If Mahan Could See Us Now

[4WheelSword]

The streets of Polyapavlosk are almost deserted at sunrise, especially when the coldest of winds blows up across the Dakazyn Sea. It is the southernmost port-city in Kieva, a barely industrialised nation being dragged kicking and screaming into the next century by it's parliament, much to the chagrin of her King -much glory to him and long may he reign - and his cronies. At least the people are proud, you think, as you walk past a huddled group in thick coats battling against the foul weather to reach some unknown destination. You would pity them, but where you're going is no warmer. Pulling you coat closer around you hurry on, willing the distance to be shorter as the bitter cold nips at your cheeks.

The city was large and sprawling though little of it was dedicated to anything but the construction, servicing and upkeep of the fleet. People could be born, live and die in this place without seeing anything but navy grey and uniform green the entire time. The squadrons were always busy engaging in some foreign adventurism at the orders of the king and thus so were the cities that supplied them. So long as Kieva lived, the port-cities would never sleep.

The gates to the port itself were guarded at all hours by stony faced marines carrying short barreled carbines and wicked looking boarding sabres. A queue has already formed even this early, naval officers reporting for duty and a few seaman returning from a pass. You join the back of the queue and try not to think about how your eyelashes are trying to freeze shut while you wait.

Finally you reach the front and face the tall men with vicious weaponry that they'll wield at the slightest opportunity. Your attempt at a smile is met with blank faces as you dig your papers from your pocket and hand them over.

"State your name and station." The man looking over your papers states, less a question than a command, his voice as cold as the wind.

Who are you?
[ ] Starshi-Leytenant [write-in] Mikhailova, she's a nobody who was drawn to life at sea by promises of travel and adventure (++Technical, +Tactics, -Diplomacy)
[ ] Starshi-Leytenant [write-in] Sverdlova, a woman with an interesting past that she doesn't like to talk about (++Subterfuge, +Prowess, -Strategy)
[ ] Kapitan-Leytenant [write-in] Koroleva, She's a relative of a senior politician in the Parliament, wily and diplomatic (++Diplomacy, +Strategy, -Technical)
[ ] Kapitan-Leytenant [write-in] Kuznetsova, Daughter of a naval family, raised to serve at sea. Your name can bring as many enemies as it does allies. (++Prowess, +Diplomacy, -Subterfuge)

 

[4WheelSword]

Kapitan-Leytenant Valentina Mikhailova
Diplomacy -2, Strategy 0, Tactics +1, Prowess 0, Subterfuge +1, Technical +2

Stress: -
Vices: Small Animals (Cats), Alcohol, Cigarettes

Command: Polyapavlosk Quartermaster and Victualling Headquarters

A new quest about boats and such with assistance from @Artificial Girl
Blame her.

 

[4WheelSword]

"Starshi-Leytenant Valentina Mikhailova, Fourth Division, Eighth Pier." You recite, the same as you do every single time you pass through this gate. There are benefits to living off base but this isn't one of them. At least the officers who lived aboard ship never had to pass a gate guard or hike through the snow to start their day.

Eventually he gave a wordless nod and handed the papers back, waving you through without another word. You step through the gate as the same command was repeated to the next person in line and begin your long walk.

Offices, oil derricks, coaling sheds, warehouses and hangers; all were part of the scenery of your long walk between the gate and you station. You walk with your eyes on the ground, careful not to slip on slick asphalt and cobblestones, wary of patches of black ice. At least, you do until you turn a corner and reach your favourite part of the commute.

Sixth pier, two piers before you reach your own eighth, was the first you come to as you walk and just so happened to be the home of the battleship squadron stationed at Polyapavlosk. It is the highlight of your day when they were in port, as they were on this day. The first you pass is the big Evstafi with many turrets and sleek sides without the casemate guns that other ships carried to mar her perfect lines. Then the three funneled sisters, the Queen Elena and Queen Klementina, the two fast battleships with their single guns fore and aft. The last in the row was the smallest and oldest and yet certainly the most well known and prestigious. The Dvenadsat Apostolov flew the admiral's flag from it's tall mast, it's slim form secreting how successful it had been in combat against the Kievan's enemies.

The four ships were famous across Southern Kieva and much feared in the Dakazyn and beyond. You had grown up listening to stories of the Apostolov and the Evstafi looming from southern fog in pursuit of distant enemy cruisers, threading their way through ranks of merchant ships to ward off prowling attackers. Everyone who lived near the coast had a story, and now the sisters joined them. It was one of the reasons you joined up, the stories of the grand ladies of the sea.

After a long moments viewing, you give a wistful sigh and continue on with your cold walk. To serve on a ship such as those was surely every officers dream and yet it is a dream that seems to be out of reach for you. To serve at sea at all even is, your sad thoughts of broken dreams accompanying you all the way to your own command; the Polyapavlosk Quartermaster and Victualling Headquarters.

What landed you here?
[ ] You were, quite simply, never exemplary. (-Prowess)
[ ] You made a fool of yourself at a cadet ball. (-Diplomacy)
[ ] Your ability to command left something to be desired (-Tactics)
[ ] You never showed yourself to be anything but a decent administrator (-Subterfuge)

 

[4WheelSword]

It is difficult to remember the cadet ball that was supposed to be the proudest night of your life with anything but a sick feeling in your stomach. You had graduated, you were to be an officer, you had an opportunity to dance with the most powerful men and women in the Kingdom before you went away to sea.

But nobody had ever really taken the time to teach you anything but how to curtsy to your betters, or what you could and could not mention in front of the Princes. Nor had they deigned to mention just how strong Stolrussian spirits were and how they didn't share the tradition of watering their drinks with ice or otherwise. You remember little of the night but you could never forget being dragged out of the main hall of the winter palace by the scruff of your neck, marines pinning your arms to your side. Nor, however hard you tried, could you forget a week in the brig or the chewing out that you received from increasingly senior officers over a period of months.

At least you had your own little empire to soothe your wounds. The Victualling offices were responsible for the supply of food, fuel and ammunition to the entire Southern fleet and any visiting forces as well. Without you and your offices the navy could not eat, sail or fight. Even if you could not go to sea you knew that you were an important cog in the gigantic machine.

Only two of the handful of faces at work in your office look up when you walk in. Bo'sun Leo Maximov is a skinny reed of a man with neither any particular confidence or talent for his position - but at least he is loyal and committed to you. The other, Leytenant Motya Alexandrova, is a different kettle of fish entirely. Tall, muscular and blonde she is the image of a naval officer and should have been commanding a destroyer by all accounts. She has never been anything but cold to you and you are not surprised - she is not Kievan after all.

When the Kievan King married the Stolrussian Queen nine years ago, the state of Vanmark was formed in what is almost universally regarded across Kieva as a terrible choice. The parliament, the civil service, even the Markka was unified. The military commands, and especially the navies, remained distinct and for that you are truly grateful. You have had to put up with exchange officers like Leytenant Alexandrova, but that is a small cross to bear to maintain your national pride.

"Good morning, Leytenant. Did you enjoy your walk?"

Alexandrova lives on base and would barely have had to suffer the biting cold on the way here. You fight off a scowl as you hang your thick coat in a closet and rub your hands together, trying desperately to warm up.

"Of course. Everything is looking just so, just as befits the Kevian Navy."

"Yes, well, isn't it glorious to be a part of the Vanmark armed forces." The woman was smiling. It was an unnerving look.

Sitting at your desk you slide out a drawer, frustrated with how tense your shoulders already feel just minutes after arriving. It's time to start the day off right.

You have a vice. What is it?
[ ] Cigarettes
[ ] Alcohol
[ ] Write-in

Your work ethic could be described as?
[ ] You have subordinates for a reason (Diplomacy test)
[ ] You are invested in each and every detail (Strategy test)
[ ] You can make a fast buck out of being a quartermaster (Subterfuge test)
[ ] Polyapavlosk is a beacon of efficiency because of your office (Prowess test)

 

[4WheelSword]

A small jar of what could be easily mistaken for biscuits sits in the bottom of the drawer, the top screwed on tight. You pull it out with a smile and shake it once. Then twice. On the third shake you hear the sudden skittering of claws on wooden floorboards. Before you can move, an orange and black blur has vaulted onto your desk and scattered pencils and papers everywhere. A disappointed cluck comes from the Stolrussian across the room but you couldn't care one bit. This is one of your favourite parts of the day.

"Marina!" You coo, scratching the chubby cat under the chin, "How is my big girl today?"

Marina, the mystery cat, had appeared outside your office window one day in the middle of a torrential storm. Soaked through, she had wound herself tightly around your legs before settling into your lap to dry off and drench your trousers. Now she lived here, your very own ships cat without the ship, and you dote on her at every opportunity. She curls up across your knees and you unscrew the jar, feeding her a small treat from your fingertips.

"One day the base commander will find out about the flea-bag and he will not be happy." Alexandrova muttered. The only thing that cut through her good-natured exterior was her dislike of the office cat. You had wondered more than once if she was simply upset that you showed Marina more affection than you had ever offered her.

"She's a rat catcher! We may as well give her a commission for all the work she does." You protest, smiling at the purring feline.

"There are no rats here, Mikhailova, and there never were. You love that beast like a child, it is unhealthy."

You shrug, little care given for the opinion of a foreign officer about a cat.

Your work is rote but interesting enough that you never really become bored. When you had first received your posting the wound to your pride had left you feeling bereft and it was some time before you had really applied yourself to the role. But, nonetheless you had eventually turned a corner and committed yourself to turning Polyapavlosk into the most efficient naval port in the Kingdom.

That was when you learned the reality of Vennish bureaucracy.

Every attempt to improve the order of things was met with nothing but polite indifference and disinterest at every level. Even when you pushed for the redistribution of warehouse assignments, simply to bring supplies for certain squadrons close to their piers, the question was not how would it help but instead who would have to do the work? Would it be the stevedores when they were navy supplies, naval crews with no training in dock work or her own administrative personnel who were not employed to haul cargo? The resulting debate lasted six months, produced no results and in fact only lead to a series of stress induced headaches that your doctor prescribed a mild sedative to prevent.

Thus you resigned yourself to a fate of doing your very best in a system that seemed perfectly designed to lead to heart palpitations in the quartermasters responsible for it, and chivvied your staff along in making what miniscule improvements to the operations you could along the way.

It was dull, but at least it kept you busy. And every so often you came across something so strange as to warrant an actual investigation. The opportunity to leave the office was a rarely given one, but it was no more warranted than when a shipment of supplies had been misdelivered and nonetheless signed for. This would need some looking into.

How do we proceed (pick any)?
[ ] Deliver the information to your superior officer (+1 stress)
[ ] Confront the officer who signed for the supplies (+1 stress)
[ ] Look into exactly what was mishipped and to who (+1 stress)
[ ] Send the Bo'sun to report the issues (If this is selected, none other can be, -1 stress)

We will be using the stress system from @open_sketchbook quests! Leytenant Mikhailova starts on 3 stress because of her posting. This can be reduced by engaging in vices and developing new ones! At the end of each chapter, a dice roll determines the effects! Over the stress amount, everything is fine. Under it, and you get some very bad no good results. Good luck!

 

[4WheelSword]

(+2 stress)

"Leo, get me the shipment records for second pier, the destroyer flotilla." you ask as calmly as possible. What you had found was already making you nervous that this was more than an administrative oversight.

A shipment of infantry weapons and ammunition had been delivered to Polyapavlosk's destroyer flotilla with no sign of any true destination on the paperwork. This would not have been worrying - you have had to deal with arms lockers emptied to sell on the black market before - but for the best sheer quantity of equipment. A hundred rifles and ten of the powerful, lightweight Chalpot machine gun favoured by the marines. This was many more weapons than needed to resupply a few destroyers with crooked parsers.

"Is everything okay, Leytenant?" Leo dropped a stack of papers on your desk. "You look worried."

"Just a little discrepancy, I'm sure. It would be remiss to not check though." you respond, verbally shooing him away.

The files were dense; three thick folders, each containing at least six months of order, delivery and supply records. You'd soon know whether this was a singular mistake or part of a much larger problem. Nobody tried to get one past the Quartermaster and Victualling Headquarters, nobody!

It was difficult work, separating basic failures of a shoddy system from something that may have been larger, but eventually you had it. Shipments of weapons were going missing across Southern Kieva and then remarkably similar shipments would appear and be delivered to entirely incongruous destinations. A quick skim had over a thousand rifles, machine guns, even explosives delivered all over Polyapavlosk and presumably more beyond. It was enough to equip a small army.

This would have to be looked into further, but… with a glance at the Stolrussian officer you realise that perhaps this is not for you to deal with. You may be in charge, but it was a Kievan problem and it should stay between Kievan officers. This would have to go up the chain.

With a pang of regret, you chivvy Marina from your lap and gather up the files and folders you'll need. Both Leo and the Stolrussian Leytenant watch you leave but you refuse to offer a word of explanation. That you will save for the Kapitan.

Kapitan Andrieyavich, commander of the shore establishment of Polyapavlosk and decorated officer was many things. He was a veteran of several wars, a former torpedo boat commander and, perhaps most pertinent to you, a drunk. Your sharp knock on his door is met with a half hearted growl and your salute is barely returned by a man who is clearly halfway into a bottle.

"better be important." He grumbled, apparently disturbed from his business by your intrusion.

"Sir, I believe I've uncovered evidence of a-" a what? What had you found? "a, um."

"a what girl? Spit it out." His eyes fix on yours, sharp for a moment before returning to their boozy haze.

"A conspiracy, Sir. An armed one. Weapons are going missing all over the city and I believe the Stolrussian's may be involved." you have no evidence for the last, but it's as likely as not.

"Its just the black market, Leytenant, relax."

"With respect, I don't believe it is. See, I have evidence-" you step forward, proffering the folders.

"Rubbish. You're just being over eager. Again."

Frustration courses through you. There must be a way to get through to him.

How will you try?
[ ] Appeal to his vanity (subterfuge)
[ ] Appeal to his patriotism (diplomacy)
[ ] Write-in (test to be decided)
[ ] Find a way to deal with this yourself

 

[4WheelSword]

You bite back a sharp retort and instead think for a moment. The Kapitan has had long and glorious service and while it has left him a drunk, it has also left him a proud and egotistical man.

"A discovery of this magnitude - and it is a massive operation if I'm right, Kapitan -" You say, stressing his (unfortunate for his age) low rank, "Could be very good for our Navy and, if I may say so, our careers. It could be the making of us." You are aiming for a subtle stroke of his ego but as he fixes you with steely eyes once more you realise that you may have made a mistake.

"If you think it is as simple as offering me a few compliments, Starshi-Leytenant, then you are sorely mistaken. You bring me nothing but supposition and expect me to drag myself from behind my desk? You must think very little of your fellow officer if that is the case. Get out."

"Sir, I-" You begin, an attempt at an apology.

"Out!" He roars, sending you stumbling backwards for the exit.

Once outside with the door to his office shut firmly behind you you take a moment to breath. That could certainly have gone better, although you hadn't gone in expecting very much. You had made an attempt, and that was the important thing. If this went the way you perhaps expected and a report was made to the Zaschita (the Kevian security department), his name would not feature as positively as you had offered.

Walking back to the office, you can feel the stress of your discovery creeping up your spine and making your shoulders tense. Someone was arming themselves far beyond anything the navy considered necessary. At the best, you thought, somebody was preparing for the rumblings of a future war that the papers said would surely break out in Europa at some point. At the worst - and it could be so much worse - there was violence on the horizon of the sort that you do not want to imagine.

As you reached your own office you hesitate. There is much to be done and apparently you are the only one you can trust to do it. And Bo'sun Maximov, of course. But you must consider your next step carefully. Stress is a killer and you are sorely tempted to continue your investigation tomorrow but you wonder how much time you really have.

How do you proceed?
[ ] Go home for the afternoon - it's not quite within the rules but honestly, with your senior drunk and your office-mates uncaring, who's watching. (-1 stress)
[ ] Quietly continue investigating alone - though you may consider bringing in the Bo'sun as a helping hand. (+0 stress
[ ] Bring in additional assistance from the office - there are plenty of trustworthy men and women amongst them. You may even be forced to ask the Stolrussian. (+1 stress)
[ ] Confront the Destroyer Flotilla Commander - you have evidence and you have an idea of what's happening. The commander is likely to be one link in a chain that you must break. (+1 stress)

 

[4WheelSword]

Your desk suddenly feels much less like safety than it did at the start of the day. Before it was the throne from which you ruled your empire, now it was nought but a place of anxiety and concern. Even when Marina hops up into your lap you can do no more than give her an absent minded scratch behind the neck. She, at least, has no capacity to attempt subterfuge beyond complaining that she has yet to be fed to every human walking into the room.

You shake yourself out of whatever stupor has come over you and pull the files close again. There must be a pattern here, there are always patterns. Everything the Navy does is supposed to be about the efficient distribution of various resources and you doubt that anyone working within the system will be doing much different.

Beginning with a list you realise quite quickly that this is assuredly more than just a black market swindle or, if it is, then it's the largest redistribution of weaponry outside of the military you've ever heard of. Hundreds of shipments of rifles, machine guns, ammunition, even shells and light artillery, were going missing from Polyapavlosk, either bound for destinations unknown in Kieva and greater Varnmark or reappearing with incongruous destinations after a span of time.

"Have you seen this, Leytenant?" Maximov appears by your shoulder, dragging your attention away from the files.

"What? What is it?" Could he have found something else of his own accord?

"There's going to be a race." he says, gesturing at the newspaper he's holding, "An air race between all the nations of Europa. And some others too."

You'd seen some of the new flying machines that the Navy had bought. It was difficult not too with a handful stationed at the port. They looked like folly, children's kites and little more and the men and women who flew them were, from your experience, obnoxiously loud and overly excitable. If the wealthy of Europa wanted to race some of their madcap machines then let them. You let out a disdainful grunt that's magnified by your frustration with the real problem in front of you.

"I don't have time for rich nobles and their toys, Maximov. Put that down and help me with some real work."

"Aye, Leytenant." he drops the paper on your desk, looking sheepish "Sorry, Leytenant."

You gesture for him to pull up a chair and begin to take him through the discoveries you have made thus far. The weapons and the strange deliveries and the oh so few signed forms you have in your possession that point to a knowing conspiracy.

"Something is amiss."

"Aye, Bo'sun, something certainly is." Maximov was not the brightest of sparks, but he was dutiful and most importantly he could keep his mouth shut when necessary. "We need to know more. I think I have a little job for you."

What will you ask of Maximov?
[ ] Pay a visit to delivery sources (Depots, factories etc)
[ ] Pay a visit to delivery locations (Ships, barracks etc)
[ ] Pay a visit to the logistics centres (Transportation)

 

[4WheelSword]

You scribble down the address of a local logistics hub on a strip of paper and hand it to the Bo'sun. Naasville, the town which plays host to it, sits on an important geographical cross roads half a days ride north. Rivers, roads and soon a railway track will all cross at Naasville. It's not the main depot for the South, but much of the equipment coming into Polyapavlosk will have come through there and you doubt so many weapons will have gone unnoticed.

An officer, even a junior one, will garner far too much attention poking around and asking questions. But a non-commissioned officer, one of the people and an older man at that, they will simply assume that he has been sent on some business and will pay him no more mind than any other.

"Do you understand what I'm asking of you, Leo?" It is important that he knows. If he is too blatant, whoever is behind this will disappear into so much dust.

"I'm smart enough to know how to ask questions, Leytenant, not to worry." He says with a grin. A snapped salute and another smile see's him disappearing out the door, wrapping his coat around him as he goes.

Leytenant Alexandrova is looking at you when you settle back in your chair, staring across the room. You smile and try to look busy, but a pang of fear shoots through your stomach. You wonder how much she heard.


Living in your own home away from the port has many advantages over the cramped accommodation of the officers quarters. A better kitchen is one thing, you think as you chew slowly on a mouthful of hard bread and stew. The other is the fact that none can decide what is or is not a reasonable amount of animals to look after at any one time.

You smile at the three cats currently eating their own food, Maria, Mickael and Moskya. A bird flits between perches high in the room, chirping sweet song at her housemates. In the corner is a small cage in which a few small mice scurry and play. Keeping animals has forever kept you calm and contented and, while you have a special place in your heart for felines, any small creature is welcome in your home. You have more than once been criticised by female friends for the practice, the implication that men will find it unattractive. Holding out a finger for your bird to land on, you smirk. You'd rarely found that a convincing argument.

A knock at your front door had your bird away on a flutter of wings and your cats scampering away from their bowls. You sigh, frustrated that your dinner has been interrupted, but stand nonetheless. You take a moment to glance in the mirror, tutting at unkempt black hair and mussed blouse, before opening the door.

The drab green uniform of an Army officer was not what you had expected when the knock came, but nonetheless a tall man stands in your doorway wearing the shoulder boards of a Kapitan. He doffs his hat, tucking it under one arm and running a hand through his thin hair as you offer a salute almost automatically. A mixture of confusion and fear has your heart beating loud in your ears as you return his broad smile.

"Starshi-Leytenant Mikhailova?" He asks, beaming as you nod, "Excellent. May I come in?"

"Of course. Please, excuse me, I was just eating dinner, Kapitan?"

"Sverdlov. Apologies for the interruption." He closes the door behind him and walks into your apartment, looking around. The cats are hiding somewhere, though surely they're close at hand.

"No, not at all. Tea?" You disappear into the kitchen, taking a deep breath and waiting for the blood to stop rushing. Why are you so nervous? It had only been a day since Leo had gone North, and he would not have been back yet.

"I can't imagine I'll be that long." He calls through to you. When you return he has taken a seat at the small dining table, his jacket hung over the back of a chair. With it is hung a large brown service holster, surely containing a pistol. The presence of a weapon in the hands of a brother officer is, for perhaps the first time ever, making you nervous. You sit opposite him and attempt to smile calmly.

"May I ask what brings you to my home? I can't say I've had much to do with His Majesty's Army."

"I see no reason to beat around the subject with you, Leytenant. You are prying into business that is very dangerous and you are putting yourself at risk just as you have already put one man at risk. It would be best if you simply returned to your office and acted as if you had never found anything at all. If you do, we'll never see each other again. If not, then..." He shrugged, an emotionless full stop to his suggestion.

How do you respond?
[ ] How dare you! Anger is the only way to respond to a threat.
[ ] Where is my Bo'sun! If he's been hurt...
[ ] I have no idea what you're talking about. Deny any knowledge.
[ ] I've already told my superior officers. It's too late for you.
[ ] Write in.

 

[4WheelSword]

A cold chill runs up your spine as you realise that every bad feeling you had about your visitor was correct. Your eyes slide to the deadly weapon in the holster hanging off one of your chairs. Your chairs, in your apartment. Suddenly the cold fear is replaced by hot anger. How dare this man come into your home and make idle threats as if you were simply discussing the weather.

"If you have done anything to him-"

"I can assure you," Sverdlov says, a vicious little smile crossing his face, "your Maximov is perfectly alright. We would not harm a hair of anyone loyal soldier of the Kingdom. Although he may wake up with the devil's own hangover tomorrow."

The knot that had been forming in your stomach lessens infinitesimally, but still the anger remains.

"You have no right to interfere with my duties. No right!" You say, aware that your voice is rising in pitch. Sverdlov glances over his shoulder at the door, still smiling thinly.

"Yet here I am, a Kapitan telling a Leytenant that she is going far beyond what her duty requires. I came here to warn you, Valentina Mikhailova, but this will be your only warning."

"And just who are you, to bring me this warning, on what authority?"

He sighs, running a hand through the straw-blonde hair on his head again. There is silence for a moment as he seems to weight up how to respond to your question. You take the brief pause to look around, seeing an exit, a weapon, something in case the situation takes a turn for the worse. The apartments front door is closed and the closest thing to a weapon is a butter knife sitting by your rapidly cooling stew. Not much in the way of options. You curse the fact that your own service pistol is lying unused in a drawer in your closet and not close at hand.

"I am an officer, loyal to Kevia first and foremost above all else just as you surely are. But that becomes more difficult a thing to say as each day goes by, doesn't it. A decade of change has come to our little nation, and there are those of us who do not consider it to have come for the right reasons or at a fair price."

A decade meant one thing and one thing only. The union of Kevia and Stolrussia into Varnmark was nine years old this year. It had meant the end of years of vicious border wars between the two nations but it was by no means universally popular.

"The Stoli's are inside our country, in our armies, on our ships. They have invaded not with resistance but with an invitation and some are not happy with that. Who am I, you ask? I am an officer yes, but I am a patriot. If you respect that, I ask you to stop prying into things that do not concern you."

How do you respond?
[ ] Make a bolt for the door. Perhaps you can find help before he can react. (Prowess)
[ ] Make a bolt for your service pistol in the other room. (Prowess)
[ ] Ask what they plan. This might be a chance to avoid violence. (Subterfuge)
[ ] Ask what they plan. You are as patriotic as any other officer. (Diplomacy)
[ ] Agree to stop prying. You cannot do anything under threat. (Diplomacy)
[ ] Agree to stop prying. You can go to port security as soon as he leaves (Subterfuge)