The confusion that has washed across your mind since the rough veteran said it was gunfire suddenly clears and you face down the prospect that those supplies that had spent so long going missing were seeing use in the city you call home. But the Zaschita had arrested everyone involved, hadn't they?
Apparently not, you realise as another louder ragged ripple of gunfire echoes down your street. Sasha stands, going to the corner and retrieving the heavy looking carbine and belt of ammunition she'd hidden behind a small bookshelf.
"It's going to be different, using this without Alestry between my legs." She says, sliding the bolt open with a loud clack. Alestry, she'd told you once in her thick rural accent that you found so comfortingly warm, was the horse she'd ridden into battle more than once.
"I don't know what's happening." You say, seeking something you're not sure of. You're still confused, worried, scared in some ways.
"I doubt anyone does, Koshka, that's why I never handed this back in." She loads a round at a time, pushing shining brass down into the magazine.
"I think I need to go to the port." That is your duty station after all. Whether this is invasion or revolution, that's where you are supposed to be whenever there is an emergency even in the simplest of cases.
"Then I'm going with you." Sasha doesn't even look up from her weapon as she speaks, just makes the statement with the utmost confidence.
"You don't need to do that." You say and she fixes you with a look and a small sad smile and your heart is melting and you're not even sure entirely why that is but it is.
"I'm aware of what I do and do not need to do. I do not need to feed your cats, or bring you Knish or do anything. But if it keeps you happy, so I do." The bolt of her carbine slides home with a sharp clack, a perfect end to her sentence. "If you need to be at the port, I will make sure you are safe."
"I can look after myself."
"Oh you've surely proven that, Koshka, but a pistol is no match to a machine-gun."
She isn't going to let up and, in fact, you doubt she'll let you leave the building without her there to watch your back. So relenting seems to be your only option.
"Okay, okay. Let me sort a few things out and we'll go."
Sorting a few things out took far longer than you had thought for very little actual progress. Struggling into your uniform with a still stiff shoulder, putting down extra food for the cats in case you had to stay overnight (and saying goodbye to them each in turn of course), and making sure you had everything you could possibly need in a small pack and your pistol on your hip.
The sound only grew as your boots touched pavement and your breath started coming as white mist. Sasha, her hand on your back, had you crouch in your doorway for a moment as she peered around to get an idea of what was happening. The street was deserted, people either hiding in their homes or already out in the city somewhere. It's ominous to see it so empty when you know it should be bustling, with the rattle of distant fighting. Smoke rises into the sky from somewhere hidden behind a building. Finally Sasha taps your shoulder and you begin to walk.
You make it some two kilometres without impediment, only taking shelter twice. Once from a truck that roars past filled with volunteer firefighters and once from a gang of armed men and women heading towards the loudest fighting. Sasha took you on a circuitous route so you never saw anyone actually fighting, but more than once you came across shattered storefronts, spent bullet casings and a body or two. You admired the way she moved past without a murmur, sticking to the walls even when it meant crouching over the dead. You couldn't help but look, to consider the young (for they were invariably young) man or woman who was lying in a pool of their own blood. Being in the Navy had not exactly prepared you for gaping wounds or missing limbs. You were proud of you for keeping your lunch down though.
Your luck held almost all the way to the port until it ran out all at once. You turn a corner and step headlong into the path of a group of well dressed middle-aged men, all of them with pistols or rifles or long, wicked looking knives in hand. You stare at them and they stare at you, waiting for everything to break until one of them finally steps forwards.
"Kevia or the King?" he says, quietly.
"What?" you ask, confused again.
"Kevia," he raises a pistol into view, Sasha pulling her carbine into her shoulder in turn, "or the King?"
Well?
[ ] Kevia (Declare for the Revolution. There is no going back from this option.)
[ ] The King (Declare for Varnmark. There is no going back from this option.)
