily involved, taking out several Commune-delivered Delescluze mobile weapons in the infamous 'death strip' of Andalusia Avenue. However, the week's fighting has seen mounting casualties for both sides, with relief from the south still dogged by Republican aerial bombardment."
"British Prime Minister Oswald Mosley has commended Franco's forces during his recent visit to Rome to discuss further aid to the Nationalist war effort. While roundly criticized by opposition leaders for his expensive foreign adventures and bloody crackdowns, the National Labour leader continues to insist on a policy of communist containment in collaboration with the Italian fascist regime. In his address, he reproached the Central Powers' apathy to the growing communist threat, and affirmed the continuing friendship between London and Rome. However, he stopped short of backing Italian claims to Austrian territories along the Adriatic, particularly the autonomous Italian-speaking regions of Venice and Trient."
The Spanish Civil War, a violent struggle boiling over between the leftist, republican movement borne out of the ideals of the Napoleonic era, against the old order of Carlists, Falangists and other –ists that seek to preserve the centuries old power of the Catholic, conservative monarchy. So far, the greater powers that seek to intervene in the war had turned the struggle into a bloody stalemate, with Communard France backing the Republican cause against the alliance of Anglo-Italian fascists. With the communist power seeking to topple its exiled colonial brother and its allies, there was no question Chairman Thorez would want Spain as a bulwark for the revolution. All the better, if I have to say so myself. The more Forzas Il Duce has to throw at the communists, the fewer he has left to attack us. But wars have to end at some point, and I did not like to think that prolonging them was a desirable option for anything, even in the interests of the Dual Monarchy.
Tapping on the table as I stared at the document before me, I struggled to drown my mind in work, the radio softly announcing the latest morning telegrams. The old fogey, who was meant to be at my seat, took to playing with his toys at the army hangar again, despite my warnings the previous day. I wondered why I opted against a harsher line. After all, a princess' word was law, and disobeying that was tantamount to treason. But Arigi, for reasons I have yet to fathom, insisted against it. Maybe he preferred not to have 'abuses of senior citizens' mar my reputation? Or maybe he did not think I was none the wiser about his ideas?
When my focus finally caved in, I took to the nearby piano as I stared deeply at the mirrored keys before me. I wonder who else had set upon this stool to play its melodies, and if so, if they were my forebears.
I could not resist…
As I finished the brief piece of song, a faint applause outside caught my attention, ringing like an excitement canary just below. Peeking out, I spot an excited milkmaid, the same girl from before, looking up at me, before jumping at the sight of the noblewoman bearing down at her. Watching her flee in embarrassment, I felt guilty for scaring her off. I could not blame her for eavesdropping. I can not be that petty, can I?
Getting off my seat, I briskly paced for the one place I knew she would head. From the gate, I could see the girl bowing at the guards frantically, as if trying to avoid the wrath of the German blueblood whose privacy she had callously invaded. But there was something else amiss about the milkmaid. She appeared empty handed this time, the usual bread basket and milk tray from yesterday conspicuously missing. Unless…
"Oh dear," I uttered, moving back to the scene my audience left behind. True enough, the basket and tray had been left unattended, the empty glass bottles abandoned in a hurry. Picking up the containers, I hated to imagine the look on her face when her boss inevitably questioned the whereabouts of her bakery's property. Fortunately, there was a clue on the milk tray for me to follow. I recalled a bakery along the route between the Old and New Fortresses with that symbol, and if not, there was always the map.
Achilleion Bakery
Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
Early Morning, 19th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
"…and that was the new single from Hollywood's up-and-coming starlet, Winny Everheart. Strong vocals, strong melody and the apple in everyone's eyes… Next up, Stacy Neumann speaks of the hottest movie hits across the Atlantic, featuring Fritz Lang's newest German crime thriller 'Wut'!"
Even in the far-flung islands of the Adriatic, the reach of American media had proven unstoppable. While German cinema had remained largely undisputed, increasing pressure from the imperial censor board over seditious content proved too much for some up-and-coming filmmakers. In the land of the free, Hollywood provided an avenue that conservative German society could not. And its effects were already being felt. 'Wut', or 'Fury' as it was known in English, was to be Lang's last film before his move and contract with MGM begins.
Looking up at the sign of Achilles hanging from the post, I felt a bit unnerved by the sight of it. Based on the local German-owned palace of the same name, the bakery, if I recalled, was hired by the garrison to be their daily supplier, something I suspect would have been very distasteful for the locals. A hanging picture of my father and brother sat within its interior in a glass cabinet, likely as a safeguard against vandals who had a thing for destroying images of the dreaded German occupiers. My worst fear, however, was the sign of any presence of his childrens' images. I hated to imagine how the workers and customers react seeing the princess of Cisleithania was in their midst. Fortunately, it did not appear I would be seeing myself any time soon.
As I stepped in, though, I could already hear the aftermath of my little performance being played out.
"Mein Gott," yelled the hapless, moustached baker in a gaudy, phony German accent, swapping to an equally broken Greek tongue as he berated the milkmaid, "what do you mean you lost them!?"
"I… uhh," the milkmaid blurted, "I was holding the baskets a moment ago… I knew I had them before, I just-"
"Do you know how expensive those bottles are here," blabbed the baker, as the milkmaid held her tongue nervously, "and we can't get them from the mainland on short notice, Mein Gott…"
"Suchen Sie nach diesen?"
Holding up the baskets in my hand, I tried hard not to feel nervous. After all, in my time here, I had only truly interacted with fellow Austrians. Not once had I ever spoken to the local Greeks. And as much as I desired to understand them, I had a feeling I would be chased out with a broom wherever I went. My eyes darting between the baker and his hired hand, I waited on their reaction. The girl's tearful eyes gleaming at me, I could tell she dreaded my arrival, especially with the lost items on hand.
"Oh, my dear," blurted the baker, looking a bit too distressed at my presence as he adopted a much friendlier, even appeasing tone, "thank you so much! Danke sohn, is it? Sorry, I'm still trying to learn the ropes."
"Greek is fine," I told him, "I took up some back in Vienna. Please don't blame her. She was just distracted by my piano. I should be the one to apologize."
"Of course not, Madam," declared the baker, dusting my coat as if dreading my reproach, "it's so hard on you to take time off your busy schedule to bring back our items. Diana, what're you doing? Thank the nice lady."
"Ah," blurted the milkmaid, hastily bowing as a show of gratitude, "t-thank you, miss. Sorry about the… eavesdropping. I couldn't help it. It was… beautiful."
"Thank you," I answered, trying to avoid the glaring stare of my family hanging in front of me, "and you are?"
"Oh," answered the large baker boisterously, "Giuseppe Durazzo. I'm the owner and head baker of Achilleion. You are?"
Pursing my lips a bit, I racked my brains for a decent alias. I assume simply introducing myself as the daughter of Emperor Charles would be a bad idea. But pretending to be Greek was already not an option either. My initial greeting already gave me away as a German Austrian, so that leaves any generic German name. Hesitating a bit, I blurted over the first name I could recall, "Maria... Maria Luisa von Karajan. My grandfather is the governor of the islands. I'm here to help."
Me and my big mouth...
____________________________________________
Achilleion BakeryCorfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
Morning, 19th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
The Achilleion Bakery... God knows why I bothered coming. Taking a sip from the immaculately brewed coffee, I found myself bombarded by small talk from the head baker, evidently eager to curry favour with the 'granddaughter of the governor', or perhaps cracking under the strain of a flagging business. And it's not hard to see why. A quick scan of the dining area revealed few patrons, and out of the group, perhaps only one, maybe two Mediterranean-looking folk, probably Corfoit Italians or Maltese. The rest, to my dismay, were Austrian soldiers and officers, people who have very good reason to be nervous taking a lunch break in front of a royal going incognito. Fortunately, the garrison had some tact not to expose me, though I find it hard to fathom how the baker and his employees fail to notice the growing apprehension centered around an unassuming young girl.
"Sicily," I blurted, "you were one of the evacuees?"
"Yes," Durazzo told me, "when the fascists jackals overran Palermo, I fled as fast as I could to the docks. The Blackshirts would have loved to hang anyone who didn't sing praises for the Il Douche. Bourbon royalists, communists, men of honour..."
Choking on those last words, I found myself coughing up the drops of coffee that had surged down my windpipe, the bitterness of the beans growing sharply. I was not sure if I was concerned at being this close to a mafiosi sympathizer - the soldiers behind me would have certainly sprung into action otherwise - but I was not one to enjoy consorting with criminals. My American tour had already gave me some close calls. And much as I disliked the haphazard methodology of Il Duce's attack dog in Sicily, I admit I would have treated these bandits harshly. Holding up my hand as the panicking baker tried to offer his, I hastily laid down my cup and wiped my mouth with a napkin. On hindsight, I wondered if I was too quick to judge. After all, I had no proof of Durazzo's criminal background. He did not seem like the extortionist thug I picture from Hollywood films.
"Sorry," I apologized, "must be tough for you to be here."
"Quite," he admitted, "the local Greek treat us like pariahs. Perhaps they suspected the Italians would treat them just as harshly as the Ottomans."
"They had the Dodecanese before the Great War," I surmised, "I'm guessing they're basing their suspicions there. In any case, I do hope you could someday return to your home. The Council of Nations may have turned a blind eye, but we won't."
It was a truth laced with falsities, to say the least. Sure, the Austrian government would not ignore the Sicilian refugees now, but had my father not forced their hand, they might have already left the Sicilians to die. The planned dismantlement of the Italian kingdom, celebrated by the Bourbon kings who had their crown stolen by the Savoyards' stooge Garibaldi, had been thwarted with frightening results. With the K.u.K. too weakened to enforce the partition, and their German allies apathetic to a reinvigorated, united Italy, the dreams of a restored Two Sicilies and a Papal States came crashing down at the behest of Mussolini and his goons. How long did the Sicilians last before revolution overran them? Few months? A year or two? The final act of mercy by my father for our failure to protect them was figurative trying to kiss my boot right now... How can I not feel guilty, when I myself looked upon my father's scratch rescue flotilla with such disdain?
"Of course, Your Excellency," the baker mused, "His Majesty is a great man, a most kind ruler."
Too kind, unfortunately...
My eyes peering at the milkmaid waiting by the side with her tray, I could not help but feel my interests piqued. The other store hands, for good reason, kept to themselves, and the local townsfolk seem to avoid the place like the plague. But there was something different about the milkmaid's eyes. It was not anger I was sensing, or at least, it was not just anger. There was a glitter in her eyes that spark of curiosity, a morbid fascination for the other, particularly one of 'enemy' background. That she snuck in to spy on my recital was evidence enough. Maybe I could speak to her more.
"That's quite adorable milkmaid you have," I remarked, "is she local?"
"Ah, I suppose..." the baker answered with a bit of uncertainty, "Diana came in only a week ago. Clumsy girl... but she works hard for her pay."
"A week," I went, peering back at the frightened young teen, "I see."
Her inexperience, as far as I knew, explained her presence so deep inside the Old Fortress, but surely she should have at least known not to wander off in case some guard mistook her as an interloper. Giving a small wave and a smile, I felt some inkling to see the life of a common Greek villager. At least she would not try to stone me, I hope...
____________________________________________
Bus
Near Pelekas, Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
Noon, 19th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
Pelekas, just about a half-hours drive from Corfu. A seaside mountain town overlooking the Adriatic, its inns and eateries were brimming with local and foreign visitors. Like the city itself, many off-duty officers and men have taken to its iconic beach in Avramis for some R&R. Fortunately, I need not try to conceal my identity there, as the bus from the city rolled towards the countryside.
"Umm..." the girl mumbled to me as we set on the half-empty bus, "why're you coming with me?"
"Well, who told you to spy on me while I'm playing the piano. Let's see how you like it when someone intrudes on you," I teased, putting on a fake pout. As I reverted to a smile, I answered honestly, "to be frank, I was planning on visiting the outlying villages at some point, just to see how they feel about the governor's... my grandfather's administration. All I see is him skiving all the time. If he's not doing a good job, he might find himself out of one soon."
"You mean the Einherjar," blurted the milkmaid, looking rather surprised by my scathing remarks. For a moment, I raised an eyebrow when I heard her mention that. Twiddling my thumbs, I felt ashamed to had let his behaviour pass. Old man or not, there was no excuse for his obsessive hobby.
"Nothing but pieces of junk..." I grumbled, leaning my head on the window, "if the world needed a land vehicle, tanks would work perfectly. Tracks can traverse terrain just as well as legs. It's an effort in sheer vanity."
Giggling over my rant, the milkmaid appeared to have lightened up considerably. Sure, I did not exactly appreciate being the butt of jokes, but at least she was willing to open up for a little bit. Swinging her legs, she told me, "I don't really think so... They look like giants to me; collosi standing tall over mortal men. Some can be beautiful too, though most Einherjar are masculine, in design, mh."
Smiling, I remarked, "that doesn't justify having them around. I can make several tanks or planes out of one Einherjar. If you like their aesthetics, you might as well make statues instead. Less complicated and all."
Sharing a laugh, the girl finally introduced herself, "my name is Diana. Diana Michelakos."
"Marie," I answered, "Maria Karajannis."
____________________________________________
Michelakos Farm
Near Pelekas, Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
Afternoon, 19th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
The farm itself seemed quaint. A plain, whitewashed cottage with little barn animals and an orchard, it seemed like an idyllic place for a retirement. Squatting down as I watched a gaggle of ducklings follow their mother along, I could not hide a growing smile on my face. I almost forgot why I even came, or perhaps, this was all a part of my trip.
Welcoming me to her home, Diana stammered a response, "well, this is my house. Just... make yourself at home. I need to tend to the animals."
"I'll help you," I offered my aid, "I don't see anyone else around at the moment. You could probably use an extra hand. Your parents?"
"Uh," blurted the girl, avoiding my gaze as her mood dampened dramatically. I... should probably not have asked. Buttoning my lips, I quickly hammered out an apology in haste.
"Sorry," I said, "I didn't mean to..."
"It's fine," Diana answered in a forlorn, distant voice, "I don't expect you to understand-"
'But I want to understand' was what I felt like saying, but given the situation, I did not think it felt appropriate. Shufflign my legs, I quickly detoured, offering again, "I'll help you. I feel on edge if I don't have anything to do."
My words seem to have taken her by surprise. I suppose she was simply worried about having a girl of higher standing get her hands dirty, but any concern she might have had on that seemed to have disappeared with those words, and thank God for that.
"Ah..." she mused, eyes wide with surprised as she offered to lead me over, "I guess..."
____________________________________________
Avenida de Andalucia, Sevilla, Nationalist-held Spain (Contested)
Noon, 19th April 1936
'Callejón de la muerte' - Death Alley. Defending the vital road junction towards the city centered, the battered companies of the Nationalists' Experimental Mechanized Brigade had been holding out against waves of menacing Republican waves. As artillery finished saturating the zone with high explosives, hordes of Parisian-armed Delescluze mobile weapons are trying for another push. But what the Spaniards and French volunteers have in courage, they lack in talent and leadership. Holding the passage as piles of junked Republican mechs laid before it, a lone red, knight-like Einherjar stood with its sword standing on the ground, hands on the pommel as it silently challenged the enemy pilots. Watching the lone machine from his main camera, the Thorezite commander had no idea what to make of it. It had a unique appearance with no known data in their archives, and it had already laid waste to several squads.
"Sir, should we regroup," a pilot on the intercom pleaded, "that red machin are unstoppable!"
"Never," demanded the commander, irate by the suggestion, "that thing is no match for the people's iron will! It must be running out of power already! One more push, and the road to the city's heart would be open!"
"But sir, that monster singlehandedly took out thirty Mobile Armour," blurted a second, "we can't fight it!"
Drawing his mech's pistol level at the offender, the commander barked, "cowardice will not be tolerated! We are the people's militia! The arm of the new France! These reactionary exiles are but relics of the past! We will vanquish them as the scum they are!"
Raising his pistol as he switched on his loudspeaker, the jumpy squad leader ordered in haste, "onward! Onward to victory, men! He who take the red mecha's head shall earn a lifetime of glory and greater rations! Now go!"
As a chorus of yells radiated into the sky, the opposing pilot observing them, dressed in a scarlet pilot suit and visored helmet, could not help but scowl. Despite her growing body count, she had yet to find any enemy that could put up a real fight, and this time would not be any different.
"Tch, I'm going to need to refuel soon," she told her command, gripping her controls as she braced for latest advance, "these clowns never learn. Alain, you here yet?"
"Really sorry about that, Abbi," a feminine, child-like voice spoke in the radio, "some of the energy cells needed replacing. How long can you hold."
"Three minutes," griped the female pilot, "five minutes maximum. If I die before then, I'll make sure you join me, you hear?"
"Ok, ok~," chimed the receiver, "no need to be so huffy about it~. I'll be right there."
As the Delescluze began to close in, a hail of bullets began to rain upon the French State mech. Raising her massive blade, the red mech diver under the shots, surging forward as its pilot swung its blade at an opponent. Cleaving it by the torso, the mech began to cut down the shocked communists one by one, a mad berserker dashing head on at her competition. Horrified as the first few Delescluze were vanquished, the Republicans began to disintegrate in the face of the dreaded 'knight' before them.
"AHHHHHHHH," screamed one of the desperate pilots, his gun blasting away at the lightning-fast machine, "DIE! DIE! DIE-"
"We can't fight it," wailed another, watching his comrade's mech impaled at the torso cockpit as the enemy turned to him, "fall back! Fall back-"
Observing his ranks thinning rapidly by the vicious red 'knight', the unnerved commander blasted in defiance, "cowards! There will be no fleeing! I will shoot anyone who retreats! Keep fighting!!!"
Unknown to the Thorezites, the red 'knight' was, in fact, wearing thin. Despite her latest display of prowess, the dwindling energy bar on her screen was starting to blare alarms already, annoying her to no end. Frustrated, she demanded, "any time now, Alain!"
"Hold on just a bit more, Abby," a female commander pleaded, "he's almost there."
"I won't be if he doesn't arrive soon," the pilot cursed, "a few more swings and I'll be a sitting duck!"
True enough, with each dodge and swing of her blade, her mech began to glow more sluggish by the second. Her will to compel her machine was steadily proving insufficient, as its power whittled away from the Republicans' reckless onslaught. Impaling her last mech, her machine finally gave away to the inevitable. Kneeling down, the mech's eyes finally dimmed as the jittered girl tried to force the controls again. This time, there would be no answer, and no way out.
"Shit," she cursed, yanking at the controls with all her strength, "get up, you piece of junk! Get up!"
"T-that thing stopped," spoke one of the Thorezite pilots, bewildered by the sight of the Nationalist going silent. Cackling madly, however, the commander hissed, "HA HAHAHAHAHA! It's out of juice!? This must be my lucky day! What the hell are you standing around for!? I want that legionnaire rat carved apart like a pig!"
Sweat rolling down her nose as she saw the hordes of Delescluzes drawing their blades, the female pilot could only grit her teeth at the inevitable. Her hands still yanking at the controls, she could only hope against God that her mech come to life. But just as one of the Delescluze loomed overhead with his chopper, a shadow suddenly hit the ground with a thundering impact. Dust and debris kicking up in a giant plume, the stunned Reds found themselves blinded, and confused.
"W-What was that," one of the Reds cried out, his screens clouded with dust. Without warning, the Delescluzes were run through by the mysterious interloper, its shadow barely visible in the dust cloud as the frustrated commander watched. As it finally cleared, the gleaming facade of the assailant was standing before its comrade, sword on hand as it readies to take on the last few Reds.
"Who dares face Alain Fabian," cried out the silver mech to the Thorezites, brandishing its lance before them, "the Blade of Oran challenges you!" Hailing his opponents with his speaker, the young effiminate-looking boy with strawberry pink hair with black ribbons gripped his controls with anticipation, wearing a long braid and dressed in a pink pilot suit.
Red with outrage, and with much of his squad now decimated, the commander himself could not help but grip his controls. His first thoughts, much to his consecration, was to flee. But to do so was to risk imprisonment or execution for cowardice, an unthinkable prospect for any Armée rouge soldier. The alternative was to face another uphill battle against the newcomer, in defence of his weakened ally. Veins pulsing at his temples, he screamed at his remaining soldiers to push forward. But the mass of scrap before them told a different story, and one they were slowly catching on.
"F-fall back," a pilot declared over the radio, cracking under pressure. Like a cascade, the offending Delescluze began turning around, driving at full speed towards the Republican lines. But a shot into its engine caused his machine to explode, the metal goliath falling forward as the blast ripped it apart. Its killer, much to everyone's shock, was not Alain.
"Coward," yelled the Thorezite commander, his mech's rifle smoking at it remained trained at the fallen deserter, "I will not tolerate defeatists in our ranks!"
Taken aback, Alain yelled through his speaker instinctively, "what the hell is wrong with you!? He's your ally!"
"Do not criticise me, traitor," blasted the commander, increasingly irate as his mech pointed angrily at him, "the new France has no place for weak-willed revisionists! Exiles who cling on to the obsolete ways of the Third Republic will be swept aside by revolution! You cannot fight the inevitable!"
Pouting, the boy muted his speaker for a moment, commenting to his comrades on the radio, "what's he yapping about? I'm Canadian."
"Just get rid of him," Abby grunted, "take him out, and the rest would surrender or flee. People like him are unworthy to lead others into battle. That goes for everyone."
"I guess," Alain replied, licking his fang as he prepared his lance. Turning his speaker back on, he announced, "I don't know what this revolution is, Mister, but if you drop your weapons now, I won't have to kill you. Same for everyone else here. What do you say~?"
"Silence," berated the officer, finally charging forth with his blade as the Delescluze flailed like a madman. Alain did not even need to try. A swift charge of his mech, lance couched, surged forth in a blink of an eye. Within second, it punched a great hole right in the opposing mech's torso, the Red commander presumably vaporized, mangled or crushed by metal. Watching their commander fall, Commune morale finally shattered beyond recovery. Those that did not flee at the sight of Alain's machine hurriedly the mech's equipment in surrender. Heaving a sigh of relief as she laid her head on the dashboard, Abby could not believe her bad luck.
"What kept you, ladyboy," she grumbled, "they nearly chopped me up like a pig."
"Sorry, sorry," chimed Alain, playfully making a carefree pose with his mech, "repairs took a bit longer than I thought. Good news is, you're still here. I'll carry you back. The Nats are bringing in reinforcements already."
Abby's watch was over for the moment. As Nationalist tanks and mechs of various assortments arrived to take over the defences, the red Legionnaire machine was being carried off by the shoulder by her comrade. Not the most glamourous change of guard, perhaps, but at least they were still alive to fight again, in the endless quagmire that was Sevilla.
____________________________________________
Forward Nationalist Army HQ
Universidad de Sevilla, Sevilla, Nationalist-held Spain
Noon, 19th April 1936
Arriving back at the HQ grounds as Nationalist mechanics and soldiers hurried with maintenance and supply, the disgruntled blonde legionnaire could only kick the dirt with a pout, her emerald eyes glaring at the girlish partner she was assigned with. With frazzled golden hair tied into a bunch, she seemed like a perfect contrast to Alain. Brash, tomboyish, and fiery, Abigail Remington lacked the feminine charm of a noble lady. Indeed, even Alain was more of a 'girl' than her, despite his... 'equipment'.
"Abby, you alright," declared a bespectacled young girl in a lab coat, rushing over as her short, silvery bob fluttered in the breeze.
"Barely, Celine," Abby griped, "I nearly got swarmed by grunts earlier."
"I'm sorry," Celine blurted timidly, upset by the girl's words, "the Astolpho's batteries were close to melting. I needed to let them cool down before I could change them."
"No, it's not your fault..." Abby tried to assure her, looking away with a blush as she felt a pang of guilt at her rant, "that ladyboy's just a bundle. He knows his Mobile Weapon can't take dashes too frequently..."
"They're not called 'exploding coffins' for nothing, Abby," teased said ladyboy, "you should be lucky you're piloting a Paladin instead."
Skipping in with another blonde girl in a dark violet pilot suit , Alain appeared nonplussed, hands behind his head as he winked gingerly at the British legionnaire. Watching the girl berate her partner over his teasing, the French commander could not help but give a soft smile. A French State commander leading a squad from the famed French Foreign Legion was not for the faint of heart. But seeing the bonds between her men in such trying times, it was hard not to see why the French State still survive, banished from the continent by the communist scourge.
"Alright, enough chatter," chimed the commander, "we can save that when we hit the showers. And, no, Alain, you go to the mens'. We're not going to pretend you're just a child or a girl at heart for whatever reason you can think of."
"But it's so boring heading there alone," Alain whined, "all the guys talk about is ball games and dirty jokes. They say I'm a sissy."
"You are a sissy, Alain," Abby sneered, "who here ever heard of a dandy boy in the Legion? People might think the recruiters are desperate."
"And who ever heard of a butch in the Legion," Alain teased, "maybe the lads might not notice if you join us~."
"You bloody man-bitch..."
However, before they could continue, a large shadow cast over the pilots as they noticed a familar facade. Lumbering to the hangars were the infamous Einherjars, its momoeyes swerving around as it scanned the area. Besides the familiar Jotunn Is and IIs that made up Germany's mainstay weapons, the legionnaires could see the towering facade of some of their less well-known weapons. From the Bantu-looking Dschinn to the thuggish Dvergers. There was even a Minuteman walking anong the pack, painted in a grim green hue with the Prussian iron cross emblazoned on its shield. But the one that stood out was the purple, spiky Dverger type. Something seemed... off about it, not unlike their own ace custom mechs.
"What, did the Jerries finally care enough to help," Alain remarked, significantly less cheerful than before as he watched the German machines dock.
"Bullshit," grunted Abby, "they're here to test their new toys. They even have a Minuteman to play with. Probably trying to test its specs.
Ahead, they could see the German pilots getting off their mechs, as the Nationalist commanders breifed their new German allies on the proceedings. From the looks of it, many of the mechs seemed to be simple deliveries to the Nationalists, but the sheer number of German troops told a very different story.
"Ah, Captain Domrémy-la-Pucelle," went a monotonous voice, interrupting the legionnaires, "I see you've done with your rounds."
Approaching the Free French, a pale-skinned, almost demonic-looking officer glared sullenly as the new German reinforcements followed behind. Saluting, the French commander responded dryly, "Major Iglesias, what a surprise. I see your shipment of Einherjar has arrived. How unexpected..."
"Yes," stated the major in his monotone, "well, we've had problems trying to avoid interception from the Commune fleet, but here we are. Oh, I would like you to meet Corvette Captain (Lt. Com.) Emil Löwenhardt, from the Imperial German Navy marines. Major, Commander, this is Captain Jeanne de Domrémy-la-Pucelle of the French Foreign Legion."
"Ah, a great honour, Captain," Emil greeted, offering a hand to the legionnaire, "I've heard your men had done a number on the Republicans assaulting the eastern approach. Such strength with so little... No wonder the Communards could not vanquish you.
Forcing a sarcastic smile on her face, Abby answered wryly, "that would be terrible, wouldn't it? One less distraction at the demilitarized zone. Who would have thought that a nation heavily saddled with a clipping war debt would break out in revolution?"
Focusing their gaze at the legionnaire, the German pilots and even the other legionnaires did not appear too amused with Abby's offhand remark. The French captain, in particular, seemed all too nervous, worried about the Briton's provocation, Observing the spunky young woman, a sullen-looking German with a chiseled jaw questioned coldly, "Miss, you seem to imply that the Red Revolution was somehow our fault."
Ignoring her commander's nervous head-shaking at her, Abby retorted gleefully, "oh, no, I'd never imply something like that... not at all. Instead, I'll flat out point out the fact that had your emperor not saddled the French Republic with three lifetimes of reparations, stripped the northern border of its resources and plied the balls off the French military with a pair of rusty tweezers, we wouldn't be wasting our time fighting this mess... Or do you people get a kick at sending Marxists to cause trouble across your borders?"
The Germans' mood, to no surprise, considerably soured, its pilots glaring at Abby with malice. The female in the group, a young woman with curly strawberry red hair, looked absolutely livid, ready to sock a punch right into Abby's jaw. But for all their ire, Emil himself seemed nonplussed over her insults. Raising a hand to hold back his subordinates, he replied with a sarcastic smirk, "oh, we would never dare. The Bolshevik and Communard Revolutions were... grave miscalculations. We had little idea just how dangerous they could become once in control of their countries. Their toxic brand of far-leftist agitation would never make them friends of Europe. Which is fortunate the French Republic still survive. If your people require assistance holding down the Arabs and Bantus, we'll be more than happy to extend a hand. At least, we're in a better position to assist than the Anglo-Americans, cowering behind their walls of sea like little turtles."
Jeanne could sense how the conversation was going. Paling at the sight of Abby's rapidly souring face, she could tell he had hit a sore spot. She doubted if Emil even knew she was British, given their status as French-speaking legionnaires, but just the suggestion that the Free French should beg Berlin for help was enough to raise anyone's ire. Her other subordinates fared little better. Alain's usual preppy face was distorted by shame, and Celine could not even look at the Germans eye to eye. As for Abby, well, she was tempted to break the major's jaws herself. Stepping in in front of Abby, she quickly apologized, "I'm sorry, you have to forgive her. She's... not happy with exile. We all aren't."
"Captain," blasted Abby, clearly outraged at Jeanne's apology, "don't apologize! Who do you think landed you and Celine in this situation!? Signing a surrender agreement at Versailles to these animals!? Living in constant fear of a native uprising or communist takeover!? Where have your sense of pride and arrogance gone!? Do you really think they would want France united again, and able to challenge them-"
"I said 'that's enough'," Jeanne finally snapped, raising her voice as she silenced the fiery pilot. Bowing her head as she gazed at Abby's shocked eyes, Jeanne ordered, "I said 'that's enough', Remington. Talking back at a superior officer. I'll deal with you at the HQ later. Again, Major Löwenhardt, I apologize for my subordinate's behaviour. I will with her accordingly."
To her surprise, Emil's smirk faded immediately, heaving a sigh of relief as if able to drop his act. Putting back a serious look, he answered, "no need... I've seen this before. To be honest, I got carried away a bit too. I apologize for any injury I've done to your people."
"But I stand by my words when I said that Versailles was a just enough settlement," he proceeded to insist, this time in a burning, stern conviction, "you have no idea how much more our politicians desired to humiliate the Entente. Tell me, legionnaires; if we were in Versailles to negotiate not the Entente's surrender, but the Central Powers, what do you think your governments would have done? Do you honestly believe they will treat us as gallant losers and be magnanimous? Or do you think the penalties imposed on the French nation would be forced upon us instead? You yourselves know the answer to that."
Buttoning her lips, Abby's boiling anger had slowly given way, bitter over the major's crude critique of the Entente. Despite everything she said of the Germans, there was something of Emil's words that really made her dread. What would the Entente had not done if the Central Powers were the broken party? Why would the French not be tempted to exact vengeance for their humiliation by the rising Prussian kingdom? Why would the British not take the opportunity to expand their already massive colonial empire? In another world, Emil would be the one ranting at her over the unjust penalties forced by the victors, instead of her. And who would blame him? Chivalry in the modern age, despite her reservations, seemed truly dead.
"In any case," Emil said, "this isn't the time nor place for politics. Save that anger for the communists waiting outside the city. We're going to need it. If you excuse us..."
"Yes," Jeanne merely blurted, "another time then."
Watching the Germans take their leave, Jeanne could only rub her eyes at the entire episode. Abby's outburst, while uncalled for, was understandable to an extent. Though, why she would speak up for the Free French was still beyond her. As a legionnaire, she had no obligation to France itself. Was it something personal she was frustrated about?
"Abby, what's the last article of the Legion's code of honour," Jeanne reminded her. Biting her lip, the Briton muttered grudgingly, "act without passion and without hate... respect defeated enemies... don't abandon your dead, wounded or arms."
"Exactly," Jeanne stated, "Abby, I know you're a brilliant pilot, but there are times when you act with anger, especially now. I appreciate you speaking up for us, but that's not your job. Like it or not, we're on the same side, for now. Treat them as such. As for your punishment... I'll let Alain decide."
Giving a small chuckle at their distraught expressions as they exclaimed of each other, Jeanne felt that she had reclaimed some measure of ease. The battle for Spain was not just a civil conflict, but a defence against the red flood on the Straits of Gibraltar. But the trials of the French Foreign Legion, the one remnant of the Third Republic not to be divided by the révolution rouge, was far from over. Should Seville fall, there would be nothing left to separate the Parisian radicals and their exiled rivals in Algiers.
Cast:
- Austrian Crownlands (Austria-Hungary)
- Princess Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine (CV: 西木野 真姫)
- Achilleion Bakery (Austria-Hungary)
- Giuseppe Durazzo (CV: ?)
- Corfiot Greeks (Austria-Hungary)
- Diana Michelakos (CV: あひる)
- French Foreign Legion (French State)
- Captaine (OF-2) Jeanne de Domrémy-la-Pucelle (CV: ジャンヌ・ダルク)
- Lieutenant (OF-1) Celine Villenueve (CV: マシュ・キリエライト)
- Sous-Lieutenant (OF-1) Abigail 'Abby' Remington (CV: モードレッド)
- Sous-Lieutenant (OF-1) Alain Fabian (CV: アストルフォ)
- Spanish Army (Nationalist Spain)
- Comandante (OF-3) Javier Iglesias Perez (ウルキオラ・シファー)
- Iron Legion (Germany)
- Korvettenkapitän (OF-2) Emil Löwenhardt (center) (CV: エリク・ブランケ)
- Leutnant zur See (OF-1) Adolf Bösch (right) (CV: アイロス・バーデ)
- Leutnant zur See (OF-1) Franz Ziegler (left) (CV: フリッツ・バウアー)
- Leutnant zur See (OF-1) Hilda Dreyer (CV: ヒルデ・ニーチェ)
Einherjar/Mobile Weapons
- Forces terrestres de l'armée rouge (French Commune)
- SNCA (Société nationale des constructions automatisation) Delescluze
- The mainstay weapon of the French Red Army, the Delescluze, named after the leader of the failed Paris Uprising in 1871, was the first Einherjar to be designed and built by the Commune's national armaments branch, the société nationale des constructions automatisation. Cheap, simple, and easily mass produced, the Delescluze has exported the weapon to several socialist-aligned nations in South America, as well as rebel groups throughout the colonial empires.
- SNCA (Société nationale des constructions automatisation) Delescluze
- Armée de terre française libre (French State)
- Caudron-Renault Paladin
- Caudron-Renault Roland
- The winning design for the French State's mech design contest, the Caudron-Renault Paladin epitomizes the will of the exiled Free French and their traditionalist values. A limited production mech designed for breakthrough and exploitation, the Paladin had found its way into the hands of top commanders and ace pilots alike. The much-vaunted French Foreign Legion, in particular, has many Paladin pilots among its ranks, some of whom have taken to customizing them to suit their own style of combat. Abby's custom Paladin, the Roland, is designed for close quarters, sacrificing ranged abilities in favour of an anti-ship sword. Its distinctive red paint job, more often associated with their communist rivals in the mainland, have earned Abigail much scorn from both her superiors and enemies alike. Nonetheless, the Roland is a deadly weapon in the hands of a skilled pilot, and its knightly facade reflects well on its pilot, herself part of the British peerage.
- Caudron-Renault Oliver
- Decked in shields, the Oliver is Celine's personal Paladin mobile weapon. Coloured in a silver sheen, it is a stark contrast to the violent close-quarters type driven by Abigail. Far from a showpiece, the reinforced shields provide additional protection from kinetic rounds, while the silver paint is designed to reflect heat beams, a weapons science still in development by the major powers. Thus far, it had not seen extensive action, due to Celine's role as a technician and field test researcher for the French State military.
- Caudron-Renault Roland
- Hotchkiss-Berguet Dragon
- Hotchkiss-Berguet Astolpho
- Alain's personal Mobile Weapon, the Astolpho was one of the variant designs of the Hotchkiss-Berguet's Paladin design, which ultimately lost out to Caudron-Renault. Despite this, it was redubbed the Dragon ('dragoon') as a commander mech, often custom designed to the pilot's specifications. In Alain's case, the Astolpho is armed with a lance and powerful thrusters to deliver a crushing blow to any opponent
- Hotchkiss-Berguet Clovis
- Jeanne's personal Mobile Weapon. A commander-type Dragon, the Clovis is armed with only head-mounted electro-gatling (Vulcan) guns and an anti-mech sword. While a proficient pilot, Jeanne preferred commanding from the sidelines, coordinating her forces with the Clovis' powerful radar and radio equipment.
- Hotchkiss-Berguet Astolpho
- Caudron-Renault Paladin
- Deutsches Heer/Kaiserliche Marine (Germany)
- Pzkpfw. Jotunn I
- Pzkpfw. Jotunn II
- Successor to the Jotunn I, the Jotunn II was the mainstay weapon of the Germany army until the recent introduction of the Jotunn III. While sidelined as a reserve, it is extensively sold to friendly countries, including the Nationalists under Franco.
- Pzkpfw. Dschinn
- A limited production, high mobiity Einherjar, the Dschinn (German for 'genie/djinn') breaks the trend of German naming conventions after Norse mythology. Named for its Bantu-style shield, the Dschinn was formerly intended as a garrison unit for Germany's African colonies. However, its combat performance attracted praise from the military, who insisted on putting it into greater production. Now a more agile complement to the heavily-armoured, hard-hitting Dverger, the Dschinn is currently deployed in breakthrough exploitation and guerrilla-hunting.
- Pzkpfw. Schwarzalfar
- PZkpfw. Schwarzalfar Nacht
- Aesthetically similar to the Dverger series, the Schwarzalfar hover between the Dverger and the Dschinn in terms of capability. Having lost the design competition to the Dschinn, the Schwarzalfar's few mechs are now relegated for assignment to commander units. Emil's personal weapon, the Schwarzalfar Nacht, is one such suit.
- PZkpfw. Schwarzalfar Nacht
- Pzkpfw. MW-01(a) Gefangener Minutemann
- Unusual among the Iron Legion's arsenal, the Gefangener Minuteman is one of several Republican Spanish weapons captured by the Nationalists, likely pre-war stocks or purchases from pro-Republican American financiers. While the Iron Legion has no shortage of weapons delivered from Germany, the German High Command does have a lack of information on foreign weaponry. Hence, as part of their operational goals in Spain, the Iron Legion is currently field-testing the Gefangener Minutemann against its former owners. As added insult, Iron Legion crewmen have even added an extra 'n' as a joke in field documentation ('mann', being the German word for 'man), to emphasize its status as a captured weapon. So far, only one known Minuteman is being deployed by the Germans, with several more (both captured pre war stocks and added purchased from America) being employed by the Nationalists.
Last edited:
Part 6
- Location
- Singapore
Michelakos Farm
Near Pelekas, Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
Afternoon, 19th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
Urgh... not what I imagined of a farm... If there was one thing I learned, that being a farmer was not easy. At all. The daily toil at the barn, clearing the foul-smelling dung off the pens... I could not imagine myself ever taking to such hard labour. No wonder people had such low opinions of the aristocracy. Those who are unused to such work had no right to pretend to understand the ways of common folk. Not that I would count myself an exception, not even now.
Filling the feedlot with hay, I could see the waning sun bathing the sky with a pleasant amber. I was worried I might be more trouble to her than a help, and her awkward smile did not help reassure me at all. I was sure she just did not want to anger me, as a peasant would to a lord. Many times, she ended up calling me 'Your Excellency', even if I was, as the persona of a governor's relative, a common folk. As a wiped the sweat off on my now eerily brown handkerchief, I could at least appreciate the life people like her were going through.
"It's been hard on you, Y-... Marie," Diana congratulated me with a more sincere smile, "I had a lot to do now that my brother is out. I didn't think I could finish by nightfall without you."
"Don't be silly," Marie admitted, "I probably caused a fair bit of trouble than I should. It's pretty shameful of me, actually, pressing you to indulge me."
Giggling, the Greek replied, "I guess, but it's rare to see a noblewoman on a farm. It's quite funny, actually."
Yes... a fair bit of laughter at the blueblood was rare indeed, I suppose...
Later...
Seated at the table as the overhead electric lamp illuminated the dining room, I found Diana's hospitality a lot warmer than when I initially came. It must have taken a lot for her to open up to me, at least by a bit, and I wonder if she truly appreciated what little help this hopeless farmhand could give. A simple plate of pilaf with a side of feta cheese and Venetian-influenced Pastitsio was all she could offer, but for me, the lavish restaurants and royal kitchens could never stand up to such a simple homecooked meal.
"This is good," I squealed like a child as I tasted the pasta, much to her surprise, "did you make it yourself?"
"Y-yes," Diana told me, "my brother and I had had to take care of ourselves from a young age, so I learned to cook. Our parents died when we were just children, so we've had to maintain the farm ourselves."
"Oh," I went, a bit dampened by the mood, "my condolences. Must hard for you..."
"No, no," she denied, shaking her head vigorously, "that was a long time ago... We're much better now. No need to worry about us."
I was sure she was just trying to reassure me. The awkward smile straining not to twist into a grimace said as much. I wished I was not so blunt all the time. A lifetime of court intrigue should have made me better at nuanced chatter, but I suspect I had taken too much of a liking for trading barbs. Before I could ponder on the consequences of my gaffe, a knock on the door interrupted our talk. At first, I feared Arigi's MPs may have finally found me. Fortunately or not, it was Greek tongue coming through the door.
"Diana," a young man's voice called out from outside, "I'm home!"
"Big brother," squealed the girl, hopping off the chair as she raced to welcome the newcomer. Stepping in, a tanned, rugged young lad with dark hair and eyes greeted his sister with a hug, a string of dried octopi slung behind his back. Dressed in overalls, the slight scent of the sea suggested that he had been out fishing. Must be hard for both of them to be out at work at this age...
"How was your trip," Diana exclaimed, marvelling at the sun-dried seafood.
"Nothing much," the lad declared, "been out all day fishing. Got me quite a haul this time. Oh, this is..."
Turning his attention to the suspicious-looking stranger in dressed-down office wear, the young man was probably trying to comprehend the situation. My eyes shifted to the nervous younger Michelakos, I wondered if I should make the introductions myself. Diana, however, seemed to have decided to exchange the greetings herself. Bringing her brother to the table, she appeared to be struggling not to anger her brother over my presence.
"Oh, this is Miss Marie von Karajan," she introduced, "her grandfather is the governor here. Came all the way from Vienna to help him. Marie, this is my brother, Apostolos. You can call him 'Apollo'."
"Apollo and Diana..." I remarked with bemusement, "children of Jupiter. I'd think 'Artemis' fits better though, context-wise."
"Don't be silly," Diana blurted, equally amused by my jest. Her brother, however...
"Karajan," he uttered, narrowing his eyes with skepticism, "don't you mean that Viennese aristocrat?"
"Well, yes," I admitted, trying not to offend, "I just thought I wanted to get to know the locals better-"
"You had your answer," the young man growled unexpectedly as if a simmering temper was building within him, "you had your answer the day you marched your armies onto our islands. My mother wept the day our king signed away our home to you yokels. Haven't you tormented us enough?"
He was angry. Of course, he would be... After all, one fine day out at sea and he was face to face with an Austrian swine sitting at his dinner table. Why else would anyone be mad? But what bothered me most was his statement, drawing a line in the sand between me and the two siblings. For Greeks like him, he owed his fealty to the distant Athenian king, Constantine I, not to the Emperor or his representatives in the mainland.
"Michelakos," I spoke in a more serious tone, straightening out my posture at his stinging remarks, "I mean no disrespect. If you insist on holding on to your Greek citizenship, I cannot stop you. But the Versailles treaty had assigned the Ionian Islands to Austrian rule. Therefore, as a subject of the Emperor and King, I have a duty to safeguard the rights of the islanders here."
"Oh, do you," the boy shot back sarcastically, his frightened sister trying to restrain him, "from what are you guarding us against? Ourselves? Don't bullshit with me, German. This was a land grab. Your forefathers may be Greek once, but you 're fooling anyone here. You're nothing but a pack of conquerors stamping on Greek soil."
I tried my hardest not to be snide. Alone, I would have listed out the myriad reasons why this was not Greek land anymore. The Greek king he seemed to worship ironically supported neutrality in the face of war. But his government was too easily tempted by the prize hovered over them by the Entente, and acted accordingly. This was their price for betraying their king and giving in to their lust for conquest. What happened after was simply their retribution, a price exacted by the people they had so eagerly fought.
Not that I should point out any of that to him, not with Diana so distressed by the fight...
"I think you must be famished," I stated in relent, dropping the snide remarks for Diana's sake, "I best not keep you waiting. If you want to continue, by all means. But I'd rather not distress Diana any further."
The boy, thankfully, had some measure of conscience. Looking back at his sister, his wild rage seemed to have been smothered, his contorted grimace waning away to concern. Leaning back as his pulled arm slackened, he apologized in a grudging tone, "sorry. I got carried away. You should leave. It's dangerous to be alone around these parts."
Bowing respectfully to the two, I flashed one last smile to the girl as I hastily took my leave. No doubt, her brother would want her as far away from me as possible from now on. Taking my vest, I slowly closed the door behind me. The sight of the hopeful Greek girl staring back... it was quite a haunting sight to behold.
Pelekas, Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
Dusk, 19th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
Pelekas at night seemed more lively now than it was in the day. While the grocers and markets of the day had largely closed, the scene was replaced with nightly clubs and bazaars. All around, tourists, sailors, and soldiers took to the parties around town. It almost felt like a different town altogether, with the stern overseer of the sun replaced by its more lax, waning lunar counterpart.
Wandering through the bustling resort nightlife, I had to ponder what came out of the whole meeting. At first, I felt that as long as I reached out to at least one local; someone who could believe there was a better life awaiting him under our guidance, then I could still claim to have done something right. But hate, as I feared, still ran deep among the people, even if they did not air it. I did not want to judge based on one single family, but I could not shake off the feeling that there are many more Greeks just like Apollo, bitter over the conquest of their home by a foreign people, even if it was not their mortal enemies from the East.
"Had fun, Your Highness?"
Lo and behold, the familiar face of the one-eyed ace presented himself before me, slowing his sidecar equipped motorcycle beside me. Just a glance was enough for me to break into a smile, the ungainly passenger seat ruining the image of the suave pilot on his two-wheeled DKW. Boarding the sidecar as I strapped on the helmet and seatbelt, I felt a slight urge to run off in jest. But Apollo had a point, this was no place for a child this time of night.
Riding along the mountain road, Arigi queried, "aren't you going to ask how I found you?"
"Please," I remarked, holding up my watch on my wrist, "how long did you think I wasn't going to find out? A shortwave tracker, linked to the base. If I wanted to be left alone for real, I'd have smashed it already."
"Yes, yes," the young man agreed with a chuckle, "you wanted to see the mood on the ground without soldiers or agents sticking close to you. That's why I gave you the watch. Truth be told, however, it is rather dangerous to go out on your own. Remember, this is occupied territory still. Surely, you don't want to go the way of the late Archduke."
"Sixteen years and we still call this 'occupied territory'," I mused, a bit disappointed at the idea, "how long would it take not to call it that?"
"Generations, maybe never," Arigi responded, "as long as people remember the injustices imposed by others, they will continue to fight back. That is why we are trying to treat them kindly, to show the Ionian Greeks and Italians we are not their enemy. But ideas are harder to destroy. So long as the dream of an Eastern Roman Empire restored burns, there will always be people willing to resist."
"EOEA," I went, recalling the Greek acronym of the Hellenic separatist group, "there has to be a way... How's the investigation going?"
"Still no sign of EOEA activity, my liege," Johan answered, "if they are hiding among us, it'll be hard to spot. They may have friends all over the islands and beyond. I don't think leniency would pay in this regard."
"And the Ottomans," I asked of their situation. Part of me wondered then if I should have broached the topic. In silence, the cyclist tuned in on the portable built-in radio on his vehicle. As the first words cracked to life on the speaker, it began to deliver an ominous sign to its listeners.
Listening to the broadcast, I felt a sense of unease at the growing chaos. While the situation in the Ottoman mainland seemed stable for the moment, the idea that the separatists' trump card was still out there would probably bring more undue pressure on the Greek kingdom and its neighbours. But where else would they hit next? The Ottoman mainland? Bulgaria's Black Sea coast? Corfu?
"By the way," Arigi informed me, "a missive just came in from Vienna this afternoon. Looks like they're cutting short your forced vacation."
"Oh," I queried, "what is it?"
"They want you to go to Trabzon," he answered with interest, "the Sultan is holding a summit to discuss the population transfers with the Greek government, and likely, to discuss the Swan."
Trabzon... I had a feeling it would come to this. Given our stake in the crisis, my father and his cabinet would have surely wanted a voice in the matter, someone... with charm.
Near Pelekas, Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
Dusk, 19th April 1936
Diana Michelakos
What have I done?
My hands firmly clasped on my chest, I could hardly face my brother at all. His temper seemed to have cooled for now, but from the looks of it, he still seemed shaken by Marie's stay. And who could blame him? He had so much hate in him since our parents died... There was not a waking day he did not curse the Turks' name.
"Brother, I didn't tell her anything," I tried to assure him, "I swear. She was just helping out with the farm. I didn't want to upset her."
Wiping his face, my brother seemed deeply disappointed. For a moment, I thought he was about to explode again. Stretching his hand out, he made a flick on my forehead as I yelped in a slight tinge of pain. Watching me rub the sore spot, he let out a deep sigh.
"You idiot, it's not that I'm worried about," he told me, "she could have been from the police or Austrian counterintelligence. Why the hell would she approach you out of the blue."
"Well..." I admitted, "I sort of eavesdropped on her when I was at the Old Fortress... I guess that's why? Besides, she's around the same age as us. Why'd she be counter-intelligence?"
"Dear God..." he grumbled, "Diana, do you know who the hell you are? Never mind... Just... Just promise me you'll stay away from her, ok?"
Nodding my head in silence, I felt kind of... disappointed. I could tell Marie was not the kind of fiend my brother kept making the Austrians out to be. She had such a refined but frank tongue, and a beautiful smile. She was almost like a princess, probably because she was an aristocrat. She seemed determined to understand us, even those who disagreed with her. I would rather not fight her if I could. Maybe if she understood what we wanted...
"Besides which," my brother queried again, "did she go to the granary?"
Shaking my head, I stated, "no. We were busy with the livestock the whole time. It's not harvesting season, so there's no reason for us to go there."
"Good," he uttered, lowering his head in thought, "would be a horror if she found it inside. We've just received orders from CP. We're moving out to Trebizond tonight."
"Trebizond," I blurted, "now?"
"This just came up on our intel," my brother informed me, "the Sultan and his spawns will be there, as well as His Majesty. CP suspects they're going to shake him down for every last concession. We're going there to 'dissuade' them."
"Dissuade," I said, my eyes widening with shock, "you mean..."
"Get the Kyknos," he ordered, "we'll show those animals who they're dealing with."
The way he spoke, the bloodlust on his lips... It scared me just to hear it. I did not want to hear it anymore... I just want to be a normal farm girl...
I just want us to be happy...
Near Pelekas, Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
Afternoon, 19th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
Urgh... not what I imagined of a farm... If there was one thing I learned, that being a farmer was not easy. At all. The daily toil at the barn, clearing the foul-smelling dung off the pens... I could not imagine myself ever taking to such hard labour. No wonder people had such low opinions of the aristocracy. Those who are unused to such work had no right to pretend to understand the ways of common folk. Not that I would count myself an exception, not even now.
Filling the feedlot with hay, I could see the waning sun bathing the sky with a pleasant amber. I was worried I might be more trouble to her than a help, and her awkward smile did not help reassure me at all. I was sure she just did not want to anger me, as a peasant would to a lord. Many times, she ended up calling me 'Your Excellency', even if I was, as the persona of a governor's relative, a common folk. As a wiped the sweat off on my now eerily brown handkerchief, I could at least appreciate the life people like her were going through.
"It's been hard on you, Y-... Marie," Diana congratulated me with a more sincere smile, "I had a lot to do now that my brother is out. I didn't think I could finish by nightfall without you."
"Don't be silly," Marie admitted, "I probably caused a fair bit of trouble than I should. It's pretty shameful of me, actually, pressing you to indulge me."
Giggling, the Greek replied, "I guess, but it's rare to see a noblewoman on a farm. It's quite funny, actually."
Yes... a fair bit of laughter at the blueblood was rare indeed, I suppose...
Later...
Seated at the table as the overhead electric lamp illuminated the dining room, I found Diana's hospitality a lot warmer than when I initially came. It must have taken a lot for her to open up to me, at least by a bit, and I wonder if she truly appreciated what little help this hopeless farmhand could give. A simple plate of pilaf with a side of feta cheese and Venetian-influenced Pastitsio was all she could offer, but for me, the lavish restaurants and royal kitchens could never stand up to such a simple homecooked meal.
"This is good," I squealed like a child as I tasted the pasta, much to her surprise, "did you make it yourself?"
"Y-yes," Diana told me, "my brother and I had had to take care of ourselves from a young age, so I learned to cook. Our parents died when we were just children, so we've had to maintain the farm ourselves."
"Oh," I went, a bit dampened by the mood, "my condolences. Must hard for you..."
"No, no," she denied, shaking her head vigorously, "that was a long time ago... We're much better now. No need to worry about us."
I was sure she was just trying to reassure me. The awkward smile straining not to twist into a grimace said as much. I wished I was not so blunt all the time. A lifetime of court intrigue should have made me better at nuanced chatter, but I suspect I had taken too much of a liking for trading barbs. Before I could ponder on the consequences of my gaffe, a knock on the door interrupted our talk. At first, I feared Arigi's MPs may have finally found me. Fortunately or not, it was Greek tongue coming through the door.
"Diana," a young man's voice called out from outside, "I'm home!"
"Big brother," squealed the girl, hopping off the chair as she raced to welcome the newcomer. Stepping in, a tanned, rugged young lad with dark hair and eyes greeted his sister with a hug, a string of dried octopi slung behind his back. Dressed in overalls, the slight scent of the sea suggested that he had been out fishing. Must be hard for both of them to be out at work at this age...
"How was your trip," Diana exclaimed, marvelling at the sun-dried seafood.
"Nothing much," the lad declared, "been out all day fishing. Got me quite a haul this time. Oh, this is..."
Turning his attention to the suspicious-looking stranger in dressed-down office wear, the young man was probably trying to comprehend the situation. My eyes shifted to the nervous younger Michelakos, I wondered if I should make the introductions myself. Diana, however, seemed to have decided to exchange the greetings herself. Bringing her brother to the table, she appeared to be struggling not to anger her brother over my presence.
"Oh, this is Miss Marie von Karajan," she introduced, "her grandfather is the governor here. Came all the way from Vienna to help him. Marie, this is my brother, Apostolos. You can call him 'Apollo'."
"Apollo and Diana..." I remarked with bemusement, "children of Jupiter. I'd think 'Artemis' fits better though, context-wise."
"Don't be silly," Diana blurted, equally amused by my jest. Her brother, however...
"Karajan," he uttered, narrowing his eyes with skepticism, "don't you mean that Viennese aristocrat?"
"Well, yes," I admitted, trying not to offend, "I just thought I wanted to get to know the locals better-"
"You had your answer," the young man growled unexpectedly as if a simmering temper was building within him, "you had your answer the day you marched your armies onto our islands. My mother wept the day our king signed away our home to you yokels. Haven't you tormented us enough?"
He was angry. Of course, he would be... After all, one fine day out at sea and he was face to face with an Austrian swine sitting at his dinner table. Why else would anyone be mad? But what bothered me most was his statement, drawing a line in the sand between me and the two siblings. For Greeks like him, he owed his fealty to the distant Athenian king, Constantine I, not to the Emperor or his representatives in the mainland.
"Michelakos," I spoke in a more serious tone, straightening out my posture at his stinging remarks, "I mean no disrespect. If you insist on holding on to your Greek citizenship, I cannot stop you. But the Versailles treaty had assigned the Ionian Islands to Austrian rule. Therefore, as a subject of the Emperor and King, I have a duty to safeguard the rights of the islanders here."
"Oh, do you," the boy shot back sarcastically, his frightened sister trying to restrain him, "from what are you guarding us against? Ourselves? Don't bullshit with me, German. This was a land grab. Your forefathers may be Greek once, but you 're fooling anyone here. You're nothing but a pack of conquerors stamping on Greek soil."
I tried my hardest not to be snide. Alone, I would have listed out the myriad reasons why this was not Greek land anymore. The Greek king he seemed to worship ironically supported neutrality in the face of war. But his government was too easily tempted by the prize hovered over them by the Entente, and acted accordingly. This was their price for betraying their king and giving in to their lust for conquest. What happened after was simply their retribution, a price exacted by the people they had so eagerly fought.
Not that I should point out any of that to him, not with Diana so distressed by the fight...
"I think you must be famished," I stated in relent, dropping the snide remarks for Diana's sake, "I best not keep you waiting. If you want to continue, by all means. But I'd rather not distress Diana any further."
The boy, thankfully, had some measure of conscience. Looking back at his sister, his wild rage seemed to have been smothered, his contorted grimace waning away to concern. Leaning back as his pulled arm slackened, he apologized in a grudging tone, "sorry. I got carried away. You should leave. It's dangerous to be alone around these parts."
Bowing respectfully to the two, I flashed one last smile to the girl as I hastily took my leave. No doubt, her brother would want her as far away from me as possible from now on. Taking my vest, I slowly closed the door behind me. The sight of the hopeful Greek girl staring back... it was quite a haunting sight to behold.
Pelekas, Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
Dusk, 19th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
Pelekas at night seemed more lively now than it was in the day. While the grocers and markets of the day had largely closed, the scene was replaced with nightly clubs and bazaars. All around, tourists, sailors, and soldiers took to the parties around town. It almost felt like a different town altogether, with the stern overseer of the sun replaced by its more lax, waning lunar counterpart.
Wandering through the bustling resort nightlife, I had to ponder what came out of the whole meeting. At first, I felt that as long as I reached out to at least one local; someone who could believe there was a better life awaiting him under our guidance, then I could still claim to have done something right. But hate, as I feared, still ran deep among the people, even if they did not air it. I did not want to judge based on one single family, but I could not shake off the feeling that there are many more Greeks just like Apollo, bitter over the conquest of their home by a foreign people, even if it was not their mortal enemies from the East.
"Had fun, Your Highness?"
Lo and behold, the familiar face of the one-eyed ace presented himself before me, slowing his sidecar equipped motorcycle beside me. Just a glance was enough for me to break into a smile, the ungainly passenger seat ruining the image of the suave pilot on his two-wheeled DKW. Boarding the sidecar as I strapped on the helmet and seatbelt, I felt a slight urge to run off in jest. But Apollo had a point, this was no place for a child this time of night.
Riding along the mountain road, Arigi queried, "aren't you going to ask how I found you?"
"Please," I remarked, holding up my watch on my wrist, "how long did you think I wasn't going to find out? A shortwave tracker, linked to the base. If I wanted to be left alone for real, I'd have smashed it already."
"Yes, yes," the young man agreed with a chuckle, "you wanted to see the mood on the ground without soldiers or agents sticking close to you. That's why I gave you the watch. Truth be told, however, it is rather dangerous to go out on your own. Remember, this is occupied territory still. Surely, you don't want to go the way of the late Archduke."
"Sixteen years and we still call this 'occupied territory'," I mused, a bit disappointed at the idea, "how long would it take not to call it that?"
"Generations, maybe never," Arigi responded, "as long as people remember the injustices imposed by others, they will continue to fight back. That is why we are trying to treat them kindly, to show the Ionian Greeks and Italians we are not their enemy. But ideas are harder to destroy. So long as the dream of an Eastern Roman Empire restored burns, there will always be people willing to resist."
"EOEA," I went, recalling the Greek acronym of the Hellenic separatist group, "there has to be a way... How's the investigation going?"
"Still no sign of EOEA activity, my liege," Johan answered, "if they are hiding among us, it'll be hard to spot. They may have friends all over the islands and beyond. I don't think leniency would pay in this regard."
"And the Ottomans," I asked of their situation. Part of me wondered then if I should have broached the topic. In silence, the cyclist tuned in on the portable built-in radio on his vehicle. As the first words cracked to life on the speaker, it began to deliver an ominous sign to its listeners.
Listening to the broadcast, I felt a sense of unease at the growing chaos. While the situation in the Ottoman mainland seemed stable for the moment, the idea that the separatists' trump card was still out there would probably bring more undue pressure on the Greek kingdom and its neighbours. But where else would they hit next? The Ottoman mainland? Bulgaria's Black Sea coast? Corfu?
"By the way," Arigi informed me, "a missive just came in from Vienna this afternoon. Looks like they're cutting short your forced vacation."
"Oh," I queried, "what is it?"
"They want you to go to Trabzon," he answered with interest, "the Sultan is holding a summit to discuss the population transfers with the Greek government, and likely, to discuss the Swan."
Trabzon... I had a feeling it would come to this. Given our stake in the crisis, my father and his cabinet would have surely wanted a voice in the matter, someone... with charm.
____________________________
Michelakos Farm
Near Pelekas, Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
Dusk, 19th April 1936
Diana Michelakos
What have I done?
My hands firmly clasped on my chest, I could hardly face my brother at all. His temper seemed to have cooled for now, but from the looks of it, he still seemed shaken by Marie's stay. And who could blame him? He had so much hate in him since our parents died... There was not a waking day he did not curse the Turks' name.
"Brother, I didn't tell her anything," I tried to assure him, "I swear. She was just helping out with the farm. I didn't want to upset her."
Wiping his face, my brother seemed deeply disappointed. For a moment, I thought he was about to explode again. Stretching his hand out, he made a flick on my forehead as I yelped in a slight tinge of pain. Watching me rub the sore spot, he let out a deep sigh.
"You idiot, it's not that I'm worried about," he told me, "she could have been from the police or Austrian counterintelligence. Why the hell would she approach you out of the blue."
"Well..." I admitted, "I sort of eavesdropped on her when I was at the Old Fortress... I guess that's why? Besides, she's around the same age as us. Why'd she be counter-intelligence?"
"Dear God..." he grumbled, "Diana, do you know who the hell you are? Never mind... Just... Just promise me you'll stay away from her, ok?"
Nodding my head in silence, I felt kind of... disappointed. I could tell Marie was not the kind of fiend my brother kept making the Austrians out to be. She had such a refined but frank tongue, and a beautiful smile. She was almost like a princess, probably because she was an aristocrat. She seemed determined to understand us, even those who disagreed with her. I would rather not fight her if I could. Maybe if she understood what we wanted...
"Besides which," my brother queried again, "did she go to the granary?"
Shaking my head, I stated, "no. We were busy with the livestock the whole time. It's not harvesting season, so there's no reason for us to go there."
"Good," he uttered, lowering his head in thought, "would be a horror if she found it inside. We've just received orders from CP. We're moving out to Trebizond tonight."
"Trebizond," I blurted, "now?"
"This just came up on our intel," my brother informed me, "the Sultan and his spawns will be there, as well as His Majesty. CP suspects they're going to shake him down for every last concession. We're going there to 'dissuade' them."
"Dissuade," I said, my eyes widening with shock, "you mean..."
"Get the Kyknos," he ordered, "we'll show those animals who they're dealing with."
The way he spoke, the bloodlust on his lips... It scared me just to hear it. I did not want to hear it anymore... I just want to be a normal farm girl...
I just want us to be happy...
- Austrian Crownlands (Austria-Hungary)
- Princess Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine (CV: 西木野 真姫)
- Lieutenant Johan Arigi (CV: ザビーネ・シャル)
- National Organization of Greek Fighters (EOEA) (Greek Unionists)
- Diana Michelakos (CV: あひる)
- Apostolos 'Apollo' Michelakos (CV: ふぁきあ)
Part 7
- Location
- Singapore
Hoverpad, beside St George's Church, Old Fortress of Corfu
Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
20th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
It had been a short stay. I admit I was actually beginning to miss the place. Outside the viper-infested hold of parliament, I get a small shred of serenity from the Mediterranean island. I would not think to stay on forever - I am much too fettered by work to do so - but it would be quite nice as a retirement home, all things remaining equal.
As I paced across the makeshift hover-pad, I tried to soak in one last look at the islands. The sun and sea, the weather-worn Venetian bastion, the Greek Orthodox church masquerading an ancient Olympian temple...
I would miss this place...
"Your detail is ready, Your Highness."
Oh no... What is One-Eyed Jack up to this time?... I did not want a whole squad tailing me through Anatolia. It's not as if I was the Emperor or a prince. Standing in as the leading officer was a young, almost nanny-looking woman with short, silvery hair, waiting in front of a line of nervous young men. Her adjutant, though, was a lot more stern and burly, with tanned skin and a crop top fitting of a veteran.
"Lieutenant," I went, a hint of sarcasm leaking from my forced smile, "you didn't have to..."
"With Greek separatists around," Arigi quipped back, snide as always, "I'm afraid I cannot take any chances, Your Highness."
"Looks like the princess didn't appreciate your initiative, Lieutenant," joked the female officer, "maybe you should have asked for fewer escorts."
"She's a member of the royal family, Baroness," Johan remarked, shrugging at the censure, "the Emperor would take me to task if I scrimped on her protection."
"You have to pardon him, Your Excellency," I quickly tried to assure her, feeling a bit put off, "he's... enthusiastic."
Stifling an ironic chuckle, the countess introduced herself, "well, sounds like he cares about you a lot. Sub-Lieutenant Anna Johanna Ritter von Krusenstern of the K.u.K. Navy Cattaro Garrison, reporting for duty.[1] This is my chief petty officer, Grgur Planinski.[2] Lieutenant Arigi requested a detail be sent to assist you. He's also contacted the Ottoman foreign affairs and defence ministries."[3]
"A pleasure to serve you, Your Highness," the gruff man declared in a bold voice, shaking my hand, "talk is cheap, but rest assured, you're in safe hands."
"Yes, I can tell," I grunted with a heavy monotone, squinting my eyes a bit at the extent of his arrangements. Rubbing my eyes, I could only nod in resignation as the young man beat a hasty retreat. I really did not know what to scold him for at this point...
"Besides which," I addressed the lady, "that's not a name I've heard of in the Austrian peerage. Which circle does your family belong to?"
"Oh, that," she told me, "that would be Tsarist; Baltic German. My brother came from Vladivostok to look for a military research appointment, and I sort of followed. The Austrian Landwehr needed men, so I signed up."
"Ah..." I blurted, my eyes shifting towards the hover-plane sitting on the flat ground, "I assume that's him?"[4]
"Yes..." the Baltic German answered, a hint of embarrassment and awkwardness reaching my ear, "that would be him."
Strutting across the tarmac, the slightly elder man with the poofed-up hairdo looked flamboyant enough. Hastily shaking my hand, he greeted with a quick 'spasibo', perhaps neglecting to remember I was German. Chillingly, his attention was fixed right at Arigi, sharing a tad too many words with the Lieutenant. I had a bad feeling about what he was here for, and I was not alone.
"He seemed rather excited to come here," Anna added, no doubt suspicious of her brother's invitation here, "didn't say why exactly. Only that you have something on the island that needed his attention."
"I have an idea why..." I admitted, "it's top secret. I would need to inform His Majesty directly when I have the chance. It's not something I dare patch through the telegram."
"Is it that serious," the woman asked, "sorry, I'm just concerned about him."
"I'm afraid so," I said, "I'm certainly not going to try a Zimmermann with this. Only a clown would send invasion proposals through an intended victim's cables..."[5]
A quick look around at the detail and I had to wonder how many of Cattaro's marines were drawn off to guard one little girl. The most prominent was an Alfar equipped with leg turbine thrusters; Ausf H-8, if I recall correctly. The others are Jotunn I Marines, the Hochseeflotte's answer to wresting the seas from the Royal Navy. In hindsight, an island garrison like this could use more amphibious models, but the flight-type Kurassiers and Husars would do for now. Not surprisingly, I see only one of Germany's more fearsome machines present, a single Hummer in dark cyan. I assume Ragusa has more, but it would not surprise me if it were more Jotunn Marines.
"I take it those are yours," I spoke to the two officers, pointing at the Alfar and Hummer.
"The Alfar is mine, yes," Krusenstern informed me, "but my warrant officer's model is an Alfar Ausf B-3, a ground model. He'll be piloting my model for the length of the journey. Meanwhile, I'll be with you on board the plane as your personal guard."
"Then who's driving the Hummer," I queried, glaring at the line of young pilots at ease at the detail.
"That would be me, Your Highness."
Stepping out of the line of guards was a young female pilot, slightly older than myself. Tall, statuesque and long dark hair tied in a ponytail, she exuded a sense of amazonian masculinity many dandy gentlemen would be drawn to.[6] And while the other pilots were dressed in WWI-esque leather helmets, flight jackets and goggles, the girl had her own, matching pressurized pilot suit, something only given to commanders and top pilots. If her officer was piloting the Gouf, she would have probably worn one herself.
"Ensign Slavena Kovačević," the pilot introduced herself, "Pola Naval Base. An honour to meet you, Your Highness. The Baroness thought they needed more muscle, so they patched a transfer request for me."
"Ah, I see," I went, "no need to be so formal. This isn't Vienna. Sub-Lieutenant," I asked the Baroness, "did my Dverger arrive as I requested?"
"Umm..."
'Umm.' The last word I ever wanted to hear from anyone. Usually, when one hesitates, it was a very sure sign that something had gone wrong. I thought I informed Arigi to make preparations as I requested, but as his initiative, once again, won out. The extra guards, I could still take, but when a request for an Einherjar goes awry, it means it had been buried under.
"We were not told you wanted a Dverger," Anna admitted, "when Arigi telegraphed the request, he specifically asked for a marine vehicle to be spared from the garrison."
"And..." I questioned, already bracing for their answer.
"There was just one available..."
The nervous smile on her face suggested a pretty raw fear, something her subordinates were quick to sense. Even the stoic-looking CPO watched with deep concern as his superior tried her hardest not to anger me. In all honesty, I would not be if the garrison had spared even the lowly Jotunn I Marine. Though, there was another in our naval inventories, something I admit to having a pretty irrational hate for.
"It's a Seebär, isn't it," I broke the silence, ending her misery.
Watching her squirm, I could only wish I had not issued a request entirely...
OOC Notes:
Austrian Crownlands (Austria-Hungary)
Corfu, Ionian Islands, Austrian Crownlands, Austro-Hungarian Empire
20th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine
It had been a short stay. I admit I was actually beginning to miss the place. Outside the viper-infested hold of parliament, I get a small shred of serenity from the Mediterranean island. I would not think to stay on forever - I am much too fettered by work to do so - but it would be quite nice as a retirement home, all things remaining equal.
As I paced across the makeshift hover-pad, I tried to soak in one last look at the islands. The sun and sea, the weather-worn Venetian bastion, the Greek Orthodox church masquerading an ancient Olympian temple...
I would miss this place...
"Your detail is ready, Your Highness."
Oh no... What is One-Eyed Jack up to this time?... I did not want a whole squad tailing me through Anatolia. It's not as if I was the Emperor or a prince. Standing in as the leading officer was a young, almost nanny-looking woman with short, silvery hair, waiting in front of a line of nervous young men. Her adjutant, though, was a lot more stern and burly, with tanned skin and a crop top fitting of a veteran.
"Lieutenant," I went, a hint of sarcasm leaking from my forced smile, "you didn't have to..."
"With Greek separatists around," Arigi quipped back, snide as always, "I'm afraid I cannot take any chances, Your Highness."
"Looks like the princess didn't appreciate your initiative, Lieutenant," joked the female officer, "maybe you should have asked for fewer escorts."
"She's a member of the royal family, Baroness," Johan remarked, shrugging at the censure, "the Emperor would take me to task if I scrimped on her protection."
"You have to pardon him, Your Excellency," I quickly tried to assure her, feeling a bit put off, "he's... enthusiastic."
Stifling an ironic chuckle, the countess introduced herself, "well, sounds like he cares about you a lot. Sub-Lieutenant Anna Johanna Ritter von Krusenstern of the K.u.K. Navy Cattaro Garrison, reporting for duty.[1] This is my chief petty officer, Grgur Planinski.[2] Lieutenant Arigi requested a detail be sent to assist you. He's also contacted the Ottoman foreign affairs and defence ministries."[3]
"A pleasure to serve you, Your Highness," the gruff man declared in a bold voice, shaking my hand, "talk is cheap, but rest assured, you're in safe hands."
"Yes, I can tell," I grunted with a heavy monotone, squinting my eyes a bit at the extent of his arrangements. Rubbing my eyes, I could only nod in resignation as the young man beat a hasty retreat. I really did not know what to scold him for at this point...
"Besides which," I addressed the lady, "that's not a name I've heard of in the Austrian peerage. Which circle does your family belong to?"
"Oh, that," she told me, "that would be Tsarist; Baltic German. My brother came from Vladivostok to look for a military research appointment, and I sort of followed. The Austrian Landwehr needed men, so I signed up."
"Ah..." I blurted, my eyes shifting towards the hover-plane sitting on the flat ground, "I assume that's him?"[4]
"Yes..." the Baltic German answered, a hint of embarrassment and awkwardness reaching my ear, "that would be him."
Strutting across the tarmac, the slightly elder man with the poofed-up hairdo looked flamboyant enough. Hastily shaking my hand, he greeted with a quick 'spasibo', perhaps neglecting to remember I was German. Chillingly, his attention was fixed right at Arigi, sharing a tad too many words with the Lieutenant. I had a bad feeling about what he was here for, and I was not alone.
"He seemed rather excited to come here," Anna added, no doubt suspicious of her brother's invitation here, "didn't say why exactly. Only that you have something on the island that needed his attention."
"I have an idea why..." I admitted, "it's top secret. I would need to inform His Majesty directly when I have the chance. It's not something I dare patch through the telegram."
"Is it that serious," the woman asked, "sorry, I'm just concerned about him."
"I'm afraid so," I said, "I'm certainly not going to try a Zimmermann with this. Only a clown would send invasion proposals through an intended victim's cables..."[5]
A quick look around at the detail and I had to wonder how many of Cattaro's marines were drawn off to guard one little girl. The most prominent was an Alfar equipped with leg turbine thrusters; Ausf H-8, if I recall correctly. The others are Jotunn I Marines, the Hochseeflotte's answer to wresting the seas from the Royal Navy. In hindsight, an island garrison like this could use more amphibious models, but the flight-type Kurassiers and Husars would do for now. Not surprisingly, I see only one of Germany's more fearsome machines present, a single Hummer in dark cyan. I assume Ragusa has more, but it would not surprise me if it were more Jotunn Marines.
"I take it those are yours," I spoke to the two officers, pointing at the Alfar and Hummer.
"The Alfar is mine, yes," Krusenstern informed me, "but my warrant officer's model is an Alfar Ausf B-3, a ground model. He'll be piloting my model for the length of the journey. Meanwhile, I'll be with you on board the plane as your personal guard."
"Then who's driving the Hummer," I queried, glaring at the line of young pilots at ease at the detail.
"That would be me, Your Highness."
"Ensign Slavena Kovačević," the pilot introduced herself, "Pola Naval Base. An honour to meet you, Your Highness. The Baroness thought they needed more muscle, so they patched a transfer request for me."
"Ah, I see," I went, "no need to be so formal. This isn't Vienna. Sub-Lieutenant," I asked the Baroness, "did my Dverger arrive as I requested?"
"Umm..."
'Umm.' The last word I ever wanted to hear from anyone. Usually, when one hesitates, it was a very sure sign that something had gone wrong. I thought I informed Arigi to make preparations as I requested, but as his initiative, once again, won out. The extra guards, I could still take, but when a request for an Einherjar goes awry, it means it had been buried under.
"We were not told you wanted a Dverger," Anna admitted, "when Arigi telegraphed the request, he specifically asked for a marine vehicle to be spared from the garrison."
"And..." I questioned, already bracing for their answer.
"There was just one available..."
The nervous smile on her face suggested a pretty raw fear, something her subordinates were quick to sense. Even the stoic-looking CPO watched with deep concern as his superior tried her hardest not to anger me. In all honesty, I would not be if the garrison had spared even the lowly Jotunn I Marine. Though, there was another in our naval inventories, something I admit to having a pretty irrational hate for.
"It's a Seebär, isn't it," I broke the silence, ending her misery.
Watching her squirm, I could only wish I had not issued a request entirely...
OOC Notes:
- Kotor, Montenegro, formerly known as Cattaro in Italian. It was one of three Austro-Hungarian naval bases during WWI, alongside Pola (Pula, Croatia) and Trieste (part of OTL's Italy)
- Planinski is Croatian for 'mountain'. Combined with a Slavicised variant of George and their posting location...
- Dubrovnik, otherwise known as Ragusa
- VTOL transport, specifically the Dornier Do 31 built by West Germany in 1968.
- Ah yes, the Zimmermann Telegram. Nothing says 'fite me, Amerika' like a telegram through American cables to Mexico via a Cornwall relay station. Never mind if it's intercepted by the British, the suggestion itself is an outright bad idea. ITTL, the Entente had no such luck. Zimmermann was censured for even suggesting such a self-destructive action (America was still officially neutral), and America stayed out.
- All things considered, I never planned to introduce Not!Kanan at the time, but the idea just came up so...
Austrian Crownlands (Austria-Hungary)
- Princess Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine (CV: 西木野 真姫)
- Lieutenant Johan Arigi (CV: ザビーネ・シャル)
- (Navy) Sub-Lieutenant Anna Johanna Ritter von Krusenstern (CV: アイナ・サハリン)
- (Navy) Chief Petty Officer Grgur Planinski (CV: ノリス・パッカード)
- (Navy)SEnsignrSlavenapKovačevićs(CV:k松浦果南)a
Part 8
- Location
- Singapore
Royal Villa, overlooking the Black Sea
Trabzon, Trabzon Vilayet, Ottoman Empire
21st April 1936
Trabzon, on the coast of the Black Sea. Once a core centre of Greek history, the city had seen much change in the turbulent years of the modern era. Centuries of coexistence between the local Greeks and their Turkish neighbours had been steadily upended by the tide of nationalism sweeping Europe. Refugees from the Caucasus, driven out by the Russians in the annexations of the Russo-Turkish Wars, had taken up residence in the cities, and the spectre of Russian domination of the Eastern Orthodoxy threatened to turn the Ottomans' Christian subjects into fifth columnists. In a way, the Russians had succeeded, as suspicion shadowed the Armenians and Greeks for whom the Tsar championed. And while the Greeks in Trabzon had so far been spared from the persecutions - in a large part due to their protection of the Turkish during the Russian occupation in WWI - their counterparts further west, as did the Armenians before, fared much worse.
Lounging in the corridors overlooking the city, Suleiman could not hide his anxiety. The talks, a matter he had long protested against, was set to take place amidst the backdrop of Greek separatist activity. And though the ageing King Constantine I, the man fabled to restore the city of his namesake to Greek rule, was a non-issue, the stances of the Great Powers could prove decisive. The British and Free French, still seething at the defeat of the Great War, would no doubt back even a neutrality-leaning Greek king. Even the Germans, once allies of the Ottoman Empire, may have second thoughts about its ties to a resurgent, Islamic empire holding the lion's share of global oil supplies hostage. And that was not even counting the Americans.
Glaring at the young, ponytail-wearing, dark-haired man in a white, western-style uniform, Suleiman had no idea how to dissuade him. While the two were just a few years apart, the fact that the elder was his uncle was not lost on him. Suleiman was the son of Şehzade Ibrahim Tewfik Efendi, and great-grandson of the 31st Sultan, Abdülmecid I. The twenty-odd-year old Şehzade Selim Efendi, however, was said sultan's grandson, and the son of the 36th Sultan, Mehmed VI. This made Suleiman his nephew, a somewhat awkward position, given how small their age gap was. In the end, both decided to simply call each other 'Brother', largely at Selim's insistence.
"Must we resort to this, Brother," Suleiman pleaded with the elder, "the Greek people have lived under our guidance for centuries. They've proven their loyalty to the Sultans time again. Many Greek sons pledged their oath to the Almighty and past kings as Janissaries. Faulting them as Russian collaborators based on their faith is folly. We've already won the war. Why impose even more misery on our Christian subjects?"
"Because times have changed, Suleiman," Selim insisted, his words cracking like a whip, "I know it is wrong to generalize, but the fact remains that we no longer have a means to tell who among our subjects is friend or foe. The Arabs and Kurds are divided and tribalist, and thus easily swayed by our loyal clerics. But the Christians are different. Entire nations based on their identity have been built in the Balkans and Caucasus, all damning our forefathers as animalistic conquerors, rapists and savages. And that's not counting the groups in the Levant-"
"And your answer is to prove them right," the boy probed further, "Brother, you know we shouldn't resort to this. This is their home, as it had been for generations. The real savages - the so-called 'Committee for Union and Progress' - seek blame on others like cowards instead of reflecting on their own errors. Do not be one of them."[1]
His expression wavering, the elder could only wince in resignation, tearing away from Suleiman's gaze. Leaning at the corridor ledge overlooking the Black Sea, he appeared to be in deep thought over the issue. He did not need Suleiman to tell him the obvious, but what else was he supposed to do?
"I'm sorry, Suleiman," he apologized, glaring at his half-emptied shot of raki, "this is already out of my hands. The Venizelists seek to take over Athens once again. We have to end the question of sovereignty once and for all. Like you said, we've won the Great War. And it is with this victory we will show the arrogant Byzantinophiles who Anatolia belongs to."
But Selim's hardened tone belied a stinging regret. While his stern tone refuted everything his younger cousin was fighting against, the elder could not hide his cowardice in Suleiman's face. He dared not even look at him, a man burning with such bright optimism and faith in others. In the end, he could only concede in private of Suleiman's point. He was a coward, seeking only the most pragmatic way out of a dispute regardless of the beliefs and loyalties of the people he would force out.
"I see," Suleiman uttered in disappointment, sensing his cousin's torn heart, "if God wills it..."
"Why the glum mood," a cheery, gruff voice broke the tense silence, "what did I say about talking politics in my presence? You'll turn my dates rotten!"
Stepping in dressed in Indian garb, a young, dark-haired man with a queue casually sat down cross-legged, a bowl of dried dates on his hand as he munched away. At first sight, the lad looked no different from an Indian prince, one of many in the suzerain of the British Raj. But this was no visiting raja. He was a Turk, just like Suleiman and Selim, and their fellow relative.
"Iskender," Suleiman yelped, embracing his cousin joyously, "when did you get back!? I thought you'll be returning in a week."
"Well, your Uncle, Selim, talked me into it," he chimed, pointing at the slightly annoyed prince to utmost glee, "said he needed some muscle in case a certain lady-bot decided to crash the party."
"No, I didn't," grumbled Selim, "I just said that His Majesty wanted you in Trabzon to start brushing up on your diplomatic skills, not chase after insurgents like some jacked up hunter with a punt gun."
"Pfff, a punt gun? I think you spent way too much time in New York, Selim," dismissed the loose cannon, biting into another date as he glared at Selim's glass, "you'll fit right in a gentleman's club."
"And I think you spent too much time in the Raj, Cousin," snapped the irritated elder, "look at you! I barely recognize you in that getup! You call yourself a Turk!? You look like a Mughal prince who's spent his whole life in the pleasures of women and drink!"
"Oi," Iskender refuted, putting up a mock outrage as he wagged his finger with a stuffed mouth, "I stopped drinking a long time ago, Selim, though I can't say the same for you. I confess," he declared in a pretentious voice, swallowing his food, "that I have sinned when it came to lust, but I've become bone-dry since I went to India. I'm a new man now. I've even cut down on the meat. Never been more at peace with myself in my life."
"Then why don't you shave your head and become a monk," griped Selim sarcastically.
Pausing at the comment, the lad found himself breaking into laughter, slapping his thigh at the unusual words from the serious sibling. A wide grin on his face, he quipped, "since when did you learn to joke!? No, I don't think God would like that very much~!"
Dropping the facade as he broke into a smile, the straight-laced Selim finally took his turn to embrace Iskender, declaring, "we missed you, Brother."
"Me too, Selim, Suleiman," the fellow prince agreed, patting the lad on the back, "me too."
Patio, Royal Villa
Trabzon, Trabzon Vilayet
Sitting in the middle of a crowded patio, the young prince's worries on the talks appeared behind him for the moment. Sheltered under the tent overlooking the stands, the eccentric Şehzade Iskender entranced his small audience like a wizened storyteller, his tales of his Eastern exploits spun into legends for their entertainment. Within told of the riches of India, a land of many gods, vibrant colours, and civilizations as old as human civilization itself. It was there that Iskender, on a covert mission to gather information on the turbulent situation in the Raj, became the close confidant of many British officers, native princes and politicians alike.
Taking up the sword under the guise of a Rajput prince, as he proclaimed, he joined the British campaigns to suppress the widespread insurgencies taking hold in the Raj. From the elusive communists of Kerala to the radical separatists led by Subhas Chandra Bose; the young prince and his band of followers had earned a name for themselves on the field. His exploits earning both scorn and respect among his peers, the 'Blue Jinn' became a legend unto itself, whose name strikes fear and awe among all who hear of him. It was enough for him to earn himself a British Indian Army commission and a British Housecarl (mecha) of his own. Of course, it was after some time that MI5 finally exposed his true identity, though the ever-whimsical Ottoman took his expulsion in his stride, harping on their slow progress and their alleged desperation to see him commit to a valiant death.
"...the British Housecarls aren't the most elegant of machines," he told his audience of servants and village children, "neither as sturdy as the German Einherjar, nor as fine-tuned as the Tetsujin. But they were fast, agile, and dependable under the worst of conditions. And most of all, they had ejector seats installed. What machine doesn't use ejectable cockpits!? I could not count the number of times I've bailed out in a battle gone awry. Can't say the same for the INA (Indian National Army), though. Their Tetsujins just explode into fireballs at the slightest hit. One too many Lakshmibais reduced to charred skeletons... one too many."
"Come off it," Suleiman playfully scrutinized, "you've never seen one in person."
"Oi, what makes you so certain," İskender answered in mock outrage, "one tried to gut me like a pig while I was bathing at a waterfall."
"Are you sure it's not because she was bathing," Suleiman replied sarcastically, "God, the Knowing, sees all."
"How dare you, you little runt," the elder hissed in agitation, rubbing the boy's temples with his knuckles as Suleiman winced in pain, "did Selim teach you to be this snide?"
"Your Highness?"
Looking up at the lone, slightly elder servant peering in as he broke the noise, the two quickly gave pause as they straightened themselves out. Questioning the guard, Iskender spoke, "what is it?"
"You have visitors outside, my prince," the servant addressed, "strange fellows. Set up camp right outside. They said they were looking for the 'Blue Jinn'..."
"Me," Iskender queried, exchanging curious looks with his younger peer, "but who would... Oh."
"What, Cousin," Suleiman blurted, watching the Indophile step out, "some people you know?" It was not long until he got his answer at the door.
"Oh no," the fake Mughal remarked lightly, "they followed me here."
"Friends of yours," the blonde boy queried, "they don't look like they're from around here."
"Pashtun tribesmen," he elaborated, "from the North West Frontier Province. I visited the area once to meet up with leaders of local Indian Muslim League. It's where I brought together my band."
"Your band," quipped the similarly cocky, tanned man in a distinct Cockney accent, his armed crossed over in front of his bare torso, "you mean my band, Mr 'Khan of Balkh-Herat'. You might as well have said you were, I don't know, a hundred-and-seventy-seventh in line to the Ottoman Sultanate. Maybe I'd buy you more~"
"How dare you, Jack," Iskender growled, butting heads with the similarly bull-headed lad, "I'm at least within the top fifty in line. Can't be bothered to count, but I have more cousins than you have fingers and toes."
"Uh..." Suleiman queried the strange folk directly, "who are you, exactly? I take it my cousin has given you trouble?"
"Trouble," bellowed the lad with a grin, surprising the young prince with a slap on the back, "please, as if Mr Glitter can give me trouble~. I find Raj tax collectors more threatening than him."
"Oh sure," sneered Iskender, "like I haven't bailed your ass out of every firefight you jump into."
"Case in point," Jack countered, "I bailed you."
Shaking his head at the squabble, Suleiman doubted he could believe either of them. Their demeanour was so similar, they may as well have been twins. And their tall tales marked them as pathological liars, a sentiment the rest of the morose-looking crew appeared to share. Spotting a redhead young girl stepping over, he felt a bit unnerved by the distinct show of skin. Crouching down as she adjusted the sling on her sniper rifle, she apologized in perfect, almost native English, "don't mind them. This is normal. Put them together and their heads might start floating up from all the hot air they're spouting. I'm Azhar Davi, British Indian Army. Umm... it's a bit hard to explain our designation. We got moved around quite a lot."
"Prince Suleiman, son of Ibrahim and grandnaphew of His Majesty, Abdulmecid II. Isk-His Highness told me you were irregulars," Suleiman asked, "is that true or did he make that up too."
"Yeeees and no," went the woman, stretching her first answer awkwardly, as if unsure of her own answer, "Jawed and his band were bandits before 'Sir Iskandar Khan, Prince of Balkh-Herat' demanded a duel from him. They were black and blue by the end of it and hit it off from there. When he heard from Iskandar that the British would pay anyone to kill Keralan communists, he encouraged the others to sign up as irregulars for the Maharaja of Kochi. I was their liaison, and then their CO when they're transferred to the army's armoured units. I always figured he was a phoney, but I never thought he was a real prince from somewhere, much less a spy."
"He was never much of a spy, to begin with," Suleiman admitted, looking over in discomfort at his cousin locking horns with his rival, "we only sent him to report back on the Raj's general situation, not the inner workings of the Indian Army and whatnot. He would have bragged about it to every woman in his bed anyway."
Chucking at his joke, Azhar added, "yes, I suspect he would."
"By the way," the blonde Ottoman asked, "how'd you know he would be in Trabzon?"
Putting a finger under her lip, the redhead answered, "well, we took a ship to Constantinople to find him at first. He is an Ottoman prince, after all. When we got to Dolmabahçe Palace, however, a stern-looking wench in uniform told us he was heading here. Kind of looked like that other prince who met us at the gate."
"You mean Sir Selim," the young man blurted. Thinking through her words, there was only one person he knew that had the same scowling expression. Ironically, beyond their general serious personality, she was as far from Selim as she could get. Selim took satisfaction in the bickering of court officials and parliamentarians. As for his sisters, their interests were more in line with Iskender, though with a thorough lack of humour.
"Günay," he finally spoke her name. Knowing the princess, she was probably ready to welcome the delegates in Constantinople right now...
OOC Notes:
Cast:
Trabzon, Trabzon Vilayet, Ottoman Empire
21st April 1936
Trabzon, on the coast of the Black Sea. Once a core centre of Greek history, the city had seen much change in the turbulent years of the modern era. Centuries of coexistence between the local Greeks and their Turkish neighbours had been steadily upended by the tide of nationalism sweeping Europe. Refugees from the Caucasus, driven out by the Russians in the annexations of the Russo-Turkish Wars, had taken up residence in the cities, and the spectre of Russian domination of the Eastern Orthodoxy threatened to turn the Ottomans' Christian subjects into fifth columnists. In a way, the Russians had succeeded, as suspicion shadowed the Armenians and Greeks for whom the Tsar championed. And while the Greeks in Trabzon had so far been spared from the persecutions - in a large part due to their protection of the Turkish during the Russian occupation in WWI - their counterparts further west, as did the Armenians before, fared much worse.
Lounging in the corridors overlooking the city, Suleiman could not hide his anxiety. The talks, a matter he had long protested against, was set to take place amidst the backdrop of Greek separatist activity. And though the ageing King Constantine I, the man fabled to restore the city of his namesake to Greek rule, was a non-issue, the stances of the Great Powers could prove decisive. The British and Free French, still seething at the defeat of the Great War, would no doubt back even a neutrality-leaning Greek king. Even the Germans, once allies of the Ottoman Empire, may have second thoughts about its ties to a resurgent, Islamic empire holding the lion's share of global oil supplies hostage. And that was not even counting the Americans.
Glaring at the young, ponytail-wearing, dark-haired man in a white, western-style uniform, Suleiman had no idea how to dissuade him. While the two were just a few years apart, the fact that the elder was his uncle was not lost on him. Suleiman was the son of Şehzade Ibrahim Tewfik Efendi, and great-grandson of the 31st Sultan, Abdülmecid I. The twenty-odd-year old Şehzade Selim Efendi, however, was said sultan's grandson, and the son of the 36th Sultan, Mehmed VI. This made Suleiman his nephew, a somewhat awkward position, given how small their age gap was. In the end, both decided to simply call each other 'Brother', largely at Selim's insistence.
"Must we resort to this, Brother," Suleiman pleaded with the elder, "the Greek people have lived under our guidance for centuries. They've proven their loyalty to the Sultans time again. Many Greek sons pledged their oath to the Almighty and past kings as Janissaries. Faulting them as Russian collaborators based on their faith is folly. We've already won the war. Why impose even more misery on our Christian subjects?"
"Because times have changed, Suleiman," Selim insisted, his words cracking like a whip, "I know it is wrong to generalize, but the fact remains that we no longer have a means to tell who among our subjects is friend or foe. The Arabs and Kurds are divided and tribalist, and thus easily swayed by our loyal clerics. But the Christians are different. Entire nations based on their identity have been built in the Balkans and Caucasus, all damning our forefathers as animalistic conquerors, rapists and savages. And that's not counting the groups in the Levant-"
"And your answer is to prove them right," the boy probed further, "Brother, you know we shouldn't resort to this. This is their home, as it had been for generations. The real savages - the so-called 'Committee for Union and Progress' - seek blame on others like cowards instead of reflecting on their own errors. Do not be one of them."[1]
His expression wavering, the elder could only wince in resignation, tearing away from Suleiman's gaze. Leaning at the corridor ledge overlooking the Black Sea, he appeared to be in deep thought over the issue. He did not need Suleiman to tell him the obvious, but what else was he supposed to do?
"I'm sorry, Suleiman," he apologized, glaring at his half-emptied shot of raki, "this is already out of my hands. The Venizelists seek to take over Athens once again. We have to end the question of sovereignty once and for all. Like you said, we've won the Great War. And it is with this victory we will show the arrogant Byzantinophiles who Anatolia belongs to."
But Selim's hardened tone belied a stinging regret. While his stern tone refuted everything his younger cousin was fighting against, the elder could not hide his cowardice in Suleiman's face. He dared not even look at him, a man burning with such bright optimism and faith in others. In the end, he could only concede in private of Suleiman's point. He was a coward, seeking only the most pragmatic way out of a dispute regardless of the beliefs and loyalties of the people he would force out.
"I see," Suleiman uttered in disappointment, sensing his cousin's torn heart, "if God wills it..."
"Why the glum mood," a cheery, gruff voice broke the tense silence, "what did I say about talking politics in my presence? You'll turn my dates rotten!"
Stepping in dressed in Indian garb, a young, dark-haired man with a queue casually sat down cross-legged, a bowl of dried dates on his hand as he munched away. At first sight, the lad looked no different from an Indian prince, one of many in the suzerain of the British Raj. But this was no visiting raja. He was a Turk, just like Suleiman and Selim, and their fellow relative.
"Iskender," Suleiman yelped, embracing his cousin joyously, "when did you get back!? I thought you'll be returning in a week."
"Well, your Uncle, Selim, talked me into it," he chimed, pointing at the slightly annoyed prince to utmost glee, "said he needed some muscle in case a certain lady-bot decided to crash the party."
"No, I didn't," grumbled Selim, "I just said that His Majesty wanted you in Trabzon to start brushing up on your diplomatic skills, not chase after insurgents like some jacked up hunter with a punt gun."
"Pfff, a punt gun? I think you spent way too much time in New York, Selim," dismissed the loose cannon, biting into another date as he glared at Selim's glass, "you'll fit right in a gentleman's club."
"And I think you spent too much time in the Raj, Cousin," snapped the irritated elder, "look at you! I barely recognize you in that getup! You call yourself a Turk!? You look like a Mughal prince who's spent his whole life in the pleasures of women and drink!"
"Oi," Iskender refuted, putting up a mock outrage as he wagged his finger with a stuffed mouth, "I stopped drinking a long time ago, Selim, though I can't say the same for you. I confess," he declared in a pretentious voice, swallowing his food, "that I have sinned when it came to lust, but I've become bone-dry since I went to India. I'm a new man now. I've even cut down on the meat. Never been more at peace with myself in my life."
"Then why don't you shave your head and become a monk," griped Selim sarcastically.
Pausing at the comment, the lad found himself breaking into laughter, slapping his thigh at the unusual words from the serious sibling. A wide grin on his face, he quipped, "since when did you learn to joke!? No, I don't think God would like that very much~!"
Dropping the facade as he broke into a smile, the straight-laced Selim finally took his turn to embrace Iskender, declaring, "we missed you, Brother."
"Me too, Selim, Suleiman," the fellow prince agreed, patting the lad on the back, "me too."
Patio, Royal Villa
Trabzon, Trabzon Vilayet
Sitting in the middle of a crowded patio, the young prince's worries on the talks appeared behind him for the moment. Sheltered under the tent overlooking the stands, the eccentric Şehzade Iskender entranced his small audience like a wizened storyteller, his tales of his Eastern exploits spun into legends for their entertainment. Within told of the riches of India, a land of many gods, vibrant colours, and civilizations as old as human civilization itself. It was there that Iskender, on a covert mission to gather information on the turbulent situation in the Raj, became the close confidant of many British officers, native princes and politicians alike.
Taking up the sword under the guise of a Rajput prince, as he proclaimed, he joined the British campaigns to suppress the widespread insurgencies taking hold in the Raj. From the elusive communists of Kerala to the radical separatists led by Subhas Chandra Bose; the young prince and his band of followers had earned a name for themselves on the field. His exploits earning both scorn and respect among his peers, the 'Blue Jinn' became a legend unto itself, whose name strikes fear and awe among all who hear of him. It was enough for him to earn himself a British Indian Army commission and a British Housecarl (mecha) of his own. Of course, it was after some time that MI5 finally exposed his true identity, though the ever-whimsical Ottoman took his expulsion in his stride, harping on their slow progress and their alleged desperation to see him commit to a valiant death.
"...the British Housecarls aren't the most elegant of machines," he told his audience of servants and village children, "neither as sturdy as the German Einherjar, nor as fine-tuned as the Tetsujin. But they were fast, agile, and dependable under the worst of conditions. And most of all, they had ejector seats installed. What machine doesn't use ejectable cockpits!? I could not count the number of times I've bailed out in a battle gone awry. Can't say the same for the INA (Indian National Army), though. Their Tetsujins just explode into fireballs at the slightest hit. One too many Lakshmibais reduced to charred skeletons... one too many."
"Come off it," Suleiman playfully scrutinized, "you've never seen one in person."
"Oi, what makes you so certain," İskender answered in mock outrage, "one tried to gut me like a pig while I was bathing at a waterfall."
"Are you sure it's not because she was bathing," Suleiman replied sarcastically, "God, the Knowing, sees all."
"How dare you, you little runt," the elder hissed in agitation, rubbing the boy's temples with his knuckles as Suleiman winced in pain, "did Selim teach you to be this snide?"
"Your Highness?"
Looking up at the lone, slightly elder servant peering in as he broke the noise, the two quickly gave pause as they straightened themselves out. Questioning the guard, Iskender spoke, "what is it?"
"You have visitors outside, my prince," the servant addressed, "strange fellows. Set up camp right outside. They said they were looking for the 'Blue Jinn'..."
"Me," Iskender queried, exchanging curious looks with his younger peer, "but who would... Oh."
"What, Cousin," Suleiman blurted, watching the Indophile step out, "some people you know?" It was not long until he got his answer at the door.
"Oh no," the fake Mughal remarked lightly, "they followed me here."
"Friends of yours," the blonde boy queried, "they don't look like they're from around here."
"Pashtun tribesmen," he elaborated, "from the North West Frontier Province. I visited the area once to meet up with leaders of local Indian Muslim League. It's where I brought together my band."
"Your band," quipped the similarly cocky, tanned man in a distinct Cockney accent, his armed crossed over in front of his bare torso, "you mean my band, Mr 'Khan of Balkh-Herat'. You might as well have said you were, I don't know, a hundred-and-seventy-seventh in line to the Ottoman Sultanate. Maybe I'd buy you more~"
"How dare you, Jack," Iskender growled, butting heads with the similarly bull-headed lad, "I'm at least within the top fifty in line. Can't be bothered to count, but I have more cousins than you have fingers and toes."
"Uh..." Suleiman queried the strange folk directly, "who are you, exactly? I take it my cousin has given you trouble?"
"Trouble," bellowed the lad with a grin, surprising the young prince with a slap on the back, "please, as if Mr Glitter can give me trouble~. I find Raj tax collectors more threatening than him."
"Oh sure," sneered Iskender, "like I haven't bailed your ass out of every firefight you jump into."
"Case in point," Jack countered, "I bailed you."
Shaking his head at the squabble, Suleiman doubted he could believe either of them. Their demeanour was so similar, they may as well have been twins. And their tall tales marked them as pathological liars, a sentiment the rest of the morose-looking crew appeared to share. Spotting a redhead young girl stepping over, he felt a bit unnerved by the distinct show of skin. Crouching down as she adjusted the sling on her sniper rifle, she apologized in perfect, almost native English, "don't mind them. This is normal. Put them together and their heads might start floating up from all the hot air they're spouting. I'm Azhar Davi, British Indian Army. Umm... it's a bit hard to explain our designation. We got moved around quite a lot."
"Prince Suleiman, son of Ibrahim and grandnaphew of His Majesty, Abdulmecid II. Isk-His Highness told me you were irregulars," Suleiman asked, "is that true or did he make that up too."
"Yeeees and no," went the woman, stretching her first answer awkwardly, as if unsure of her own answer, "Jawed and his band were bandits before 'Sir Iskandar Khan, Prince of Balkh-Herat' demanded a duel from him. They were black and blue by the end of it and hit it off from there. When he heard from Iskandar that the British would pay anyone to kill Keralan communists, he encouraged the others to sign up as irregulars for the Maharaja of Kochi. I was their liaison, and then their CO when they're transferred to the army's armoured units. I always figured he was a phoney, but I never thought he was a real prince from somewhere, much less a spy."
"He was never much of a spy, to begin with," Suleiman admitted, looking over in discomfort at his cousin locking horns with his rival, "we only sent him to report back on the Raj's general situation, not the inner workings of the Indian Army and whatnot. He would have bragged about it to every woman in his bed anyway."
Chucking at his joke, Azhar added, "yes, I suspect he would."
"By the way," the blonde Ottoman asked, "how'd you know he would be in Trabzon?"
Putting a finger under her lip, the redhead answered, "well, we took a ship to Constantinople to find him at first. He is an Ottoman prince, after all. When we got to Dolmabahçe Palace, however, a stern-looking wench in uniform told us he was heading here. Kind of looked like that other prince who met us at the gate."
"You mean Sir Selim," the young man blurted. Thinking through her words, there was only one person he knew that had the same scowling expression. Ironically, beyond their general serious personality, she was as far from Selim as she could get. Selim took satisfaction in the bickering of court officials and parliamentarians. As for his sisters, their interests were more in line with Iskender, though with a thorough lack of humour.
"Günay," he finally spoke her name. Knowing the princess, she was probably ready to welcome the delegates in Constantinople right now...
OOC Notes:
- He was quoting the Battle of Sarikamish, where Enver Pasha blamed the defeat by the Russians on the local Armenians, accusing them of being fifth columnists for the Russian invaders.
Cast:
- Ottoman Empire
- British Raj
- Javed 'Jack' Hafizkhel (CV: カミナ)
- 2nd Lieutenant Azhar Davi (CV: ヨーコ・リットナー)
Part 9
- Location
- Singapore
Yeşilköy Enver Pasha Airport [1]
Yeşilköy, Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Afternoon, 20th April 1936
Yeşilköy Airport, Constantinople. Constructed in 1924 to usher in the age of commercial flight, the airport bore the name of the revolutionary hero who had led the empire out of the darkness of the Balkan Wars into an age of revival, or so state media proclaimed. With its newfound petroleum profits, the Ottomans' gateway to Constantinople was built with only the most state of the art facilities money could buy. Though, all things considered, the crown jewel that Sultan Mehmet II had pried from the Eastern Roman Empire may not stand as its capital much longer, its position on the border of a triumphant and potentially greedy Bulgaria putting plans to move the heart to Ankara into consideration.
Standing on the tarmac with spread legs and a large white-sheathed katana, a stern, dark-haired woman in a white, ornate uniform and leggings appeared to be waiting for her incoming guests. Brushing off the odd gazes shooting in her direction from the windows, the woman could have easily been mistaken for the many sour-looking samurai types that had taken over Japan's military. And unsurprising too, for anyone who had actually known her. Her weapon was not just for show, but a mark of her graduation from Etajima's Imperial Naval Academy.
"I don't understand her, that crazy hard-head," a punk-like lieutenant with dark, shoulder-length hair grumbled in a whisper, standing behind at ease as sweat rolled down his soaked white uniform from the afternoon sun, "we've been here for three hours. It's not like those pale-faces are trying to test us."
"This is a test from Lady Günay," stated a large, muscular young man beside him, far less weary from the torturing heat, "if you are unable to stand a little heat, how would you stand in the harshest deserts of the Levant."
"No, I'm pretty sure she's just crazy," a pink-haired girl grumbled as well, "she's gotten worse since Etajima. And that dandy bastard Yusuf too... Why'd he get to sit in the port?..."
"Are you done talking, you three," the princess sternly interjected, still standing at attention, "their transport will be here shortly."
"You've said that the moment we got here, Lady Günay," the lad blurted angrily, acting up in a hissy fit, "I haven't seen the faintest sign of a jet the whole time!"
Catching a faint glare from the disciplinarian, however, the irate subordinate's tirade cut off in an instant, a chill running down her spine as she stood back at attention. Her fellow lieutenants too appeared to have caught the hint as well, standing straight as they tried not to provoke the princess again. Fortunately, their long parade was finally allowed an end, as a distant transport loomed over the horizon. Bearing the roundel of an inverted triangle with a red background, interspaced with a green triangle lying at an angle across its upper half, the lumbering jet slowed on approach as its engines tilted up, preparing to land on the tarmac...
Dornier Do-19 [1], above Yeşilköy Enver Pasha Airport
Yeşilköy, Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Afternoon, 20th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinandea von Hapsburg-Lorraine
There it was... the first leg of my Anatolia tour...
Circling the runway above Yeşilköy Airport, our fancy little transport was about to make its grand entrance. A piece of wonderous German workmanship, the Dornier Do-19 was by far the high-end of Teutonic aviation advancement. Jet propulsion, vertical takeoff, a complete lack of unnecessary limbs... what was not to like. Though, the American Boeing V-10 Osprey would have been more economical. Jet thrusters are not as suited for lift as rotor blades for the power required.
Slowing at the tarmac, I tried hard not to think about the situation back in Corfu.
"You want me to what," I recalled my response to Arigi back at Corfu, as I prepared to board the plane then, "do you expect me to just walk into an Ottoman naval customs and ask for a registry of vessels?"
"I know it is unreasonable for a subordinate to request an Archduchess for a favour," Arigi stated then, "but I need to confirm my suspicions."
"Of what," I queried, increasingly agitated by the dubious request. Inching near my ear, he whispered in a serious tone, "the mech we recovered... I suspect it might be Ottoman in origin... no... seems too convenient to be one. I've checked the naval charts in the surrounding areas, and I found a missing Ottoman oil tanker by the name of the MV Adana, said to be en route from Rostov-of-Don in Russia's Cossack Confederation to Vlore, Albania. It went silent once it entered international waters from the western Aegean Sea. It was not heard from since. However..."
"You found the wreck," I theorized, growing unnerved by the revelation.
"Yes," he stated, "it was right off the coast of the island, just enough for an Einherjar to propel itself to shore. Whoever took it tried to bring it to land. Not to mention, our patrol detected several unknown suits deploying from Albania's north Epirus region, and gunfire. Most probably..."
"EOEA..." I surmised, grimacing at the recount. Remembering Arigi's deep silence and glare, I could not help but fathom his plans. Bringing in a top robotics expert from Vienna, covert investigations... the whole thing read like a particularly trashy spy novel. Why would an Ottoman 'oil tanker' go anywhere near Vlore to deliver something this important, unless...
"It wasn't Ottoman," I blurted instinctively as if trying to answer Arigi. It was not long until another voice pulled me back to reality, as the woman opposite me queried on my strange words.
"What isn't, Your Highness," Countess Krusenstern queried with a courteous smile, "you seem to be in deep thought all day."
"Oh, that," I went, racking my brains for an excuse, "I, uh, had a lot to think about. Arigi gave me a long list of souvenirs to get for the men, lazy pricks... Can you believe the nerve of him? Anyway, some of the items aren't... Ottoman, mostly Byzantine in origin, but that's not important."
"Uh huh..." the officer answered in an awkward tone, likely doubting my shoddily-composed excuse. Fortunately, she appeared to have opted against questioning further, whether due to my status or my desire for privacy. Smiling again, she quipped, "you seemed quite close to him for some reason. You knew him, Your Highness?"
"He was my Einherjar instructor," I answered, "he taught me the basics of Einherjar operation when I was just... ten, maybe? My father had to requisition his services because I kept begging him to let me drive my Plüschbär. Kind of childish of me, wasn't it?"
Unable to stifle a giggle, the countess remarked, "I see why you didn't like the Seebär, even if you're familiar with its controls. I had one back in my estate in Vladivostok too, but I had to sell it when I moved here. It's like a giant stuffed toy you're embarrassed to keep around when you're older."
"Yea, I guess..." I admitted, blushing considerably at her commentary, "who the hell would come up with something so ridiculous..."
Feeling the rumble of the jet transport as it began to land, my thoughts go back to the detail sent to escort us. Just as the Ottomans insisted, most would be heading back to Cattaro as instructed. From here on out, it would just be me, the Countess and her adjutant, and the Hummer pilot. I could not say I trust our hosts to protect us adequately from any nasty threats awaiting us.
"Well," I remarked, buttoning up the top end of my grey, regal uniform, "there goes nothing."
Good thing I have shades.
Galata Pier, Port of Istanbul
Karaköy, Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Afternoon, 20th April 1936
Galata Pier, near Dolmabahçe Palace. The main passenger liner terminal of the Ottoman capital, the pier appeared unusually crowded today, as crowds cheered and held placards for their incoming guest. Overlooking the sea of people, a mysterious, dark-haired figure in a sundress watched with keen eyes from the cruise liner deck the waiting fans cheered her name. Adjusting her hat, a smile slowly crept up her delicate face, but not out of gratitude, but mockery.
"Funny, isn't it," chimed the girl, speaking to a white-haired, bearded butler in a dark tuxedo, "just the other day, the city was tearing itself apart. Now, it's almost as if they've forgotten there ever was a riot."
"That's because of the increased security, my lady," the butler stated, "the Ejderhas and Kuruntus have been deployed to the western cities to maintain order."
"Is that so," scoffed the girl, "maybe they should send more help to Trabzon. Might make our jobs a lot easier."
Looking over her shoulder at her 'bodyguards', the girl pouted as she gleaned over their rather rugged, unprofessional appearances. Straightening out a dark-skinned boy's suit, she told him, "calm down, Apollo~. You're just SPs for the darling Winny Everheart. No need to look so nervous, ok~?"
"O-Of course, Miss Everheart," Apollo stammered a response, nervous at his new job. His sister, Diana, did not fare much better, dressed in simple garb as she carried Winny's luggage.
"Same for you, Diana," she spoke to the orange-haired girl, moving to adjust her bowtie, "relax, they're not here to arrest you~. Just act natural, ok?"
"O-Of course, Miss Everheart," Diana blurted quickly, "I'm just your personal assistant~... Nothing too suspicious or anything like that~."
"Please," she told her kindly, "call me Winny. I'm not any older than you. I prefer if you see me as a bored teen than a child starlet."
"What about our cargo," a more senior young man queried the duo, still trying to suppress his discomfort, "you said you'll take us to Trabzon, no?"
"My butler will handle the train arrangements, you can be sure of that," Winny said, "but I insist you do not speak of it here. Remember, you're 'SPs'. You're just here to keep the fans away from me, ok? Besides, we still have time."
Taking a look at the residence of the Ottoman sultanate near the pier, her smile slowly crept into a sinister grin. Contempt written in her eyes, she crooned excitedly, "rest assured, my friends. Our day will come. Dolmabahçe will burn and we will tear down those phallic blights from our beloved Hagia Sophia. But not now... not yet. After all, we are guests here. It would be rude not to give them a performance~..."
Winny Everheart's act had yet to begin...
OOC Notes:
Yeşilköy, Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Afternoon, 20th April 1936
Standing on the tarmac with spread legs and a large white-sheathed katana, a stern, dark-haired woman in a white, ornate uniform and leggings appeared to be waiting for her incoming guests. Brushing off the odd gazes shooting in her direction from the windows, the woman could have easily been mistaken for the many sour-looking samurai types that had taken over Japan's military. And unsurprising too, for anyone who had actually known her. Her weapon was not just for show, but a mark of her graduation from Etajima's Imperial Naval Academy.
"I don't understand her, that crazy hard-head," a punk-like lieutenant with dark, shoulder-length hair grumbled in a whisper, standing behind at ease as sweat rolled down his soaked white uniform from the afternoon sun, "we've been here for three hours. It's not like those pale-faces are trying to test us."
"This is a test from Lady Günay," stated a large, muscular young man beside him, far less weary from the torturing heat, "if you are unable to stand a little heat, how would you stand in the harshest deserts of the Levant."
"No, I'm pretty sure she's just crazy," a pink-haired girl grumbled as well, "she's gotten worse since Etajima. And that dandy bastard Yusuf too... Why'd he get to sit in the port?..."
"Are you done talking, you three," the princess sternly interjected, still standing at attention, "their transport will be here shortly."
"You've said that the moment we got here, Lady Günay," the lad blurted angrily, acting up in a hissy fit, "I haven't seen the faintest sign of a jet the whole time!"
Catching a faint glare from the disciplinarian, however, the irate subordinate's tirade cut off in an instant, a chill running down her spine as she stood back at attention. Her fellow lieutenants too appeared to have caught the hint as well, standing straight as they tried not to provoke the princess again. Fortunately, their long parade was finally allowed an end, as a distant transport loomed over the horizon. Bearing the roundel of an inverted triangle with a red background, interspaced with a green triangle lying at an angle across its upper half, the lumbering jet slowed on approach as its engines tilted up, preparing to land on the tarmac...
Dornier Do-19 [1], above Yeşilköy Enver Pasha Airport
Yeşilköy, Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Afternoon, 20th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinandea von Hapsburg-Lorraine
There it was... the first leg of my Anatolia tour...
Circling the runway above Yeşilköy Airport, our fancy little transport was about to make its grand entrance. A piece of wonderous German workmanship, the Dornier Do-19 was by far the high-end of Teutonic aviation advancement. Jet propulsion, vertical takeoff, a complete lack of unnecessary limbs... what was not to like. Though, the American Boeing V-10 Osprey would have been more economical. Jet thrusters are not as suited for lift as rotor blades for the power required.
Slowing at the tarmac, I tried hard not to think about the situation back in Corfu.
"You want me to what," I recalled my response to Arigi back at Corfu, as I prepared to board the plane then, "do you expect me to just walk into an Ottoman naval customs and ask for a registry of vessels?"
"I know it is unreasonable for a subordinate to request an Archduchess for a favour," Arigi stated then, "but I need to confirm my suspicions."
"Of what," I queried, increasingly agitated by the dubious request. Inching near my ear, he whispered in a serious tone, "the mech we recovered... I suspect it might be Ottoman in origin... no... seems too convenient to be one. I've checked the naval charts in the surrounding areas, and I found a missing Ottoman oil tanker by the name of the MV Adana, said to be en route from Rostov-of-Don in Russia's Cossack Confederation to Vlore, Albania. It went silent once it entered international waters from the western Aegean Sea. It was not heard from since. However..."
"You found the wreck," I theorized, growing unnerved by the revelation.
"Yes," he stated, "it was right off the coast of the island, just enough for an Einherjar to propel itself to shore. Whoever took it tried to bring it to land. Not to mention, our patrol detected several unknown suits deploying from Albania's north Epirus region, and gunfire. Most probably..."
"EOEA..." I surmised, grimacing at the recount. Remembering Arigi's deep silence and glare, I could not help but fathom his plans. Bringing in a top robotics expert from Vienna, covert investigations... the whole thing read like a particularly trashy spy novel. Why would an Ottoman 'oil tanker' go anywhere near Vlore to deliver something this important, unless...
"It wasn't Ottoman," I blurted instinctively as if trying to answer Arigi. It was not long until another voice pulled me back to reality, as the woman opposite me queried on my strange words.
"What isn't, Your Highness," Countess Krusenstern queried with a courteous smile, "you seem to be in deep thought all day."
"Oh, that," I went, racking my brains for an excuse, "I, uh, had a lot to think about. Arigi gave me a long list of souvenirs to get for the men, lazy pricks... Can you believe the nerve of him? Anyway, some of the items aren't... Ottoman, mostly Byzantine in origin, but that's not important."
"Uh huh..." the officer answered in an awkward tone, likely doubting my shoddily-composed excuse. Fortunately, she appeared to have opted against questioning further, whether due to my status or my desire for privacy. Smiling again, she quipped, "you seemed quite close to him for some reason. You knew him, Your Highness?"
"He was my Einherjar instructor," I answered, "he taught me the basics of Einherjar operation when I was just... ten, maybe? My father had to requisition his services because I kept begging him to let me drive my Plüschbär. Kind of childish of me, wasn't it?"
Unable to stifle a giggle, the countess remarked, "I see why you didn't like the Seebär, even if you're familiar with its controls. I had one back in my estate in Vladivostok too, but I had to sell it when I moved here. It's like a giant stuffed toy you're embarrassed to keep around when you're older."
"Yea, I guess..." I admitted, blushing considerably at her commentary, "who the hell would come up with something so ridiculous..."
Feeling the rumble of the jet transport as it began to land, my thoughts go back to the detail sent to escort us. Just as the Ottomans insisted, most would be heading back to Cattaro as instructed. From here on out, it would just be me, the Countess and her adjutant, and the Hummer pilot. I could not say I trust our hosts to protect us adequately from any nasty threats awaiting us.
"Well," I remarked, buttoning up the top end of my grey, regal uniform, "there goes nothing."
Galata Pier, Port of Istanbul
Karaköy, Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Afternoon, 20th April 1936
"Funny, isn't it," chimed the girl, speaking to a white-haired, bearded butler in a dark tuxedo, "just the other day, the city was tearing itself apart. Now, it's almost as if they've forgotten there ever was a riot."
"That's because of the increased security, my lady," the butler stated, "the Ejderhas and Kuruntus have been deployed to the western cities to maintain order."
"Is that so," scoffed the girl, "maybe they should send more help to Trabzon. Might make our jobs a lot easier."
Looking over her shoulder at her 'bodyguards', the girl pouted as she gleaned over their rather rugged, unprofessional appearances. Straightening out a dark-skinned boy's suit, she told him, "calm down, Apollo~. You're just SPs for the darling Winny Everheart. No need to look so nervous, ok~?"
"O-Of course, Miss Everheart," Apollo stammered a response, nervous at his new job. His sister, Diana, did not fare much better, dressed in simple garb as she carried Winny's luggage.
"Same for you, Diana," she spoke to the orange-haired girl, moving to adjust her bowtie, "relax, they're not here to arrest you~. Just act natural, ok?"
"O-Of course, Miss Everheart," Diana blurted quickly, "I'm just your personal assistant~... Nothing too suspicious or anything like that~."
"Please," she told her kindly, "call me Winny. I'm not any older than you. I prefer if you see me as a bored teen than a child starlet."
"What about our cargo," a more senior young man queried the duo, still trying to suppress his discomfort, "you said you'll take us to Trabzon, no?"
"My butler will handle the train arrangements, you can be sure of that," Winny said, "but I insist you do not speak of it here. Remember, you're 'SPs'. You're just here to keep the fans away from me, ok? Besides, we still have time."
Taking a look at the residence of the Ottoman sultanate near the pier, her smile slowly crept into a sinister grin. Contempt written in her eyes, she crooned excitedly, "rest assured, my friends. Our day will come. Dolmabahçe will burn and we will tear down those phallic blights from our beloved Hagia Sophia. But not now... not yet. After all, we are guests here. It would be rude not to give them a performance~..."
Winny Everheart's act had yet to begin...
- OTL Istanbul Atatürk Airport, originally named Yeşilköy Airport.
- Austrian Crownlands (Austria-Hungary)
- Archduchess Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine (CV: 西木野 真姫)
- Lieutenant Johan Arigi (CV: ザビーネ・シャル) - Flashback only
- (Navy) Sub-Lieutenant Anna Johanna Ritter von Krusenstern (CV: アイナ・サハリン)
- Ottoman Empire
- (Naval) Lieutenant Günay Osmanoğlu
- Ensign Hasan Erbakan
- Ensign Omar ibn Abdul Al-Zanj
- Lieutenant Junior Grade Eylül Yerlitaş
- National Organization of Hellenic Fighters (EOEA)
- Winifred 'Winny' Everheart (CV: るえ)
- Sebastian (CV: セバス・チャン)
- Diana Michelakos (CV: あひる)
- Apostolos 'Apollo' Michelakos (CV: ふぁきあ)
Part 10
- Location
- Singapore
Günay's Car, enroute to Yıldız Palace
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Afternoon, 20th April 1936
Yıldız Palace
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Afternoon, 20th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinandea von Hapsburg-Lorraine
Yıldız Palace, the seat of Abdul Hamid II. Following the Ottoman princess and her aides through the grounds, I sensed an eerie silence among my hosts. The newly refurbished facade, I recalled, belied a disturbing past, one I suspect Lady Günay was all too familiar with. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a stone cenotaph erected at the park grounds. My feet halting, the reality of my stay here began to sink in. I had a feeling my host did not want to be anywhere near this site...
"Is something the matter," Günay questioned me, her tone heavier than usual.
"Oh, nothing..." I blurted, feeling a little awkward over my staring, "I feel I should pay my respects at the cenotaph. My condolences..."
Her sharp eyes shifting at the monument, the woman merely uttered a simple 'oh', stepping back down as she gestured for me to follow. Rubbing my hands, I trailed behind with a pang of guilt, unable to tell if she was unhappy with me. Standing before the cenotaph, I could see the names of her relatives inscribed on the cenotaph. By any means, the arson on Yıldız Palace four years ago was by far the bloodiest attempt at regicide ever known in the modern world. Against a European dynasty, it might have wiped out entire bloodlines in a snap. But even with the deaths of nine princes and princesses, an Islamic dynasty like the Ottomans was still far from short of heirs.
But the act itself, committed by unknown assailants, was a permanent stain to hopes of an empire trying to reconcile its position as the epicenter of Sunni Islam, with those who fall outside such a paradigm. The aftermath only fuelled anger against Christian and Kurdish minorities suspected of aiding the arsonists, and the reprisals and riots that followed, I suspect, only made the separatists stronger.
"I'll put a bouquet later," I told my hosts, reading the inscribed names, "when I get to town."
"I see," Günay stated plainly, "we would appreciate it."
Turning back, I could only watch as the princess and her guards slowly made their way back to the entrance. Perhaps it was better not to ask on their investigation. As far as I can tell, it would only open their scars again.
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Afternoon, 20th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinandea von Hapsburg-Lorraine
Shifting in my seat, I had to wonder what was going through her mind, staring out at the shifting landscape outside. She looked like she found me odd for some reason. That little quip at the airport over my eyes, especially struck me as odd.
"Those eyes," she told me then, standing at the airport like a Goliath as she peered at my purple irises, "they're not the eyes of a princess..."
Like hell I know what was that supposed to mean...
"How are the riots going," I queried, noticing the towering Ejderha standing on watch at the square we passed, "I heard they're getting worse."
"You are not wrong," stated the Ottoman princess, "the separatists are getting bolder by the day. Armenian insurgents in our northeast are stepping up harassment of our outposts, and I think you already heard about the attack in Famagusta."
"Yes," I grunted, "hell if I know where they got their hands on something this powerful."
"Are you sure, Your Highness," Günay questioned, her cold eyes cutting into my nerves like bayonets, "you don't strike me as someone who prefers thinking about teatime and ball dances."
She was not wrong... The fact is, I did have an idea. The design aesthetics of the Kyknos was unmistakable. This was stolen Ottoman hardware, and one I did not expect my host to admit to. Of course, I have proof besides its appearance, and appearances could be deceiving. But I just could not shake off the feeling it came from the Ottomans themselves, a break-in in one of their armouries that they tried to cover up.
"Well, the way I see it," I tried to divert, "it could be any of the major powers with an axe to grind. The make can't be British, though I don't think they want to make it too obvious it's theirs. The Red French have their own set of miscreants to arm. The Americans have been growing increasingly interventionist, public opinion be damned. And then there's the Germans. I don't think they look too kindly at Constantinople clearing its debt so quickly."
Buttoning up her lip, the princess appeared to be taking the time to think over my answer. Of course, I highly doubt she would think I would miss such obvious hints on the mech, but I did not want to probe into things that were probably highly classified. In the end, she seemed to have elected to take my answer at face value. Whether it was out of simple courtesy, or something else, I could only guess.
"Yes, the Germans have been growing increasingly intoxicated with power," Günay answered, "their little sphere did not come out as planned. Already, relations with the Sublime Porte are being strained with ongoing discussions over our Persian gulf oil fields. They've taken grave offense to Anglo-American companies setting up shop here, lately. I doubt they even trust your government to stand with them."
My hands tightening in a clasp, I really could not help but think of our predicament. As it was, our empire had already been relegated to a junior partner. And with nationalist sentiment in our borders an all-time high, they were probably already prepared for the 'inevitable' partition. I balked at the idea of becoming a mere stooge in the German peerage. It was not something I could restrain myself over.
"We are expendable to them, Your Highness," I stated in a grim tone, "before, we were merely an excuse for the German gutter emperor to expand his interests over Europe. Now that that is accomplished, who else would he turn to but the people he once called 'friends'? There are no permanent allies in geopolitics, only interests. And as of now, their interests is to usurp the Anglo-Saxons' hegemony over the world by any means, even if it means breaking her own former allies."
"You sound like my uncle," Günay grunted unexpected, "not that I don't disagree..."
Peering at her over the comment, I asked, "your uncle, Prince Selim?"
"Yes," Günay said, "never really got along with him. Too much of a bookworm. You, though... how do I say this... Those aren't the eyes of a mere politician. You've driven a Mobile Weapon?"
"A few Einherjar, yes," I admitted, "never seen actual combat, though."
"That explains it," the stern woman said, "well, if you're lucky, you might actually see some."
Pouting a bit, I had to admit, "I'd rather not. I wouldn't want to tear your city apart over a few rebels."
Seeing her chuckle at my response, I had to wonder if she was a lot more battle-crazy than she looks...
Constantinople, blah, blah, blah, I think you know by now... If there was anything I hated more than teddy bear-looking Einherjar, it was official visits. A lifetime of training in court intrigue and ettiquete may have prepared me for this, but I did, by no means, like it. Forcing a courtly smile fitting for an Archduchess, I tried to face the stern looking princess beside me, though unlike me, her stern scowl seemed a lot more sincere, a key part of her personality, perhaps. All the better, I guess. I really did not like to talk.
Shifting in my seat, I had to wonder what was going through her mind, staring out at the shifting landscape outside. She looked like she found me odd for some reason. That little quip at the airport over my eyes, especially struck me as odd.
"Those eyes," she told me then, standing at the airport like a Goliath as she peered at my purple irises, "they're not the eyes of a princess..."
Like hell I know what was that supposed to mean...
"How are the riots going," I queried, noticing the towering Ejderha standing on watch at the square we passed, "I heard they're getting worse."
"You are not wrong," stated the Ottoman princess, "the separatists are getting bolder by the day. Armenian insurgents in our northeast are stepping up harassment of our outposts, and I think you already heard about the attack in Famagusta."
"Yes," I grunted, "hell if I know where they got their hands on something this powerful."
"Are you sure, Your Highness," Günay questioned, her cold eyes cutting into my nerves like bayonets, "you don't strike me as someone who prefers thinking about teatime and ball dances."
She was not wrong... The fact is, I did have an idea. The design aesthetics of the Kyknos was unmistakable. This was stolen Ottoman hardware, and one I did not expect my host to admit to. Of course, I have proof besides its appearance, and appearances could be deceiving. But I just could not shake off the feeling it came from the Ottomans themselves, a break-in in one of their armouries that they tried to cover up.
"Well, the way I see it," I tried to divert, "it could be any of the major powers with an axe to grind. The make can't be British, though I don't think they want to make it too obvious it's theirs. The Red French have their own set of miscreants to arm. The Americans have been growing increasingly interventionist, public opinion be damned. And then there's the Germans. I don't think they look too kindly at Constantinople clearing its debt so quickly."
Buttoning up her lip, the princess appeared to be taking the time to think over my answer. Of course, I highly doubt she would think I would miss such obvious hints on the mech, but I did not want to probe into things that were probably highly classified. In the end, she seemed to have elected to take my answer at face value. Whether it was out of simple courtesy, or something else, I could only guess.
"Yes, the Germans have been growing increasingly intoxicated with power," Günay answered, "their little sphere did not come out as planned. Already, relations with the Sublime Porte are being strained with ongoing discussions over our Persian gulf oil fields. They've taken grave offense to Anglo-American companies setting up shop here, lately. I doubt they even trust your government to stand with them."
My hands tightening in a clasp, I really could not help but think of our predicament. As it was, our empire had already been relegated to a junior partner. And with nationalist sentiment in our borders an all-time high, they were probably already prepared for the 'inevitable' partition. I balked at the idea of becoming a mere stooge in the German peerage. It was not something I could restrain myself over.
"We are expendable to them, Your Highness," I stated in a grim tone, "before, we were merely an excuse for the German gutter emperor to expand his interests over Europe. Now that that is accomplished, who else would he turn to but the people he once called 'friends'? There are no permanent allies in geopolitics, only interests. And as of now, their interests is to usurp the Anglo-Saxons' hegemony over the world by any means, even if it means breaking her own former allies."
"You sound like my uncle," Günay grunted unexpected, "not that I don't disagree..."
Peering at her over the comment, I asked, "your uncle, Prince Selim?"
"Yes," Günay said, "never really got along with him. Too much of a bookworm. You, though... how do I say this... Those aren't the eyes of a mere politician. You've driven a Mobile Weapon?"
"A few Einherjar, yes," I admitted, "never seen actual combat, though."
"That explains it," the stern woman said, "well, if you're lucky, you might actually see some."
Pouting a bit, I had to admit, "I'd rather not. I wouldn't want to tear your city apart over a few rebels."
Seeing her chuckle at my response, I had to wonder if she was a lot more battle-crazy than she looks...
Günay Sultan, House of Osman
Constantinople, the Queen City. For nearly five centuries, it has stood as the heart of the Sublime Porte, revived from an eviscerated carcass of the Eastern Roman Empire to the epicenter of Islamic culture, arts and sciences. Those days may be long past, but we may yet see its return. Maybe it was because I had been away for so long. The city looked a lot more beautiful than when I left it.
Seated in the car as I escorted my Germanic guest to her residence, I could not help but admire the seaside scenery passing by. From the myriad ships passing by the Bosporus, to the medieval architecture dotting the coastline. The only thing that troubled me was the towering facades of Ejderha and Kuruntu standing guard at every open square. Normally, I would have found their gallant appearances a sight for sore eyes. But here, it was a sign of weakness, of a city under siege by enemies within.
On the other end of the passenger seat, however, the Archduchess appeared irritable and discomforted, a bored glare in her eyes. Perhaps she had a distaste for official decorum. Then again, so did I. At first glance, she appeared like any other European princess - spoiled, effeminate, more eager for ballgowns and courtly trysts. But there was something about her that struck me as strange, something about her eyes.
"Those eyes," I recalled musing, gazing into her amethyst eyes as she glared at me at the airport, "they're not the eyes of a princess..."
Those were not the eyes of a mere consort.
"How are the riots going," she finally broke the silence, as if struggling to strike a conversation, "I heard they're getting worse."
Rubbing my hands, I had dreaded for such uncomfortable queries. The fact that EOEA and the Congress of Western Armenians are stepping up attacks against our military was evidence of our growing inability to restrain them. Selim, much as I disliked his behaviour, had proposed the Trabzon conference in order to expel such troublesome minorities to their respective countries. I did not think he had truly recognized the gravity of the situation. Every day these politicians quarrel among themselves puts a few extra coffins in our cemeteries.
"You are not wrong," I admitted, "the separatists are getting bolder by the day. Armenian insurgents in our northeast are stepping up harassment of our outposts, and I think you already heard about the attack in Famagusta."
"Yes," the Archducess grunted, "hell if I know where they got their hands on something this powerful."
"Are you sure, Your Highness," I questioned, slightly unnerved by her words as I tried to probe for a response, "you don't strike me as someone who prefers thinking about teatime and ball dances."
"Well, the way I see it," she answered, pausing for a moment in thought, "it could be any of the major powers with an axe to grind. The make can't be British, though I don't think they want to make it too obvious it's theirs. The Red French have their own set of miscreants to arm. The Americans have been growing increasingly interventionist, public opinion be damned. And then there's the Germans. I don't think they look too kindly at Constantinople clearing its debt so quickly."
Buttoning up my lips, I had to wonder if she had already suspected something of us. Granted, I had my vows to serve the Sultan and maintain my silence, but no fool would miss how uncanny the Kyknos was to our Suvari. And yet, I could not tell her. Such an act might risk having such information in the hands of those who wish to see us broken. Her roundabout answer suggested she may be conscious of it as well. Whether she merely avoided accusing us out of courtesy, I did not know.
"Yes, the Germans have been growing increasingly intoxicated with power," I finally answered, "their little sphere did not come out as planned. Already, relations with the Sublime Porte are being strained with ongoing discussions over our Persian gulf oil fields. They've taken grave offense to Anglo-American companies setting up shop here, lately. I doubt they even trust your government to stand with them."
Pausing again for a response, the Archducess Marie finally spoke in a grim tone, "We are expendable to them, Your Highness."
'Expendable'... It was not a word I expected to hear from her over the Central Powers. I felt caught off guard just hearing it. Was she so ready to admit how dire the situation in her country was?
"Before," she added, "we were merely an excuse for the German gutter emperor to expand his interests over Europe. Now that that is accomplished, who else would he turn to but the people he once called 'friends'? There are no permanent allies in geopolitics, only interests. And as of now, their interests is to usurp the Anglo-Saxons' hegemony over the world by any means, even if it means breaking her own former allies."
My hands tightening over the hilt of my sword, I really could not help but think of our own predicament. We had only just shaken off the gratuitous debts owed to the Germans for the war, though it seemed as if they were more eager to urge us to take our time. Our relations with the Germans had always been fragile. However, our welcome of the Anglo-American oil companies had only served to anger Berlin. That Marie herself was willing to divulge their own dire straits was quite ironic. Many elders could still recall a time when the Austrians were eager to cleave away at our Balkan territories. Now, it seemed we might have to cooperate if we were to survive the predations of the greater powers.
"You sound like my uncle," I answered in deep regret, "not that I don't disagree..."
"Your uncle, Prince Selim," she asked of me.
"Yes," I replied with a sigh, "never really got along with him. Too much of a bookworm. You, though... how do I say this... Those aren't the eyes of a mere politician. You've driven a Mobile Weapon?"
"A few Einherjar, yes," she told me, "never seen actual combat, though."
"That explains it," I finally concurred, "well, if you're lucky, you might actually see some."
Pouting a bit at my suggestion, the Archduchess declined, "I'd rather not. I wouldn't want to tear your city apart over a few rebels."
Seeing her response, I could not help but break into an ironic chuckle. Perhaps my brother had found his match when it came to his sharp wit.
Constantinople, the Queen City. For nearly five centuries, it has stood as the heart of the Sublime Porte, revived from an eviscerated carcass of the Eastern Roman Empire to the epicenter of Islamic culture, arts and sciences. Those days may be long past, but we may yet see its return. Maybe it was because I had been away for so long. The city looked a lot more beautiful than when I left it.
Seated in the car as I escorted my Germanic guest to her residence, I could not help but admire the seaside scenery passing by. From the myriad ships passing by the Bosporus, to the medieval architecture dotting the coastline. The only thing that troubled me was the towering facades of Ejderha and Kuruntu standing guard at every open square. Normally, I would have found their gallant appearances a sight for sore eyes. But here, it was a sign of weakness, of a city under siege by enemies within.
On the other end of the passenger seat, however, the Archduchess appeared irritable and discomforted, a bored glare in her eyes. Perhaps she had a distaste for official decorum. Then again, so did I. At first glance, she appeared like any other European princess - spoiled, effeminate, more eager for ballgowns and courtly trysts. But there was something about her that struck me as strange, something about her eyes.
"Those eyes," I recalled musing, gazing into her amethyst eyes as she glared at me at the airport, "they're not the eyes of a princess..."
Those were not the eyes of a mere consort.
"How are the riots going," she finally broke the silence, as if struggling to strike a conversation, "I heard they're getting worse."
Rubbing my hands, I had dreaded for such uncomfortable queries. The fact that EOEA and the Congress of Western Armenians are stepping up attacks against our military was evidence of our growing inability to restrain them. Selim, much as I disliked his behaviour, had proposed the Trabzon conference in order to expel such troublesome minorities to their respective countries. I did not think he had truly recognized the gravity of the situation. Every day these politicians quarrel among themselves puts a few extra coffins in our cemeteries.
"You are not wrong," I admitted, "the separatists are getting bolder by the day. Armenian insurgents in our northeast are stepping up harassment of our outposts, and I think you already heard about the attack in Famagusta."
"Yes," the Archducess grunted, "hell if I know where they got their hands on something this powerful."
"Are you sure, Your Highness," I questioned, slightly unnerved by her words as I tried to probe for a response, "you don't strike me as someone who prefers thinking about teatime and ball dances."
"Well, the way I see it," she answered, pausing for a moment in thought, "it could be any of the major powers with an axe to grind. The make can't be British, though I don't think they want to make it too obvious it's theirs. The Red French have their own set of miscreants to arm. The Americans have been growing increasingly interventionist, public opinion be damned. And then there's the Germans. I don't think they look too kindly at Constantinople clearing its debt so quickly."
Buttoning up my lips, I had to wonder if she had already suspected something of us. Granted, I had my vows to serve the Sultan and maintain my silence, but no fool would miss how uncanny the Kyknos was to our Suvari. And yet, I could not tell her. Such an act might risk having such information in the hands of those who wish to see us broken. Her roundabout answer suggested she may be conscious of it as well. Whether she merely avoided accusing us out of courtesy, I did not know.
"Yes, the Germans have been growing increasingly intoxicated with power," I finally answered, "their little sphere did not come out as planned. Already, relations with the Sublime Porte are being strained with ongoing discussions over our Persian gulf oil fields. They've taken grave offense to Anglo-American companies setting up shop here, lately. I doubt they even trust your government to stand with them."
Pausing again for a response, the Archducess Marie finally spoke in a grim tone, "We are expendable to them, Your Highness."
'Expendable'... It was not a word I expected to hear from her over the Central Powers. I felt caught off guard just hearing it. Was she so ready to admit how dire the situation in her country was?
"Before," she added, "we were merely an excuse for the German gutter emperor to expand his interests over Europe. Now that that is accomplished, who else would he turn to but the people he once called 'friends'? There are no permanent allies in geopolitics, only interests. And as of now, their interests is to usurp the Anglo-Saxons' hegemony over the world by any means, even if it means breaking her own former allies."
My hands tightening over the hilt of my sword, I really could not help but think of our own predicament. We had only just shaken off the gratuitous debts owed to the Germans for the war, though it seemed as if they were more eager to urge us to take our time. Our relations with the Germans had always been fragile. However, our welcome of the Anglo-American oil companies had only served to anger Berlin. That Marie herself was willing to divulge their own dire straits was quite ironic. Many elders could still recall a time when the Austrians were eager to cleave away at our Balkan territories. Now, it seemed we might have to cooperate if we were to survive the predations of the greater powers.
"You sound like my uncle," I answered in deep regret, "not that I don't disagree..."
"Your uncle, Prince Selim," she asked of me.
"Yes," I replied with a sigh, "never really got along with him. Too much of a bookworm. You, though... how do I say this... Those aren't the eyes of a mere politician. You've driven a Mobile Weapon?"
"A few Einherjar, yes," she told me, "never seen actual combat, though."
"That explains it," I finally concurred, "well, if you're lucky, you might actually see some."
Pouting a bit at my suggestion, the Archduchess declined, "I'd rather not. I wouldn't want to tear your city apart over a few rebels."
Seeing her response, I could not help but break into an ironic chuckle. Perhaps my brother had found his match when it came to his sharp wit.
Yıldız Palace
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Afternoon, 20th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinandea von Hapsburg-Lorraine
Yıldız Palace, the seat of Abdul Hamid II. Following the Ottoman princess and her aides through the grounds, I sensed an eerie silence among my hosts. The newly refurbished facade, I recalled, belied a disturbing past, one I suspect Lady Günay was all too familiar with. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a stone cenotaph erected at the park grounds. My feet halting, the reality of my stay here began to sink in. I had a feeling my host did not want to be anywhere near this site...
"Is something the matter," Günay questioned me, her tone heavier than usual.
"Oh, nothing..." I blurted, feeling a little awkward over my staring, "I feel I should pay my respects at the cenotaph. My condolences..."
Her sharp eyes shifting at the monument, the woman merely uttered a simple 'oh', stepping back down as she gestured for me to follow. Rubbing my hands, I trailed behind with a pang of guilt, unable to tell if she was unhappy with me. Standing before the cenotaph, I could see the names of her relatives inscribed on the cenotaph. By any means, the arson on Yıldız Palace four years ago was by far the bloodiest attempt at regicide ever known in the modern world. Against a European dynasty, it might have wiped out entire bloodlines in a snap. But even with the deaths of nine princes and princesses, an Islamic dynasty like the Ottomans was still far from short of heirs.
But the act itself, committed by unknown assailants, was a permanent stain to hopes of an empire trying to reconcile its position as the epicenter of Sunni Islam, with those who fall outside such a paradigm. The aftermath only fuelled anger against Christian and Kurdish minorities suspected of aiding the arsonists, and the reprisals and riots that followed, I suspect, only made the separatists stronger.
"I'll put a bouquet later," I told my hosts, reading the inscribed names, "when I get to town."
"I see," Günay stated plainly, "we would appreciate it."
Turning back, I could only watch as the princess and her guards slowly made their way back to the entrance. Perhaps it was better not to ask on their investigation. As far as I can tell, it would only open their scars again.
- Austrian Crownlands (Austria-Hungary)
- Archduchess Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine (CV: 西木野 真姫)
- Ottoman Empire
- (Naval) Lieutenant Günay Osmanoğlu (CV: 鬼龍院 皐月)
- Ensign Hasan Erbakan (CV: 猿投山 渦)
- Ensign Omar ibn Abdul Al-Zanj (CV: 蟇郡 苛)
- Lieutenant Junior Grade Eylül Yerlitaş (CV: 蛇崩 乃音)
Part 11
- Location
- Singapore
Bunks, Selimiye Barracks
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Evening, 20th April 1936
Selimiye Barracks, home of the Ottoman First Army. Here, the bodies of wounded and sick Britons laid at rest in the Haydarpaşa Cemetery, casualties of the Crimean War fought on behalf of the Ottoman sultanate. Those days are over, buried by the memories of the Great War. But even today, the grave stood unsullied, a mark of respect for an adversary who once stood up against the monstrous Russian juggernaut for an ailing nation.
Lying on her bed as she mulled her situation, Abigail could only sulk at her assignment. She had been pulled from the front for something as mundane as escort duty for a Free French emissary. Shaking her leg in exasperation, she squeezed the pillow over her head as she tried not to throw a fit. Why was she pulled from the front on such short notice, she thought?
Forward Nationalist Army HQ
Universidad de Sevilla, Sevilla, Nationalist-held Spain
Morning, 20th April 1936
"Now," snapped Abigail in anger, slamming the desk of the Free French commander facing her, "why me!?"
Standing in a dusty, heat-baked office in the Nationalist HQ, the roaring thunders of battle seemed to have grown more distant. The arrival of German reinforcements, few as they were, had forced the Republicans back considerably, and the battle-scarred stretch that Abigail and her squad had defended now laid firmly within Nationalist lines. All that, however, mattered little to the spunky Briton. As far as she knew, the Reds were still in Seville's doorstep, and she was now being denied the chance to fight again for the week.
"Our ambassador to the Ottoman sultanate had put up a request for a veteran squad as escorts during the upcoming Trabzon conference," stated a stiff-looking, bespectacled woman, her dark hair tied to a bun as her sharp French uniform looked impeccably sharp, "High Command was supposed to deploy one from Oran, but a recent surge in insurgent activity by the Berber rebels have forced them to reconsider. With the arrival of the German 'Iron Legion', the bigwigs have decided you're now open for a transfer. You tell me how they arrived at that conclusion..."
"Abby, calm down," Jeanne pleaded desperately to the bitter pilot, "this is a direct order from Ajaccio. It's no use taking it out of Colonel Roussillon. You know that!"
"Captain Domrémy-la-Pucelle," the senior officer sternly cautioned Jeanne, "I may not grasp the relationship between you and your subordinates, but as her direct superior, I suggest you demand the bare minimum of respect from Lieutenant Remington rather than grovelling to her like an old nanny."
"You leave her out of this, you damn-" barked Abby, her words suddenly cut short as her pink-haired transvestite squadmate threw a punch into her gut. Speaking coyly at the wincing young woman, Alain apologized, "pardon me for the display, Madams. I feel that I had to step in, as her buddy. Before she lands herself in hot soup~."
Bending forward as she clutched her aching abdomen, the hapless Briton uttered a few choice curses at the cross-dressing Canadian as Jeanne stared on with a startled expression. Rubbing the bridge of her nose at the farce before her, the sullen, steel-eyed officer stated flat out, "I would prefer not to have such naked displays of violence against women in my presence, Sub-Lieutenant Fabian. I don't care if you 'feel like one'..."
"Regardless," she affirmed, "you have your orders. Captain Domrémy-la-Pucelle and Sub-Lieutenant Remington, you have until ten-thirty hours (10.30 AM) to prepare for departure. Your Chevaliers will follow in a transport thereafter. Lieutenant Villeneuve will be appointed as acting commander of the Experimental Squadron for the duration of Domrémy's absence. If there are no further queries, you are dismissed."
"Wait..." growled Abby, fighting the stinging pain as she tried to lift her head, "who ordered this?..."
Sadly, the last words she got out of her was, "'if' there are no further queries."
There would be no further queries thereafter.
Bunks, Selimiye Barracks
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Evening, 20th April 1936
Her thoughts drifting back to the present, the pouting Briton rubbed her belly as she cursed the transvestite boy who made that cheap gut punch. Had she not been pressed for time, she might have made sure Alain became a real woman. But there she was now, waiting for her dinner like a hapless loafer as she counted down the minutes to the end of her mundane assignment. Of all the people pulled from Spain, why her? Why, of all people...
"What're we, trophies," grumbled Abby to Jeanne, the latter reading her bible softly, "a couple of pretty medals for some bigwig to pull his weight around?"
"I don't think I'd put it that way, Abby," Jeanne answered delicately, "communist activity in the Balkans has been rising, especially with the instability of the monarchies there. The Ottomans are no exception. Plenty in the fringes of Ottoman society was being bought by the Thorezite movement. The lack of social progress in favour of the traditional order had raised the ire of many, even among the more religious, rural populous. And then there's the Greek People's Liberation Army, or ELAS. They've been active in the mountains of Thrace and Anatolia, fighting Bulgarian, Ottoman and even Greek monarchist forces. EOEA itself is said to have liaisons embedded with ELAS, but we've yet to determine how much the two are cooperating."
"Please," grumbled Abby, "whose job is it to protect the delegates, anyway? Us, or the Ottomans."
"After the attack at Famagusta, I don't think the capital is willing to take any chances," Jeanne remarked, "that's why we're here."
"Oi, blondies," a voice grumbled flatly at her and Jeanne, cutting into their conversation, "dinner's ready. Mess hall at nineteen-hundred hours (7:00 PM)."
Glaring at the figure at the door, Abby pouted in exasperation at their young host. A grim-looking young girl with messy, shoulder-length black hair and a punk-like jacket, the girl, they were told, was a member of the House of Osman. But as far as Abby thought, she might as well have been some street kid hauled into the palace as a replacement. Jeanne may have tried to accord some level of respect to the princess, but Abby was clearly having none of it.
"Ooo, aren't you the tough little cookie," sneered Abby, a devious grin on her face as she sat up on her bed, "I almost forgot you were royalty~. Maybe you should go back to dress ups and knitting embroidery. You don't look pleb enough."
"Abby," Jeanne whispered in a serious tone, shaking her head as she tried to dissuade her friend. However, glaring in agitation at the pilot, the junior grimaced at the comments, hissing back, "funny, I was about to say the same with you."
Her grin vanishing almost instantly, the provoked Briton grunted, "come again," her eyes narrowing in suspicion of the young princess.
"You think we don't know," the chav-like princess continued, "please... The French State embassy in Constantinople is obliged to give details of all guard details for their delegates, yours included. I'm surprised you didn't know that, coming from the British peerage."
Abby, unsurprisingly, proved easily provoked, her mouth buttoning in a sour note as her hand clenched in anger. Incensed, she cursed, "then what's your story, munchkin? Did Dad leave you in the trash as a baby before finding you in the slums ten years after?"
Grasping her scimitar by her side, the Turk was becoming just as incensed as Abby. Outraged, the girl growled, "you want to take it outside, wench? I'll break your damn teeth for cursing my father that way."
Fortunately for Jeanne, the tense standoff was quickly cut short as a doe-eyed, bob-haired girl forced the princess' head down in a bow. Slightly nervous, she blurted in apology, "I'm really sorry. She's quite a hothead. I'll get her under control, don't worry."
Forming a bemused, comforting smile, the Frenchwoman admitted to the Turk's friend, "I'm not sure you can, honestly. This isn't the first time I've seen hotheads. Isn't that right, hothead?"
Watching her buddy and superior hold her hand, the ticked-off Briton could feel her anger melting away. She did not know why, but Abby found it very hard to say no to her. She was not really afraid of her - she was never really intimidated by anyone with a higher rank than herself - but Jeanne had a way of persuading people to calm down. It was almost hypnotic, and certainly more suited for an abbess or a counsellor than a soldier and officer.
"Sorry," Abby confessed, looking away in an embarrassed pout, "I was just mad over my transfer here. I didn't mean to be nasty. I just talk that way."
"Oh," squealed the brown-haired girl, "you and Kiraz are going to get along really well then~. Now apologize, Kiraz."
"What are you, my granny," cursed the irate princess, still struggling against her friend's grip on her head. Only after a sudden push down did she finally break, uttering in a pained voice, "I... I'm sorry for that scene... I was wrong..."
"Yay," cheered the friend in elation, releasing Kiraz from her grip at last, "crisis resolved! Now, let's head for the canteen~! Don't worry, we're having a feast today. None of the gruel or mystery meat they usually serve~."
"Excuse me," blurted the legionnaires in unison, a bit started by the words. Met with innocent whistling and shifty looks, all the girls could do was hope against another dish of mystery meat.
Cast
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Evening, 20th April 1936
Lying on her bed as she mulled her situation, Abigail could only sulk at her assignment. She had been pulled from the front for something as mundane as escort duty for a Free French emissary. Shaking her leg in exasperation, she squeezed the pillow over her head as she tried not to throw a fit. Why was she pulled from the front on such short notice, she thought?
Forward Nationalist Army HQ
Universidad de Sevilla, Sevilla, Nationalist-held Spain
Morning, 20th April 1936
"Now," snapped Abigail in anger, slamming the desk of the Free French commander facing her, "why me!?"
Standing in a dusty, heat-baked office in the Nationalist HQ, the roaring thunders of battle seemed to have grown more distant. The arrival of German reinforcements, few as they were, had forced the Republicans back considerably, and the battle-scarred stretch that Abigail and her squad had defended now laid firmly within Nationalist lines. All that, however, mattered little to the spunky Briton. As far as she knew, the Reds were still in Seville's doorstep, and she was now being denied the chance to fight again for the week.
"Our ambassador to the Ottoman sultanate had put up a request for a veteran squad as escorts during the upcoming Trabzon conference," stated a stiff-looking, bespectacled woman, her dark hair tied to a bun as her sharp French uniform looked impeccably sharp, "High Command was supposed to deploy one from Oran, but a recent surge in insurgent activity by the Berber rebels have forced them to reconsider. With the arrival of the German 'Iron Legion', the bigwigs have decided you're now open for a transfer. You tell me how they arrived at that conclusion..."
"Abby, calm down," Jeanne pleaded desperately to the bitter pilot, "this is a direct order from Ajaccio. It's no use taking it out of Colonel Roussillon. You know that!"
"Captain Domrémy-la-Pucelle," the senior officer sternly cautioned Jeanne, "I may not grasp the relationship between you and your subordinates, but as her direct superior, I suggest you demand the bare minimum of respect from Lieutenant Remington rather than grovelling to her like an old nanny."
"You leave her out of this, you damn-" barked Abby, her words suddenly cut short as her pink-haired transvestite squadmate threw a punch into her gut. Speaking coyly at the wincing young woman, Alain apologized, "pardon me for the display, Madams. I feel that I had to step in, as her buddy. Before she lands herself in hot soup~."
Bending forward as she clutched her aching abdomen, the hapless Briton uttered a few choice curses at the cross-dressing Canadian as Jeanne stared on with a startled expression. Rubbing the bridge of her nose at the farce before her, the sullen, steel-eyed officer stated flat out, "I would prefer not to have such naked displays of violence against women in my presence, Sub-Lieutenant Fabian. I don't care if you 'feel like one'..."
"Regardless," she affirmed, "you have your orders. Captain Domrémy-la-Pucelle and Sub-Lieutenant Remington, you have until ten-thirty hours (10.30 AM) to prepare for departure. Your Chevaliers will follow in a transport thereafter. Lieutenant Villeneuve will be appointed as acting commander of the Experimental Squadron for the duration of Domrémy's absence. If there are no further queries, you are dismissed."
"Wait..." growled Abby, fighting the stinging pain as she tried to lift her head, "who ordered this?..."
Sadly, the last words she got out of her was, "'if' there are no further queries."
There would be no further queries thereafter.
Bunks, Selimiye Barracks
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Evening, 20th April 1936
Her thoughts drifting back to the present, the pouting Briton rubbed her belly as she cursed the transvestite boy who made that cheap gut punch. Had she not been pressed for time, she might have made sure Alain became a real woman. But there she was now, waiting for her dinner like a hapless loafer as she counted down the minutes to the end of her mundane assignment. Of all the people pulled from Spain, why her? Why, of all people...
"What're we, trophies," grumbled Abby to Jeanne, the latter reading her bible softly, "a couple of pretty medals for some bigwig to pull his weight around?"
"I don't think I'd put it that way, Abby," Jeanne answered delicately, "communist activity in the Balkans has been rising, especially with the instability of the monarchies there. The Ottomans are no exception. Plenty in the fringes of Ottoman society was being bought by the Thorezite movement. The lack of social progress in favour of the traditional order had raised the ire of many, even among the more religious, rural populous. And then there's the Greek People's Liberation Army, or ELAS. They've been active in the mountains of Thrace and Anatolia, fighting Bulgarian, Ottoman and even Greek monarchist forces. EOEA itself is said to have liaisons embedded with ELAS, but we've yet to determine how much the two are cooperating."
"Please," grumbled Abby, "whose job is it to protect the delegates, anyway? Us, or the Ottomans."
"After the attack at Famagusta, I don't think the capital is willing to take any chances," Jeanne remarked, "that's why we're here."
"Oi, blondies," a voice grumbled flatly at her and Jeanne, cutting into their conversation, "dinner's ready. Mess hall at nineteen-hundred hours (7:00 PM)."
Glaring at the figure at the door, Abby pouted in exasperation at their young host. A grim-looking young girl with messy, shoulder-length black hair and a punk-like jacket, the girl, they were told, was a member of the House of Osman. But as far as Abby thought, she might as well have been some street kid hauled into the palace as a replacement. Jeanne may have tried to accord some level of respect to the princess, but Abby was clearly having none of it.
"Ooo, aren't you the tough little cookie," sneered Abby, a devious grin on her face as she sat up on her bed, "I almost forgot you were royalty~. Maybe you should go back to dress ups and knitting embroidery. You don't look pleb enough."
"Abby," Jeanne whispered in a serious tone, shaking her head as she tried to dissuade her friend. However, glaring in agitation at the pilot, the junior grimaced at the comments, hissing back, "funny, I was about to say the same with you."
Her grin vanishing almost instantly, the provoked Briton grunted, "come again," her eyes narrowing in suspicion of the young princess.
"You think we don't know," the chav-like princess continued, "please... The French State embassy in Constantinople is obliged to give details of all guard details for their delegates, yours included. I'm surprised you didn't know that, coming from the British peerage."
Abby, unsurprisingly, proved easily provoked, her mouth buttoning in a sour note as her hand clenched in anger. Incensed, she cursed, "then what's your story, munchkin? Did Dad leave you in the trash as a baby before finding you in the slums ten years after?"
Grasping her scimitar by her side, the Turk was becoming just as incensed as Abby. Outraged, the girl growled, "you want to take it outside, wench? I'll break your damn teeth for cursing my father that way."
Fortunately for Jeanne, the tense standoff was quickly cut short as a doe-eyed, bob-haired girl forced the princess' head down in a bow. Slightly nervous, she blurted in apology, "I'm really sorry. She's quite a hothead. I'll get her under control, don't worry."
Forming a bemused, comforting smile, the Frenchwoman admitted to the Turk's friend, "I'm not sure you can, honestly. This isn't the first time I've seen hotheads. Isn't that right, hothead?"
Watching her buddy and superior hold her hand, the ticked-off Briton could feel her anger melting away. She did not know why, but Abby found it very hard to say no to her. She was not really afraid of her - she was never really intimidated by anyone with a higher rank than herself - but Jeanne had a way of persuading people to calm down. It was almost hypnotic, and certainly more suited for an abbess or a counsellor than a soldier and officer.
"Sorry," Abby confessed, looking away in an embarrassed pout, "I was just mad over my transfer here. I didn't mean to be nasty. I just talk that way."
"Oh," squealed the brown-haired girl, "you and Kiraz are going to get along really well then~. Now apologize, Kiraz."
"What are you, my granny," cursed the irate princess, still struggling against her friend's grip on her head. Only after a sudden push down did she finally break, uttering in a pained voice, "I... I'm sorry for that scene... I was wrong..."
"Yay," cheered the friend in elation, releasing Kiraz from her grip at last, "crisis resolved! Now, let's head for the canteen~! Don't worry, we're having a feast today. None of the gruel or mystery meat they usually serve~."
"Excuse me," blurted the legionnaires in unison, a bit started by the words. Met with innocent whistling and shifty looks, all the girls could do was hope against another dish of mystery meat.
Cast
- French Foreign Legion (French State)
- Colonel (OF-5) Maeva Roussillon (CV: カティ・マネキン)
- Captaine (OF-2) Jeanne de Domrémy-la-Pucelle (CV: ジャンヌ・ダルク)
- Lieutenant (OF-1) Celine Villenueve (CV: マシュ・キリエライト)
- Sous-Lieutenant (OF-1) Abigail 'Abby' Remington (CV: モードレッド)
- Sous-Lieutenant (OF-1) Alain Fabian (CV: アストルフォ)
- Ottoman Empire
- Kiraz Sultan (CV: 纏 流子)
- Derya Armağan (CV: 満艦飾 マコ)
Part 12
- Location
- Singapore
Canteen, Selimiye Barracks
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Evening, 20th April 1936
It was only going to be a couple of days before the delegates in Constantinople depart for Trabzon, but the camp staff had taken every precaution to make their stay as comfortable as possible. From the ambient lighting to the sound of the Ottoman band playing in the background, the soldiers of the barracks were hardly ignorant of the lengths being put up for their guests. Eating from a large brass tray, the Free French captain seemed a bit overwhelmed by the dishes. But none were so taken in by the food as Abby, wolfing down the grilled meat and yoghurt like an ogre.
"Feels strange sitting separately from the rank and file," Jeanne remarked, "I almost forgot what our old camp looked like."
"I'd much rather have," Abby spoke with a stuffed mouth, "I hate those drills sergeants."
Spying at the other tables, Jeanne tried to pick out the guards for the other delegates. Just beside their table, a young dark-haired girl with a long ponytail was trying to compete in a drinking contest with her superior, a burly middle-aged man with a crop top. Their spectator, a proper-looking young woman with short, silvery hair, watched on in bemusement, as the old goat found himself tipsy against a challenger young enough to be his daughter. All of them, Jeanne noted, were wearing Austrian uniforms.
"Dovoljno, stari?" the girl taunted gleefully, her face rosy from the tenth shot of raki, "izgledaš strašno~."
"Varatiš..." cursed the drunken warrant officer in exasperation, clearly in disbelief at her stomach, "nema šanse!..."
"Smiri se, oboje," pleaded the noblewoman gently, her diction slightly off compared to the two, "ne mislim da bi gospođica Marie htjela vidjeti njezine pratitelje kako zaspaju na poslu."
Peering at the group, the two legionnaires could not distinguish their words one bit. It sounded Slavic, to an extent, but it was not a language they were familiar with at all. Whispering to Jeanne, Abby queried, "what're they saying? It's not a language I've ever heard of."
"Croatian, I believe," Jeanne mused, "those are Austro-Hungarian naval uniforms. Their navy is staffed with a large number of Croats if I recall."
"Isn't that a little... I don't know... dangerous," Abby queried, "they're just one mutiny away from losing the coast."
"Don't ask me," Jeanne refused, "I can't read their minds."
On their other side were the Americans, chatty and sociable as always. Well, except for one, a brooding young man with silver-white hair, as he quietly drank while his comrades chatted away.
"...I tell you, Steve, Milly, I play a mean cello back before I signed up," boasted a bespectacled African-American to his fellow Navy pilot, "playing swing music at the speakeasies, strumming that cello. The dons would pay a mean sum for gigs like mine. I'd show it to you, but CO won't let no jazz hand take something this big with us."
"Yes, I'm sure you do, Elijah," joked the make-up-wearing woman with a well-groomed coiffure, smoking from her cigarette pipe, "if I've seen you around in a speakeasy, I probably forgot~. Amateurs don't usually catch my ear."
"Ohoho, them's fighting words you just pulled there, Milly," quipped the put-off fellow, wagging his finger in disdain, "I take offence to that. What 'bout you, Steve? High on booze to talk already?"
"Please," grunted the lad in mild sarcasm, "like I can get drunk on a single shot like you."
"Oh, you're on now. You're on now, motherfucker," yelled Elijah with gusto, thumping a bottle of raki in front of him, "come on, fight me! You chicken?"
"I don't think that's wise," Steve answered flatly, "we got a mission tomorrow."
"Like I can get smashed by a hangover like you," the African-American threw back his earlier remark, prompting the white-haired lad to form a rare smile and pouring a glass to meet his challenge.
Looking over at the window-side tables, a female Italian officer with a rather fancy coif was busy staring out at the Bosporus, trying to ignore the noise from her rather inexperienced charges.
"Perché non prendiamo i nuovi modelli Centurione," whined a bespectacled cadet to his mates, "i nostri Leo si muovono come nonne."
"Per favore," criticised another, "non si può nemmeno gestire un carro armato, molto meno un'arma mobile."
"Vuoi smettere di piagnucolare," reprimanded the woman, rubbing her eyes, "dovresti essere grato di avere persino dei-"
*FWOOSH*
Letting out a sudden yelp as the windows shuddered in a violent force of winds, the Italian woman could see a flash of gold surging right outside, circling back in a dramatic manoeuvre as surprised soldiers quickly gathered at the windows. A sleek, plane-like frame fashioned in gold paint, its shine gleamed under the moonlight, changing forms to reveal a large humanoid juggernaut. Behind, the dull green frames of Einherjars followed suit, landing at the square for docking. To say their spectators were jealous was an understatement.
"That's the new Aesir model of the German Army, isn't it," quipped Jeanne, forking a cube of cheese,"aren't they supposed to be in grey?"
"Showoff," scoffed the fellow legionnaire, "who the hell flies around in gold? He might as well have painted a bullseye while he's at it."
Watching Abby get to her feet in a huff, her friend asked, "where are you going?"
Shrugging, all Abby said was, "I need some air," proceeding out of the canteen as she ignored the audience marvelling at the new Einherjar's arrival.
Haydarpaşa Cemetery, Selimiye Barracks
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Evening, 20th April 1936
Walking around a cemetery at night... most would have freaked out at such a morbid idea. But the idea of being surrounded by the dead of battles' past did not faze Abby one bit. Perhaps if she was surrounded by German graves, sure. But here laid the soldiers of Empire, and no harm could come to a fellow soldier of Empire, even a legionnaire.
Looking over the graves, Abby pondered over her current situation. Becoming a legionnaire was never her first choice. If she wanted, she would have stayed with the British army fighting Indian insurgents or engaging Spanish communists all she wanted. But there was one person in Britain she had grown to dread. She was not sure if it was admiration or spite. All she knew was that that woman had no eyes for someone like her.
"Go on..." she uttered in an almost pitiful voice to the silent grave, "scare me. I'm a fucking Brit in Frenchie uniform. Doesn't that piss you off?"
"You're half a century too far if you think this would make them angry, Abby."
Abigail, after years of grinding her life away in the legion, was once again facing that woman, the source of her pride and ire...
OOC Notes:
Special thanks to @Kaiser Chris for the suggestion on Phantom Pain for the American escorts. To be honest, it never really crossed my mind to add them. :3
Also, apologies to any Croats, Serbs and Italians for butchering your languages.
Cast
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Evening, 20th April 1936
It was only going to be a couple of days before the delegates in Constantinople depart for Trabzon, but the camp staff had taken every precaution to make their stay as comfortable as possible. From the ambient lighting to the sound of the Ottoman band playing in the background, the soldiers of the barracks were hardly ignorant of the lengths being put up for their guests. Eating from a large brass tray, the Free French captain seemed a bit overwhelmed by the dishes. But none were so taken in by the food as Abby, wolfing down the grilled meat and yoghurt like an ogre.
"Feels strange sitting separately from the rank and file," Jeanne remarked, "I almost forgot what our old camp looked like."
"I'd much rather have," Abby spoke with a stuffed mouth, "I hate those drills sergeants."
Spying at the other tables, Jeanne tried to pick out the guards for the other delegates. Just beside their table, a young dark-haired girl with a long ponytail was trying to compete in a drinking contest with her superior, a burly middle-aged man with a crop top. Their spectator, a proper-looking young woman with short, silvery hair, watched on in bemusement, as the old goat found himself tipsy against a challenger young enough to be his daughter. All of them, Jeanne noted, were wearing Austrian uniforms.
"Dovoljno, stari?" the girl taunted gleefully, her face rosy from the tenth shot of raki, "izgledaš strašno~."
"Varatiš..." cursed the drunken warrant officer in exasperation, clearly in disbelief at her stomach, "nema šanse!..."
"Smiri se, oboje," pleaded the noblewoman gently, her diction slightly off compared to the two, "ne mislim da bi gospođica Marie htjela vidjeti njezine pratitelje kako zaspaju na poslu."
Peering at the group, the two legionnaires could not distinguish their words one bit. It sounded Slavic, to an extent, but it was not a language they were familiar with at all. Whispering to Jeanne, Abby queried, "what're they saying? It's not a language I've ever heard of."
"Croatian, I believe," Jeanne mused, "those are Austro-Hungarian naval uniforms. Their navy is staffed with a large number of Croats if I recall."
"Isn't that a little... I don't know... dangerous," Abby queried, "they're just one mutiny away from losing the coast."
"Don't ask me," Jeanne refused, "I can't read their minds."
On their other side were the Americans, chatty and sociable as always. Well, except for one, a brooding young man with silver-white hair, as he quietly drank while his comrades chatted away.
"...I tell you, Steve, Milly, I play a mean cello back before I signed up," boasted a bespectacled African-American to his fellow Navy pilot, "playing swing music at the speakeasies, strumming that cello. The dons would pay a mean sum for gigs like mine. I'd show it to you, but CO won't let no jazz hand take something this big with us."
"Yes, I'm sure you do, Elijah," joked the make-up-wearing woman with a well-groomed coiffure, smoking from her cigarette pipe, "if I've seen you around in a speakeasy, I probably forgot~. Amateurs don't usually catch my ear."
"Ohoho, them's fighting words you just pulled there, Milly," quipped the put-off fellow, wagging his finger in disdain, "I take offence to that. What 'bout you, Steve? High on booze to talk already?"
"Please," grunted the lad in mild sarcasm, "like I can get drunk on a single shot like you."
"Oh, you're on now. You're on now, motherfucker," yelled Elijah with gusto, thumping a bottle of raki in front of him, "come on, fight me! You chicken?"
"I don't think that's wise," Steve answered flatly, "we got a mission tomorrow."
"Like I can get smashed by a hangover like you," the African-American threw back his earlier remark, prompting the white-haired lad to form a rare smile and pouring a glass to meet his challenge.
Looking over at the window-side tables, a female Italian officer with a rather fancy coif was busy staring out at the Bosporus, trying to ignore the noise from her rather inexperienced charges.
"Perché non prendiamo i nuovi modelli Centurione," whined a bespectacled cadet to his mates, "i nostri Leo si muovono come nonne."
"Per favore," criticised another, "non si può nemmeno gestire un carro armato, molto meno un'arma mobile."
"Vuoi smettere di piagnucolare," reprimanded the woman, rubbing her eyes, "dovresti essere grato di avere persino dei-"
*FWOOSH*
Letting out a sudden yelp as the windows shuddered in a violent force of winds, the Italian woman could see a flash of gold surging right outside, circling back in a dramatic manoeuvre as surprised soldiers quickly gathered at the windows. A sleek, plane-like frame fashioned in gold paint, its shine gleamed under the moonlight, changing forms to reveal a large humanoid juggernaut. Behind, the dull green frames of Einherjars followed suit, landing at the square for docking. To say their spectators were jealous was an understatement.
"That's the new Aesir model of the German Army, isn't it," quipped Jeanne, forking a cube of cheese,"aren't they supposed to be in grey?"
"Showoff," scoffed the fellow legionnaire, "who the hell flies around in gold? He might as well have painted a bullseye while he's at it."
Watching Abby get to her feet in a huff, her friend asked, "where are you going?"
Shrugging, all Abby said was, "I need some air," proceeding out of the canteen as she ignored the audience marvelling at the new Einherjar's arrival.
___________________________
Haydarpaşa Cemetery, Selimiye Barracks
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Evening, 20th April 1936
Walking around a cemetery at night... most would have freaked out at such a morbid idea. But the idea of being surrounded by the dead of battles' past did not faze Abby one bit. Perhaps if she was surrounded by German graves, sure. But here laid the soldiers of Empire, and no harm could come to a fellow soldier of Empire, even a legionnaire.
Looking over the graves, Abby pondered over her current situation. Becoming a legionnaire was never her first choice. If she wanted, she would have stayed with the British army fighting Indian insurgents or engaging Spanish communists all she wanted. But there was one person in Britain she had grown to dread. She was not sure if it was admiration or spite. All she knew was that that woman had no eyes for someone like her.
"Go on..." she uttered in an almost pitiful voice to the silent grave, "scare me. I'm a fucking Brit in Frenchie uniform. Doesn't that piss you off?"
"You're half a century too far if you think this would make them angry, Abby."
OOC Notes:
Special thanks to @Kaiser Chris for the suggestion on Phantom Pain for the American escorts. To be honest, it never really crossed my mind to add them. :3
Also, apologies to any Croats, Serbs and Italians for butchering your languages.
Cast
- French Foreign Legion (French State)
- Captaine (OF-2) Jeanne de Domrémy-la-Pucelle (CV: ジャンヌ・ダルク)
- Sous-Lieutenant (OF-1) Abigail 'Abby' Remington (CV: モードレッド)
- Austro-Hungarian Navy
- Sub-Lieutenant (OF-1) Anna Johanna Ritter von Krusenstern (CV: アイナ・サハリン)
- Chief Petty Officer (OR-7) Grgur Planinski (CV: ノリス・パッカード)
- Ensign (OF-1)šSlavenapKovačevići(CV:j松浦u果南)n
- United States Navy
- Ensign (OF-1) Stephen Conway (CV: スウェン・カル・バヤン)
- Ensign (OF-1) Miranda Holcroft (CV: ミューディ・ホルクロフト)
- Lieutenant Junior Grade (OF-2) Elijah Carver (CV: シャムス・コーザ)
- Italian Army
- Lieutenant (OF-2) Lucrezia Ricci (CV: ルクレツィア・ノイン)
- Those three cadets. (CV: タダクニ, 田中 ヨシタケ, 田畑 ヒデノリ)
- British Army
- Major (OF-3) Ariel Remington (CV: アルトリア・ペンドラゴン)
Part 13
- Location
- Singapore
Marie's Room, Guest Quarters, Yıldız Palace
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Evening, 20th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinandea von Hapsburg-Lorraine
The Yildiz Palace arson, who could forget... Twenty-one dead, including nine members of the House of Osman, and up to forty injured, no organization would have dared to make such a brazen attempt to massacre an entire royal household unless they had nothing to lose. And the fact that the perpetrators were suspected to be Greeks or Armenians from an unknown organization... and people wonder why the Ottomans treated their Christian subjects so harshly.
Lying on my bed, I took a look at the strange trinket Johan passed to me before I left. It was rectangular in shape, like a small lighter. And yet, it's about as light as a stack of bottle caps. A sliver, rectangular tip with two punched holes denoted the end to be connected to my Einherjar port. But what struck me as odd was why. The Seebär - or any of our Einherjars, for that matter - required only a normal, analogue, locksmith-made key. An electronic one such as this seemed... unnecessary.
"Take it with you," Johan's words implored her, "this software update might prove useful."
"Why didn't you just say it was spyware," I griped, shoving the key back into my purse. I really doubt I should use it, but something told me Johan wanted to be sure I was safe. And as much as I liked to distress him, I best not push my luck.
"ご迷惑をおかけで感謝します、お姫様、" I heard a voice ring outside, in an unknown tongue.
Rolling over with my back facing the door in false sleep, I could hear footsteps passing the corridors, chatting amongst themselves. I had learnt many tongues as part of my tutelage. French, English, the aforementioned Greek. But I had no experience in oriental languages like Turkish. Nay, this was not Turkish I was hearing... it was something else.
"何言って、" I heard Günay speak, her accent so pitch perfect, she was practically indistinguishable from the natives, "「ギュナイ」といいよ、唯子。"
"名前を読んでいいと失礼じゃない、ギュナイ大尉、" went the woman from earlier, "そして、この宮殿...私たちは天王陛下の大使の護衛、過大すぎじゃない？"
"お前は友達だぜ," the princess stated firmly, sounding a bit exasperated with her guests, "誰が問くあらば、私に知らせる。安心しなさい、唯子。"
It took me a bit of time to figure, but I could guess what language they were conversing in, more or less. I recalled the exotic longsword the princess held throughout her time with me, and from what I had heard, it was the blade she obtained for her graduation from Etajima, the Japanese Imperial Naval academy she attended. Sliding out of my bed quietly, I slowly pressed my ear to the door as I tried to hear more. It was kind of silly, to be honest. I understood no word of their language, and yet I insisted on eavesdropping anyway. Spying through my peephole, I could see an oriental-looking woman with long brown hair, wearing white ribbons tied around her bangs and ponytail. Her white uniform and gold buttons confirmed my suspicions of her allegiance, dubiously similar to the Ottoman's own clothes. I found it hard to believe the Japanese would train female officers at all. For a society based on strict traditional roles, they did not seem to bat an eyelid to women taking up military posts, for some reason.
"ちょっと簡単に過ぎないか、" went the Japanese girl, "ギュナイさんにも..."
"さあ、" spoke the Turk, rubbing her thumb on the sword hilt, "ああ、そう...毛利太佐は？"
"全然変わってない、" remarked the Japanese with a chuckle, "変な小父さんと同じ。女性の部下たち、太佐と一緒にお風呂に入らなかくて。触れられる怖いだも。"
"なんで？男が？" grumbled Günay, "家族に奇人が多いすぎなのに..."
For a moment, the princess paused as she appeared to think over her words. Then, without warning, she swapped to a language I was definitely very familiar with, and clearly not intended for her Japanese guest.
"Would you rather I speak in a language you understand, Your Highness," Günay declared in German, "I can see your knees from the door gap."
Well, that was a fun ride. Discovered, I surrendered myself to the duo, opening my door with a petty pout on my face. My eyes shifting, I apologized in English, "sorry, I was curious... She is?..."
"Oh, pardon me for the intrusion," the Japanese officer spoke with a distinct Oriental diction, bowing at my appearance, "my name is Lieutenant Yuiko Oda of the Japanese Imperial Army's Guards Cavalry Regiment. I am here on assignment to protect His Imperial Highness, Prince Yasuhito, on his tour in Europe.[1] He will be attending the Trabzon Conference on invitation from His Majesty, the Sultan."
"Ah..." was all I can go, a bit stiffened by her slow, perhaps difficult delivery of her sentences, "I'm-"
"Maria Luisa Ferdinandea von Habsburg-Lorraine," Yuiko said, "I have heard of you. You spoke at the Austrian Reichsrat on reforming the Austro-Hungarian Empire as a multi-national union. I am sure you will succeed."
"I'm not sure about that," I admitted with a shrug, "the Hungarians hate my guts. It's their lands I'm going to be breaking up more, not the German ones. Is His Highness staying in Yildiz?"
"Çırağan Palace," Günay said, biting her tongue a bit as her eyes rolled, "well, not a palace anymore, Princess Arzu has come up with the 'bright' idea of restoring it as a hotel, though I am sure the prince would enjoy his stay there.[2] She told me she will handle the prince's stay, though I feel she would much rather handle another guest."
"Who'll that be," I asked, a bit bewildered by her rather irked tone.
"Some starlet from Hollywood," Günay stated in a sour note, "Arzu begged Selim to get her an autograph, but he refused to hear of it. Maybe she'll get her chance now. Anyway, you don't mind if I have some privacy, do you, Your Highness. No offence, but I prefer not to have eavesdroppers."
"Oh, I'm sorry," I blurted, a bit ashamed of my actions, "go ahead. I won't hold you up."
As the two took their bows and left. I slowly stepped back in my room in kind. Not much of a conversation, but it did show their interest in European politics. I am just not sure what that would entail.
Nothing good, I suspect.
OOC Notes:
- Prince Yasuhito/Chichibu's Europe tour is pretty much OTL. However, considering that a broken Russia would have lent a lot of more voice to the Imperial Way (Kōdō-ha) faction over the Control (Tōsei-ha) faction, I don't think the February 26 incident would have occurred. With Japan in a much stronger position to dominate Russia, I think both factions might be sufficiently appeased, which isn't exactly a good thing for everyone else. I'm not even sure the factions might exist ITTL, but I don't think factionalism in the Japanese military would just go away.
- OTL, Çırağan Palace was burned down in 1910 and was not restored until 1989 as a hotel complex. Here, it was restored after the war and converted much earlier by Princess Arzu, despite numerous protests from members of the dynasty.
- Austrian Crownlands (Austria-Hungary)
- Archduchess Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine (CV: 西木野 真姫)
- Ottoman Empire
- (Naval) Lieutenant Günay Osmanoğlu (CV: 鬼龍院 皐月)
- Japan
- Lieutenant Yuiko Oda (CV: 篁唯依)
Part 14
- Location
- Singapore
Outdoor Party, Çırağan Palace
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Evening, 20th April 1936
Çırağan Palace, or Çırağan Hotel, as it was now known. Built under the reign of Sultan Abdulaziz, the palace had found new life welcoming the affluent tourists of the world to the heart of the city. A venture pursued by Princess Arzu, the hotel currently played host to the brother of Japan's divine emperor. But this was not the reason Arzu had personally oversaw the outdoor party. She had another guest worth speaking to; someone more important to her than Prince Chichibu.
"Miss Everheart, it's such an honour to meet you here," squealed the tangerine-haired woman, dressed in a black dress and a pink fur shawl. Holding up a card excitedly, she begged the dark-haired girl, "if I may, and you've probably heard these dozens of times, but I am your biggest fan. Maybe just one of the biggest, but I own all your records and memorabilia. Can I get your autograph?"
For Winny, having a princess swoon over her was a first. She suspected something amiss with her attitude - plenty had sold her autographs at a premium to collectors, after all. But this was the first time someone of royal blood was this ecstatic. Even if she was pretending, it was unlikely she was that desperate for money.
After all, the Ottomans were not poor anymore.
"I see," the girl in the black dress said, keeping her decorum as her butler offered his pen to her, "anything for a devoted fan. Would you be attending the concert tomorrow?"
"I don't think I have a choice, even if I wanted to refuse," Arzu admitted, "the delegates heading for the Trabzon Conference will be attending. I and my kin are stuck having to attend to their every whim."
"Is that so," the singer quipped with a chuckle, signing off on Arzu's photograph of her, "my condolences then. Who, exactly, would be there?"
"Well, lots," the princess said with a shrug, "though the Greek King, Constantine I, will be heading straight for Trabzon. Something about urgent business?"
"EOEA," queried the songstress, trying to put on an innocent facade. Breaking out into laughter, the Ottoman chimed, "maybe, maybe not. I'm not him, so I wouldn't know. I look forward to your concert, darling. Far more than my kin, but what do they know?"
"Well, I hope you enjoy it," Winny answered gingerly, "I do hope your family appreciates my upcoming performance at Trabzon."
"I wish..." the princess finally scoffed, "they're not too interested in Hollywood pieces."
Curtsying to the royal as Arzu took her leave, Everheart resisted the urge to put on an ironic smirk. If the Greek king was that worried about EOEA, then all the more she should pressure him to do more. If there was one reason he had yet to be dethroned, it was mainly because of the King's neutrality policy. The brother-in-law to King Wilhelm II, King Constantine I had tried and failed to keep the country from being consumed in patriotic fervour. The temptation to wrest Constantinople, Thrace and western Anatolia from their Turkish and Bulgarian enemies proved too great for the king to overcome, and his wife's blood ties to Germany had marked him as a German sympathizer, Sophia's Anglophilic ideals notwithstanding. Rumours of her pleading with her brother not to depose them were rife among many Greeks, who scorned the defeat and enslavement of many of their kind under the eastern barbarians. But for a king often accused of collaboration with the Central Powers, he still retained much support among the masses, particularly those repentant enough to see their folly in supporting Venizelos. It was this kind of fractured collection that Winny's cell had to hold together. While she herself, and the Kyknos' pilot were monarchists, many in her cell were not.
"I do declare, Miss Everheart," an African-American man with a white suit chimed, bowing to the starlet, "you've been quite the darling of the party."
"Well, I couldn't refuse an invite by Her Highness, Ambassador Sa'id," Winny answered, "it's Sa'id, is it?"
"Sa'id Abdul Al-Mamālīk," the ambassador said, "I'm surprised you got that right the first time. Most people just kept calling me Mr Al-Mamālīk, thinking it's a surname. In that case, I'd have preferred they've just called me Jameson."
"Ah..." went the starlet, "well, I had spent my youth travelling the Eastern Mediterranean. Mohammedan ways aren't too foreign to me, honestly. How did you find out about Islam then? I don't believe America is as well acquainted with the religion as the Europeans are."
"You'd be surprised, Miss Everheart," Sa'id explained, "some of the first slaves in America were Mohammedans. However, over the centuries, most have lost their ties to Islam when they were forced to adopt the names and Christian faith of their slave owners. I was part of the Moorish Science Temple of America once, attracted by the mystique of West Africa and a desire to prove myself equal and civilized as the White man. Of course, being a Sunni now, I can't bring myself to accept the temple's tenets anymore. It was quite deviant, in retrospect. The locals would have damned Noble Drew Ali as a blasphemer if they knew about him."[1]
"I'm very sure they would have done worse," Winny mused in a half-joking quip, "claims of prophethood aren't exactly tolerated here."
Giving a polite smile as the ambassador chuckled away, Winny tried to hide her apprehension. Rubbing her hands, she struggled to keep her feet in place, resisting the urge to walk out in that instant. She hated social functions, and she hated playing the role of the dandy socialite. And most of all, she hated being hosted by a decadent Ottoman royal. But who was she to say 'no' to such a dear fan of hers, when she could gather as much hearsay as possible from the local situation.
"Lady Everheart," her butler whispered in her ear, "there's a telegram waiting for you."
This was the cue she was waiting for. Curtsying to the ambassador as she took her leave, the spymistress made her haste to the restroom, away from the prying eyes and ears of the public.
______________________________
Seated inside a cubicle in the women's restroom, Winny took great care to keep any pursuers off her tracks. Even a random fanboy or fangirl could inadvertently expose her if he or she got a hold of any of her missives or radio transmissions. And in the heart of the Ottoman capital, the stakes were definitely raised. And despite her precautions, even she was not sure if her new 'minder' had any sense of tact and secrecy.
"Πάει-" whispered Diana, waiting at the door with like a dutiful attendant, "I mean... Miss Everheart, there is no one around."
"Right," Winny grumbled, a bit ticked off hearing her spill Greek for a moment, "just keep a lookout. I don't want anyone watching."
Pulling out the envelope tucked beneath the front of her dress, the girl prepared to open the telegram. Drawing her pocket knife, she slowly cut open the envelope side, keeping an ear for any suspicious activity. But just as she slid out the letter, a sudden slam at the door alerted the duo. It was Arzu, and she was mad.
"That damned samurai wench," cursed Arzu in Turkish, twisting the sink tap as she doused her hands with rushing water, "so much for 'royals and dignitaries only'. Thought I'd be busy and invited her old camp pals for a slumber party, did she!?"
"B-but Her Highness explained-"
"Don't tell me what she said," snapped Arzu, "tell me what you saw!"
Crawling to her feet as she tried to keep outside, Winny could see the quivering feet of her 'aide' as they watched the altercation unfold. Accompanying the incensed princess, a young, ash-blonde maid in a French-style uniform tried to explain the situation to Arzu. But the tone and domineering posture of the princess showed little patience for a contradictory opinion.
"That rat Günay," Arzu griped, biting her nail as she remained oblivious to the eavesdroppers at the end of the restroom, "I always imagined her to be a 'by-the-books' person. I didn't realize she was such a snake. How am I supposed to explain to Everheart about this..."
''Everheart',' thought the bewildered starlet, a bit confused by the conversation, 'what's this got to do with me? Was it about the party?'
The party, it turned out, was not the issue.
"Mariyne, get Günay on the line," growled Arzu, "I want her little slumber party cleared out and moved to Selimiye immediately."
"Your Highness," Mariyne pleaded, "we shouldn't be so rash-"
"I don't care," Arzu snapped, "if that samurai girl tries the 'socialites are not appropriate guests' routine, I will gouge out her eyes with her sword! Oh, of course! I'll just put in the request for Winny again. Might be a bit of trouble getting her luggage over, but I'm sure she won't mind?"
'Wait, what,' she thought, now even more confused by the talk. What was the girl planning? Was there something she was supposed to know about?
"Your Highness," the Ottoman aide told Arzu, "behind you..."
Winny paled considerably as she heard the mention. Of course, they would spot Diana. Standing guard in front of her cubicle, the whimpering teen stood out like a sore thumb. Hiding the telegram back in her bosoms, she quickly adjusted her dress as she tried to fake ignorance. After all, how many Americans can speak Turkish?
"Is something wrong," she spoke, opening the door slowly as she faked ignorance, "I heard a commotion."
Unsurprisingly, Arzu looked slightly nervous, hiding her mouth behind her hand as if trying to keep calm in front of her idol. It was almost laughable to watch, seeing her panic. But Everheart made sure to restrain herself, lest she break her fan's 'dear' heart.
"It's... it's nothing serious," Arzu tried to assure her, switching to English, "we were just talking about my half-sister. She had instructions to host the archduchess of Austria-Hungary in Yildiz. I... wanted to invite you over to one of our residences, but she refused to hear of it... Who'd have thought she went around to invite her old naval buddies from Japan? The nerve of her."
An invitation? To an Ottoman palace? If worming into the heart of the royal household were going to be this simple, she might not even need to send Diana to Trabzon at all! But from Arzu's expression, plans clearly had hit a snag. Not unexpected, for sure. After all, Winny was no dignitary or noble; just a songstress in the upper rungs of American society."
"You don't need to go through the trouble," Winny tried to assure her, "I don't mind staying in Çırağan. I heard the palaces can be pretty lonely. Just gracing your presence is enough of a pleasure for me~."
There was, at least, some truth to her words. Winny saw little to no value in a short stay in an Ottoman palace. While she might get a gossip or two, it was unlikely she could wring any valuable information for EOEA. Not to mention, if she tried anything funny like the Yildiz arson, the starlet could kiss her cover goodbye. Not once had she planned for such an event, and in retrospect, it would have failed with Arzu's relative shooting down suggestions of her stay anyway.
"R-Really," Arzu blurted, scratching her head, "don't be silly. I'm a pretty uncouth person, to be honest. I spent a lot of time out in the Carribean, so personal etiquette isn't my thing. His Majesty and Highnesses have sent many of us to study abroad, after all."
"Ah," Winny mused, "I was wondering why you acted so... American? The Carribean, is it? I've not had much time to spend there, though I heard Ethiopians are gaining a surprising amount of influence there."
"Must be the Rastafarians," Arzu concurred, pouting in thought.
"In any case, Your Highness," Winny surmised, "I wouldn't want you to go through the trouble. I don't think I'm worth jeopardizing your relationship with your sibling. If you wanted me to have a comfortable stay, this is more than enough."
"Are you sure," Arzu said, "I still think it's unfair for that b-... brat to bring her friends over when she blocked my proposal..."
For a moment, a spark came into Winny's mind as she reacted with choreographed bashfulness. Smiling for her adoring fan, she said, "Your Highness? You're my friend, aren't you?"
A few words. That was all she needed. If she could win over one of the Ottoman princesses, getting clearance in the conference would be a lot easier. She had her doubts about the intentions of her allies in the east, and if necessary, she would rather not involve them. Besides, would she dare miss an opportunity to worm her way into the royal household?
"Friend," yelped the startled princess, looking visibly flustered by the compliment, "but we just met... I... I wouldn't dare call myself a friend so soon~. You sure you don't need anything?"
"I... don't think so," Winny chimed 'innocently', "though I always wondered what it feels like to ride in a royal carriage... I'll be performing in Trabzon for the delegates anyway, so... what's the diff?"
"I see," Arzu went thoughtfully, "it does sound convenient..."
"B-But Your Highness," Mariyne blurted in panic, "wouldn't it be inconvenient if we squeeze another passenger in without permission-"
"I am the permission, Mariyne," snapped the ticked redhead, "I see no reason why I can't play Günay's game. Which carriage do you want to take, Miss Everheart? We have several delegates in Constantinople leaving the day after. I'll arrange it~"
Several... That is a tempting offer. But there was not any delegation, in particular, she wanted to board with, at least any that might not seem suspicious. Biting her lip, she pondered whether to even consider giving her choice. It might seem dubious to Arzu, so Winny felt.
"Who'll be travelling on board," Winny queried, trying to phrase her query properly.
"Hmm..." Arzu mused, crossing her arms to recall, "well, the main powers, for one. Germany, Austria-Hungary, America, Britain... Even the Free French are here."
"The Greeks," Winny quipped, raising an eyebrow at the missing mention.
"They're not riding with us, silly," Arzu replied, stifling a chuckle, "they requested that they take their train directly from Athens. So, they're not following us."
For a moment, Winny's face registered disappointment out of reflex. There was one person in the Greek delegation that she dearly wanted to meet. While she was quick to recover, the girl had reason to worry about Arzu's reaction. But it did not appear she had noticed or at least cared.
"Any place is fine, honestly," Winny said, "I don't mind at all."
"Alright then," Arzu declared, "just leave it to me."
"You sure you don't mind getting an earful from... whoever you were complaining about," Winny checked again.
Giving her an assured smile, the redhead princess replied, "leave the nagging samurai to me, Miss Everheart~. It's my job as host, after all."
"Please," Winny concluded, forcing her most convincing smile, "call me Winny."
"A-Ah," the Turk finally bid, again embarrassed by Winny's words, "ok, Winny~."
Watching the two leave, Winny resisted the urge to cringe or make a mocking smile. Now, she was sure they could get to the conference. If the Mobile Weapons could be smuggled right under the Ottomans' noses, they'd be in prime position to strike. Question was, how would the other resistance group do their part.
"M-Miss Everheart," whispered the frightened Diana in Greek, "what was that about?..."
"Nothing," Winny replied, "just an access pass. And learn some English. You want to be found out?"
If there was one thing she regretted, it was being unable to speak to that boy on the train from Athens...
OOC Notes:
- Noble Drew Ali, leader of the Moorish Science Temple of America, and the predecessor organization to the Nation of Islam. Pretty much OTL.
Cast
- Ottoman Empire
- Arzu Sultan (CV: ナミ)
- Mariyne Mugu (CV: 南ことり)
- United States of America
- Sa'id Abdul Al-Mamālīk/Harvey Jameson (CV: グエン・サード・ラインフォード)
- National Organization of Hellenic Fighters (EOEA)
- Winifred 'Winny' Everheart (CV: るえ)
- Sebastian (CV: セバス・チャン)
- Diana Michelakos (CV: あひる)
Part 15
- Location
- Singapore
Ottoman Port Authority
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Morning, 21th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinandea von Hapsburg-Lorraine
I don't know why I even bother...
Poring over a large register written in Arabic and Latin script, I admit I felt disturbed and awkward coming to a civilian port registry. With Princess Günay as my translator, I had little doubt of her suspicions towards me. I had told her what I could, investigating a wreck off Corfu with Ottoman civilian colours. But even such scant information might have been too much. If Günay and her government was invested in maintaining the secrets surrounding Arigi's recovered machine, then there would be little doubt they now fear that their weapon was in our hands, or worse, seek to covet what was never theirs.
I suppose this was lunacy at its greatest.
"I recall a proposal over changing the Turkish alphabet to improve the population's literacy," I remarked, trying to divert her attention as I try to spot for the MV Adana's name, "have you considered Latin?"
"We had," the Turk answered curtly, "it was a proposal supported by General Mustafa Kamel Pasha. But the old fogeys in the government are, in a way, stubborn. The Arabic script is the word used to write the holy scripture of God, glorified and exalted be He. However, it is, admittedly, a poor fit for our native tongue. We're still looking into it."
"What do you think then," I asked, "what script would you have used?"
For a moment, the Ottoman princess hesitated to answer. She seemed pensive at the question, something I did not really expect from a 'muscle-head' with a military complex. Looking over the Latin names, she tapped on the name of the ship I was looking for. Flat out, she stated, "anything to tick her off."
Let us just say I had completely lost her then.
"That reminds me," Günay now asked, as I pored over the details of the ship's passage through Constantinople, "why are you doing this? I don't think the youngest princess of Charles II should be doing detective work like a commoner."
"You tell me," I merely grunted, jolting down the details on my notebook, hopefully to compare with Arigi later, "we should head for the Selimiye Barracks. They should be waiting."
Officer Mess, Selimiye Barracks
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Morning, 21th April 1936
Germany, the rising continental power of Europe, or so the media said. The victory of the Great War, and the provisions granted by Brest-Litovsk and Versailles had granted Germany unimaginable prestige and power, the likes of which had not been seen since the time of Charlemagne. But the responsibilities of managing its vast new dominion, collectively known as Mitteleuopa, proved harder than obtaining it. Already, the various spherelings and the fractured Russian Federation were beginning to exercise its independence once again, and Germany's failure to dismantle the Royal Navy meant that beyond the continent, its colonial holdings in Africa remained under constant threat. The fact that beyond Togo and German East Africa, much of Germany's old empire had to be ceded to the surviving members of the Entente, had become a symbol of quiet shame for the new hegemon.
That being said, the Balkenkreuz-emblazoned Einherjars said nothing of its minor failings as a power.
Sitting at a table in full view of the Bosporus river side, the pilots of the German detachment sent to protect the delegation were having their morning coffee. Dressed in army and navy uniforms, this mixed group could easily be identified by the motley collection of Einherjar they had brought with them, all of which were among the most advanced produced by the Peenemunde Armoury. Nibbling on a sausage for breakfast, a young naval cadet with long blonde watched as her seniors spoke among themselves. Another, a redhead army lad with a mild scowl on his face, was by far the only German lacking the distinctive gold hair of his colleagues, an affair that seemed exceedingly bizarre. One senior, especially, stood out from the group, bearing a pair of shades as he casually enjoyed his cup of coffee with a smug smile. This was Baron Erich von Richthofen, son and inheritor of the title of 'Red Baron' Manfred von Richthofen.
The head officer of his motley crew of guards, Erich sat content as he admired the morning scenery outside. A descendant of an illustrious family that included politicians, soldiers and thinkers, it was little wonder why Erich chose to follow in the footsteps of his father, and uncles. Not surprisingly, the 'second' Red Baron had taken to painting his Einherjars in the distinctive red colour scheme. But his Aesir - the newest generation Mobile Weapon of the German military - had a different, if overly extravagant colour.
"'Balder'," remarked a blonde German pilot to his fellows, a serious, slightly well-built young man with sweptback hair, as he glared the gold-coloured mech among their lineup in the hangar, "the god of others' inadequacies. It's like you're trying to make a statement. Are you crazy or something?"
"You say it like it's a surprise, Oberleutnant Voss," a young twintail-wearing blond in a mantle remarked, sipping her coffee, "the Balder is a prototype model of the Aesir series, built straight from Peenemünde, it has no safeties, no governors... A normal person would black out from the G-forces flying that monster."
"You underestimate my skills, Graf Zeppelin," Richthofen quipped, "no, Leutnant Zeppelin. Though, I admit, I'm not used to a transformable model at the moment. Perhaps you should give me some insight. After all, your Walküre is a direct descendant of the vaunted Schwarzadler of the Great War. It's almost a shame that it was dropped in favour of the Aesir."
"The Aesir program was created in response to the Walküre's inadequate protection, Oberst Richthofen," a voice cut in on the group, "it's a problem identified with the Schwarzadler, before it went missing, of course."
Stepping in on the team was a young military attache, her long dark hair contrasting with her fellows'. At first sight, her straight face exuded a serious image, paired up nicely with her uniform. But her words carried with it a razor edge, belying a sarcastic wit. That much was not lost to the pilots, as Zeppelin nervously grimaced over her words.
"And who are you," Voss questioned, "are you the attache we're supposed to be meeting up with?"
"No, I'm here to arrest you for spreading false rumours about the failings of our new Aesir models," the woman quipped sarcastically, "on a serious note, though, I've made a request to the Ottoman War Ministry for a military display in the city, but they had refused. Instead, I've obtained permission to hold it at the Selimiye, as a showcase of our latest military hardware."
"I'm surprised you're telling us this now," Voss griped, a bit put off by the girl's words, "could you have informed us earlier?"
"My apologies for interrupting your coffee then," the girl answered, finally giving her salute to the officers, "in any case, I am Rittmeister I Klasse Sigismunda Niflheim, Military attache to the German embassy in Constantinople."
"That's the most fake-ass name I've ever heard," the redhead grunted, saluting with his officers to the attache, "did your parents watch too much opera?"
"So says the boy with the juice cup," Sieg answered back, eyeing his choice of beverage contemptuously, "I trust your machines are in good order, Oberst?"
"As it should be, Rittmeister," Erich replied confidently, settling back on his seat, "though I think the parade might seem a little off with such scant numbers for the variety in our arsenal."
"That is not a concern," Sieg informed him, "it is merely a demonstration of the German empire's superior technological capabilities."
"I'm not sure that's too obvious anymore, Madam," Zeppelin grunted, "the Ottomans are making metal dragons, of all things. Oberst Richthofen's Aesir aside, the garrison commander in Sevastopol had declined to send anything stronger than a Jotunn III. And my Walküre and Schneewind's Jotunn III Marine aren't exactly top-tier, either.
"But they are advanced, are they not," Sieg stated calmly, "the Eldjötunn, Troll and Dschinn Ausf J are models designed for the most elite units and commanders of His Imperial Majesty's army. Most of the nations participating in Trabzon don't even have Jotunn IIIs. I think it's fair to say we're more than superior."
"There are at least two nations in our midst who will say that you're wrong," Zeppelin commented snidely, "and I highly suspect more."
"Regardless," the attache informed, "do get ready for this afternoon. If you think walking the Einherjar past the grandstand is too much of a hassle, though, please, feel free to speak. If not, I'll see you with my Thegn."
Observing the table for a moment, it took a while before Sieg noticed something off. One of the chairs, despite a full glass of milk at the front, was empty, and she was told there would be a total of six guards on duty, excluding herself. Scanning the German crew, she questioned, "where's the Askari?"
This was not Kito Jumaane's day.
OOC Notes:
Cast
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Morning, 21th April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinandea von Hapsburg-Lorraine
I don't know why I even bother...
Poring over a large register written in Arabic and Latin script, I admit I felt disturbed and awkward coming to a civilian port registry. With Princess Günay as my translator, I had little doubt of her suspicions towards me. I had told her what I could, investigating a wreck off Corfu with Ottoman civilian colours. But even such scant information might have been too much. If Günay and her government was invested in maintaining the secrets surrounding Arigi's recovered machine, then there would be little doubt they now fear that their weapon was in our hands, or worse, seek to covet what was never theirs.
I suppose this was lunacy at its greatest.
"I recall a proposal over changing the Turkish alphabet to improve the population's literacy," I remarked, trying to divert her attention as I try to spot for the MV Adana's name, "have you considered Latin?"
"We had," the Turk answered curtly, "it was a proposal supported by General Mustafa Kamel Pasha. But the old fogeys in the government are, in a way, stubborn. The Arabic script is the word used to write the holy scripture of God, glorified and exalted be He. However, it is, admittedly, a poor fit for our native tongue. We're still looking into it."
"What do you think then," I asked, "what script would you have used?"
For a moment, the Ottoman princess hesitated to answer. She seemed pensive at the question, something I did not really expect from a 'muscle-head' with a military complex. Looking over the Latin names, she tapped on the name of the ship I was looking for. Flat out, she stated, "anything to tick her off."
Let us just say I had completely lost her then.
"That reminds me," Günay now asked, as I pored over the details of the ship's passage through Constantinople, "why are you doing this? I don't think the youngest princess of Charles II should be doing detective work like a commoner."
"You tell me," I merely grunted, jolting down the details on my notebook, hopefully to compare with Arigi later, "we should head for the Selimiye Barracks. They should be waiting."
Ship Name - Point of Departure - Destination - Date and Time in Bosporus
MV Adana - Rostov-of-Don, Russia - Vlore, Albania - 2nd February, 1936, 1849 hrs
MV Adana - Rostov-of-Don, Russia - Vlore, Albania - 2nd February, 1936, 1849 hrs
Officer Mess, Selimiye Barracks
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Morning, 21th April 1936
Germany, the rising continental power of Europe, or so the media said. The victory of the Great War, and the provisions granted by Brest-Litovsk and Versailles had granted Germany unimaginable prestige and power, the likes of which had not been seen since the time of Charlemagne. But the responsibilities of managing its vast new dominion, collectively known as Mitteleuopa, proved harder than obtaining it. Already, the various spherelings and the fractured Russian Federation were beginning to exercise its independence once again, and Germany's failure to dismantle the Royal Navy meant that beyond the continent, its colonial holdings in Africa remained under constant threat. The fact that beyond Togo and German East Africa, much of Germany's old empire had to be ceded to the surviving members of the Entente, had become a symbol of quiet shame for the new hegemon.
That being said, the Balkenkreuz-emblazoned Einherjars said nothing of its minor failings as a power.
Sitting at a table in full view of the Bosporus river side, the pilots of the German detachment sent to protect the delegation were having their morning coffee. Dressed in army and navy uniforms, this mixed group could easily be identified by the motley collection of Einherjar they had brought with them, all of which were among the most advanced produced by the Peenemunde Armoury. Nibbling on a sausage for breakfast, a young naval cadet with long blonde watched as her seniors spoke among themselves. Another, a redhead army lad with a mild scowl on his face, was by far the only German lacking the distinctive gold hair of his colleagues, an affair that seemed exceedingly bizarre. One senior, especially, stood out from the group, bearing a pair of shades as he casually enjoyed his cup of coffee with a smug smile. This was Baron Erich von Richthofen, son and inheritor of the title of 'Red Baron' Manfred von Richthofen.
The head officer of his motley crew of guards, Erich sat content as he admired the morning scenery outside. A descendant of an illustrious family that included politicians, soldiers and thinkers, it was little wonder why Erich chose to follow in the footsteps of his father, and uncles. Not surprisingly, the 'second' Red Baron had taken to painting his Einherjars in the distinctive red colour scheme. But his Aesir - the newest generation Mobile Weapon of the German military - had a different, if overly extravagant colour.
"'Balder'," remarked a blonde German pilot to his fellows, a serious, slightly well-built young man with sweptback hair, as he glared the gold-coloured mech among their lineup in the hangar, "the god of others' inadequacies. It's like you're trying to make a statement. Are you crazy or something?"
"You say it like it's a surprise, Oberleutnant Voss," a young twintail-wearing blond in a mantle remarked, sipping her coffee, "the Balder is a prototype model of the Aesir series, built straight from Peenemünde, it has no safeties, no governors... A normal person would black out from the G-forces flying that monster."
"You underestimate my skills, Graf Zeppelin," Richthofen quipped, "no, Leutnant Zeppelin. Though, I admit, I'm not used to a transformable model at the moment. Perhaps you should give me some insight. After all, your Walküre is a direct descendant of the vaunted Schwarzadler of the Great War. It's almost a shame that it was dropped in favour of the Aesir."
"The Aesir program was created in response to the Walküre's inadequate protection, Oberst Richthofen," a voice cut in on the group, "it's a problem identified with the Schwarzadler, before it went missing, of course."
Stepping in on the team was a young military attache, her long dark hair contrasting with her fellows'. At first sight, her straight face exuded a serious image, paired up nicely with her uniform. But her words carried with it a razor edge, belying a sarcastic wit. That much was not lost to the pilots, as Zeppelin nervously grimaced over her words.
"And who are you," Voss questioned, "are you the attache we're supposed to be meeting up with?"
"No, I'm here to arrest you for spreading false rumours about the failings of our new Aesir models," the woman quipped sarcastically, "on a serious note, though, I've made a request to the Ottoman War Ministry for a military display in the city, but they had refused. Instead, I've obtained permission to hold it at the Selimiye, as a showcase of our latest military hardware."
"I'm surprised you're telling us this now," Voss griped, a bit put off by the girl's words, "could you have informed us earlier?"
"My apologies for interrupting your coffee then," the girl answered, finally giving her salute to the officers, "in any case, I am Rittmeister I Klasse Sigismunda Niflheim, Military attache to the German embassy in Constantinople."
"That's the most fake-ass name I've ever heard," the redhead grunted, saluting with his officers to the attache, "did your parents watch too much opera?"
"So says the boy with the juice cup," Sieg answered back, eyeing his choice of beverage contemptuously, "I trust your machines are in good order, Oberst?"
"As it should be, Rittmeister," Erich replied confidently, settling back on his seat, "though I think the parade might seem a little off with such scant numbers for the variety in our arsenal."
"That is not a concern," Sieg informed him, "it is merely a demonstration of the German empire's superior technological capabilities."
"I'm not sure that's too obvious anymore, Madam," Zeppelin grunted, "the Ottomans are making metal dragons, of all things. Oberst Richthofen's Aesir aside, the garrison commander in Sevastopol had declined to send anything stronger than a Jotunn III. And my Walküre and Schneewind's Jotunn III Marine aren't exactly top-tier, either.
"But they are advanced, are they not," Sieg stated calmly, "the Eldjötunn, Troll and Dschinn Ausf J are models designed for the most elite units and commanders of His Imperial Majesty's army. Most of the nations participating in Trabzon don't even have Jotunn IIIs. I think it's fair to say we're more than superior."
"There are at least two nations in our midst who will say that you're wrong," Zeppelin commented snidely, "and I highly suspect more."
"Regardless," the attache informed, "do get ready for this afternoon. If you think walking the Einherjar past the grandstand is too much of a hassle, though, please, feel free to speak. If not, I'll see you with my Thegn."
Observing the table for a moment, it took a while before Sieg noticed something off. One of the chairs, despite a full glass of milk at the front, was empty, and she was told there would be a total of six guards on duty, excluding herself. Scanning the German crew, she questioned, "where's the Askari?"
...
"Baron Richthofen," ordered a scowling, blonde woman in French legionnaire uniform, stopping an afro-haired Askari on his way back with his breakfast tray, "take me to him. Now."
This was not Kito Jumaane's day.
OOC Notes:
- Credits to Agritum for the character of Sigismunda Niflheim (CV: Hitagi Senjougahara from Monogatari series)
Cast
- Austrian Crownlands (Austria-Hungary)
- Archduchess Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine (CV: 西木野 真姫)
- Ottoman Empire
- (Naval) Lieutenant (OF-2) Günay Osmanoğlu (CV: 鬼龍院 皐月)
- German Imperial Army (Germany)
- Oberst (OF-5) Erich von Richthofen (CV:
シャア・アズナブルクワトロ・バジーナ) - Son of Manfred von Richthofen - Oberleutnant (OF-1) Jürgen Voss (CV: ドイツ/ルートヴィッヒ) - Nephew of the late Werner Voss
- Vizewachtmeister (OR-6) Ulrich Eisenach (CV: テオドール・エーベルバッハ)
- Rittmeister I Klasse (OF-2) Siegismunda Niflheim (CV: 戦場ヶ原 ひたぎ)
- Vizewachtmeister (OR-6) Kito Jumaane (CV: ダリル・ローレンツ)
- Oberst (OF-5) Erich von Richthofen (CV:
- German Imperial Navy (Germany)
- Leutnant zur See (OF-1) Eva Ferdinandea Graf von Zeppelin (CV: Graf Zeppelin) - Granddaughter of Graf Ferdinand von Zeppelin
- Seekadett (OR-5) Beata Schneewind (CV: U-511/ユー) - Sister of Fritz Schneewind
- French Foreign Legion (French State)
- Sous-Lieutenant (OF-1) Abigail 'Abby' Remington (CV: モードレッド)
- Germany
- Walküre - Faceclaim: VF-31F Siegfried (modded with monoeye)
- Eldjötunn - Faceclaim: MSN-03 Jagd Doga
- Dschinn Ausf J - Faceclaim: MS-14J ReGelgu
- Thegn/Huskarl Command - Faceclaim: MS-18E Kämpfer
List of Mecha (Compiled 15 May 2018)
- Location
- Singapore
- Germany
- Pzkpfw. Jotunn I - The first mainstay mech of the German Deutsches Heer, the Jotunn I is Germany's first attempt at replicating the success of the Schwarzeradler (Black Eagle). The creation of an Einherjar for mass production was to trigger a rampant arms race to create the most powerful weapons known to mankind. Since its replacement by the Jotunn II (which had been replaced by the Jotunn III), the dated Jotunn I had been sold to multiple allied countries. Able to equip a variety of weapons from 100mm machine guns to bazookas, the versatile Jotunn Is remains a viable weapon in the German reserve, as well as frontline units of the other Central Powers.
- Faceclaim:
Bernie BurgerMS-06FZ Zaku II Kai (Type-B) (Gundam: War in the Pocket)
- Faceclaim:
- Variants:
- UtwPzKpfw Jotunn I Marine - Marine variant of the Jotunn I, meant for aquatic combat
- Faceclaim: RMS-192M Zaku Mariner (Gundam ZZ, Gundam Unicorn)
- UtwPzKpfw Jotunn I Marine - Marine variant of the Jotunn I, meant for aquatic combat
- Pzkpfw. Jotunn II - Successor to the Jotunn I, the Jotunn II was the mainstay weapon of the Germany army until the recent introduction of the Jotunn III. While sidelined as a reserve, it is extensively sold to friendly countries, including the Nationalists under Franco.
- Faceclaim: AMX-011C Zaku_III Late Type (Under the Gundam: Double-Fake)
- Pzkpfw. Jotunn III - The latest mainstay model of the German Army, the Jotunn III follows the design philosophy of its predecessors, capable of a wide range of armaments and apparatus for any combat situation. First unveiled in 1932, it has since replaced the ageing Jotunn Is and IIs as the main fighting vehicle of the armoured corps.
- Faceclaim: AMS-129 Geara Zulu (Gundam Unicorn)
- Variants:
- UtwPzKpfw Jotunn III Marine - Marine variant of the Jotunn III
- Faceclaim: ASM-129M Zee Zulu (Gundam Unicorn)
- UtwPzKpfw Jotunn III Marine - Marine variant of the Jotunn III
- Pzkpfw. Dverger I - Designed as a heavily-armoured, high-speed mech, the Dverger I is armed with an array of powerful bazookas and hover capability, aimed at breaking through enemy defences and formations for exploitation. Since its inception, a large variety of Dverger variants have been developed to suit the needs of Germany's expanded sphere. And while slated to be replaced by the Dverger II, the Dverger I remains the mainstay heavy armour of the German military.
- Faceclaim: MS-09B Dom and variants (Gundam, Gundam ZZ, Gundam Unicorn)
- Variants:
- Pzkpfw. Dverger I Ausf G. - Designed as a heavily-armoured, high-speed mech, the Dverger I is armed with an array of powerful bazookas and hover capability, aimed at breaking through enemy defences and formations for exploitation. The variant purchased by Austria, the Ausf. G, is an advanced model, with the expressed role of protecting members of the royal family.
- Faceclaim: MS-09G Dwadge (Gundam ZZ, Gundam Unicorn)
- Pzkpfw. Dverger I Ausf G. - Designed as a heavily-armoured, high-speed mech, the Dverger I is armed with an array of powerful bazookas and hover capability, aimed at breaking through enemy defences and formations for exploitation. The variant purchased by Austria, the Ausf. G, is an advanced model, with the expressed role of protecting members of the royal family.
- Pzkpfw. Dschinn - A limited production, high mobiity Einherjar, the Dschinn (German for 'genie/djinn') breaks the trend of German naming conventions after Norse mythology. Named for its Bantu-style shield and appearance (reminiscent of the Swahili Coast of Tanganyika), the Dschinn was formerly intended as a garrison unit for Germany's African colonies. However, its combat performance attracted praise from the military, who insisted on putting it into greater production. Now a more agile complement to the heavily-armoured, hard-hitting Dverger, the Dschinn is currently deployed in breakthrough exploitation and guerrilla-hunting.
- Faceclaim: MS-14 Gelgoog (Mobile Suit Gundam)
- Pzkpfw. Schwarzalfar - Aesthetically similar to the Dverger series, the Schwarzalfar hover between the Dverger and the Dschinn in terms of capability. Having lost the design competition to the Dschinn, the Schwarzalfar's few mechs are now relegated for assignment to commander units. Emil's personal weapon, the Schwarzalfar Nacht, is one such suit.Variants:
- Faceclaim: MS-08TX Efreet (Mobile Suit Gundam: Cross Dimension 0079)
- Variants
- Pzkpfw. Schwarzalfar Nacht
- PzKpfw Troll - The predecessor to the Vanir, the Troll is an improved model based on the well-received Dschinn and Dvergers. Well armoured, decently armed and with adequate speed, the Troll is a well-balanced weapon for the generation and a less expensive alternative to the Vanir. Assigned to commanders and vanguards of mainline units, it is set to replace the Dschinn as the go-to weapon for breakthrough and exploitation operations.
- Faceclaim: RMS-108 Marasai (Gundam ZZ)
- Pzkpfw. MW-01(a) Gefangener Minutemann - Unusual among the Iron Legion's arsenal, the Gefangener Minuteman is one of several Republican Spanish weapons captured by the Nationalists, likely pre-war stocks or purchases from pro-Republican American financiers. While the Iron Legion has no shortage of weapons delivered from Germany, the German High Command does have a lack of information on foreign weaponry. Hence, as part of their operational goals in Spain, the Iron Legion is currently field-testing the Gefangener Minutemann against its former owners. As added insult, Iron Legion crewmen have even added an extra 'n' as a joke in field documentation ('mann', being the German word for 'man), to emphasize its status as a captured weapon. So far, only one known Minuteman is being deployed by the Germans, with several more (both captured pre war stocks and added purchased from America) being employed by the Nationalists.
- Faceclaim: Gefangener GM (Mobile Suit Gundam)
- UtwPzKpfw Krabbe – German for 'crab' the 'Underwater Armoured Vehicle' Krabbe is the first of many German aquatic Einherjar developed for the Imperial Germany Navy, aimed at accomplishing Kaiser Wilhelm II's dream of wresting control of the seas from Britain's Royal Navy. Capitalizing on the success of the Imperial Navy's U-boat program, the Krabbe was developed be launched either from surface vessels or specially-designed U-boat carriers. While its design was only marginally successful, with significant flaws such as a lack of heat sink, the Krabbe served as a basis for more successful designs such as the Hummer and the Kraken.
- Faceclaim: MSM-03 Gogg (Mobile Suit Gundam)
- UtwPzKpfw Seebär – A rival design to the Krabbe posted to the Imperial Navy, the Porsche Seebär (German for 'sea bear') came hot on the heels of the Krabbe, utilizing many of the parts from the Jotunn I and a much more compact frame. Despite using the same generators as the land models, the Seebär's efficient cooling system leaves only a small heat signature, making it suited for stealth missions and raids on enemy bases. However, the arrival of the vastly successful Henschel Hummer meant an early exit for the Seebär. Nonetheless, the Seebär has seen success in exports to friendly countries, as well as astonishingly high sales for its often-ridiculed civilian variant, the Spielzeugbär (German for 'toy bear').
- Faceclaim: MSM-04 Acguy (Mobile Suit Gundam)
- Variants:
- Porsche Plüschbär Ein
- Faceclaim: GPB-04B Beargguy (Gundam Builders Beginning G)
- Porsche Plüschbär Drei – With the loss of its military contract with the Imperial Navy to Henschel's Hummer model, Ferdinand Porsche's daughter, Louisa Porsche, proposed plans for a civilian model of the Seebär to supplement the loss. Called the Plüschbär, or 'plush bear', the civilian model would be equipped with paintball guns and was meant for sale to wealthy families such as businessmen or aristocrats with daughters. When the initial design of the Plüschbär Ein received a lukewarm reception due to its continued use of the original Seebär head, Porsche designed a radically new Einherjar head, complete with a revolutionary new, interactive telescreen to allow the machine to make emotive expressions. While speculators were sceptical about the success of the Plüschbär, its Zwei model, and its successor, the Drei, have proven shockingly successful. Today, the Plüschbär is credited for opening a new civilian market for decommissioned Mobile Weapons for hobbyists the world over. As a civilian model, the Plüschbär's armaments have been decommissioned with non-lethal variants. However, in a moment of crisis, parts and weapons from the Seebär could still be used to rearm a Plüschbär.
- Faceclaim: KUMA-03 Beargguy III (Gundam Build Fighters)
- Porsche Plüschkatze
- Faceclaim: GPB-04NYA Nyagguy (Gundam Builders Beginning G)
- Porsche Plüschbär Ein
- UtwPzKpfw Hummer - German for 'lobster', the Henschel Hummer is by far the most successful model ever produced in the German arsenal thus far. Highly agile and heavily armoured, the Hummer has been designed by British Admiralty analysts as 'a game changer'. Already, its performance has been slated to far outstrip its Anglo-American counterparts, the Dover (British underwater Housecarl) and the Minuteman Marine. As of current, the model still in service in the German Navy, to be supplemented by more advanced Krakens, and sold to friendly countries.
- Faceclaim: MSM-07 Z'Gok (Mobile Suit Gundam)
- UtwPzKpfw Kraken – Successor to the Krabbe, the Kraken utilizes many features from the Henschel Hummer as part of the German Navy's standardization plans. Currently under limited mass production, it has so far remained under the exclusive purview of the German Navy.
- Faceclaim: MSM-03C Hygogg (Mobile Suit Gundam)
- UtwPzKpfw Meeresbiene (German for 'sea bee') – One of the many limited production models under consideration by the German navy, the Meeresbiene is a rocket-armed aquatic Einherjar meant for taking out fortified positions and heavily-armoured targets.
- Faceclaim: MSM-04G Juaggu (Mobile Suit Gundam)
- PzKpfw Aesir - The latest generation of Einherjar to fill the ranks, the high performance, variable-type Aesir is the embodiment of German engineering at its finest. With a dedicated flight form and high-powered weapons, the Aesir carries the potential of being the most powerful Mobile Weapon ever created. Along with its ground-based counterpart, the Vanir, the Aesir is currently being deployed with the most elite units and top aces of the German armed forces, including the newly-formed special operations task force, the Black Eagles.
- Faceclaim: MSN-001A1 Delta Plus (Gundam Unicorn), modified with a monoeye.
- Variants: Baldr - A custom Aesir used by Captain Erich von Richthofen.
- Faceclaim: MSN-001 Delta Gundam (Gundam Zeta), modified with a monoeye.
- PzKpfw Vanir - the ground-based counterpart to the Aesir, the Vanir boasts heavier protection and armament at the cost of mobility and flight capability. As part of the next generation of Einherjar, the Vanir has been issued to elite units and commanders of the German armed forces.
- Faceclaim: MSN-04B (AMS-04B) Sazabi (Gundam Char's Counterattack)
- Pzkpfw. Jotunn I - The first mainstay mech of the German Deutsches Heer, the Jotunn I is Germany's first attempt at replicating the success of the Schwarzeradler (Black Eagle). The creation of an Einherjar for mass production was to trigger a rampant arms race to create the most powerful weapons known to mankind. Since its replacement by the Jotunn II (which had been replaced by the Jotunn III), the dated Jotunn I had been sold to multiple allied countries. Able to equip a variety of weapons from 100mm machine guns to bazookas, the versatile Jotunn Is remains a viable weapon in the German reserve, as well as frontline units of the other Central Powers.
- Austria-Hungary
- Kürassier - The first indigenous development by the Austrian Landwehr, the Kürassier (German for Cuirassier) was designed to be smaller, making it more agile as well as saving on production and maintenance costs.
- Faceclaim: XM-01 Den'an Zon (Gundam F91)
- Husar - A counterpart to the Kürassier, the Husar is designed as a lightweight Einherjar suited for exploitation and ambush tactics. With aerial capabilities, they are well suited for the mountainous regions of the Austrian Alps and Dalmatia.
- Faceclaim: XM-02 Den'an Gei (Gundam F91)
- 'The White Wraith' - Obtained from a shipwreck off the coast of Corfu, its owners had yet to be determined. However, Lt. Arigi believes it to be of use to the Austrian Landwehr not to report the find, or rather, to report it solely to Princess Marie.
- Faceclaim: MSN-06S Sinanju Stein (Gundam Unicorn)
- Kürassier - The first indigenous development by the Austrian Landwehr, the Kürassier (German for Cuirassier) was designed to be smaller, making it more agile as well as saving on production and maintenance costs.
- Ottoman Empire
- Ejderha - The Ottomans' first foray into mech design, the Ejderha (Turkish for dragon) lived up to its name as a transformable mech. Capable of air flight, its introduction in 1934 surprised many observers. However, its tremendous cost for its performance meant that the reptilian machine is restricted to a mere dozen as of current. As a result, it is currently deployed to the Dardanelles Fortified Area to defend the capital, Istanbul.
- Faceclaim: ovv-af Danazine (Gundam AGE)
- Kuruntu - A more humanoid model developed alongside the Ejderha, the Kuruntu (Turkish for 'chimera') is designed for high mobility, eschewing the intimidation dragon appearance of the Ejderha for a jet-like mode. Due to the immense costs of production (more than the Ejderha), only a few Kuruntu have been built, often reserved for commanders on the field before the introduction of the Yeniçeri.
- Faceclaim: Xvv-xc Zedas (Gundam AGE)
- Yeniçeri - The next generation model after the Ejderha, the Yeniçeri (Turkish for 'janissary') is a mass production model based on the Fatih Sultan Mehmet. Currently in development in the Ankara armoury, the Ergenekon, it is currently under testing by the Ottoman military. However, under personal request, a few have already been requisitioned by the Ottoman dynasty. At least two is currently being used by Princesses Günay and Kiraz
- Faceclaim: Xvm-zgc Jilsbain (Gundam AGE)
- Variants:
- Yeniçeri Topu - Long range bombardment variant of the Yeniçeri, meaning 'Janissary Bombard'
- Faceclaim: Xvm-dgc Khronos (Gundam AGE)
- Yeniçeri Topu - Long range bombardment variant of the Yeniçeri, meaning 'Janissary Bombard'
- Seljuk – Part of the Suvari (Turkish for 'cavalry') program, the Seljuk is the first in the series of personalized mechs for use by Ottoman commanders in battle. In its current state, the Seljuk is only partially completed, but its frame is slated as a basis for future models.
- Faceclaim: ASW-G-08 Gundam Barbatos (Gundam Iron Blooded Orphans)
- Fatih Sultan Mehmet – Created using the technology of the Ejderha and the Seljuk, the Fatih Sultan Mehmet possesses much of the characteristic draconic appearance of the Ejderha and its successors. Named after the Ottoman sultan who conquered Constantinople and vanquished the Eastern Roman Empire, the Fatih Sultan Mehmet was meant to be the personal unit of the Sultan himself. However, owing to the advanced age of Abdulmejid II and his lack of piloting ability, the unit has remained in reserve, ready to be passed on to a worthy prince.
- Faceclaim: xvm-fzc Gundam Legilis (Gundam AGE)
- Ejderha - The Ottomans' first foray into mech design, the Ejderha (Turkish for dragon) lived up to its name as a transformable mech. Capable of air flight, its introduction in 1934 surprised many observers. However, its tremendous cost for its performance meant that the reptilian machine is restricted to a mere dozen as of current. As a result, it is currently deployed to the Dardanelles Fortified Area to defend the capital, Istanbul.
- Persia
- Paighan - The first mass production Grivpanvar of the Persian arsenal, the Paighan is an air-capable mobile weapon suited for traversing mountainous terrain. Boasting the latest tech acquired from the major powers, it stands as an equal to its Turkish rival, the Ejderha. However, its cost relative to Persia's lack of production capability meant that the Paighan is so far restricted for use in the Imperial Guard, the Immortals. Ironically, the Ejderha too faced the same issue.
- Faceclaim: ZEH-N-110 Kugel (Buddy Complex)
- Anahita - One of Persia's custom Grivpanvar, the Anahita boasts a unique performance that rivals even the higher-end weapons of the major powers. Reserved for use by female members of the royal family, its pink paint job had been the source of criticism from the Persian military brass (despite the use of pink camouflage for spy planes by the British).
- Faceclaim: ZEH-N-126 Fortuna (Buddy Complex)
- Paighan - The first mass production Grivpanvar of the Persian arsenal, the Paighan is an air-capable mobile weapon suited for traversing mountainous terrain. Boasting the latest tech acquired from the major powers, it stands as an equal to its Turkish rival, the Ejderha. However, its cost relative to Persia's lack of production capability meant that the Paighan is so far restricted for use in the Imperial Guard, the Immortals. Ironically, the Ejderha too faced the same issue.
- Italy – In collaboration with @Kaiser Chris
- Designations:
- P - pesante (heavy)
- A - aereo (aerial)
- 00/00 - Weight in tonnes/Year of manufacture
- Units:
- CAB P70/25 Fiat Leo – The first Carro Armato Bipede in the Italian arsenal, the Fiat Leo is designed for the defence of the Italian mountains. As such, its specs require a robust machine that could be maintained with little supplies and soak up punishment in battle. However, its poor design and ergonomics had become the stuff of humour for Austrian defenders overlooking the Po river.
- Faceclaim: OZ-06MS Leo (Gundam Wing)
- CAB P88/29 Fiat Cesare – A limited production model built on the Leo, the Cesare possesses surprisingly good specs for any Mobile Weapon. Its high speed, aerial capability and robust armour meant that even higher-tier Einherjar such as the Alfar and Dverger would have trouble fighting the Cesare. However, its massive speed comes at a huge cost, putting a toll on its pilot with fatal results. As such, only the most talented of pilots are allowed to drive a Cesare, an honour few are qualified for, and fewer would accept.
- Faceclaim: OZ-00MS Tallgeese (Gundam Wing)
- CAB P79/34 Fiat Centurione – The successor to the Leo, the Centurione is touted by Il Duce, Mussolini, as part of a new generation of state-of-the-art mechs to reclaim the 'lost territories'. Thus far, it has retained some of the capabilities of the Cesare while maintaining mass producibility. However, untested in combat, few doubed whether it could fulfil the task as Italy's next mainstay weapon
- Faceclaim: OZ-12SMS Taurus (Gundam Wing)
- CAB A67/28 Fiat Aquila – The first transformable Italian CAB, the Aquila is slated for use in carrier action, as well as power projection in the Mediterranean. However, its twig-like frame left protection to be desired, especially when compared to the upcoming German Aesir model.
- Faceclaim: AEU-05_AEU Hellion (Gundam 00)
- CAB A69/35 Fiat Forza – The latest transformable CAB and successor to the Aquila, the Fiat Forza is meant to function as a counterpart to the Centurione. Introduced in 1936, it is touted by Mussolini as part of the definite generation of mechs to 'reclaim' the Italian-speaking territories of Austria-Hungary. So far, not much is known of its combat capabilities, though it too possesses the same twig-like frame as the Aquila.
- Faceclaim: AEU-09_AEU Enact (Gundam 00)
- CAB P82/28 Fiat-CRDA Scilla - The first underwatch mech to be produced, the Fiat-CRDA Scilla (named after the Scylla) is among the more bizarre Mobile Weapon designs in the Italian arsenal. Well suited for the warmer waters of the Mediterranean, the Scilla has a transformable submarine mode in order to exploit its superior cruising ability. However, this comes at huge cost, as without legs, the Scilla is unable to perform amphibious operations. As such, the Cariddi was designed as a counterpart to perform the role of similar amphibious units such as the German Hummer.
- Faceclaim: OZ-08MMS Cancer (Gundam Wing)
- CAB P72/29 Fiat-CRDA Cariddi - The counterpart to the Scilla, the Cariddi (named after the Charybdis) performs a similar role to other amphibious units such as the Hummer and Dover. While not as fast as the Scilla, the Cariddi is significantly well armoured and armed, with its makers boasting that it can match even the German Kraken model blow by blow. Like the Scilla, the Cariddi possesses a submarine mode for improved mobility underwater. So far, it has remained untested in battle, much less against models used by its neighbouring rivals.
- Faceclaim: OZ-09MMS Pisces (Gundam Wing)
- CAB P192/30 Fiat-CRDA Nettuno – A commander-type underwater transformable mech, the Nettuno (named after the Roman god of water, Neptune) is unique in its ability to transform between land and aquatic mode. However, its Hummer-like appearance in aquatic mode had led to formal complaints from the German foreign affairs ministry of espionage, a matter which had led to many calling the Nettuno as 'German knockoffs'.
- Faceclaim: OZ-10VMSX Gundam Aesculapius (Gundam Wing)
- CAB P128/34 Fiat-CRDA Oceano – The successor to the Nettuno, the Oceano (named after the Roman god of oceans, Oceanus) improves on much of the technologies used on the Nettuno. However, its transformable mode, which bears a distinct resemblance to the Kraken, had led to another complaint from Germany's foreign affairs ministry, inheriting the 'German knockoff' moniker from its predecessor.
- Faceclaim: OZ-10VMSX-2 Gundam Burnlapius (Gundam Wing)
- CAB P70/25 Fiat Leo – The first Carro Armato Bipede in the Italian arsenal, the Fiat Leo is designed for the defence of the Italian mountains. As such, its specs require a robust machine that could be maintained with little supplies and soak up punishment in battle. However, its poor design and ergonomics had become the stuff of humour for Austrian defenders overlooking the Po river.
- Designations:
- National Organization of Hellenic Fighters (EOEA)
- Kýknos - The mysterious mech that had devastated many military bases in the Aegean, the Kýknos (Greek for swan) had become a symbol of resistance against the partition of Greek lands among the victorious Central Powers. Conducting a string of attacks on Bulgarian and Ottoman military installations in predominantly-Greek speaking territories, it had so far avoided civilian targets. But with growing impatience among the resistance ranks for an uprising, it appeared to be a matter of time before it begins killing innocents. Its eerie resemblance to the Ejderha's design had led to speculations that it was Ottoman in origin. Moreover, the lack of raids on Austrian-held Corfu had led to accusations of Vienna's involvement in fomenting unrest against its rivals. However, none of the rumours so far had been verifiable, with Istanbul denying the theft of any Einherjar from the Ankara armoury. But one thing is clear. Until the dream of Megali Hellas is fulfilled, the Kýknos will continue its relentless raids against the partitioning powers.
- Faceclaim: xvb-fnc Fawn Farsia (Gundam AGE)
- Kýknos - The mysterious mech that had devastated many military bases in the Aegean, the Kýknos (Greek for swan) had become a symbol of resistance against the partition of Greek lands among the victorious Central Powers. Conducting a string of attacks on Bulgarian and Ottoman military installations in predominantly-Greek speaking territories, it had so far avoided civilian targets. But with growing impatience among the resistance ranks for an uprising, it appeared to be a matter of time before it begins killing innocents. Its eerie resemblance to the Ejderha's design had led to speculations that it was Ottoman in origin. Moreover, the lack of raids on Austrian-held Corfu had led to accusations of Vienna's involvement in fomenting unrest against its rivals. However, none of the rumours so far had been verifiable, with Istanbul denying the theft of any Einherjar from the Ankara armoury. But one thing is clear. Until the dream of Megali Hellas is fulfilled, the Kýknos will continue its relentless raids against the partitioning powers.
- French Commune
- SNCA (Société nationale des constructions automatisation) Delescluze - The mainstay weapon of the French Red Army, the Delescluze, named after the leader of the failed Paris Uprising in 1871, was the first Einherjar to be designed and built by the Commune's national armaments branch, the société nationale des constructions automatisation. Cheap, simple, and easily mass produced, the Delescluze has exported the weapon to several socialist-aligned nations in South America, as well as rebel groups throughout the colonial empires.
- Faceclaim: MiG 21 Balalaika (Muv Luv Alternative)
- SNCA (Société nationale des constructions automatisation) Delescluze - The mainstay weapon of the French Red Army, the Delescluze, named after the leader of the failed Paris Uprising in 1871, was the first Einherjar to be designed and built by the Commune's national armaments branch, the société nationale des constructions automatisation. Cheap, simple, and easily mass produced, the Delescluze has exported the weapon to several socialist-aligned nations in South America, as well as rebel groups throughout the colonial empires.
- French State
- Caudron-Renault Paladin - The winning design for the French State's mech design contest, the Caudron-Renault Paladin epitomizes the will of the exiled Free French and their traditionalist values. A limited production mech designed for breakthrough and exploitation, the Paladin had found its way into the hands of top commanders and ace pilots alike. The much-vaunted French Foreign Legion, in particular, has many Paladin pilots among its ranks, some of whom have taken to customizing them to suit their own style of combat.
- Caudron-Renault Roland - Abby's custom Paladin, the Roland, is designed for close quarters, sacrificing ranged abilities in favour of an anti-ship sword. Its distinctive red paint job, more often associated with their communist rivals in the mainland, has earned Abigail much scorn from both her superiors and enemies alike. Nonetheless, the Roland is a deadly weapon in the hands of a skilled pilot, and its knightly facade reflects well on its pilot, herself part of the British peerage.
- Faceclaim: Gueelaldrine (Knight and Magic)
- Caudron-Renault Oliver - Decked in shields, the Oliver is Celine's personal Paladin mobile weapon. Coloured in a silver sheen, it is a stark contrast to the violent close-quarters type driven by Abigail. Far from a showpiece, the reinforced shields provide additional protection from kinetic rounds, while the silver paint is designed to reflect heat beams, a weapons science still in development by the major powers. Thus far, it had not seen extensive action, due to Celine's role as a technician and field test researcher for the French State military.
- Faceclaim: Aldirat (Knight and Magic)
- Caudron-Renault Roland - Abby's custom Paladin, the Roland, is designed for close quarters, sacrificing ranged abilities in favour of an anti-ship sword. Its distinctive red paint job, more often associated with their communist rivals in the mainland, has earned Abigail much scorn from both her superiors and enemies alike. Nonetheless, the Roland is a deadly weapon in the hands of a skilled pilot, and its knightly facade reflects well on its pilot, herself part of the British peerage.
- Hotchkiss-Berguet Dragon
- Hotchkiss-Berguet Astolpho - Alain's personal Mobile Weapon, the Astolpho was one of the variant designs of the Hotchkiss-Berguet's Paladin design, which ultimately lost out to Caudron-Renault. Despite this, it was redubbed the Dragon ('dragoon') as a commander mech, often custom designed to the pilot's specifications. In Alain's case, the Astolpho is armed with a lance and powerful thrusters to deliver a crushing blow to any opponent
- Faceclaim: ASW-G-66 Gundam Kimaris (Gundam Iron Blooded Orphans)
- Hotchkiss-Berguet Clovis - Jeanne's personal Mobile Weapon. A commander-type Dragon, the Clovis is armed with only head-mounted electro-gatling (Vulcan) guns and an anti-mech sword. While a proficient pilot, Jeanne preferred commanding from the sidelines, coordinating her forces with the Clovis' powerful radar and radio equipment.
- Faceclaim: ASW G-01 Gundam Bael (Gundam Iron Blooded Orphans)
- Hotchkiss-Berguet Astolpho - Alain's personal Mobile Weapon, the Astolpho was one of the variant designs of the Hotchkiss-Berguet's Paladin design, which ultimately lost out to Caudron-Renault. Despite this, it was redubbed the Dragon ('dragoon') as a commander mech, often custom designed to the pilot's specifications. In Alain's case, the Astolpho is armed with a lance and powerful thrusters to deliver a crushing blow to any opponent
- Caudron-Renault Paladin - The winning design for the French State's mech design contest, the Caudron-Renault Paladin epitomizes the will of the exiled Free French and their traditionalist values. A limited production mech designed for breakthrough and exploitation, the Paladin had found its way into the hands of top commanders and ace pilots alike. The much-vaunted French Foreign Legion, in particular, has many Paladin pilots among its ranks, some of whom have taken to customizing them to suit their own style of combat.
- United Kingdom
- Guardian – Britain's first Housecarl, the Guardian's hybrid appearance, with a tank hull-like top and legs, reflected Britain's initial scepticism over the Mobile Weapon design as a whole. More easily mass producible than the Jotunn series, the Guardian had since been exported to friendly countries such as the Omsk Governorate and the French State. Currently, it is still in use in the various colonial armies of the Commonwealth, in particular the British African colonies and the Raj. Some have even made its way into the hands of insurgents fighting against British rule, such as the Afrikaner Volksbund and the Indian communists and separatists.
- Faceclaim: Liverpool
- Wessex – The current mainstay Housecarl of the British Empire, the Wessex is the first to incorporate the innovative 'ejection cockpit' design. Fast, decently armoured and reliable, the Wessex has proven itself in the battlefields of Russia and China, holding its own against the high-end Tetsujin and the mass-produced Delescluze and Militsiya. To the glee of British engineers, pilots themselves have appeared favoured the easy maintenance, ergonomics and safety of the Wessex over the better performing Jotunn. With that in mind, engineersimplemented the Wessex model for all future mainstay Housecarls.
- Faceclaim: Glasgow (Code Geass)
- York – The next generation Housecarl of the British military, the York builds on the success of the Wessex with enhanced performance to match their rival counterparts. While slated to replace the Wessex by 1936, high demand for the York from the dominions, and the growing threat of advanced Mobile Weapons supplied to insurgents in the colonies had delayed its full implementation in the army.
- Faceclaim: Sutherland (Code Geass)
- Cavalier – A high-performance model of the York, the Cavalier is designed to take on stronger Mobile Weapons such as the Alfar. While more expensive to produce, the Cavalier makes it up with survivability on the battlefield, and hence a favoured choice for elite units and commanders.
- Faceclaim: Gloucester (Code Geass)
- Dover – Following the shock introduction of the Hummer aquatic Einherjar, the British Admiralty had put in a request for an aquatic Housecarl of their own. Meant to stave off German opposition to British naval supremacy, the Dover tried to implement the lessons learnt from its land-based counterpart to the sea. However, lacklustre performance in China against Japanese Tetsujin bode ill for the future of the Dover. Unless a vital upgrade is made, the Royal Navy may soon be eclipse by the growing power of the High Seas Fleet.
- Facelaim: Portman (Code Geass)
- Lancelot – A commander-type Housecarl built for the Remington family, the Lancelot is more like an heirloom sword than standard British army inventory. With higher performance, fine-tuned to the owner's specifications, the Lancelot has few, if any, equals. As of current, it is in the possession of Ariel Remington.
- Faceclaim: Lancelot (Code Geass)
- Guardian – Britain's first Housecarl, the Guardian's hybrid appearance, with a tank hull-like top and legs, reflected Britain's initial scepticism over the Mobile Weapon design as a whole. More easily mass producible than the Jotunn series, the Guardian had since been exported to friendly countries such as the Omsk Governorate and the French State. Currently, it is still in use in the various colonial armies of the Commonwealth, in particular the British African colonies and the Raj. Some have even made its way into the hands of insurgents fighting against British rule, such as the Afrikaner Volksbund and the Indian communists and separatists.
Designations:
- D (Russian: двуногий, dvunogiy), or 'biped' in English
- BD (Russian: Быстроходный двуногий, Bystrokhodny dvunogiy)
- C (Russian: Четвероногий, chetveronogiy), or 'quadreped' in English
- ZC (Russian: Железный человек, Zheleznyy chelovek), or 'iron man' in English. Used exclusively for Japanese-manufactured or Japanese-Russian project Mobile Weapons.
- All Factions
- D-25 Slon - The first in a long line of Russian mech designs, the D-25 Slon (Russian for 'elephant') requires remarkably few innovations. With simplified parts, heavy armour and a fixed main gun, the slow but protected Slon was originally deployed as a mainstay weapon by the Petrograd Social Revoutionaries-algined Russian People's Army. However, examples captured by armies loyal to Kolchak's Omsk government led to its mass production on both sides. Since, it has found its way to nations, warlord armies and insurgencies across the world, with licensed and unlicensed designs being manufactured at a rate far faster and cheaper than even the American Minuteman.
- MSJ-04 Fanton (Gundam 00)
- BD-26 Volga - Designed as a miniature, lightweight counterpart to the Slon, the BD-26 Volga was a light, fast moving mech designed for breakthrough exploitation, reconnaissance and mass attacks. More cost-efficient than the Slon, the Volga is mass produced and exported throughout Eurasia by all Russian factions. Its design was said to be inspired by developments in Britain on the Housecarl, which utilized similar principles in speed and mobility. Much cheaper than the Slon, it is the go-to weapon for insurgents who seek a more mobile, less conspicuous weapon than the Slon. However, its lacklustre armour and high combustibility had led to pilots referring to it as the 'gas bomb'.
- ATM-09-ST Scopedog (Armored Trooper VOTOMS)
- BD-30 Gekkon - A successor to the Volga, the BD-30 Gekkon (Russian for 'gecko') boasts better performance than the Volga, incorporating decent protection, reduced weight and safer design features lacking in the Volga. Created in the days after the armistice and the foundation of the Russian Federation, the Gekkon's design has been distributed to factions aligned to both the Petrograd and Omsk governments, as well as exported overseas. Easily mass produced, the Gekkon, too, has been marketed worldwide.
- Rk-92 Savage (Full Metal Panic!)
- C-31 Pauk - A radical new design by Petrograd engineers, the C-31 Pauk is meant as a mobile artillery platform, capable of delivering punishing barrages on enemy positions as well as act as a fortified mobile bunker. With Omsk-aligned factions acquiring blueprints to the Pauk, it has since become the mainstay artillery platform for all Russian armies.
- Zhuk (Front Mission)
- D-34 Goliaf - The successor to the Slon, the D-34 Goliaf provides added mobility and protection, while reducing its weight considerably. Set to replace the Slon in the Russian armies by 1936, the Slon is currently being export to various countries and factions worldwide.
- MSJ-06II-A Tieren Ground Type (Gundam 00)
- D-25 Slon - The first in a long line of Russian mech designs, the D-25 Slon (Russian for 'elephant') requires remarkably few innovations. With simplified parts, heavy armour and a fixed main gun, the slow but protected Slon was originally deployed as a mainstay weapon by the Petrograd Social Revoutionaries-algined Russian People's Army. However, examples captured by armies loyal to Kolchak's Omsk government led to its mass production on both sides. Since, it has found its way to nations, warlord armies and insurgencies across the world, with licensed and unlicensed designs being manufactured at a rate far faster and cheaper than even the American Minuteman.
- Petrograd Central Government - Russian People's Army
- D-30 Balalaika - Licensed variant of the French Commune SNCA Delescluze
- MiG-21 Balalaika (Muv Luv Alternative)
- D-35 Cheburashka - Licensed variant the French Commune SNCA Robspierre
- MiG-23 Cheburashka (Muv Luv Alternative)
- D-30 Balalaika - Licensed variant of the French Commune SNCA Delescluze
- Omsk Government/Siberian Autonomous Governorates
- ZC-29 Tyumen - A collaboration between the Omsk Government army and the Japanese, the ZC-29 Tyumen is meant as a commander and elite forces mech for the Omsk armies. Combining design elements from both the Russian and Japanese mechs, the Tyumen strikes a balance between protection, speed and efficiency. Intended for use in the late stages of the Russian Civil War, the Tyumen came too late to see combat. However, test pilots have rated the Tyumen highly, and additional orders for Tyumens had been delivered to the Kolchak government and various Omsk-aligned warlords.
- Kehei (Front Mission)
- ZC-29 Tyumen - A collaboration between the Omsk Government army and the Japanese, the ZC-29 Tyumen is meant as a commander and elite forces mech for the Omsk armies. Combining design elements from both the Russian and Japanese mechs, the Tyumen strikes a balance between protection, speed and efficiency. Intended for use in the late stages of the Russian Civil War, the Tyumen came too late to see combat. However, test pilots have rated the Tyumen highly, and additional orders for Tyumens had been delivered to the Kolchak government and various Omsk-aligned warlords.
- Japan
- Type 86 Kumo - Built in 1926, the Type 86 Kumo is Japan's first attempt at constructing an indigenous Tetsujin. Strained relations with the Western Powers, distrust over growing Sino-German cooperation, and a need for a suitable, amphibious mech, had prompted Japanese naval engineers to research on existing models, such as the Jotunn I. Cadres returning from German military institutes have brought back knowledge of Einherjar technical know-how had made critical contributions to the Tetsujin project. The result was a Tetsujin that bore an eerie resemblance to German amphibious Einherjar design, and yet wholly designed and manufactured in Tokyo. However, while functionally capable of combat, the Kumo lacklustre land capabilities had led engineers to return to the drawing board. The introduction of the Nara into the Japanese Army, the first truly Japanese Tetsujin, finally brought an end to the Kumo, though many are still being used in second-rate Japanese units and puppet states such as Manchukuo.
- Faceclaim: AMX-109 Kapool (Gundam ZZ/Turn A Gundam)
- Type 87 Nara - The first wholly indigenous Tetsujin, the Type 87 (built in 1927) Nara represents a revolutionary new concept in mech design. A decently armoured, high-performance mech equipped with jump jets, the Nara is capable of land and amphibious combat via traverse over water. Highly manoueverable, the Nara proved a dangerous adversary for the slower, more lumbering foreign models used by the Russian and Chinese factions. However, its advanced avionics meant a longer training time, maintenance time and costs and slower production, all while making it prone to catastrophic damage. Regardless, the Nara was to become the basis for all future Tetsujin, with the German-inspired Kumo sidelined as a result.
- Faceclaim: TSF-Type-77/F-4J Gekishin (Muv Luv Alternative)
- Variants:
- Type-87-Kai Nara Kai - Upgrade package for the Nara. Formerly designated for commander and elite units, the Nara Kai had since been mostly replaced by the Jōetsu and other models in the Japanese military.
- Faceclaim: TSF-Type-77/F-4JX Gekishin (Muv Luv Alternative)
- Type 92 Jōetsu - A limited production model variant of the Nara, the Type 92 Jōetsu is the most advanced mech in the Nara series, incorporating advancements from the Kumamoto and Nara Kai into its design. Slated to be replaced by the Niigata Kai and Sendai, it remains the mainstay commander and elite mech of the Japanese military. Of note, it is used exclusively by the Imperial Guard, though slated to be replaced by the Sendai by 1936.
- Type-82/F-4J Kai Zuikaku (Muv Luv Alternative)
- Type-87-Kai Nara Kai - Upgrade package for the Nara. Formerly designated for commander and elite units, the Nara Kai had since been mostly replaced by the Jōetsu and other models in the Japanese military.
- Type 89 Kumamoto - The successor to the Nara, the Type 89 Kumamoto sought to address the issues faced by the Nara. Built in 1929 with improved upgrades and lower production costs, the Kumamoto is far from a revolutionary model. But its use in both the IJA and IJN had garnered heavy praise, remaining the mainstay unit for both branches even after the introduction of the Niigata.
- Faceclaim: TSF-Type-89/F-15J Kagerou (Muv Luv Alternative)
- Type 94 Niigata - The latest mass production model of the Japanese Empire, the Type 94 Niigata (built in 1934) incorporates the lessons learnt in Japan's skirmishes throughout Eurasia. With performance upgrades, the Niigata proved more than a match even for advanced foreign models such as the Alfar. However, demands for increasingly high performance had left many of its flammability issues unanswered. As a result, many test pilots had dubiously referred to it as 'portable fireworks'.
- Faceclaim: TSF-Type-94 Shiranui (Muv Luv Alternative)
- Type 94-Kai Niigata Kai - An upgraded variant of the Niigata, the Niigata Kai is slated to replace the Jōetsu as commander and elite units. With higher performance than the base model, it is by far the best unit Japan had built thus far.
- Faceclaim: Type-94-1C Shiranui Type-1C (Muv Luv Alternative)
- Type 96 Sendai - Slated for issue to the Imperial Guard to replace the ageing Jōetsu, the Sendai is a limited production mech designed for maximum combat efficiency. While the most expensive by far to produce, the Sendai is slated to match the upcoming German Aesir and Vanir models, as well as other third generation mechs by the other major powers.
- Faceclaim: Type-00 Takemikazuchi (Muv Luv Alternative)
- Type 86 Kumo - Built in 1926, the Type 86 Kumo is Japan's first attempt at constructing an indigenous Tetsujin. Strained relations with the Western Powers, distrust over growing Sino-German cooperation, and a need for a suitable, amphibious mech, had prompted Japanese naval engineers to research on existing models, such as the Jotunn I. Cadres returning from German military institutes have brought back knowledge of Einherjar technical know-how had made critical contributions to the Tetsujin project. The result was a Tetsujin that bore an eerie resemblance to German amphibious Einherjar design, and yet wholly designed and manufactured in Tokyo. However, while functionally capable of combat, the Kumo lacklustre land capabilities had led engineers to return to the drawing board. The introduction of the Nara into the Japanese Army, the first truly Japanese Tetsujin, finally brought an end to the Kumo, though many are still being used in second-rate Japanese units and puppet states such as Manchukuo.
- United States of America
- MW-01 Minuteman- America's first mobile weapon, having rolled off of the Ford Assembly lines in 1924, the Minuteman is the Army's standard mobile weapon and the go to machine for all pilots. Minutemen were designed to be extremely versatile machines and can fit any role in mind. Whether it be support, assault, long-range, or defense, the Minuteman can and will finish its job with efficient results. As a jack of all trades, the Minuteman can undergo extensive customization by the pilot and can be repurposed for multiple combat environments in a short amount of time. With its versatility and being one of the cheapest mass-production suits on the market, Minuteman are highly sought after by most developing nations and almost every military in the world, even the Great Powers, can find one within its ranks. This leads to many drawbacks as while the United States has made millions in the sale of thousands of units, every country has some basic grasp on its performance and can develop strategies to counter it.
- MW-01M Minuteman Aqua- The Minuteman Aqua is the U.S Navy's first attempt at an aquatic Mobile Weapon for deployment in both the Pacific and Atlantic. Minutemen Aqua's are standard Minuteman units that have underwater thrusters fixed onto the chasis of the suit in order to deploy within the depths of the ocean and retain some semblance of function. Aqua units are limited in their armament with a reliance on torpedoes and missiles for long-ranged combat, a harpoon gun to latch onto enemy suits and ships, and hand anchors for close combat. Because the Minuteman Aqua is essentially a land Mobile Suit with diving gear, it pales in comparison to the performance of the German Hummer, Krabbe, and Krakens. In the words of Admiral Chester Nimitz, "The Minuteman Aqua is a scuba diver trying to go up against a shark. It is a machine we can never solely rely on to protect our shores."
- MW-01S Frontiersman- The Frontiersman is the sniper variant of the Minuteman and is widely recognized within the Mobile Weapon corps as the superior version of the Minuteman, some saying it even surpasses the Commander variant. The Frontiersman is specialized with long-ranged combat in mind and with specialized artillery rifles can take out targets at a max distance of 10 miles with precise accuracy thanks to its targeting visor. Frontiersman units can also perform multiple tasks and when equipped with medium and close range weaponry, will be able to deliver results with the same quality as its sniper role.
- MW-01SZ Snowman- The Snowman is an environmental variant of the Minuteman that was designed with the intention of extended combat in freezing temperatures, the Chiefs of Staff demanding a "Snow MW" to deal with a hypothetical invasion of Canada in War Plan Red. Overall the Snowman is mostly similar in design and purpose to the original Minuteman, with the two main differences being an increase in manuverability along with the input of freeze-resistance materials design to work in temperatures well below zero. While the Snowman has seen limited usage within the U.S Army due to continetnal America's temperate climate, it has become an bestselling mobile weapon abroad. Selling hundreds of units since it's production, the Snowman has seen extensive purchases by Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and the Russian Federation; also becoming the majority mecha for both Finland and Siberia.
- MW-01C Minuteman Commander- The Minuteman Commander is an improved version of the original Minuteman design with an increase in acceleartion, power output, sensory range, communications, and an extra 6 mm in steel plating. Originally a prototype for a possible replacement of the Minuteman, the lackluster upgrades (estimated to be only 40% superior to the base Minuteman), has slated the Commander to be used as an elite unit for commanding officers instead of an entire replacement class. The Commander subtype was utilized as the basis of design for the Yankee.
- MW-02 Sherman- The Sherman is the first production class after the main Minuteman units, though some say that it is little more than a variation. The Sherman is based off of the Minuteman chasis, though diverges incredibly in design with the implementation of a thick 42 mm of armor and two 240 mm cannons stored on its back. Capable of launching projectiles up to 7 miles, the Sherman is intended to be a bunker buster that will be a combination of both artillery and tanks, essentially becoming a humanoid howitzer. Armed with a 90 mm machine gun, the Sherman is no joke in close quarters and will usually require extensive fire to be put down. Each Army mobile regiment will have at least one squad of Shermans to act as artillery support.
- MW-02M Sherman Aqua- An aquatic version of the Sherman, instead of its 240 mm dual artillery guns, the Sherman Aqua is equipped with two six-tube torpedo launchers and armed with a needle gun for anti-MW and anti-ship use. Testing and usage of the Sherman Aqua within the field has been mixed to say the least, with it performing well against ships ranging from frigates to battleships, but terrible against other aquatic MW.
- MW-03 Monitor- Named after the famous USS Monitor, this mobile weapon is intended to act as the successor for both the Minuteman and Sherman Aquas, designed to be an aquatic mobile weapon first and foremost. With 120% improved thrusters at speeds of 64 mph, the Monitor can easily cruise underwater and can submerge to low depths. Monitors incorporate aspects of both the Minuteman and Sherman aqua with the equipment of a torpedo pod and explosive harpoon gun. Analysis has shown the Monitor to be roughly equal to the Seabar and Krabbe, but slightly unmatched to the Hummer and Krakens. The Monitor has become a mainstay of the Marine corps and is planned to be used in amphibious assault and island operations.
- AMW-04 Condor- America's first mobile weapon not based off of the Minuteman chasis, the Condor is a revolutionary design for its time due to being one of the first fully aerial mobile weapon. Created by Lockheed and taking a note of inspiration from the recently developed Japanese mobile weapons, the Condor's primary method of flight is through the usage of its four main turbo jet engines located on the shoulders and legs, along with two sub-engines built into the side as wings. Clocking in a speed of 690 mph and can climb to elevations of 35,000 feet. Condors are rather versatile craft and can be fitted for any type of scenario ranging from attack bombing to aerial interception. While a recent model with not an extensive combat record, the Condor is lauded by many to be America's best (non-aquatic) mass-production model, hundreds of units going into service within both the Air Force and the Navy.
- MW-05 Hammerhead- The first successful mobile weapon line produced by Rockefeller Arms, the Hammerhead is a unique design in aquatic warfare that has the potential to meet and surpass the German and Japanese threat in the Atlantic and Pacific. Inspired by the Monitor with several base elements of the MW-03 crafted into the machine, the Hammerhead's main distinction is owed in large part to its backpack module which the Hammerhead's performance is based upon. The Backpack's propulsion system can propel the Hammerhead to speeds comparable to a Hummer and includes numerous fixed armaments such as a sonic cannon, two torpedo pods, four retractable heavy scythe "claws", and a handheld trident. Owing navigation to a tail extension which acts as a sonar array, the Hammerhead can go virtually anywhere within the ocean and can dive to depths of several thousand feet. Performing as a far superior unit to both the Aqua variants of the Minuteman and Sherman alongside the Monitor, the Department of the Navy has made the decision to switch to the Hammerhead as its main mobile weapon, deployed in flotillas of submarines based off of Germany's "Wolf Pack" theory.
- MW-06 Yankee- The proper successor unit of the Minuteman, the Yankee is a far superior design with a 65% high combat effectiveness thanks to a more powerful reactor, increased weapon variety, higher thrust, and more long-range sensoring. A more modern variant of the original Minuteman, the Yankee offers the same performance roles with a generally greater performance. At this time the Yankee has made little moves beyond the prototype stage with only a few dozen units being spread across the U.S Army. The reason for this reserved behavior in comparison to the Minuteman is commonly believed to be the Department of War holding back is to cut on the high costs thanks to the Yankee incorporating small amounts of Titanium plating on the chasis. However should war come to the United States, then it is presumed the Yankee will enter instant mass-production in the thousands.
- AMW-07 Falcon- The Falcon is an aerial mobile weapon designed by North American aviation. Unlike the other mobile weapons on the list, the Falcon has little direct function as a mobile suit and is mostly intended for usage as an aerial interceptor in its fighter mode, leading many to wonder why the United States doesn't just rely on its P-40 models. The Falcon is a sleek unit standing at 60 feet and going up to speeds of 750 mph. Armed with a 200mm rifle and a sonic sword, the Falcon is a match for most jet aircraft and is a deadly attack bomber for quick hit and runs. The Falcon's main strength lies in its speed and aerodynamics with quick deployment time and instantaneous reaction times. It's main drawback is the thinness of the craft with many pilots complaining that it is little more than a "twig", offering few protections in case of damage in combat.
Last edited:
Part 16
- Location
- Singapore
Officer Mess, Selimiye Barracks
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Morning, 21th April 1936
Jeanne de Domremy-La-Pucelle
Abby... what the hell has gotten into her. Looking over the guard details for the conference over a cup of coffee, I grimaced a bit as I read through the names of the British pilots - the 9th Queen's Royal Lancers - deployed. I was surprised I never noticed it the first time, possibly due to the daunting length of the list. But I suspected Abby had, and no wonder. She was a Briton herself.
"Colonel Ariel Remington," I read the name, intrigued by the coincidence. Seeing Abby's scowl all night made me wonder why her relationship with this woman was so strained. She never talked about her parents, not to me, nor to Alain or Celine. It was only after I asked Madam Rousillon that I found out she was a Remington. The daughter of the famed lancer who fought in the Irish Uprising. You would think someone like Abby would have gotten a better career back home.
"Captain Domremy? You asked for me," a calm, regal voice soon spoke to me, as I turned my attention up.
Who would have thought a calm, regal-looking colonel would bear such a wild woman?...
Officer Mess, Selimiye Barracks
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Morning, 21th April 1936
Kito Jumaane, Vizewachtmeister of the German Imperial Army's armoured corps. A rare sight among the sea of Teutonic pilots, the afro-wearing, dark-skinned Askari was just one of the lucky few pilots who had risen from the ranks of the Mittelafrikaner Schutztruppe. To him, the Mediterranean city felt only somewhat different from the swarthy coast of Dar es Salaam. But the haughtiness of even the Turkish hosts was weighing on him a bit, as a 'Zanj' serving the interests of white Christian Europeans.
Perhaps his metal prosthetic legs were what was drawing all the unwanted attention...
"Kito, who might this be," his shades-wearing superior remarked with bemusement, likely relishing the scowl on Abigail's face, "it's not like you to get a girl."
"Sir, that wasn't funny," grunted the Askari, "the legionnaire said she wanted to have a word with you."
In all respects, the Swahili could already tell this was going to end badly. The legionnaire, with her seemingly foul mood, appeared to be eyeing Richthofen like a lion, ready to bite his head off. The man had a penchant for offending the wrong crowd, and he highly suspected this was also the case here. If not to correct a slight, there could only be one other reason for her to approach the Red Baron.
"You. Me. Outside," Abigail demanded with a seething tone, nodding her head towards the exit.
Shifting back in his seat with a cocky smile, the colonel appeared unfazed by her blunt challenge. A sharp contrast to the stares and suspicion of his juniors, he did not seem too fettered by her callous attitude towards him. Picking up his coffee, he questioned in a gleeful tone, "oh? You want to fight me, Miss, or Lieutenant, is it? How would you like to settle this then? With our fists, or would you prefer our machines?"
"Colonel, are you crazy," cautioned Zeppelin, glaring at the woman with a scowl, "I don't want you to make a scene."
"It's fine," Erich replied snidely, "it's not fair to ignore her. However, Lieutenant, if you want to fight me, I'm afraid there are a few... minor issues."
"Why," Abby goaded, "you scared?"
"Oh, not at all," Erich replied, lowering his sunglasses in a small chuckle, "I just think you're not up for it."
Eight words. Eight words were all it took to sour Abby's mood. What began as a demand for an honourable duel had soon gave way to outrage. Biting her lip, a tense, simmering anger was building in her as she tried to resist the urge to lash out at him. With gritted teeth, she growled, "excuse me," hemming her tone as she questioned mentally the sheer arrogance of the Baron.
"Your machine is a custom French Legion Paladin, is it not, Lieutenant Abigail Remington," Erich explained, not once dropping his snide posture, "then I'm afraid my machine has already put you at a severe disadvantage. If I have to compare, it'll be like a hawk pecking at a rabbit. Your Mobile Weapon is not suited to take on aerial Mobile Weapons like the Aesir. Besides, you're just not good enough yet."
"Who the hell are you to judge," Abby hissed, ignoring the hawkish gazes of Erich's fellow pilots.
Casually cleaning his sunglasses in spite of the heated interrogation, the Baron simply answered, "because I can tell - at your current skill, you're still only half the pilot your mother is."
That finally snapped her. Hurling a fist right at Erich's smug face, Abby's punch was caught just inches away from his nose, as the calculating Sieg twisted her arm to the side in an awkward angle. Watching as the attache was forcing back the legionnaire, Erich appeared barely fazed by the attack. His subordinates, however, did, most of them standing at apprehension at Abby. For all her martial prowess, though, Abby was starting to wince in pain at the German attache's vice grip. The unflinching German had her wrist bending at a painful angle, with nary a sweat breaking from her head. And her compatriots looked set to gang up on her too, not the least after she attempted to assault their leader. With gritted teeth, she threatened the colonel, "I dare you to say that again. How dare you compare me to her?"
"Lieutenant Remington, I mean no offence," Erich replied, intrigued by her explosive response, "unless it's some private matter that's straining your family relationship, I have only the utmost respect for the two for you. I would recommend against tarnishing that pride of yours, however. If you're still looking to challenge me, I'd suggest a duel with one of my task force members first. How does that sound, team? Anyone want to take a crack at her?"
"Don't throw your goons at me," Abby barked, "get on your machine and fight!"
Putting on his sunglasses again as he readied another sip, he reiterated, "didn't I say before? You're not ready yet. And with that attitude, you can even lose to Cadet Schneewind on a single error. A pilot must fight with a level head, Lieutenant. I don't think using your anger is conducive for a duel."
"I'll show you anger," Abby shot back, still trying to force her punch against Sieg's palm. In a large twist, the attache simply wrung the legionnaire's arm like a pretzel, causing her to yell in pain as the dark-haired woman forced her arm further into the turn.
"You heard the colonel, Frank," Sieg stated in a dark, low tone, putting a harder twist to worsen the pain, "you're not good enough."
"Come now," a voice soon broke the deadlock, "let's not devolve into a brawl now, shall we?"
Sieg could only rue the commotion the 'Frank' had drawn to them, eyeing the offending, ominously inhuman-looking girl partaking in the spectacle.
Cast
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Morning, 21th April 1936
Jeanne de Domremy-La-Pucelle
Abby... what the hell has gotten into her. Looking over the guard details for the conference over a cup of coffee, I grimaced a bit as I read through the names of the British pilots - the 9th Queen's Royal Lancers - deployed. I was surprised I never noticed it the first time, possibly due to the daunting length of the list. But I suspected Abby had, and no wonder. She was a Briton herself.
"Colonel Ariel Remington," I read the name, intrigued by the coincidence. Seeing Abby's scowl all night made me wonder why her relationship with this woman was so strained. She never talked about her parents, not to me, nor to Alain or Celine. It was only after I asked Madam Rousillon that I found out she was a Remington. The daughter of the famed lancer who fought in the Irish Uprising. You would think someone like Abby would have gotten a better career back home.
"Captain Domremy? You asked for me," a calm, regal voice soon spoke to me, as I turned my attention up.
Who would have thought a calm, regal-looking colonel would bear such a wild woman?...
Officer Mess, Selimiye Barracks
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Morning, 21th April 1936
Kito Jumaane, Vizewachtmeister of the German Imperial Army's armoured corps. A rare sight among the sea of Teutonic pilots, the afro-wearing, dark-skinned Askari was just one of the lucky few pilots who had risen from the ranks of the Mittelafrikaner Schutztruppe. To him, the Mediterranean city felt only somewhat different from the swarthy coast of Dar es Salaam. But the haughtiness of even the Turkish hosts was weighing on him a bit, as a 'Zanj' serving the interests of white Christian Europeans.
Perhaps his metal prosthetic legs were what was drawing all the unwanted attention...
"Kito, who might this be," his shades-wearing superior remarked with bemusement, likely relishing the scowl on Abigail's face, "it's not like you to get a girl."
"Sir, that wasn't funny," grunted the Askari, "the legionnaire said she wanted to have a word with you."
In all respects, the Swahili could already tell this was going to end badly. The legionnaire, with her seemingly foul mood, appeared to be eyeing Richthofen like a lion, ready to bite his head off. The man had a penchant for offending the wrong crowd, and he highly suspected this was also the case here. If not to correct a slight, there could only be one other reason for her to approach the Red Baron.
"You. Me. Outside," Abigail demanded with a seething tone, nodding her head towards the exit.
Shifting back in his seat with a cocky smile, the colonel appeared unfazed by her blunt challenge. A sharp contrast to the stares and suspicion of his juniors, he did not seem too fettered by her callous attitude towards him. Picking up his coffee, he questioned in a gleeful tone, "oh? You want to fight me, Miss, or Lieutenant, is it? How would you like to settle this then? With our fists, or would you prefer our machines?"
"Colonel, are you crazy," cautioned Zeppelin, glaring at the woman with a scowl, "I don't want you to make a scene."
"It's fine," Erich replied snidely, "it's not fair to ignore her. However, Lieutenant, if you want to fight me, I'm afraid there are a few... minor issues."
"Why," Abby goaded, "you scared?"
"Oh, not at all," Erich replied, lowering his sunglasses in a small chuckle, "I just think you're not up for it."
Eight words. Eight words were all it took to sour Abby's mood. What began as a demand for an honourable duel had soon gave way to outrage. Biting her lip, a tense, simmering anger was building in her as she tried to resist the urge to lash out at him. With gritted teeth, she growled, "excuse me," hemming her tone as she questioned mentally the sheer arrogance of the Baron.
"Your machine is a custom French Legion Paladin, is it not, Lieutenant Abigail Remington," Erich explained, not once dropping his snide posture, "then I'm afraid my machine has already put you at a severe disadvantage. If I have to compare, it'll be like a hawk pecking at a rabbit. Your Mobile Weapon is not suited to take on aerial Mobile Weapons like the Aesir. Besides, you're just not good enough yet."
"Who the hell are you to judge," Abby hissed, ignoring the hawkish gazes of Erich's fellow pilots.
Casually cleaning his sunglasses in spite of the heated interrogation, the Baron simply answered, "because I can tell - at your current skill, you're still only half the pilot your mother is."
That finally snapped her. Hurling a fist right at Erich's smug face, Abby's punch was caught just inches away from his nose, as the calculating Sieg twisted her arm to the side in an awkward angle. Watching as the attache was forcing back the legionnaire, Erich appeared barely fazed by the attack. His subordinates, however, did, most of them standing at apprehension at Abby. For all her martial prowess, though, Abby was starting to wince in pain at the German attache's vice grip. The unflinching German had her wrist bending at a painful angle, with nary a sweat breaking from her head. And her compatriots looked set to gang up on her too, not the least after she attempted to assault their leader. With gritted teeth, she threatened the colonel, "I dare you to say that again. How dare you compare me to her?"
"Lieutenant Remington, I mean no offence," Erich replied, intrigued by her explosive response, "unless it's some private matter that's straining your family relationship, I have only the utmost respect for the two for you. I would recommend against tarnishing that pride of yours, however. If you're still looking to challenge me, I'd suggest a duel with one of my task force members first. How does that sound, team? Anyone want to take a crack at her?"
"Don't throw your goons at me," Abby barked, "get on your machine and fight!"
Putting on his sunglasses again as he readied another sip, he reiterated, "didn't I say before? You're not ready yet. And with that attitude, you can even lose to Cadet Schneewind on a single error. A pilot must fight with a level head, Lieutenant. I don't think using your anger is conducive for a duel."
"I'll show you anger," Abby shot back, still trying to force her punch against Sieg's palm. In a large twist, the attache simply wrung the legionnaire's arm like a pretzel, causing her to yell in pain as the dark-haired woman forced her arm further into the turn.
"You heard the colonel, Frank," Sieg stated in a dark, low tone, putting a harder twist to worsen the pain, "you're not good enough."
"Come now," a voice soon broke the deadlock, "let's not devolve into a brawl now, shall we?"
Sieg could only rue the commotion the 'Frank' had drawn to them, eyeing the offending, ominously inhuman-looking girl partaking in the spectacle.
Cast
- German Imperial Army (Germany)
- Oberst (OF-5) Erich von Richthofen (CV:
シャア・アズナブルクワトロ・バジーナ) - Oberleutnant (OF-1) Jürgen Voss (CV: ドイツ/ルートヴィッヒ)
- Vizewachtmeister (OR-6) Ulrich Eisenach (CV: テオドール・エーベルバッハ)
- Rittmeister I Klasse (OF-2) Siegismunda Niflheim (CV: 戦場ヶ原 ひたぎ)
- Vizewachtmeister (OR-6) Kito Jumaane (CV: ダリル・ローレンツ)
- Oberst (OF-5) Erich von Richthofen (CV:
- German Imperial Navy (Germany)
- Leutnant zur See (OF-1) Eva Ferdinandea Graf von Zeppelin (CV: Graf Zeppelin)
- Maat (OR-4) Beata Schneewind (CV: U-511/ユー)
- French Foreign Legion (French State)
- Captaine (OF-2) Jeanne de Domrémy-la-Pucelle (CV: ジャンヌ・ダルク)
- Sous-Lieutenant (OF-1) Abigail 'Abby' Remington (CV: モードレッド)
- British Army (United Kingdom)
- Major (OF-3) Ariel Remington (CV: アルトリア・ペンドラゴン)
- ????????? ???? (????????)
- 'Red Vila' (CV: ゼロツー)
East Asia in the 20th Century
- Location
- Singapore
East Asia in the 20th Century
One of the most-often ignored theatres of WWI, the victory of the Entente in East Asia against what could be aptly described as a woefully isolated, outnumbered and outgunned enemy, had been a foregone conclusion. Save for the early seizures of the German East Indies and Tsingdao, and the forays of the Emden, the Central Powers could do next to nothing to defend against the Allied onslaught, content simply with tying down as many troops as possible to prevent their deployment in Europe. When it came to the negotiations in Versailles in the summer of 1918, the German high command had long written off the Far Eastern colonies as lost. However, Kaiser Wilhelm's relentless quest to force back the return of Germany's largely fallen colonies threatened to extend the war beyond Germany's capabilities, even as its hand had been suitably strengthened with the fall of France and the Brest-Litovsk treaty. The result was that Germany simply 'sold' the colonies to the surviving members of Entente, a face-saving gesture to claim victory despite the clear evidence otherwise. It was hoped by German planners that by separating the Kaiserreich from territorial (though not economic) interests in the Far East, the Anglo-Japanese alliance which had annexed the areas would eventually come to blows over China. But while their conjectures were to be proven right, Germany would find itself in a twisted scrap for influence in China with the British, Americans, French and Japanese.
Yuan Shikai's inauguration as President of China, 1912.[1]
During the time of the Great War, East Asia was becoming a hotbed for revolution and civil war. In China, the Manchu-dominated Qing Dynasty had been overthrown by Sun Yat-sen's Wuchang Uprising, one which aimed to abolish millennia of imperial rule with a multiracial republic. However, its most powerful ally, Yuan Shikai, turned on the revolutionaries when he founded the Beiyang Government, subsequently crowning himself the Hongxian Emperor in December 1915. His fall from power came swiftly after just three months later. The collapse of the Beiyang Government ushered in a period of chaos and rule by powerful warlords, not unlike the situation in Russia following the Bolshevik defeat. In the words of Winston Churchill, he characterised the entire northern Eurasian region as 'a lawless steppe of degeneration and incivility'.[2] It would be a situation fully exploited by an ascendant Japanese Empire.
Japanese illustration of the capture of Tsingtao from the Germans.
German Concessions at Versailles
Having joined the Entente as an obligation to the Anglo-Japanese Treaty, the Japanese empire, to put it shortly, ironically became the greatest beneficiary in the Welterkrieg. While their European allies were faced with crushing defeat, the Japanese came off far larger out of the war, capturing most of the German East Indies and the Kiautschou Bay concession. Losses were limited to those of the Siege of Tsingtao, as well as the Sepoy Mutiny in Singapore. Regardless, for a time, Kaiser Wilhelm II threatened at Versailles to unleash the frightening power of the Black Eagle on the Japanese, should they not return the territories in haste. But throughout the negotiations, the German consensus had been heavily divided over whether to push for the return of the Far Eastern colonies. Most of the delegation, led by Foreign Affairs Secretary Arthur Zimmermann, had already resigned to the prospect of sacrificing the Asian colonies for the recovery of even some of their African possessions.[3] And the limitations of the Black Eagle (i.e. short deployment duration, limited munitions), though not completely identified at the time, were too glaring for the Japanese to be even remotely frightened of it. The fear of repeating the Russians' ill-fated expedition at Tsushima during the Russo-Japanese War dominated German decision-making in the fate of the east. Therefore, with little to no hope of recovering the possession, German negotiations were thus geared towards reparations in exchange for the Asian colonies and compromising the Anglo-Japanese alliance.
But even among the German negotiators, the prospect of a diminished presence in East Asia had raised many questions on their future policy. A few, like Georg Schrader, favour an alliance with Japan, an unorthodox, if not unpopular strategy in the German establishment. Seeing a rival for Chinese business interests in the rising Asian power, most disagreed with the political outsider and the nascent 'National Socialist German Worker's Party'.[4] While rapprochement with Japan was considered a possibility, given their surprisingly humane treatment of German PoWs (much unlike those held by the European Entente), the German foreign affairs ministry found the neutral Chinese government - Beiyang or Nanjing - more amicable to German economic ties than a former Entente power.
In contrast, most of the delegates, led by Richard von Kühlmann, favoured stronger ties with the Chinese in light of their impending exit from the Far East.[5] By conceding the Tsingtao concession, he explained, they could signal to the Chinese of their intent to '...repent for past aggression...', and frame themselves as '...an ardent supporter of the Chinese struggle against Western and Japanese imperialism'. Doing so, the pro-Chinese faction, felt, would open access to China's vast mineral resources, while at the same time, endangering Anglo-American and Japanese interests. More importantly, he argued, a future war with the Entente would open up a huge front in the Far East with the Chinese on their side, thus severely weighing down Entente resources in the Pacific and allowing Germany to bring the full force of their military in Europe.
Ultimately, despite disputes over their future relations with the two nations, the delegation ultimately agreed on the permanent loss of their Pacific possessions at Versailles. Sold at a token price to the Japanese and the British Commonwealth, the Germans ceded:
Shadow of the Rising Sun
Emperor Hirohito during an army inspection, January 1938As China and Russia collapsed into warlordism, Japan itself is entering an unprecedented rise as a regional power. With crippling debt from its participation in the Great War and Russian Civil War consuming the liberal government, radical militarists seized the chance to advance Japan's imperial ambitions. Having supported the Russian White Movement and warlords in China, Japan's influence now extends from the Russian Far East down to Saigon. The collapse of authority throughout its immediate vicinity proved a hefty boon for Tokyo's increasingly radicalized military. And what vestiges of parliamentary democracy borne from the Taisho era was swept aside as militarists took the reins on the promise of unrivalled power.
While the strain of finances for its war effort had shown throughout the 20s, its increasing exploitation of Siberian oil and Chinese mineral wealth soon put a positive, if dreaded, spin on Japanese imperial ambitions. In the course of a short seventeen years, Japan's empire had more than doubled in size, notwithstanding its pre-war acquisitions of Taiwan and Korea. Powers which would have otherwise overshadowed the Japanese were now broken and vulnerable to its control. At present, its possessions include:
A contingent of Imperial Guard Type 96 Sendai, on station in Kyoto.To protect and advance its mainland interests, the Japanese quickly sought to catch up to the Western powers in military technology, especially in Mobile Weapons. The creation of its first domestically produced mech, the Kumo, paved the way for a long line of high-performance mechs, emphasizing speed, manoeuvrability and close quarters combat against their slower, heavily armoured enemies on the mainland. The Chinese, having to contend with poorer-quality Russo-Chinese designs and imported weapons from Germany, Britain and America, found themselves outmatched against the shockingly advanced weapons of the Japanese. However, even as Japan rolls out its latest, state-of-the-art Type 96 Sendai, casualties among Japanese pilots prove higher than readily accepted, with virtually absent armour, vulnerable and highly combustible frame, and an often fatalistic attitude to Mobile Weapon combat largely to blame.
Regardless, the prowess of the Japanese Tetsujin (Japanese: 鉄人, 'iron man') showed during the skirmishes against the Kuomintang's imported Mobile Weapon units. Its unusually rapid pace of development allowed Japan to keep pace with developments in America and Europe, much less the Chinese. For much of the early Warlord Era, it was Japan who commanded the initiative in its quest for dominance over Asia. However, as the 30s wore on, the gulf between the Japanese and their mainland foes had begun to wane. As the unlikely alliance of Western powers aiding China watched the tightening Japanese grip on the China's markets with growing dismay, the Kuomintang government in Nanjing prepares to embark on its own ambitious quest to create a viable adversary to the Tetsujin.
China Divided, But Unbroken
Chinese soldiers, equipped with Stahlhelms, on a practice march in the Chinese Military Academy at Nanjing, 1936The chaos of the early republican era in China had led to the rise of military cliques, whose sole claim to legitimacy is the sword and gun. Among the strongest was the Beiyang Government, where an alliance of warlords under Yuan Shikai kept a constant watch on rivals both outside and within their own circles. The revitalized Kuomintang under Sun Yat-Sen did not initially receive Western aid when it reformed from his return from exile. But the startling speed of encroachment by the Japanese and her warlord clients prompted a growing trickle of support from the rivals of the Great War. Great Britain, Germany and America all contributed aid to the Chinese effort, though Western aid often went to competing warlord cliques as well. Regardless, the arrival of Western technical know-how and investments was reluctantly welcomed, though the Kuomintang was just as wary of Western domination as they were of Japanese.
Chinese ambassador Chiang Tso-pin and his entourage, in a visit to a German factory, 1928Of the Western triumvirate aiding the Chinese Nationalists, it was the Germans whom the Chinese felt most confident to welcome. As expected from their conjectures at Versailles, the forfeiture of Germany's far eastern concessions had removed a major obstacle in Sino-German cooperation after the Great War. Eager to fan the flames of discontent among the Chinese against Anglo-American imperialism, German advisors such as Max Bauer and Wilhelm Canaris played a pivotal role in the industrialisation and rearmament of the Kuomintang. This cooperation culminated in the establishment of the Chinese Experimental Armoured Unit. While the unit took heavy losses in the recapture of Beijing and Tianjin from the Fengtian Clique's own Russian-made, Japanese-supplied mechs, the prestige accorded to China's first Tierens (Chinese: 鐵人 'iron man', identical to the Japanese term) prompted Generalissimo Chiang Kai-Shek, Sun's successor, to approve further funding for the country's budding Tieren program. However, while German Einherjar were readily available for supply, Einherjar technology was a jealously guarded secret. Despite repeated, often lengthy requests from the German legation in Nanjing for experts from the Armouries, Berlin had consistently refused to share its secrets to the Kuomintang government. Whether out of fear of their technology falling into the wrong hands, or an undercurrent of arrogance in maintaining Chinese dependence on German arms, German paranoia paved the way for America to fill the void, successfully jostling for favour with the Chinese.
When German Einherjar technology was far from forthcoming, American policy makers seized the opportunity to implant themselves into the Tieren program. For Washington, the benefits were twofold; it not only allowed the Americans to stave off the Japanese in the Chinese mainland, but by promulgating the democratic ideals of Sun Yat-Sen, the Americans hoped to deny the Germans a potentially powerful ally in the Pacific. Automotive and arms giants such as Ford, Chrysler and Rockefeller, all entered the fray as Minutemen were churned out by the dozens from Wuhan's Hanyang Arsenal.
Tiewei, the latest generation, high performance Tieren.But the cooperation went beyond assembly lines and licenses. Dedicated to the creation of a domestic design, the Chinese introduced the Chánchú (Chinese: 蟾蜍, 'toad') in 1930. Inspired by British Housecarl designs, the Chánchú's first forays in combat were surprisingly positive. Against the warlords' heavily armoured Russian mechs, the speed of the Chánchú gave the Kuomintang a surprising edge against the infamously slow speed and poorer quality of the warlord mechs. And yet, it is outfitted with reasonably more protection than the nimble but cripplingly fragile Tetsujin. The creation and design of the Tiěwèi (Chinese: 鐵衛, 'iron guard') and other high-performance machines underlined Chiang's desire surpass the foreign imperial powers as a giant of its own. And with the vast wealth and manpower of the nation at his disposal, the Chinese republic looked poised to unite the fractured nation.
The People's War in Disarray
The May 4th protests against the Versailles Treaty in 1919, which becomes the catalyst for the formation of the Communist Party of China (CPC)/Chinese Communist Party (CCP)If the rise of the Kuomintang was monumental, then the collapse of the nascent Chinese communist movement was nothing short of tragic. Borne from the May Fourth Movement sparked by unrest over Japan's Twenty One Demands, the Chinese communists led by Chen Duxiu and Li Dazhao were off to a rocky start. Modelled after Bolshevik leader Vladimir Lenin's vanguard theory, the Chinese communists relied heavily on aid from Bolshevik exiles and the French Commune. Early relations and aid from the Paris government to the Kuomintang helped to facilitate the First United Front with the Communist Party. However, with the death of Sun Yat-sen and Chiang's determined anti-communist stance, the Chiang-aligned forces seized control from the left-wing KMT government in Wuhan, and massacred thousands of communists, real or suspected, in Shanghai and other strongholds. In retaliation, the communists formed the Workers' and Peasants' Red Army of China. For years, they waged an intense guerrilla war against the Nationalists. But faced with overwhelming force, and cut off from their French sponsors, the Chinese Red Army had been under hot pursuit ever since, retreating to the remote countryside before embarking on the treacherous Long March in 1934. The latter, which saw the Chinese Red Army reach breaking point, fractured the communist party. The Pro-French faction, led by Wang Ming and the Communards, fled south to Indochina to work with Ho Chi Minh's Vietminh.[7] Another, led by Mao Zedong, retreated towards Shanxi. The remainder, under Li Lisan, simply surrendered, integrating themselves into KMT or contesting through peaceful means. Whichever the fate, the future of the much reviled communists looks exceptionally bleak.
A 'Might Makes Right' World
With the horrendous disturbances of the Beiyang era and its aftermath, the rule of law had since been replaced by the rule of the sword. Though most of the warlords had long been brought under Kuomintang control, their reign over their fiefdoms remain virtually unchallenged. Though driven out of the vital Suiyuan mines, Yan Xishan remains a powerful force in the mountainous Shanxi region. At the same time, the Hui Muslim Ma Clique continues to hold sway over the vast regions of Qinghai, Gansu and Ningxia. In the outskirts, Sheng Shicai reigns over the isolated, rebellion prone outpost of Xinjiang, oscillating between Russian, Chinese and Mongol masters. And lastly, the cliques of Yunnan and Guangxi held the southern border, justifying their independence with the emergent threat of the Japanese and communist rebels in Indochina.
Roman von Ungern-Sternberg, autocrat of Mongolia and regent to the Bogd Khan.But perhaps the most troubling of all was the rise of the Mongol Khanate under Roman von Ungern-Sternberg. Uncontrollable to all sides, the White Russian regent had made little effort to hide his desire to expand the domain of the Bogd Khan over the Mongol lands. Already, he had taken control of vast stretches of the Transbaikal, including the vital Trans-Siberian Railway. Moreover, he had formed a condominium over Inner Mongolia with the Japanese, and shares influence over western Manchuria. Most frightening of all, his ragtag band of Mongol, Han and Russian irregulars had morphed into a dangerous, professional army, rearming and researching Mobile Weapons technology at an unprecedented rate. And though the Regency remains allied with the Japanese, it had become amply clear that their growing insubordination had drawn the ire of Tokyo.
An Uncertain Future
As China limped on through the 20th Century, the prospects for a brighter future had never been dimmer. Taken apart by foreign imperialist ambitions and internal strife, the Kuomintang government in Nanjing is hard pressed to unite the country. But China had endured worse through their 'Century of Humiliation'. With the right minds and will, unity - and with it, peace - may yet be restored.
OOC Notes:
One of the most-often ignored theatres of WWI, the victory of the Entente in East Asia against what could be aptly described as a woefully isolated, outnumbered and outgunned enemy, had been a foregone conclusion. Save for the early seizures of the German East Indies and Tsingdao, and the forays of the Emden, the Central Powers could do next to nothing to defend against the Allied onslaught, content simply with tying down as many troops as possible to prevent their deployment in Europe. When it came to the negotiations in Versailles in the summer of 1918, the German high command had long written off the Far Eastern colonies as lost. However, Kaiser Wilhelm's relentless quest to force back the return of Germany's largely fallen colonies threatened to extend the war beyond Germany's capabilities, even as its hand had been suitably strengthened with the fall of France and the Brest-Litovsk treaty. The result was that Germany simply 'sold' the colonies to the surviving members of Entente, a face-saving gesture to claim victory despite the clear evidence otherwise. It was hoped by German planners that by separating the Kaiserreich from territorial (though not economic) interests in the Far East, the Anglo-Japanese alliance which had annexed the areas would eventually come to blows over China. But while their conjectures were to be proven right, Germany would find itself in a twisted scrap for influence in China with the British, Americans, French and Japanese.
Yuan Shikai's inauguration as President of China, 1912.[1]
Japanese illustration of the capture of Tsingtao from the Germans.
Having joined the Entente as an obligation to the Anglo-Japanese Treaty, the Japanese empire, to put it shortly, ironically became the greatest beneficiary in the Welterkrieg. While their European allies were faced with crushing defeat, the Japanese came off far larger out of the war, capturing most of the German East Indies and the Kiautschou Bay concession. Losses were limited to those of the Siege of Tsingtao, as well as the Sepoy Mutiny in Singapore. Regardless, for a time, Kaiser Wilhelm II threatened at Versailles to unleash the frightening power of the Black Eagle on the Japanese, should they not return the territories in haste. But throughout the negotiations, the German consensus had been heavily divided over whether to push for the return of the Far Eastern colonies. Most of the delegation, led by Foreign Affairs Secretary Arthur Zimmermann, had already resigned to the prospect of sacrificing the Asian colonies for the recovery of even some of their African possessions.[3] And the limitations of the Black Eagle (i.e. short deployment duration, limited munitions), though not completely identified at the time, were too glaring for the Japanese to be even remotely frightened of it. The fear of repeating the Russians' ill-fated expedition at Tsushima during the Russo-Japanese War dominated German decision-making in the fate of the east. Therefore, with little to no hope of recovering the possession, German negotiations were thus geared towards reparations in exchange for the Asian colonies and compromising the Anglo-Japanese alliance.
But even among the German negotiators, the prospect of a diminished presence in East Asia had raised many questions on their future policy. A few, like Georg Schrader, favour an alliance with Japan, an unorthodox, if not unpopular strategy in the German establishment. Seeing a rival for Chinese business interests in the rising Asian power, most disagreed with the political outsider and the nascent 'National Socialist German Worker's Party'.[4] While rapprochement with Japan was considered a possibility, given their surprisingly humane treatment of German PoWs (much unlike those held by the European Entente), the German foreign affairs ministry found the neutral Chinese government - Beiyang or Nanjing - more amicable to German economic ties than a former Entente power.
In contrast, most of the delegates, led by Richard von Kühlmann, favoured stronger ties with the Chinese in light of their impending exit from the Far East.[5] By conceding the Tsingtao concession, he explained, they could signal to the Chinese of their intent to '...repent for past aggression...', and frame themselves as '...an ardent supporter of the Chinese struggle against Western and Japanese imperialism'. Doing so, the pro-Chinese faction, felt, would open access to China's vast mineral resources, while at the same time, endangering Anglo-American and Japanese interests. More importantly, he argued, a future war with the Entente would open up a huge front in the Far East with the Chinese on their side, thus severely weighing down Entente resources in the Pacific and allowing Germany to bring the full force of their military in Europe.
Ultimately, despite disputes over their future relations with the two nations, the delegation ultimately agreed on the permanent loss of their Pacific possessions at Versailles. Sold at a token price to the Japanese and the British Commonwealth, the Germans ceded:
- Kiautschou Bay and German Pacific possessions north of the Equator to Japan
- German New Guinea and Nauru to Australia
- German Samoa to New Zealand
Shadow of the Rising Sun
Emperor Hirohito during an army inspection, January 1938
While the strain of finances for its war effort had shown throughout the 20s, its increasing exploitation of Siberian oil and Chinese mineral wealth soon put a positive, if dreaded, spin on Japanese imperial ambitions. In the course of a short seventeen years, Japan's empire had more than doubled in size, notwithstanding its pre-war acquisitions of Taiwan and Korea. Powers which would have otherwise overshadowed the Japanese were now broken and vulnerable to its control. At present, its possessions include:
- Primorskaya Governate - Nominally under Kolchak's Omsk Government in federal Russia, the puppet government covers the Transbaikal, Amur and Primorsky regions.
- Manchuria - Recently converted into a monarchy under the deposed Qing Emperor, Aisin Gioro Puyi, Manchuria was a former warlord stronghold under the Fengtian Clique's marshal, Zhang Zuolin. Rumours of a coup plot by his son, Zhang Xueliang, to expel the Japanese, led to a counter-coup under the Kwantung army. Reduced to a figurehead role, Zhang Zuolin's removal from power ultimately paved the way for the coronation of Puyi, at his request.[6]
- Mengjiang - Another of Japan's newly founded puppets, Mengjiang is a condominion between Japan and its erstwhile ally, Mongolia. While the Mongolian regent, Roman von Ungern-Sternberg sought to annex the area, intervention from the Japanese and skepticism from Prince Demchugdongrub's Mengjiang government over Russian influence in Mongolia led to a division of influence between the two countries.
- Qingdao - Along with Dalian, acquired from Russia during the Russo-Japanese War, Qingdao (Japanese: 青島, Chintao) now serves as an important base of operation into the mainland.
- Indochina - Nominally under the control of the exiled government of the French State, rebel activity under the communist-funded Vietminh, British impotence and Japanese pressure led to the creation of the Confederation of Indochina, a de jure French dominion of monarchies and provinces, under de facto Japanese control.
A contingent of Imperial Guard Type 96 Sendai, on station in Kyoto.
Regardless, the prowess of the Japanese Tetsujin (Japanese: 鉄人, 'iron man') showed during the skirmishes against the Kuomintang's imported Mobile Weapon units. Its unusually rapid pace of development allowed Japan to keep pace with developments in America and Europe, much less the Chinese. For much of the early Warlord Era, it was Japan who commanded the initiative in its quest for dominance over Asia. However, as the 30s wore on, the gulf between the Japanese and their mainland foes had begun to wane. As the unlikely alliance of Western powers aiding China watched the tightening Japanese grip on the China's markets with growing dismay, the Kuomintang government in Nanjing prepares to embark on its own ambitious quest to create a viable adversary to the Tetsujin.
China Divided, But Unbroken
Chinese soldiers, equipped with Stahlhelms, on a practice march in the Chinese Military Academy at Nanjing, 1936
Chinese ambassador Chiang Tso-pin and his entourage, in a visit to a German factory, 1928
When German Einherjar technology was far from forthcoming, American policy makers seized the opportunity to implant themselves into the Tieren program. For Washington, the benefits were twofold; it not only allowed the Americans to stave off the Japanese in the Chinese mainland, but by promulgating the democratic ideals of Sun Yat-Sen, the Americans hoped to deny the Germans a potentially powerful ally in the Pacific. Automotive and arms giants such as Ford, Chrysler and Rockefeller, all entered the fray as Minutemen were churned out by the dozens from Wuhan's Hanyang Arsenal.
Tiewei, the latest generation, high performance Tieren.
The People's War in Disarray
The May 4th protests against the Versailles Treaty in 1919, which becomes the catalyst for the formation of the Communist Party of China (CPC)/Chinese Communist Party (CCP)
A 'Might Makes Right' World
With the horrendous disturbances of the Beiyang era and its aftermath, the rule of law had since been replaced by the rule of the sword. Though most of the warlords had long been brought under Kuomintang control, their reign over their fiefdoms remain virtually unchallenged. Though driven out of the vital Suiyuan mines, Yan Xishan remains a powerful force in the mountainous Shanxi region. At the same time, the Hui Muslim Ma Clique continues to hold sway over the vast regions of Qinghai, Gansu and Ningxia. In the outskirts, Sheng Shicai reigns over the isolated, rebellion prone outpost of Xinjiang, oscillating between Russian, Chinese and Mongol masters. And lastly, the cliques of Yunnan and Guangxi held the southern border, justifying their independence with the emergent threat of the Japanese and communist rebels in Indochina.
Roman von Ungern-Sternberg, autocrat of Mongolia and regent to the Bogd Khan.
An Uncertain Future
As China limped on through the 20th Century, the prospects for a brighter future had never been dimmer. Taken apart by foreign imperialist ambitions and internal strife, the Kuomintang government in Nanjing is hard pressed to unite the country. But China had endured worse through their 'Century of Humiliation'. With the right minds and will, unity - and with it, peace - may yet be restored.
OOC Notes:
- OTL
- The first phase of the Russian Civil War ended in a victory by the White Movement. However, being divided between monarchists and conservatives like Kolchak, and social revolutionaries like Kerensky, it devolved into infighting, even before the Bolshevik defeat and exodus.
- Without the Zimmermann Telegraph, Zimmermann himself would stay on as Foreign Affairs Secretary through the end of the war.
- Schrader is an original character, and yes, he is part of the Nazi party of the same name.
- IOTL, Kühlmann replaced Zimmermann as Foreign Affairs Secretary after the disastrous Zimmermann telegram that pulled America into the Entente. Here, the telegram was never sent (see point 3), hence leaving him a normal diplomat ITTL, at least for the remainder of the war.
- IOTL, Zhang Zuolin failed to stop the advance of the Kuomintang into Beijing, which led to his assassination by radical Japanese officers. The plan, which was intended to cement Japanese control over Manchuria, backfired tremendously, as Zhang Xueliang threw his lot with Nanjing. As for the Japanese, they would not get their puppet state until the Mudken Incident in 1931. ITTL, the attempt on his life was discovered and preempted by the Japanese Kempeitai.
- IOTL, Wang Ming is the leader of the 28 Bolsheviks, a cadre of Moscow trained students who form a faction within the CCP. They were ousted from power following the Long March. ITTL, the Paris-trained Communards manage to hold on to a section of the CCP and proto-PLA, evacuating through Yunnan into Indochina, as per Paris' instructions to link up with the Vietminh.
Part 17
- Location
- Singapore
Officer Mess, Selimiye Barracks
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Morning, 21st April 1936
Seated at the table with their drinks, Jeanne felt awfully intimidated by the officer before her. She had always known Abby had a skilled pilot for a mother. But sitting before the legendary Blue Lancer was giving her great jitters.
"Um, yes," she blurted, combing her hair back as she addressed Ariel at the table, "sorry to call you up, Madam."
"Please, at ease," Englishwoman insisted, "call me Ariel. We're not in the same command, so protocol won't be necessary. Not to mention you're Abby's friend."
"'Friend'," I uttered, a bit surprised by her words, "I'm not sure I'm fit to be called her friend."
"I think the feeling may be mutual, frankly," the Briton replied with a small chuckle, "Abby may not dare to say it out of pride, but she does place you in very high regard, Captain. I'm sure she's constantly worried about upsetting you for all the times she caused trouble."
"'Jeanne' will be fine, Ms. Ariel," I said, unable to hide a bashful smile, "I'm just doing my job. To be honest, she can be pretty difficult to control, at times."
Glaring down at her ink-black coffee, Jeanne felt a sense of irony at her nuanced words. Abby was not 'pretty difficult' to control. She was impossible to control. And many before her had often felt exasperated by her rogue attitude, especially in the harsh training regime of the Foreign Legion. It was thus a miracle she was not kicked out, though, looking back up at her mother, she had a strange sense that she might have done a fair bit to watch over Abby.
"I know my daughter, Jeanne," the Briton said, "headstrong, arrogant... she was a lot like me when I was her age. She left the British Army because she couldn't take the gossip about her piggybacking my fame. She wanted to prove her own merits to the world. In a way, I suppose she saw me as a rival."
"That's... quite a complex relationship, Ms. Ariel," Jeanne admitted, "though, I do hope the two of you get along. Treating your mother like an enemy over petty prestige... sounds like the actions of a spoiled brat."
"I suppose I bear some fault in it," Ariel admitted with a bemused but regal smile, "she is an only child, after all."
However, before the two could continue, a rush of feet and yelling interrupted them as Ottoman cadets hastily ran past, speaking excitedly to themselves. Her eyes shifting to the side, Jeanne questioned, "what was that all about?" Ariel, however, caught wind right away.
"'A Legionnaire is being beaten up by the Germans," she translated the cadets' chatter, becoming aghast at the revelation, "don't tell me..."
There were only two legionnaires in the barracks, and it could not be Jeanne.
Her hand still locking said legionnaire's arm at a painfully awkward angle, the dark-haired attache was quick to sense trouble. A small crowd was already forming around them, and this meant that the MPs were not far either. Moreover, there was something awfully annoying about the mysterious, pink-haired girl with facial make up. The strange, horn-like appendages were an even larger warning sign, but Sieg preferred not to ask too much about the 'demi-humans' popping up in their world.
"That accent," Sieg queried in her usual snide, analytical tone, "you must be Slav. If I'm not wrong, that uniform is Bulgarian, in which case, I will ask you to stay out of this."
"I'm afraid it's already past that point," the girl chimed back, "you don't have much time until the Turk MPs come to haul you away."
For a moment, Sieg's usual straight face saw the slightest twitch. It had been forever since someone had managed to touch a nerve. Without a word, she simply shoved Abby away as she released her grip on the Legionnaire. Watching the Briton hit the floor with a loud thud, it almost looked like she wanted to hurl her face onto the concrete.
"You ok, hot shot," crooned the odd-looking Bulgarian, soaking in Abby's ticked off face with glee.
Turning on the newcomer, Abby blasted, "nobody asked you for help! I can handle them myself."
"Yourself," quipped the mysterious soldier, licking her lips with interest, "all seven of them? How selfish~. Who gave you the right to fight the Second Red Baron?"
"Oh," chimed Erich with interest, "don't tell me you want a piece of me too, young lady? And you wear red too. Is my title that important to fight over?"
"Well, I wouldn't say it's the title I'm after," the girl corrected, "I just want a fight. How about it? My darling's team, her team, and your team, etc. in a team free-for-all. That way, this little princess won't continue menacing you, and this little sprite (me) won't get any ideas to do the same. Besides, it's not fun to watch parades, much less be in one, or is your secretary (Sieg) scared we might scratch your paint job?"
"You against us," Sieg replied snidely, "I think you might find we have ample data on those hand-me-downs you brought with you; or did you think we'd neglect to gather those of our own machines?"
Licking her lips, the Bulgarian taunted in a sultry, ravenous voice, "you're scared, aren't you? All that data you have won't mean shit in a fight with this much unpredictability and so little skill disparity. Don't tell me you don't know. The Ritter we brought with us aren't stock builds sent straight from Porsche, you know."
"-and such crude abominations they are," Sieg answered in a deadpan voice, "what the hell have you done to them, Ms...?"
Chuckling, the girl taunted, "Trier. Maya Trier. If you want to find out, then come and fight us~. That is... if you can reach us first~..."
"What's going on around here!?"
Peering back as Kiraz finally arrived at the commotion with her MPs, her gaze drifted down at the dark-haired Turk as she demanded an explanation. Hopping off the table, she quipped, "nothing important~. We're just discussing plans for the afternoon. You should join in~. A host has to provide entertainment, after all."
"Cut the talk," Kiraz scolded, "I give the questions here." Her eyes drifting to Richthofen and his crew, the ace seemed aloof as always, holding an arm in front of Sieg to stop her from reporting.
"It's as the Miss said," Erich informed Kiraz, "we're just discussing plans for an interesting match-up. If you can make it happen, we'll be very delighted. Either that... or you can just sit at the stands and watch us in march past. Your call."
Pouting a bit, the princess stared down at Abby as the legionnaire got back to her feet. She did not seem to buy their words. However, given that no one wants to press charges, she did not seem empowered to bring them into custody either. Stepping back as she saw Jeanne rush by her side, the princess stated flat out, "that's not my call. If you want a match, ask my sister. I'm sure she'll be more receptive to it."
Helping her friend up as the crowds finally began to clear, Jeanne blurted, "Abby, are you alright? What happened? Did you try something funny again?"
Shifting her eyes sideways as she noticed the blonde Briton in the background, Abby made a small frown as she denied, "it's nothing. I got what I wanted."
Staggering away, the battered legionnaire took a moment to glare at her assailant as the German stared back with dark, empty eyes. For a moment, she felt tempted to break the Ashkenazim's nose, but given how Sieg managed to fight back, the legionnaire felt cautious about taking her anger out on her again. As for the Bulgarian, she was well on her way out, slinking away like a snake as she made off with a bunch of grapes from where she sat.
"Let's go," went the girl, trying her hardest to avoid looking at her mother square in the eyes. That concern, that worry... Nothing seemed to fill her with more shame than to be treated as a lesser.
Abby may get back at them yet.
Cast
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Morning, 21st April 1936
Seated at the table with their drinks, Jeanne felt awfully intimidated by the officer before her. She had always known Abby had a skilled pilot for a mother. But sitting before the legendary Blue Lancer was giving her great jitters.
"Um, yes," she blurted, combing her hair back as she addressed Ariel at the table, "sorry to call you up, Madam."
"Please, at ease," Englishwoman insisted, "call me Ariel. We're not in the same command, so protocol won't be necessary. Not to mention you're Abby's friend."
"'Friend'," I uttered, a bit surprised by her words, "I'm not sure I'm fit to be called her friend."
"I think the feeling may be mutual, frankly," the Briton replied with a small chuckle, "Abby may not dare to say it out of pride, but she does place you in very high regard, Captain. I'm sure she's constantly worried about upsetting you for all the times she caused trouble."
"'Jeanne' will be fine, Ms. Ariel," I said, unable to hide a bashful smile, "I'm just doing my job. To be honest, she can be pretty difficult to control, at times."
Glaring down at her ink-black coffee, Jeanne felt a sense of irony at her nuanced words. Abby was not 'pretty difficult' to control. She was impossible to control. And many before her had often felt exasperated by her rogue attitude, especially in the harsh training regime of the Foreign Legion. It was thus a miracle she was not kicked out, though, looking back up at her mother, she had a strange sense that she might have done a fair bit to watch over Abby.
"I know my daughter, Jeanne," the Briton said, "headstrong, arrogant... she was a lot like me when I was her age. She left the British Army because she couldn't take the gossip about her piggybacking my fame. She wanted to prove her own merits to the world. In a way, I suppose she saw me as a rival."
"That's... quite a complex relationship, Ms. Ariel," Jeanne admitted, "though, I do hope the two of you get along. Treating your mother like an enemy over petty prestige... sounds like the actions of a spoiled brat."
"I suppose I bear some fault in it," Ariel admitted with a bemused but regal smile, "she is an only child, after all."
However, before the two could continue, a rush of feet and yelling interrupted them as Ottoman cadets hastily ran past, speaking excitedly to themselves. Her eyes shifting to the side, Jeanne questioned, "what was that all about?" Ariel, however, caught wind right away.
"'A Legionnaire is being beaten up by the Germans," she translated the cadets' chatter, becoming aghast at the revelation, "don't tell me..."
There were only two legionnaires in the barracks, and it could not be Jeanne.
___________________________
Her hand still locking said legionnaire's arm at a painfully awkward angle, the dark-haired attache was quick to sense trouble. A small crowd was already forming around them, and this meant that the MPs were not far either. Moreover, there was something awfully annoying about the mysterious, pink-haired girl with facial make up. The strange, horn-like appendages were an even larger warning sign, but Sieg preferred not to ask too much about the 'demi-humans' popping up in their world.
"That accent," Sieg queried in her usual snide, analytical tone, "you must be Slav. If I'm not wrong, that uniform is Bulgarian, in which case, I will ask you to stay out of this."
"I'm afraid it's already past that point," the girl chimed back, "you don't have much time until the Turk MPs come to haul you away."
For a moment, Sieg's usual straight face saw the slightest twitch. It had been forever since someone had managed to touch a nerve. Without a word, she simply shoved Abby away as she released her grip on the Legionnaire. Watching the Briton hit the floor with a loud thud, it almost looked like she wanted to hurl her face onto the concrete.
"You ok, hot shot," crooned the odd-looking Bulgarian, soaking in Abby's ticked off face with glee.
Turning on the newcomer, Abby blasted, "nobody asked you for help! I can handle them myself."
"Yourself," quipped the mysterious soldier, licking her lips with interest, "all seven of them? How selfish~. Who gave you the right to fight the Second Red Baron?"
"Oh," chimed Erich with interest, "don't tell me you want a piece of me too, young lady? And you wear red too. Is my title that important to fight over?"
"Well, I wouldn't say it's the title I'm after," the girl corrected, "I just want a fight. How about it? My darling's team, her team, and your team, etc. in a team free-for-all. That way, this little princess won't continue menacing you, and this little sprite (me) won't get any ideas to do the same. Besides, it's not fun to watch parades, much less be in one, or is your secretary (Sieg) scared we might scratch your paint job?"
"You against us," Sieg replied snidely, "I think you might find we have ample data on those hand-me-downs you brought with you; or did you think we'd neglect to gather those of our own machines?"
Licking her lips, the Bulgarian taunted in a sultry, ravenous voice, "you're scared, aren't you? All that data you have won't mean shit in a fight with this much unpredictability and so little skill disparity. Don't tell me you don't know. The Ritter we brought with us aren't stock builds sent straight from Porsche, you know."
"-and such crude abominations they are," Sieg answered in a deadpan voice, "what the hell have you done to them, Ms...?"
Chuckling, the girl taunted, "Trier. Maya Trier. If you want to find out, then come and fight us~. That is... if you can reach us first~..."
"What's going on around here!?"
Peering back as Kiraz finally arrived at the commotion with her MPs, her gaze drifted down at the dark-haired Turk as she demanded an explanation. Hopping off the table, she quipped, "nothing important~. We're just discussing plans for the afternoon. You should join in~. A host has to provide entertainment, after all."
"Cut the talk," Kiraz scolded, "I give the questions here." Her eyes drifting to Richthofen and his crew, the ace seemed aloof as always, holding an arm in front of Sieg to stop her from reporting.
"It's as the Miss said," Erich informed Kiraz, "we're just discussing plans for an interesting match-up. If you can make it happen, we'll be very delighted. Either that... or you can just sit at the stands and watch us in march past. Your call."
Pouting a bit, the princess stared down at Abby as the legionnaire got back to her feet. She did not seem to buy their words. However, given that no one wants to press charges, she did not seem empowered to bring them into custody either. Stepping back as she saw Jeanne rush by her side, the princess stated flat out, "that's not my call. If you want a match, ask my sister. I'm sure she'll be more receptive to it."
Helping her friend up as the crowds finally began to clear, Jeanne blurted, "Abby, are you alright? What happened? Did you try something funny again?"
Shifting her eyes sideways as she noticed the blonde Briton in the background, Abby made a small frown as she denied, "it's nothing. I got what I wanted."
Staggering away, the battered legionnaire took a moment to glare at her assailant as the German stared back with dark, empty eyes. For a moment, she felt tempted to break the Ashkenazim's nose, but given how Sieg managed to fight back, the legionnaire felt cautious about taking her anger out on her again. As for the Bulgarian, she was well on her way out, slinking away like a snake as she made off with a bunch of grapes from where she sat.
"Let's go," went the girl, trying her hardest to avoid looking at her mother square in the eyes. That concern, that worry... Nothing seemed to fill her with more shame than to be treated as a lesser.
Abby may get back at them yet.
Cast
- German Imperial Army (Germany)
- Oberst (OF-5) Erich von Richthofen (CV:
シャア・アズナブルクワトロ・バジーナ) - Oberleutnant (OF-1) Jürgen Voss (CV: ドイツ/ルートヴィッヒ)
- Vizewachtmeister (OR-6) Ulrich Eisenach (CV: テオドール・エーベルバッハ)
- Rittmeister I Klasse (OF-2) Siegismunda Niflheim (CV: 戦場ヶ原 ひたぎ)
- Vizewachtmeister (OR-6) Kito Jumaane (CV: ダリル・ローレンツ)
- Oberst (OF-5) Erich von Richthofen (CV:
- German Imperial Navy (Germany)
- Leutnant zur See (OF-1) Eva Ferdinandea Graf von Zeppelin (CV: Graf Zeppelin)
- Maat (OR-4) Beata Schneewind (CV: U-511/ユー)
- French Foreign Legion (French State)
- Captaine (OF-2) Jeanne de Domrémy-la-Pucelle (CV: ジャンヌ・ダルク)
- Sous-Lieutenant (OF-1) Abigail 'Abby' Remington (CV: モードレッド・ペンドラゴン)
- British Army (United Kingdom)
- Major (OF-3) Ariel Remington (CV: アルトリア・ペンドラゴン)
- Bulgarian Army
- Leytenant (OF-1) Maya Trier (CV: ゼロツー)
- Ottoman Empire
- Kiraz Sultan (CV: 纏 流子)
- PzKpfw Ritter - An early close quarters design created by Germany, the Ritter's (German for 'knight') name reflects its knight-like design and weaponry, hearkening back to an era of personal duels that seemed ready to be reborn in the skies over wartorn WWI Europe. While it performed well as designed, the lack of suitable ranged weaponry (its missile-equipped shields being its only means of ranged combat) made the Ritter unsuitable for German requirements, and its role as a command and elite breakthrough weapon went to the formerly Schultztruppe-only Dschinn. Regardless, several distinguished German commanders do use them, and the Ritter has been exported to its allies in Mitteleuropa. Bulgaria, in particular, has been producing a license-variant of the Ritter, as well as domestically-developed upgrades.
- Faceclaim: YMS-15 Gyan (Mobile Suit Gundam)
Part 18
- Location
- Singapore
VIP Room, Restaurant, Çırağan Hotel
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Late Morning (Istanbul Time), 21st April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinandea von Habsburg-Lorraine
Noon already? Never expected my search to take this long. That my host was sticking too close to me was scary enough. I honestly don't blame her for suspecting me of amateur espionage. Regardless, a trip to the florist and a memorial later, I at the hotel for a quick brunch. Sitting alone near the window as I sipped my tea, I dully glared at the host entertaining their Japanese guests in the VIP room. In all honesty, I couldn't really blame her. An elder crown prince was a higher priority compared to a young princess several leagues down the chain, and as the Turk proudly demonstrated, she was well suited for the task of playing the diplomat to the far-off empire. But still, being relegated to the background was not really a good sign, even if I enjoyed the peace.
"A duel," asked the prince to his host in deeply-accented English, "here?"
"Yes, Your Highness," Günay answered, "I've spoken to my sister on the matter. I believe some healthy competition would help ease tensions among the rival delegations, as well as demonstrate the skill of our pilots. Sort of like a Furusiyya or equestrian tournament in medieval Arabia and the Maghreb. I don't suppose His Highness would accede to your entourage's participation."
"Oh, of course, Your Highness," declared the prince gracious, "I see no reason to refuse. Our pilots would be most honoured to participate in the tournament. I am sure you will not find their skills lacking."
My eyes shifting at the pilots in question, I was hardly inclined to agree. While the bevy of female officers looked regal enough with their elegantly groomed locks, they hardly seemed the type for Mobile Weapon combat. And the male officers possessed a wild air, suave and uncontrollable even to their royal. I cannot help but think lowly of them. And yet, I could not help but suspect that they can probably back up their words pretty handily.
"You give us too much too much credit, Your Highness," one of the eye-patched officers (two, in total) humbly refuted with a bow, a dark-haired young man with an air of courtly rigor, "we're merely His Imperial Majesty's loyal servants. I do not wish to rate ourselves too highly, lest the Red Baron and his fellows prove us wrong."
"I think you overestimate them, Lieutenant Katakura," remarked the other one-eyed officer, veiling his sneer, "they haven't been to China."
"I heard the situation there is deteriorating," Günay queried, "something about border skirmishes?"
"The Nanjing government has resorted to repeated provocation in order to undermine our interests in the continent," the prince stated firmly, "they had even attempted a coup against the local governor of Manchuria, Zhang Zuolin. We were forced to take matters into our own hands to restore order, hence the current Emperor Aisin Gioro."
'Repeated provocations'... Geopolitical smokescreen at its lowest. The only provocateurs in this situation were the posse of envious warmongers in this very room, eager to emulate the power of the European empires. That Günay believed their words point blank was a dire sign of her unwavering trust in the Asian power. Maybe someone needed to remind her who were the people dying in the thousands. But this was far from the time and place to do so.
Glancing at the opposite side of the table, I met a pair of doe eyes that had been fixed at me for the past few moments or so. Shoulder-length brown hair, hazel eyes and an immaturity rivalling my own, it did not take me long to realize why she was looking at me. The entire room, save myself, were orientals, both the the Eurasian, miscegenatized Anatolian Turks and the Far Eastern, Sinic-based Japanese. I was the only European, alone without my personal detail, secretary, or even anyone who could speak my native tongue. In fact, the only sign that the room was even aware I exist was the English being spoken. That, and the bubbly little sprite no older than myself trying to get a reaction from the 'bored white girl'. On a whim, I tried to dig up from the back of my mind a little finger parlor trick Arigi taught me. I was a child once, after all, and such natural curiosity tended to require a lot of sedating.
It was a mere optical illusion, curling my left index out of sight just as I covered the crack with my right. After that, it was a mere matter of faking the split with my right thumb, though a keen eye would notice a difference between the number of segments on the left index. I was no expert, to be honest, and it had been a long time since I last tried it, but it seemed to have wowed my sole audience for a bit. At least, until I realized she was not the only one.
"What about your entourage, Your Highness Marie," I finally caught Günay's words in my ear, spotting the dark-haired prude leaning over her table slightly, glaring coldly at the redhead clown at the corner of the table, "I take it you will be participating in the tournament?"
This was embarrassing. It was not just Günay that had her eyes on me. Everyone, from the crown prince to Günay's guard dogs were staring at me. That the woman next to the young sailor girl was giving me the 'how nice' smile only made the sinking feeling worse. They do look somewhat alike. I could only assume they were related somehow.
Opening my hands slowly, I tried my hardest to regain my composure. The rose tint on my face was clear to see from the mirrors around us, not something I wish to be reminded of. Thinking over, I got back to business on the tournament itself. Needless to say, my expectations were fairly grim.
"Of course, Your Highness," I answered, suppressing the fright in my throat, "we'd be happy to attend. However... There are some issues regarding our arrangements. You are aware we do not have a full eight-man detail to participate, correct."
"Yes, I have factored that in," Günay commented, "we'll pair your detail with one of the other under-strength teams, or we can multiply your kill score based on the size of your team. Rest assured."
"True, but that still doesn't address the disparity in model performance," I refuted sternly, "of the delegations assembled in Constantinople, we're the only ones who are fielding first generation Mobile Weapons for combat usage. Everyone else is utilizing, at worst, one-point-five generation models like the Dschinn Ausf F and the Ritter Asen. We do not have the resources to spare our more modern Husar and Kürassier models for the protection detail, much less a tournament."
"Are you saying that your government does not deem your life valuable enough to field advanced models for yourself," questioned the Turk with narrowed eyes.
"That wasn't my government's decision, Your Highness," I corrected the woman, "it was mine."
That, of course, was not the whole story. I did not, in fact, request for a detail of three. That was Arigi's own initiative. In fact, I specifically rejected having a detail assigned to me altogether. That the brass around me reacted with astonishment at me bringing in protection this under-strength was not unexpected. Even the young cadet I was toying with was looking on with shock after her fellow whispered a few translations for her.
Now, however, came the issue of balance of power. While I was sure Arigi tried his best to assign a strong yet hardly visible detail to accommodate me, the machines we had were old, to say the least. Never mind my own Seebär, all of our units are at most upgraded first generation variants. Our second-generation Husars and Kürassiers, while definitely better, were better off guarding the frontier than some prestige contest in the Bosporus. Those that could afford more numerous and advanced units tend to be the great powers, and it showed.
"Brave," went the Ottoman princess, "but dangerous. Unless you have anything comparable, you're simply painting a target on your face. As you know, we have stepped up security over recent Greek separatist attacks. It might not be wise to penny-pinch at a time like this."
'So said the host organizing a mock battle,' I could not help but think, scoffing at her explanation. Stepping away from my said, I apologized, "excuse me for a moment. Washroom."
I suppose I need time to think about the battle ahead. Backing out was not an option.
OOC Notes:
Cast:
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Late Morning (Istanbul Time), 21st April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinandea von Habsburg-Lorraine
Noon already? Never expected my search to take this long. That my host was sticking too close to me was scary enough. I honestly don't blame her for suspecting me of amateur espionage. Regardless, a trip to the florist and a memorial later, I at the hotel for a quick brunch. Sitting alone near the window as I sipped my tea, I dully glared at the host entertaining their Japanese guests in the VIP room. In all honesty, I couldn't really blame her. An elder crown prince was a higher priority compared to a young princess several leagues down the chain, and as the Turk proudly demonstrated, she was well suited for the task of playing the diplomat to the far-off empire. But still, being relegated to the background was not really a good sign, even if I enjoyed the peace.
"A duel," asked the prince to his host in deeply-accented English, "here?"
"Yes, Your Highness," Günay answered, "I've spoken to my sister on the matter. I believe some healthy competition would help ease tensions among the rival delegations, as well as demonstrate the skill of our pilots. Sort of like a Furusiyya or equestrian tournament in medieval Arabia and the Maghreb. I don't suppose His Highness would accede to your entourage's participation."
"Oh, of course, Your Highness," declared the prince gracious, "I see no reason to refuse. Our pilots would be most honoured to participate in the tournament. I am sure you will not find their skills lacking."
My eyes shifting at the pilots in question, I was hardly inclined to agree. While the bevy of female officers looked regal enough with their elegantly groomed locks, they hardly seemed the type for Mobile Weapon combat. And the male officers possessed a wild air, suave and uncontrollable even to their royal. I cannot help but think lowly of them. And yet, I could not help but suspect that they can probably back up their words pretty handily.
"You give us too much too much credit, Your Highness," one of the eye-patched officers (two, in total) humbly refuted with a bow, a dark-haired young man with an air of courtly rigor, "we're merely His Imperial Majesty's loyal servants. I do not wish to rate ourselves too highly, lest the Red Baron and his fellows prove us wrong."
"I think you overestimate them, Lieutenant Katakura," remarked the other one-eyed officer, veiling his sneer, "they haven't been to China."
"I heard the situation there is deteriorating," Günay queried, "something about border skirmishes?"
"The Nanjing government has resorted to repeated provocation in order to undermine our interests in the continent," the prince stated firmly, "they had even attempted a coup against the local governor of Manchuria, Zhang Zuolin. We were forced to take matters into our own hands to restore order, hence the current Emperor Aisin Gioro."
'Repeated provocations'... Geopolitical smokescreen at its lowest. The only provocateurs in this situation were the posse of envious warmongers in this very room, eager to emulate the power of the European empires. That Günay believed their words point blank was a dire sign of her unwavering trust in the Asian power. Maybe someone needed to remind her who were the people dying in the thousands. But this was far from the time and place to do so.
Glancing at the opposite side of the table, I met a pair of doe eyes that had been fixed at me for the past few moments or so. Shoulder-length brown hair, hazel eyes and an immaturity rivalling my own, it did not take me long to realize why she was looking at me. The entire room, save myself, were orientals, both the the Eurasian, miscegenatized Anatolian Turks and the Far Eastern, Sinic-based Japanese. I was the only European, alone without my personal detail, secretary, or even anyone who could speak my native tongue. In fact, the only sign that the room was even aware I exist was the English being spoken. That, and the bubbly little sprite no older than myself trying to get a reaction from the 'bored white girl'. On a whim, I tried to dig up from the back of my mind a little finger parlor trick Arigi taught me. I was a child once, after all, and such natural curiosity tended to require a lot of sedating.
It was a mere optical illusion, curling my left index out of sight just as I covered the crack with my right. After that, it was a mere matter of faking the split with my right thumb, though a keen eye would notice a difference between the number of segments on the left index. I was no expert, to be honest, and it had been a long time since I last tried it, but it seemed to have wowed my sole audience for a bit. At least, until I realized she was not the only one.
"What about your entourage, Your Highness Marie," I finally caught Günay's words in my ear, spotting the dark-haired prude leaning over her table slightly, glaring coldly at the redhead clown at the corner of the table, "I take it you will be participating in the tournament?"
This was embarrassing. It was not just Günay that had her eyes on me. Everyone, from the crown prince to Günay's guard dogs were staring at me. That the woman next to the young sailor girl was giving me the 'how nice' smile only made the sinking feeling worse. They do look somewhat alike. I could only assume they were related somehow.
Opening my hands slowly, I tried my hardest to regain my composure. The rose tint on my face was clear to see from the mirrors around us, not something I wish to be reminded of. Thinking over, I got back to business on the tournament itself. Needless to say, my expectations were fairly grim.
"Of course, Your Highness," I answered, suppressing the fright in my throat, "we'd be happy to attend. However... There are some issues regarding our arrangements. You are aware we do not have a full eight-man detail to participate, correct."
"Yes, I have factored that in," Günay commented, "we'll pair your detail with one of the other under-strength teams, or we can multiply your kill score based on the size of your team. Rest assured."
"True, but that still doesn't address the disparity in model performance," I refuted sternly, "of the delegations assembled in Constantinople, we're the only ones who are fielding first generation Mobile Weapons for combat usage. Everyone else is utilizing, at worst, one-point-five generation models like the Dschinn Ausf F and the Ritter Asen. We do not have the resources to spare our more modern Husar and Kürassier models for the protection detail, much less a tournament."
"Are you saying that your government does not deem your life valuable enough to field advanced models for yourself," questioned the Turk with narrowed eyes.
"That wasn't my government's decision, Your Highness," I corrected the woman, "it was mine."
That, of course, was not the whole story. I did not, in fact, request for a detail of three. That was Arigi's own initiative. In fact, I specifically rejected having a detail assigned to me altogether. That the brass around me reacted with astonishment at me bringing in protection this under-strength was not unexpected. Even the young cadet I was toying with was looking on with shock after her fellow whispered a few translations for her.
Now, however, came the issue of balance of power. While I was sure Arigi tried his best to assign a strong yet hardly visible detail to accommodate me, the machines we had were old, to say the least. Never mind my own Seebär, all of our units are at most upgraded first generation variants. Our second-generation Husars and Kürassiers, while definitely better, were better off guarding the frontier than some prestige contest in the Bosporus. Those that could afford more numerous and advanced units tend to be the great powers, and it showed.
"Brave," went the Ottoman princess, "but dangerous. Unless you have anything comparable, you're simply painting a target on your face. As you know, we have stepped up security over recent Greek separatist attacks. It might not be wise to penny-pinch at a time like this."
'So said the host organizing a mock battle,' I could not help but think, scoffing at her explanation. Stepping away from my said, I apologized, "excuse me for a moment. Washroom."
I suppose I need time to think about the battle ahead. Backing out was not an option.
OOC Notes:
- Based on IJN pilot Takashi Oshibuchi. I mean, it's Brave Witches.
Cast:
- Austrian Crownlands (Austria-Hungary)
- Princess Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine (CV: 西木野 真姫)
- Ottoman Empire
- (Naval) Lieutenant Günay Osmanoğlu (CV: 鬼龍院 皐月)
- Ensign Hasan Erbakan (CV: 猿投山 渦)
- Ensign Omar ibn Abdul Al-Zanj (CV: 蟇郡 苛)
- Lieutenant Junior Grade Eylül Yerlitaş (CV: 蛇崩 乃音)
- Lieutenant Junior Grade Yusuf Kahveci (CV: 犬牟田 宝火)
- Japan
- Royal Household
- Yasuhito, Prince Chichibu (CV: Himself)
- Imperial Japanese Navy
- (Naval) Lieutenant Yuiko Oda (CV: 篁唯依)
- Ensign Reiko Takano (CV: 大和)
- (Naval) Lieutenant Oshibuchi Takami (CV: 雁淵孝美)[1]
- Ensign Oshibuchi Hikari (CV: 雁淵 ひかり)
- Imperial Japanese Army (left to right)
- 2nd Lieutenant Kurikara Moniwa (CV: 大倶利伽羅)
- Captain Okimune Date (CV: 伊達 政宗)
- 1st Lieutenant Mitsutada Katakura (CV: 燭台切光忠)
- Corporal Kageyama Nagao (CV: 谷垣源次郎)
- Royal Household
Part 19
- Location
- Singapore
Officer Mess, Selimiye Barracks
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Late Morning (Istanbul Time), 21st April 1936
Siegismunda was dismayed. A team free-for-all was not something she had counted on in their Ottoman trip. For all intents and purposes, her goal was simple. Showcase the new Aesir and other advanced Einherjar models, and find out whatever she could of the new Ottoman Suvari. But the chief representative sent to protect the German delegates was quick to offer a different suggestion. Despite her admiration for the Second Red Baron, there were times when Sieg was exasperated with Erich's cavalier attitude.
"You sound disappointed, Sieg," spoke a boisterous voice in the Sieg's receiver, as she conversed on a secure line, "don't tell me you're scared. Now, if only I were there... My Fenrir will bring hell upon them!"
"A battle royale possessed a non-zero chance of defeat, even with the Baldr on our team," Sieg clarified coldly, "I would not want to risk a shameful result when a military procession achieves the same effect without repercussions."
"Pfff, you worry too much," sneered the man, "have you no faith in German technological superiority!? We are the front-runners of a global scientific revolution! Besides, Ricthofen is no pushover. Conceited, sure, but a certain amount of pride is healthy for a German ace."
"Don't encourage him," Sieg reprimanded, resisting the urge to stretch her frown further, "I have enough hotblooded aces in one place as it is. Besides which, where's Emma. I need the technical data for Serial No. YMS15GYN immediately."
"Wait, YNS... YMS...," the man stated, as if searching through the code numbers for the right document, "oh, that glorified fencing tool? That thing is first generation. Why do you need the data?"
Pursing her lips a bit, Sieg thought for a moment about her reply. She really did not want to sound petty. For her, pettiness was a sign of weakness for someone anchored in hard logic. But something about Maya irritated her... her incessant grin, her serpent tongue... It rubbed her the wrong way, and she felt sorely tempted to get it off her chest.
"A pink-haired wench with fake horns was getting on my nerves," she finally admitted, a hint of disdain and arrogance in her tone, "I want to beat her."
Rarely had Sieg lost her nerve. But with Ms. Maya, she was very much willing to make an exception.
Peenemünde Imperial Armoury
Peenemünde, Province of Pomerania, Kingdom of Prussia, Empire of Germany
Morning (Berlin Time), 21st April 1936
Meanwhile
Peenemünde, off the coast of Pomerania.
The heart of Mobile Weapon research and testing in Germany, Peenemünde is the birthplace of many of Germany's vaunted Einherjar. The Black Eagle, the Jotunn... all of them saw life in Peenemünde. And now, so did the Aesir and Vanir models, the 'gods' who will reign over the fields of death.
Putting down the receiver, the crew-cut blond hulk could tell Sieg was angry. It was not common for Sieg to show anything but contempt, but her sulking was evident throughout the conversation. He could not really tell if she was mad at Erich or that girl she mentioned. But bad things happen when Sieg's perfect plans don't fall into place, and who could blame her? He would have wanted a match too, in Erich's position.
"She needs to lighten up," he went, lowering his receiver, "oh, Emma, just in time! Sieg needs the Ritter data as soon as possible. Said she's got some big fight with some Bulgarians in Ritter variants."
Stepping up behind the officer was a fairly small-sized pilot wearing a black flight suit and a concealing helmet. Detaching the helmet from her head, the pilot's threatening facade gave way to a sullen brunette, her clear blue eyes staring dully at the officer. Putting her helmet aside on a work bench, she remarked coldly, "well, it's not going to do her much good, would she? The collective aristocracy in Mitteleuropa have been dumping money on Porsche to design upgraded variants for the Ritter. He's not going to tell us how to beat them. The man is still upset at being sidelined by the Dschinn. It's remarkable he still has no shortage of customers."
"Can you get them anyway," the man queried, "I don't recall Sieg being this competitive, so it must be serious."
"Immediately, Sir? Not possible," the girl refuted blandly, clocking in her time on her log book, "however, if the upgraded Ritters are indeed in service, then it's likely Porsche had sent representatives to study its performance in the upcoming friendly. She can try asking them."
"Ok, you tell her that then," the officer simply insisted, lifting the receiver again, "you wouldn't like her when things don't go her way, do you?"
Watching the man depart, the girl quietly turned away as she stared into the distance. Lines upon lines of Jotunns III, Aesirs and Vanirs awaiting their new hosts in silence, standing guard like iron sentinels in a parade. Staring down at the log book, she noted the model she had just flown as a test. The Walküre, Messerschmitt's answer to the enigma of the Black Eagle... While far more fragile compared to the Aesir, the German obsession with this nimble speed demon did not appear to have diminished the slightest. It did not matter if it was more plane than Mobile Weapon. There appeared to be a bizarre fascination for a machine that, for its one war-winning operation, required close to two decades to reproduce.
And Emma knew why.
"Barur shelo."
Cast:
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Late Morning (Istanbul Time), 21st April 1936
Siegismunda was dismayed. A team free-for-all was not something she had counted on in their Ottoman trip. For all intents and purposes, her goal was simple. Showcase the new Aesir and other advanced Einherjar models, and find out whatever she could of the new Ottoman Suvari. But the chief representative sent to protect the German delegates was quick to offer a different suggestion. Despite her admiration for the Second Red Baron, there were times when Sieg was exasperated with Erich's cavalier attitude.
"You sound disappointed, Sieg," spoke a boisterous voice in the Sieg's receiver, as she conversed on a secure line, "don't tell me you're scared. Now, if only I were there... My Fenrir will bring hell upon them!"
"A battle royale possessed a non-zero chance of defeat, even with the Baldr on our team," Sieg clarified coldly, "I would not want to risk a shameful result when a military procession achieves the same effect without repercussions."
"Pfff, you worry too much," sneered the man, "have you no faith in German technological superiority!? We are the front-runners of a global scientific revolution! Besides, Ricthofen is no pushover. Conceited, sure, but a certain amount of pride is healthy for a German ace."
"Don't encourage him," Sieg reprimanded, resisting the urge to stretch her frown further, "I have enough hotblooded aces in one place as it is. Besides which, where's Emma. I need the technical data for Serial No. YMS15GYN immediately."
"Wait, YNS... YMS...," the man stated, as if searching through the code numbers for the right document, "oh, that glorified fencing tool? That thing is first generation. Why do you need the data?"
Pursing her lips a bit, Sieg thought for a moment about her reply. She really did not want to sound petty. For her, pettiness was a sign of weakness for someone anchored in hard logic. But something about Maya irritated her... her incessant grin, her serpent tongue... It rubbed her the wrong way, and she felt sorely tempted to get it off her chest.
"A pink-haired wench with fake horns was getting on my nerves," she finally admitted, a hint of disdain and arrogance in her tone, "I want to beat her."
Rarely had Sieg lost her nerve. But with Ms. Maya, she was very much willing to make an exception.
Peenemünde Imperial Armoury
Peenemünde, Province of Pomerania, Kingdom of Prussia, Empire of Germany
Morning (Berlin Time), 21st April 1936
Meanwhile
Peenemünde, off the coast of Pomerania.
The heart of Mobile Weapon research and testing in Germany, Peenemünde is the birthplace of many of Germany's vaunted Einherjar. The Black Eagle, the Jotunn... all of them saw life in Peenemünde. And now, so did the Aesir and Vanir models, the 'gods' who will reign over the fields of death.
Putting down the receiver, the crew-cut blond hulk could tell Sieg was angry. It was not common for Sieg to show anything but contempt, but her sulking was evident throughout the conversation. He could not really tell if she was mad at Erich or that girl she mentioned. But bad things happen when Sieg's perfect plans don't fall into place, and who could blame her? He would have wanted a match too, in Erich's position.
"She needs to lighten up," he went, lowering his receiver, "oh, Emma, just in time! Sieg needs the Ritter data as soon as possible. Said she's got some big fight with some Bulgarians in Ritter variants."
Stepping up behind the officer was a fairly small-sized pilot wearing a black flight suit and a concealing helmet. Detaching the helmet from her head, the pilot's threatening facade gave way to a sullen brunette, her clear blue eyes staring dully at the officer. Putting her helmet aside on a work bench, she remarked coldly, "well, it's not going to do her much good, would she? The collective aristocracy in Mitteleuropa have been dumping money on Porsche to design upgraded variants for the Ritter. He's not going to tell us how to beat them. The man is still upset at being sidelined by the Dschinn. It's remarkable he still has no shortage of customers."
"Can you get them anyway," the man queried, "I don't recall Sieg being this competitive, so it must be serious."
"Immediately, Sir? Not possible," the girl refuted blandly, clocking in her time on her log book, "however, if the upgraded Ritters are indeed in service, then it's likely Porsche had sent representatives to study its performance in the upcoming friendly. She can try asking them."
"Ok, you tell her that then," the officer simply insisted, lifting the receiver again, "you wouldn't like her when things don't go her way, do you?"
Watching the man depart, the girl quietly turned away as she stared into the distance. Lines upon lines of Jotunns III, Aesirs and Vanirs awaiting their new hosts in silence, standing guard like iron sentinels in a parade. Staring down at the log book, she noted the model she had just flown as a test. The Walküre, Messerschmitt's answer to the enigma of the Black Eagle... While far more fragile compared to the Aesir, the German obsession with this nimble speed demon did not appear to have diminished the slightest. It did not matter if it was more plane than Mobile Weapon. There appeared to be a bizarre fascination for a machine that, for its one war-winning operation, required close to two decades to reproduce.
And Emma knew why.
"Barur shelo."
- Germany
- Imperial Army
- Rittmeister I Klasse (OF-2) Siegismunda Niflheim (CV: 戦場ヶ原 ひたぎ)
- Major (OF-3) Wilhelm Johannes Blaskowitz (CV: ルドル・フォン・シュトロハイム)
- Rittmeister I Klasse (OF-2) Emma Franck (CV: ティファ・アディール )
- Imperial Army
Part 20
- Location
- Singapore
Restroom, Çırağan Palace
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Late Morning (Istanbul Time), 21st April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinandea von Habsburg-Lorraine
Terrible... I ran my mouth off again. To be honest, I should have just refused, but to be labelled a coward by a pack of headstrong warrior-types would have been outright degrading. This was nothing more than a showpiece for bored royals akin to a medieval joust. The romanticism surrounding the Einherjar rivalled those of the planes. I can see why it is such a hit with the Hohenzollern bitches. [1] Looking out of the restroom, I can see the bull of the guard Günay shoved at me still standing like a suit of armour. In all honesty, I couldn't really blame her. Bad things can happen to a princess out of sight of minders.
"Are you bored yet," I poked at the bronze statue standing at attention in front of me, watching the uneasy patrons like a hawk as they passed the corridor.
"No, Madam," he declared in a very boisterous, on-the-ball fashion, sending a chill down all who heard his announcement.
"Calm down," I grunted, taking another sip to calm my nerves, "I'm not your commanding officer. Just take it I'm another traveller. Besides, I'm not that old. Don't call me 'Madam'. And don't call me 'Your Highness' either. I don't like the press."
"Then what should I call you then," the guard declared, this time in a toned-down volume. Taking a quick pause, I thought over my answer to that. Obviously, the answer should not be 'Miss Habsburg-Lorraine'. But what pseudonym should I choose?
"...sure you don't need me to follow you along," I soon heard in the distance, "I can poke for my cousin to dole out a guard for you."
Peering in the distance, I spotted a lanky, orange-haired woman in a dress, escorting a group of guests over. They were... not anyone I recognize from the list of delegates. Perhaps they're civilians. But one face stood out among the otherwise glamourous pair of girls. Accompanying a dark-haired socialite in a baby blue dress and a string of bags was...
"Marie," mouthed Diana in silence, waving at me across the room like a cheerful duckling behind her supposed employer's back. Of all the places...
Resisting the urge to shirk in shame as the girls' eyes turned on me, I hastily whispered to the guard, "Karajan. If anyone asks, tell them I'm Maria von Karajan."
"Huh-what," blurted the surprised oaf, distracted by the socialites' arrival to catch my words. This could not be good... After all, I did lie to Diana about myself. But admitting that a princess of the Austro-Hungarian empire was snubbed by her hosts was not good news either. Hopefully, the women with her, one of whom I assumed was Princess Arzu, had more tact than that.
"Your Highness, Princess Arzu, I presume," I addressed the girls with a wink, trying to avoid the gaze of the intimidating, silver-haired butler behind them, "I'm Maria von Karajan. I'm one of the delegates accompanying Her Highness, Maria Luisa Ferdinandea von Habsburg-Lothringen. 'Her Highness' is not feeling too well at the moment, so 'she' instructed me to take her place."
"Karajan," blurted the large man, "I thought your name was-OOF!"
Thank god for the bright-haired lady... she caught on well. A quick shift of her eyes and she wasted no time to elbow the guard into silence. Putting on an agitated look, she admonished the guard in Turkish tongue. I guess I got my answer. So that leaves the dark-haired girl.
"You have to forgive him, Ms. Karajan," chimed the princess, "my cousin tends to judge others by raw strength, not so much their intelligence. Sometimes, I wonder if God should have made her a man... I'm Princess Arzu, Princess Günay's... grandaunt? There's so many of us, even I can hardly keep track. We're about the same generation, so it really doesn't matter too much. Anyway, this is-"
"It's ok, Your Highness," the dark-haired girl said in a serene voice, "I can handle introductions myself. My name is Winny Everheart. I've been given the grand honour of entertaining the delegates this evening in the capital before your trip to Trabzon. I don't suppose you've heard of me."
"A bit, yes..." I lied, trying hard not to offend her sensibilities, "it's hard to miss your name over the radio. I'm more of a classical music person. Forgive me if I come across as old and decrepit beyond my age."
"Far from it," Winny answered me, wearing a picturesque smile honed from years of Hollywood experience, no doubt, "I feel appreciation for the classical arts has diminished with the rise of popular media. Not that I want to denigrate the value of film or jazz, but there's something distinct about the prestige of the past."
"In any case, she added," this is an awkward place for a conversation, "perhaps we should discuss this another time. You'd be at the tournament, yes? I heard it's a last minute arrangement for those attending the parade. I think it would be a wonderful treat."
"Yea..." I blurted, a veritable itch on my cheek as I tried to brush it off.
"Will you be attending, Ms Karajan," she queried me further, "I doubt Her Highness would accept a decline to such a prestigious event."
'You'd be wrong', I grimly thought, as I was once again confronted with the expectations imposed on me as a royal. Resisting the urge to slip back to my usual snark, I stated, "I doubt it too. Entertaining whims of the upper classes can be a chore, after all."
"Oh really," Winny chimed, "you don't sound like someone from the lower classes, yourself, to be honest."
Stuttering a bit at the words, I replied, "ah, well... I suppose I had to train up a lot on court etiquette for that."
"I see," she spoke, tilting her head with her false smile plastered still, "I suppose I can understand. I didn't start off privileged, myself. To work your way up from destitution requires far more steel than the average magnate's son. I'll see you at the tournament then, Ms. Karajan. I hope you do your team and lord proud."
'Bullshit', I thought to myself as she disappeared behind the restroom door, her butler taking his position where my escort once stood vigil. There was no way she would cheer on me over the Flying Falcons of the American team. That much was obvious. Still, it was a matter of courtesy, so I could not fault her for it. Part of me wondered, though, if she had seen through me already.
What piqued my curiosity, though, was how Diana got here. Returning a wave as she accompanied her new boss in, I had to wonder why she left the farm. Did they get a sudden windfall from a job offer from Winny? I mean, I would assume she would have preferred to hire local muscle than a farm girl in the middle of nowhere. Still, I could not help but smile. I suppose things were looking up for her.
Peering over at the two, I noticed the royal berating the guard in their native tongue, likely a response to his boneheadedness. I had to hand it to Arzu, though. She seemed experienced in reading intentions.
"Anyway, 'Ms. Karajan'," Arzu soon addressed me, "I suppose you're heading back to Günay's reception? I hope the musclehead hasn't bored you to death. I know I have."
"Her Highness is a most gracious guest," I tried to frame the situation as politely as I could, "though I admit, she has more common ground with the Japanese military staff than me."
"No surprises there," Arzu went, a slight frown forming on her face, "anyway, good luck in the tournament. I know you're on the backfoot in this one, but don't expect me to go easy on you. I know those two muscleheads won't."
"Good to know," I replied, giving an assuring smile, "because I won't have it any other way."
Well, that's one more on the list of people out to nail me.
Restroom, Çırağan Palace
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Late Morning (Istanbul Time), 21st April 1936
Meanwhile
Marie von Karajan... that was not a name Winny had heard of before. Powdering her nose in front of the gleaming mirrors and sinks, there was something deeply irritating about her. Every word on her tongue was laced with deception, encrypted with subtlety and concealed of hidden intent. It was a skill no doubt honed in the courts of the higher aristocracies of Europe, and while she herself had had to learn it from scratch, Marie barely broke a sweat at all, as if born into the life of the upper crust.
This was not a dame who went from rags to riches...
"Diana," she queried her subordinate, "you've met her before, haven't you?"
"H-How did you know," blurted the orange-haired girl, somehow astonished by the words.
Resisting the urge to grimace, the socialite stated, "you were waving your hand at her the whole time. It's not hard to notice. What do you know about her."
"Well..." Diana muttered, "she's the granddaughter of Corfu's governor, "a noble of Greek descent-"
"But she is an Austrian noble, yes," questioned the socialite, a grimace creeping over her face. She had the detail list for the Austro-Hungarian guards, a gift from the Sons of Illyria hiding out in the Dinaric Mountains. However, Marie was not among them, and the sole noblewoman of the detail is at least in her early 20s. Worse was that Diana personally knew her at Corfu, a chance encounter that defied the social divide separating them. At first, she had suspected the Austrian to be the princess herself, travelling incognito to avoid being identified by Winny. However, if that were true, that would have made Diana's relationship with her even less plausible. Something was deeply worrisome about her.
"Yes..." Diana admitted solemnly, "my brother thought the same. He thought she might have been a plainclothed policewoman trying to probe for spies. She even followed me back from the base I was watching. Had me worried for a bit."
That explained a lot, a cold sweat washing a trail off her powdered cheek. A normal imperial policewoman would not have been this persistent in pursuing a target, she thought. In any respect, it could be assumed that the local authorities had caught Diana snooping around a restricted zone in the Corfu base. In which case, when EOEA activities were heating up in the Aegean, they needed leads to prevent a similar incident in the Adriatic.
For that reason, they had to call in someone of greater power.
"Diana," Winny instructed, struggling to restrain her anxiety, "I think I should stay away from that woman."
Diana was surprised. Nay, she was appalled. A tense apprehension on her face, she declared, "what do you mean!? Is it because she's the governor's kin-"
"Vienna would not send a mere policewoman to smoke out the Swan," Winny growled, "what the hell is wrong with you!? You want us to get caught!?"
Winny had nearly lost her nerve, the frightening, agitated glint in her eyes reflected back at her from the mirror, as her hiss startled the hapless Diana. Perhaps she was losing patience with the naive farm girl, but for a member of Austrian counter-intelligence to get this close to the pilot of the Swan was the stuff of tragic comedy. Marie was no simple policewoman, as feared. For all they knew, Marie could have been sent directly from the k.u.k. Evidenzbureau to root out EOEA cells on the island.[2] Any director in that position would have connected the dots and suspected the attacks to be staged from Austro-Hungarian soil. And from Marie's sudden inclusion in the detail, her regal posturing, and eerily close relationship with Arzu... she appeared considerably high up the chain of command.
"Sorry," Winny apologized, toning down her voice as she tried to reason with the nervous farm girl, "it's just... she might not be who you think she is. Governor's granddaughters don't just show up at people's farms for no reason. Your brother said she saw you at the base, am I right?"
"Yes..." Diana muttered, a grave dread filling her eyes.
"Then all the more you should keep your distance," Winny lectures, "you don't even know how much she's telling the truth. Even if she is who she claims, what makes you think she'd be sympathetic to us? She might as well be the daughter of Aristotle or Leonidas for all we know, but what difference would that be if she considers herself German. She's an Austrian noble. She speaks like one; walks like one. She even smells like one. In that case, whose side do you think she would be on with if EOEA ever shows up? Even you should know the answer to that, Diana. Don't you?..."
Her head bowed, Diana seemed to understand the gravity of the situation. As much as she admired Marie's kind, noble personality, there was always something about her that she feared most. Should she find out Diana's true identity, who was Diana to assume that she would not draw her gun at her? A solemn nod to her boss, she dared not contradict Winny's chilling reasoning. There was no way she could have. She had a point.
Patting her arms, the dark-haired girl tried to muster as best a smile she could, answering, "thank you. I'm glad you understand. Remember, you are too important for us to lose. This operation... our vision... rests upon you. You understand?"
For now, the meek nods of the farm girl would have to do. To play a caretaker to a reluctant heroine was exhausting for Winny as it was, and if she could, she would rather pilot the Kyknos herself. But the machine chose Diana of all people, something that had got on her nerves for a long time. The worst thing that could happen at this point was not Diana's arrest, but desertion. And any doubt she had on EOEA's goals and methods were weaknesses for their enemies to exploit.
For that, 'Marie' - or whoever she really was - had to be dealt with.
OOC Notes:
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Late Morning (Istanbul Time), 21st April 1936
Marie Louise Ferdinandea von Habsburg-Lorraine
Terrible... I ran my mouth off again. To be honest, I should have just refused, but to be labelled a coward by a pack of headstrong warrior-types would have been outright degrading. This was nothing more than a showpiece for bored royals akin to a medieval joust. The romanticism surrounding the Einherjar rivalled those of the planes. I can see why it is such a hit with the Hohenzollern bitches. [1] Looking out of the restroom, I can see the bull of the guard Günay shoved at me still standing like a suit of armour. In all honesty, I couldn't really blame her. Bad things can happen to a princess out of sight of minders.
"Are you bored yet," I poked at the bronze statue standing at attention in front of me, watching the uneasy patrons like a hawk as they passed the corridor.
"No, Madam," he declared in a very boisterous, on-the-ball fashion, sending a chill down all who heard his announcement.
"Calm down," I grunted, taking another sip to calm my nerves, "I'm not your commanding officer. Just take it I'm another traveller. Besides, I'm not that old. Don't call me 'Madam'. And don't call me 'Your Highness' either. I don't like the press."
"Then what should I call you then," the guard declared, this time in a toned-down volume. Taking a quick pause, I thought over my answer to that. Obviously, the answer should not be 'Miss Habsburg-Lorraine'. But what pseudonym should I choose?
"...sure you don't need me to follow you along," I soon heard in the distance, "I can poke for my cousin to dole out a guard for you."
Peering in the distance, I spotted a lanky, orange-haired woman in a dress, escorting a group of guests over. They were... not anyone I recognize from the list of delegates. Perhaps they're civilians. But one face stood out among the otherwise glamourous pair of girls. Accompanying a dark-haired socialite in a baby blue dress and a string of bags was...
"Marie," mouthed Diana in silence, waving at me across the room like a cheerful duckling behind her supposed employer's back. Of all the places...
Resisting the urge to shirk in shame as the girls' eyes turned on me, I hastily whispered to the guard, "Karajan. If anyone asks, tell them I'm Maria von Karajan."
"Huh-what," blurted the surprised oaf, distracted by the socialites' arrival to catch my words. This could not be good... After all, I did lie to Diana about myself. But admitting that a princess of the Austro-Hungarian empire was snubbed by her hosts was not good news either. Hopefully, the women with her, one of whom I assumed was Princess Arzu, had more tact than that.
"Your Highness, Princess Arzu, I presume," I addressed the girls with a wink, trying to avoid the gaze of the intimidating, silver-haired butler behind them, "I'm Maria von Karajan. I'm one of the delegates accompanying Her Highness, Maria Luisa Ferdinandea von Habsburg-Lothringen. 'Her Highness' is not feeling too well at the moment, so 'she' instructed me to take her place."
"Karajan," blurted the large man, "I thought your name was-OOF!"
Thank god for the bright-haired lady... she caught on well. A quick shift of her eyes and she wasted no time to elbow the guard into silence. Putting on an agitated look, she admonished the guard in Turkish tongue. I guess I got my answer. So that leaves the dark-haired girl.
"You have to forgive him, Ms. Karajan," chimed the princess, "my cousin tends to judge others by raw strength, not so much their intelligence. Sometimes, I wonder if God should have made her a man... I'm Princess Arzu, Princess Günay's... grandaunt? There's so many of us, even I can hardly keep track. We're about the same generation, so it really doesn't matter too much. Anyway, this is-"
"It's ok, Your Highness," the dark-haired girl said in a serene voice, "I can handle introductions myself. My name is Winny Everheart. I've been given the grand honour of entertaining the delegates this evening in the capital before your trip to Trabzon. I don't suppose you've heard of me."
"A bit, yes..." I lied, trying hard not to offend her sensibilities, "it's hard to miss your name over the radio. I'm more of a classical music person. Forgive me if I come across as old and decrepit beyond my age."
"Far from it," Winny answered me, wearing a picturesque smile honed from years of Hollywood experience, no doubt, "I feel appreciation for the classical arts has diminished with the rise of popular media. Not that I want to denigrate the value of film or jazz, but there's something distinct about the prestige of the past."
"In any case, she added," this is an awkward place for a conversation, "perhaps we should discuss this another time. You'd be at the tournament, yes? I heard it's a last minute arrangement for those attending the parade. I think it would be a wonderful treat."
"Yea..." I blurted, a veritable itch on my cheek as I tried to brush it off.
"Will you be attending, Ms Karajan," she queried me further, "I doubt Her Highness would accept a decline to such a prestigious event."
'You'd be wrong', I grimly thought, as I was once again confronted with the expectations imposed on me as a royal. Resisting the urge to slip back to my usual snark, I stated, "I doubt it too. Entertaining whims of the upper classes can be a chore, after all."
"Oh really," Winny chimed, "you don't sound like someone from the lower classes, yourself, to be honest."
Stuttering a bit at the words, I replied, "ah, well... I suppose I had to train up a lot on court etiquette for that."
"I see," she spoke, tilting her head with her false smile plastered still, "I suppose I can understand. I didn't start off privileged, myself. To work your way up from destitution requires far more steel than the average magnate's son. I'll see you at the tournament then, Ms. Karajan. I hope you do your team and lord proud."
'Bullshit', I thought to myself as she disappeared behind the restroom door, her butler taking his position where my escort once stood vigil. There was no way she would cheer on me over the Flying Falcons of the American team. That much was obvious. Still, it was a matter of courtesy, so I could not fault her for it. Part of me wondered, though, if she had seen through me already.
What piqued my curiosity, though, was how Diana got here. Returning a wave as she accompanied her new boss in, I had to wonder why she left the farm. Did they get a sudden windfall from a job offer from Winny? I mean, I would assume she would have preferred to hire local muscle than a farm girl in the middle of nowhere. Still, I could not help but smile. I suppose things were looking up for her.
Peering over at the two, I noticed the royal berating the guard in their native tongue, likely a response to his boneheadedness. I had to hand it to Arzu, though. She seemed experienced in reading intentions.
"Anyway, 'Ms. Karajan'," Arzu soon addressed me, "I suppose you're heading back to Günay's reception? I hope the musclehead hasn't bored you to death. I know I have."
"Her Highness is a most gracious guest," I tried to frame the situation as politely as I could, "though I admit, she has more common ground with the Japanese military staff than me."
"No surprises there," Arzu went, a slight frown forming on her face, "anyway, good luck in the tournament. I know you're on the backfoot in this one, but don't expect me to go easy on you. I know those two muscleheads won't."
"Good to know," I replied, giving an assuring smile, "because I won't have it any other way."
Well, that's one more on the list of people out to nail me.
Restroom, Çırağan Palace
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
Late Morning (Istanbul Time), 21st April 1936
Meanwhile
Marie von Karajan... that was not a name Winny had heard of before. Powdering her nose in front of the gleaming mirrors and sinks, there was something deeply irritating about her. Every word on her tongue was laced with deception, encrypted with subtlety and concealed of hidden intent. It was a skill no doubt honed in the courts of the higher aristocracies of Europe, and while she herself had had to learn it from scratch, Marie barely broke a sweat at all, as if born into the life of the upper crust.
This was not a dame who went from rags to riches...
"Diana," she queried her subordinate, "you've met her before, haven't you?"
"H-How did you know," blurted the orange-haired girl, somehow astonished by the words.
Resisting the urge to grimace, the socialite stated, "you were waving your hand at her the whole time. It's not hard to notice. What do you know about her."
"Well..." Diana muttered, "she's the granddaughter of Corfu's governor, "a noble of Greek descent-"
"But she is an Austrian noble, yes," questioned the socialite, a grimace creeping over her face. She had the detail list for the Austro-Hungarian guards, a gift from the Sons of Illyria hiding out in the Dinaric Mountains. However, Marie was not among them, and the sole noblewoman of the detail is at least in her early 20s. Worse was that Diana personally knew her at Corfu, a chance encounter that defied the social divide separating them. At first, she had suspected the Austrian to be the princess herself, travelling incognito to avoid being identified by Winny. However, if that were true, that would have made Diana's relationship with her even less plausible. Something was deeply worrisome about her.
"Yes..." Diana admitted solemnly, "my brother thought the same. He thought she might have been a plainclothed policewoman trying to probe for spies. She even followed me back from the base I was watching. Had me worried for a bit."
That explained a lot, a cold sweat washing a trail off her powdered cheek. A normal imperial policewoman would not have been this persistent in pursuing a target, she thought. In any respect, it could be assumed that the local authorities had caught Diana snooping around a restricted zone in the Corfu base. In which case, when EOEA activities were heating up in the Aegean, they needed leads to prevent a similar incident in the Adriatic.
For that reason, they had to call in someone of greater power.
"Diana," Winny instructed, struggling to restrain her anxiety, "I think I should stay away from that woman."
Diana was surprised. Nay, she was appalled. A tense apprehension on her face, she declared, "what do you mean!? Is it because she's the governor's kin-"
"Vienna would not send a mere policewoman to smoke out the Swan," Winny growled, "what the hell is wrong with you!? You want us to get caught!?"
Winny had nearly lost her nerve, the frightening, agitated glint in her eyes reflected back at her from the mirror, as her hiss startled the hapless Diana. Perhaps she was losing patience with the naive farm girl, but for a member of Austrian counter-intelligence to get this close to the pilot of the Swan was the stuff of tragic comedy. Marie was no simple policewoman, as feared. For all they knew, Marie could have been sent directly from the k.u.k. Evidenzbureau to root out EOEA cells on the island.[2] Any director in that position would have connected the dots and suspected the attacks to be staged from Austro-Hungarian soil. And from Marie's sudden inclusion in the detail, her regal posturing, and eerily close relationship with Arzu... she appeared considerably high up the chain of command.
"Sorry," Winny apologized, toning down her voice as she tried to reason with the nervous farm girl, "it's just... she might not be who you think she is. Governor's granddaughters don't just show up at people's farms for no reason. Your brother said she saw you at the base, am I right?"
"Yes..." Diana muttered, a grave dread filling her eyes.
"Then all the more you should keep your distance," Winny lectures, "you don't even know how much she's telling the truth. Even if she is who she claims, what makes you think she'd be sympathetic to us? She might as well be the daughter of Aristotle or Leonidas for all we know, but what difference would that be if she considers herself German. She's an Austrian noble. She speaks like one; walks like one. She even smells like one. In that case, whose side do you think she would be on with if EOEA ever shows up? Even you should know the answer to that, Diana. Don't you?..."
Her head bowed, Diana seemed to understand the gravity of the situation. As much as she admired Marie's kind, noble personality, there was always something about her that she feared most. Should she find out Diana's true identity, who was Diana to assume that she would not draw her gun at her? A solemn nod to her boss, she dared not contradict Winny's chilling reasoning. There was no way she could have. She had a point.
Patting her arms, the dark-haired girl tried to muster as best a smile she could, answering, "thank you. I'm glad you understand. Remember, you are too important for us to lose. This operation... our vision... rests upon you. You understand?"
For now, the meek nods of the farm girl would have to do. To play a caretaker to a reluctant heroine was exhausting for Winny as it was, and if she could, she would rather pilot the Kyknos herself. But the machine chose Diana of all people, something that had got on her nerves for a long time. The worst thing that could happen at this point was not Diana's arrest, but desertion. And any doubt she had on EOEA's goals and methods were weaknesses for their enemies to exploit.
For that, 'Marie' - or whoever she really was - had to be dealt with.
- Hmmmmmmmm...
- It's a thing. ITTL, the Evidenzbureau not disbanded, for obvious reasons.
- Austrian Crownlands (Austria-Hungary)
- Princess Marie Louise Ferdinanda von Habsburg-Lorraine (CV: 西木野 真姫)
- Ottoman Empire
- Arzu Sultan (CV: ナミ)
- National Organization of Hellenic Fighters (EOEA)
- Winifred 'Winny' Everheart (CV: るえ)
- Sebastian (CV: セバス・チャン)
- Diana Michelakos (CV: あひる)
Last edited: