FC Error
Missileer
- Location
- Aware of where I am not
Probably a good thing we have Salt Admiral on speed dial, then. Yui needs to git gud at counter-trolling, ASAP.
Mandat de l'impératrice des Cieux - Imperial Princess Troubleshooter Space Opera Quest
- Thread starter Whiskey Golf
- Start date
- Original Mature
7734
Trust and verify.
- Location
- Philmont
Okay, so we want to get this coup moving, which means we need to stir up some unrest. Since we're a flag officer backing the Empress (for soft coup so we can build BESTO PILLOW FORT) that means our position is baaaasically untouchable from the front, and if all else fails we can get caught doing something unprofessional with Yui to reinforce our position. When we soft coup (regent for life or something, Generalisima Primera maybe) then it'll reduce public tension because we will be STABILITY and WISDOM and HELPING GUIDING HAND.
Time to play the fool.
[x] Unrestrained. The Regency Council will freely and actively exercise the Empress's powers.
Time to play the fool.
[x] Unrestrained. The Regency Council will freely and actively exercise the Empress's powers.
Whiskey Golf
Being of Editing & Technical Assistance
- Location
- Chained to my desk
Inserted tally
Whiskey Golf
Being of Editing & Technical Assistance
- Location
- Chained to my desk
Ugh, still figuring out the tallying. Anyway, that's where we stand, with 46.5 hours to go on the voting, which closes at 0000 GMT 3 OCT 2019, so after the voting closes I'll tally and go watch the Season 3 premiere of SEAL Team continue my existence as a Domino's wage-slave.
- Location
- National Capital Region, USA
You do not coup when you're already the boss. We've got legitimacy right now which is gold.
However, I am totally onboard with this part of the plan, and this part only.
7734
Trust and verify.
- Location
- Philmont
I mean, it's a very soft and squishy sort of coup. Less Thailand, more Medeci as we work our way to make sure Ahri stays nice and fluffy. Besides, everyone already trusts us- all we have to do is make sure we take out the trash when we do something to bleed tensions.
Whiskey Golf
Being of Editing & Technical Assistance
- Location
- Chained to my desk
...he let Yui come back to Jinko-Sei to sit on the Regency Council as the Imperial Family's representative, while he's off commanding the fleet in the Salsu Frontier and trying to keep a lid on things there.
Now, if Ahridad hadn't gone and suicided, then things would have been a lot simpler; he'd (meaning Ahridad) have taken the Imperial Family's seat on the Regency Council and he would be the Regent. But, well. He loved his dead wife more than his living daughter, so he chose to follow her in death, because he didn't love Ahri enough to live for her. (Or, at least, subconsciously, that's how Ahri feels about it.)
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- Location
- Central Standard Time
Did he take a more active role, or did he take a more aloof position?
Vocalist
Verdant Maiden in Violet
- Location
- By a Cedar Tree
Hey @Whiskey Golf , I don't remember if this was ever brought up, but how did the Empress die? Asking out of curiosity.
Thebigpieman
I've got this, I think.
- Location
- United States
Choked on her food apparently.
Whiskey Golf
Being of Editing & Technical Assistance
- Location
- Chained to my desk
He's about as active as when General David Petraus was CENTCOM commander.
Choked on her food, was not successfully Heimlich'd.
Always Late
Lacking in coffee, sleep, and brains
- Location
- Ohio
... either the Imperial Guard did a fuckton of internal finger-pointing for that cockup, or that was a well-executed assassination that also led to a fuckton of the Imperial Guard getting reamed out.
Whiskey Golf
Being of Editing & Technical Assistance
- Location
- Chained to my desk
Reminder that we are now in the final stretch of voting. Voting will close in 14 hours from now at 0000 GMT, 02 OCT 2019.
- Location
- The Frozen North
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X]Restrained
Tayta Malikai
200% Space Whale
- Location
- Australia
This is the funniest shit I've read all week. Well done Whiskey.
Been meaning to catch up on this and vote more, so:
[X] Abstain.
Choosing this to follow the lead of the military leaders.
Whiskey Golf
Being of Editing & Technical Assistance
- Location
- Chained to my desk
Okay, we have a clear consensus. The winning vote is [X] Restrained. Thanks for voting, everyone.
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Morning has Broken
Whiskey Golf
Being of Editing & Technical Assistance
- Location
- Chained to my desk
An infernal vibrating clatter sounds, and you reluctantly force your eyes open. You reach for your phone, silence the alarm, and glare at the display. Why the fuckspiders do you have to wake up so goddamn early again? Right, you promised Yui you'd cook breakfast for her. Up and at it, Johnny-boy.
You sigh and lower your phone, staring at the ceiling for a moment. There's a stirring beside you and you turn your head. Curled up next to you, wrapped around your other arm, lies your better half. In bed, wearing one of your old shirts, hair tousled by sleep, her face peaceful in slumber, Maggie looks a far cry from her usual self. A smile makes its way to your lips; you don't think you'll ever get tired of waking up beside her. You sigh again, and extract your arm from her grasp; Maggie makes a displeased sound as your warmth leaves your bed.
"Johnny?" she mumbles sleepily.
"Go back to sleep, Maggie," you say gently, planting a kiss to her temple. You sigh again as you disrobe and enter the shower, and step into the full blast of the spray. You stand there for a while, longer than your usual custom. Not as prompt as you were expected to shower, back when you were enlisted, but you haven't been enlisted for a long time now. Sometimes, like right now, on the cusp between sleep and wakefulness, a full spray of hot water in your face, you wonder why you still affect enlisted sensibilities. Finally, after a relative eternity, you step out of the shower, towel off, and return to your bedroom, where you notice two things: First, your suit, which you'd laid out last night, is missing its jacket. Second, your bed is empty.
You dress quickly, and take a moment to admire yourself in the mirror. You do look quite dapper in this suit. Given what it'd cost your wife, it should damn well make you look good.
You make your way to the kitchen, and come to a stop in the doorway, watching the scene unfold. Maggie stands at the counter, wearing naught but your suit jacket. Her usual swift and sure movements are slowed by her recent wakefulness, and she stifles a yawn as she assembles slices of ham and cheese on crackers, topped with a stuffed olive. She brings out another plate and slices pickled cucumbers into long cuts, arranging them on the plate and pouring salt into a tiny soy sauce dish. She steps back, gives the plate a critical glare, and fiddles with her plating.
Her bed hair is still an unkempt mess, barely tamed by the fingers she uses as a comb. There are bags under her eyes, she's still bleary-eyed, with no makeup at all, a far cry from the elegant facade that Captain Amagi Ri-Sumeragi presents to the world. And yet despite all that, a smile makes its way to your face. You don't think you've ever seen her look more alluring than she does right now. My wife is the most beautiful woman in the world, you think.
You open your mouth to greet her, as she looks up and catches your eye. "Good morning, Johnny. Be a dear and go get me a mug."
"Yes, Maggie," you reply. You set aside your indignation at how she's lording over you in your own house; when your sleepy wife makes you a breakfast snack, the correct response is to be grateful and do for her what she wants. You grab her mug, fill it with the blessed coffee, and bring it to her: she takes it, drops in three sugars, just the way you like it, and pours milk into the mug, tilting it this way and that, presenting you with the finished product: a cappuchino, with an intricate cappuchino art decoration of flowers and hearts.
"Oh," you say dumbly. "I thought you wanted me to get you a coffee."
Maggie merely exhales and gives you a flat look; you take the hint and take a sip of the cappuchino, then another, then another. Damn, that's good. This cappuchino looks and tastes like it came out of a high end coffee shop, the kind that Maggie favors. You set the mug down and reach for the snack plate; Maggie reclaims her mug and takes a sip, with a pointed look at you.
You ignore the voice in your head that's making juvenile noises about indirect kisses, you're not a teenager anymore, and an indirect kiss is pretty smalltime, given that you're both living together. Instead, you remember where those lips have been, and what they've done, and how they felt, and you smile.
Maggie's mental defenses must be still downlined, because she smiles at you in return as she cradles her mug, holding it at chest height; your eyes scan the curve and swell of her cleavage against your jacket, while tracking the mug of life-sustaining coffee, locking on to her slim, beautiful fingers. You could spend an eternity just gazing at her fingers, but alas, you have places to be this morning. You take a seat at the kitchen island and help yourself to the plate, and internally marvel at Maggie's plating. You're a fair home cook yourself, and you'd like to think you can plate nicely, but Maggie's plating just blows yours out of the water: she manages to make zakuski look more elevated than Slavic snacks have a right to be. Maggie places her elbows on the table, and cups her chin in one dainty hand, watching you as you eat, a pleased look in her sleepy eyes. You don't say anything, you just smile, and offer her a piece of butterbrot. "You should have some."
"Thank you, but no," she demurrs. "I won't be able to go back to bed afterward. Finish this up, you shouldn't visit the Palace on an empty stomach." She takes another sip of her cappuchino and leans forward across the island, offering the mug to you; you accept her mug, sip, and offer the mug to her.
"Thanks, Maggie. You didn't have to do this."
Maggie takes the proffered mug, even as she sniffs scornfully, expressing some of her early morning crankiness. "Darling, please. Someone has to take care of you. You obviously can't do it for yourself."
"I took care of myself long before I met you," you counter, as you reach across the table to take her hand, intertwining your fingers with hers. Lord, but she has the most beautiful fingers in the world. You would never let her hand go, ever, not if you didn't have to.
"I beg to differ." She shakes her head smugly. "You're hopeless without me, Johnny."
"I think my mom might want to have words with you on who gets to be the most important woman in my life," you say. Maggie's smug look doesn't shift an inch, but the way her tails shift behind her… yes, definitely in a good mood, ass o'clock crankiness notwithstanding. On a whim you lean forward and bring her hand to your lips. Her face softens into a genuine, unguarded smile, one you feel yourself mirroring. I could never tire of looking at my wife, you think, as you both sit at the table and share that mug of coffee.
Alas, your moment of domestic bliss comes to its inevitable end. Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you reluctantly release Maggie's hand to check the message: your IRG pickup is 15 minutes out. You sigh and stand up reluctantly. Maggie rises as well, coming to stand before you. She brushes off stray crumbs real and imagined from your shirt, and smiles at you. "I told you this was a good look on you. You're missing a certain something, though. Your outfit's incomplete." She places an elegant finger on your lips, even as she unbuttons your jacket. The silk garment slides down her shoulders; Maggie displays nary a care that she's displaying all her naked glory to you. She leans in, raising your arms, pressing herself against you as she helps you into your jacket, her scent filling your nostrils. Instinctively you draw your arms around your wife and bury your face in her hair; her hands find their way around your back, and she leans her head on your chest.
"Thank you, for everything," you say simply. Eloquence escapes you. "You didn't have to."
"Nonsense. My man should have the clothes he deserves."
That's not what you meant, and she knows it, but right now, winning the argument, winning anything, doesn't seem important. You tilt your head to meet hers, and kiss her. Nothing earth shattering, nothing passionate. Just tender, intimate warmth. Your lips part, Maggie sighs "oh Johnny," and she kisses you back.
Your phone buzzes insistently; Maggie presses a raised leg against your pocket in a futile attempt to stifle the noise. Your phone continues buzzing, and reluctantly you both break your kiss.
"Just go back to bed, Maggie," you tell her. "I'll take care of the dishes when I get home. We only need to be in the office at ten, so you can still go and nap some more. I'll find my own transport to Admiralty House." You plant a finger to her lips, inordinately happy that she's letting you shush her. "Fleet Admiral's orders."
"Yes Sir, very good Sir," she drawls, rolling her eyes. You sigh and release her; Maggie turns away from you, bends over, and picks up your old shirt from its heap on the floor. She shrugs into that well-worn shirt, the aged fabric flattering her curves: you have to admit that shirt looks a hell of a lot better on her than it ever did on you. She buttons the shirt at her navel, and gives you a look. "You have something on your mind, Darling. Say it."
"I distinctly remember your stated reason for getting rid of my shirts was that they weren't fit to be worn," you say dryly.
"They weren't fit to be worn in public," corrects Maggie smugly, her dainty finger tracing a line from collar to navel, pointedly drawing attention to that old shirt's missing buttons and how the fabric has been worn thin with age. "But then, this is hardly a public space, is it? Carry on, danna-sama. It wouldn't do to keep your escort waiting." She smirks at you and turns away, returning to the bedroom, an extra sway in her walk.
"Bye Maggie. See you at work."
"Bye Johnny," she calls, her royal blue eyes looking at you over her shoulder. "Please don't embarrass yourself in front of Her Majesty."
"You know me, Maggie."
"I know you, that's why I have to warn you."
You roll your eyes at Maggie, and turn away to head out. You pause in the doorway, sniff at your jacket, and frown. You can smell Maggie's perfume, and hidden under that scent, lingering in your senses, you can smell her scent. You choose not to be concerned. It's fine, you decide. If nobody has noticed your adjutant's scent on you, after all this time, they're not going to notice it today. Your careers aren't at risk.
You inhale deeply, reinforcing your memory of her scent, and settle in to wait for your IRG escort, your emotions and thoughts churning as the caffeine works its way through your system.
I want us to be happy.
I want to hold her hand till the end of days.
I love her so much.
You sigh and lower your phone, staring at the ceiling for a moment. There's a stirring beside you and you turn your head. Curled up next to you, wrapped around your other arm, lies your better half. In bed, wearing one of your old shirts, hair tousled by sleep, her face peaceful in slumber, Maggie looks a far cry from her usual self. A smile makes its way to your lips; you don't think you'll ever get tired of waking up beside her. You sigh again, and extract your arm from her grasp; Maggie makes a displeased sound as your warmth leaves your bed.
"Johnny?" she mumbles sleepily.
"Go back to sleep, Maggie," you say gently, planting a kiss to her temple. You sigh again as you disrobe and enter the shower, and step into the full blast of the spray. You stand there for a while, longer than your usual custom. Not as prompt as you were expected to shower, back when you were enlisted, but you haven't been enlisted for a long time now. Sometimes, like right now, on the cusp between sleep and wakefulness, a full spray of hot water in your face, you wonder why you still affect enlisted sensibilities. Finally, after a relative eternity, you step out of the shower, towel off, and return to your bedroom, where you notice two things: First, your suit, which you'd laid out last night, is missing its jacket. Second, your bed is empty.
You dress quickly, and take a moment to admire yourself in the mirror. You do look quite dapper in this suit. Given what it'd cost your wife, it should damn well make you look good.
You make your way to the kitchen, and come to a stop in the doorway, watching the scene unfold. Maggie stands at the counter, wearing naught but your suit jacket. Her usual swift and sure movements are slowed by her recent wakefulness, and she stifles a yawn as she assembles slices of ham and cheese on crackers, topped with a stuffed olive. She brings out another plate and slices pickled cucumbers into long cuts, arranging them on the plate and pouring salt into a tiny soy sauce dish. She steps back, gives the plate a critical glare, and fiddles with her plating.
Her bed hair is still an unkempt mess, barely tamed by the fingers she uses as a comb. There are bags under her eyes, she's still bleary-eyed, with no makeup at all, a far cry from the elegant facade that Captain Amagi Ri-Sumeragi presents to the world. And yet despite all that, a smile makes its way to your face. You don't think you've ever seen her look more alluring than she does right now. My wife is the most beautiful woman in the world, you think.
You open your mouth to greet her, as she looks up and catches your eye. "Good morning, Johnny. Be a dear and go get me a mug."
"Yes, Maggie," you reply. You set aside your indignation at how she's lording over you in your own house; when your sleepy wife makes you a breakfast snack, the correct response is to be grateful and do for her what she wants. You grab her mug, fill it with the blessed coffee, and bring it to her: she takes it, drops in three sugars, just the way you like it, and pours milk into the mug, tilting it this way and that, presenting you with the finished product: a cappuchino, with an intricate cappuchino art decoration of flowers and hearts.
"Oh," you say dumbly. "I thought you wanted me to get you a coffee."
Maggie merely exhales and gives you a flat look; you take the hint and take a sip of the cappuchino, then another, then another. Damn, that's good. This cappuchino looks and tastes like it came out of a high end coffee shop, the kind that Maggie favors. You set the mug down and reach for the snack plate; Maggie reclaims her mug and takes a sip, with a pointed look at you.
You ignore the voice in your head that's making juvenile noises about indirect kisses, you're not a teenager anymore, and an indirect kiss is pretty smalltime, given that you're both living together. Instead, you remember where those lips have been, and what they've done, and how they felt, and you smile.
Maggie's mental defenses must be still downlined, because she smiles at you in return as she cradles her mug, holding it at chest height; your eyes scan the curve and swell of her cleavage against your jacket, while tracking the mug of life-sustaining coffee, locking on to her slim, beautiful fingers. You could spend an eternity just gazing at her fingers, but alas, you have places to be this morning. You take a seat at the kitchen island and help yourself to the plate, and internally marvel at Maggie's plating. You're a fair home cook yourself, and you'd like to think you can plate nicely, but Maggie's plating just blows yours out of the water: she manages to make zakuski look more elevated than Slavic snacks have a right to be. Maggie places her elbows on the table, and cups her chin in one dainty hand, watching you as you eat, a pleased look in her sleepy eyes. You don't say anything, you just smile, and offer her a piece of butterbrot. "You should have some."
"Thank you, but no," she demurrs. "I won't be able to go back to bed afterward. Finish this up, you shouldn't visit the Palace on an empty stomach." She takes another sip of her cappuchino and leans forward across the island, offering the mug to you; you accept her mug, sip, and offer the mug to her.
"Thanks, Maggie. You didn't have to do this."
Maggie takes the proffered mug, even as she sniffs scornfully, expressing some of her early morning crankiness. "Darling, please. Someone has to take care of you. You obviously can't do it for yourself."
"I took care of myself long before I met you," you counter, as you reach across the table to take her hand, intertwining your fingers with hers. Lord, but she has the most beautiful fingers in the world. You would never let her hand go, ever, not if you didn't have to.
"I beg to differ." She shakes her head smugly. "You're hopeless without me, Johnny."
"I think my mom might want to have words with you on who gets to be the most important woman in my life," you say. Maggie's smug look doesn't shift an inch, but the way her tails shift behind her… yes, definitely in a good mood, ass o'clock crankiness notwithstanding. On a whim you lean forward and bring her hand to your lips. Her face softens into a genuine, unguarded smile, one you feel yourself mirroring. I could never tire of looking at my wife, you think, as you both sit at the table and share that mug of coffee.
Alas, your moment of domestic bliss comes to its inevitable end. Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you reluctantly release Maggie's hand to check the message: your IRG pickup is 15 minutes out. You sigh and stand up reluctantly. Maggie rises as well, coming to stand before you. She brushes off stray crumbs real and imagined from your shirt, and smiles at you. "I told you this was a good look on you. You're missing a certain something, though. Your outfit's incomplete." She places an elegant finger on your lips, even as she unbuttons your jacket. The silk garment slides down her shoulders; Maggie displays nary a care that she's displaying all her naked glory to you. She leans in, raising your arms, pressing herself against you as she helps you into your jacket, her scent filling your nostrils. Instinctively you draw your arms around your wife and bury your face in her hair; her hands find their way around your back, and she leans her head on your chest.
"Thank you, for everything," you say simply. Eloquence escapes you. "You didn't have to."
"Nonsense. My man should have the clothes he deserves."
That's not what you meant, and she knows it, but right now, winning the argument, winning anything, doesn't seem important. You tilt your head to meet hers, and kiss her. Nothing earth shattering, nothing passionate. Just tender, intimate warmth. Your lips part, Maggie sighs "oh Johnny," and she kisses you back.
Your phone buzzes insistently; Maggie presses a raised leg against your pocket in a futile attempt to stifle the noise. Your phone continues buzzing, and reluctantly you both break your kiss.
"Just go back to bed, Maggie," you tell her. "I'll take care of the dishes when I get home. We only need to be in the office at ten, so you can still go and nap some more. I'll find my own transport to Admiralty House." You plant a finger to her lips, inordinately happy that she's letting you shush her. "Fleet Admiral's orders."
"Yes Sir, very good Sir," she drawls, rolling her eyes. You sigh and release her; Maggie turns away from you, bends over, and picks up your old shirt from its heap on the floor. She shrugs into that well-worn shirt, the aged fabric flattering her curves: you have to admit that shirt looks a hell of a lot better on her than it ever did on you. She buttons the shirt at her navel, and gives you a look. "You have something on your mind, Darling. Say it."
"I distinctly remember your stated reason for getting rid of my shirts was that they weren't fit to be worn," you say dryly.
"They weren't fit to be worn in public," corrects Maggie smugly, her dainty finger tracing a line from collar to navel, pointedly drawing attention to that old shirt's missing buttons and how the fabric has been worn thin with age. "But then, this is hardly a public space, is it? Carry on, danna-sama. It wouldn't do to keep your escort waiting." She smirks at you and turns away, returning to the bedroom, an extra sway in her walk.
"Bye Maggie. See you at work."
"Bye Johnny," she calls, her royal blue eyes looking at you over her shoulder. "Please don't embarrass yourself in front of Her Majesty."
"You know me, Maggie."
"I know you, that's why I have to warn you."
You roll your eyes at Maggie, and turn away to head out. You pause in the doorway, sniff at your jacket, and frown. You can smell Maggie's perfume, and hidden under that scent, lingering in your senses, you can smell her scent. You choose not to be concerned. It's fine, you decide. If nobody has noticed your adjutant's scent on you, after all this time, they're not going to notice it today. Your careers aren't at risk.
You inhale deeply, reinforcing your memory of her scent, and settle in to wait for your IRG escort, your emotions and thoughts churning as the caffeine works its way through your system.
I want us to be happy.
I want to hold her hand till the end of days.
I love her so much.
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Whiskey Golf
Being of Editing & Technical Assistance
- Location
- Chained to my desk
If you contrast with the first Johnny sidestory, one can see a marked difference in the level of Johnny's mental defenses (it's the difference between being up at 9pm and at just waking up at 5am
). I'll just let everyone reread Ten Steps Too Close to Home and draw their own conclusions.
Whiskey Golf
Being of Editing & Technical Assistance
- Location
- Chained to my desk
Let's not forget how she got rid of his clothes and bought him expensive fancy dapper suits, and she's basically lording it over him in his own house.
Otoh she dragged herself out of bed despite her crankiness and made breakfast for him...
Always Late
Lacking in coffee, sleep, and brains
- Location
- Ohio
... oh good lord, she's a sugar momma.Let's not forget how she got rid of his clothes and bought him expensive fancy dapper suits, and she's basically lording it over him in his own house.
A sugar momma who kinda likes the guy, but it's better to seduce a potential espionage target when you do have something to work with.
Whiskey Golf
Being of Editing & Technical Assistance
- Location
- Chained to my desk
Bear in mind that Maggie is 35 and Johnny is 58, just saying.
Ya gotta hand it to her tho, it's very big brain. The usual way, the expected way, given that she's the younger junior officer in an illegal illicit affair with the third in command of the Imperial Navy, would be for her to fawn over him and let him lord it over her in his house and she's the plaything to his whim, but no.
(I blame Johnny's mom and his older sister for making him this way, into the sort of man who is obedient to the important women in his personal life.
Ofc obedient =/= no sass )Also I'll just say that ever since Maggie moved into his house, Johnny's record of monthly expenses has seen a noticeable downtick in the purchase of ammo, preserved foods, and MREs and a marked uptick in the purchase of fresh produce, meats, and maybe more than a few Slavic foods that Babushka would approve of. (Turns out he's more willing to cook at home if he's cooking for two, as opposed to cooking for one.)
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