A sequel to 'If Mahan Could See us Now' previously published here and as a novella, The Influence of Power takes our characters on a journey through the horrors of the Great War and their struggles to rekindle their love.
The Influence of Power - Mahan 2, A Gayaverse Sequel
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1.1
4WheelSword
The original N-body Problem
- Pronouns
- It/She/They
TW: This story is likely to contain heavy and common references to a number of difficult subjects some might find triggering. These include but are not limited to: Violence, Alcoholism, Transphobia, Homophobia and Sexual Activivty. Please understand that these are included with no intent to fetishize or titillate. Please treat yourself gently when engaging with this story.
Chapter One
The dreams haven't changed in the two years since the running street battles in Polypavlosk. The screaming of artillery, the whip-crack of gunfire, the throat-clutching sobs of the wounded and the dying. You can't escape the sounds or the visions no matter what medication the doctors prescribe. Soporifics, opiates and narcotics have no effect on the nightmares but at least they let you fall into a restless slumber. They have become as much a crutch as your walking stick in that way. You rely on them just to be able to close your eyes without the images wrenching you retching into full wakefulness.
You wake in a pool of rapidly cooling sweat, screwing your eyes shut against the glowing unseen lights. For barely a moment you reach for the other side of the bed before retracting your hand self-consciously. You want comfort, the solid, muscular form of the woman who you've shared your life with since the January Rebellion. But there's nothing there now - no woman, no body, not even another half of the bed. Instead there's just empty space.
The scratchy sheets of hotel linen bring the memories of the night before drifting back; a dim bar you spent too much time and too much money in to avoid crawling into a cold little single bed. Better a drunk in the company of drunks than alone in the company of memories.
Finally opening your eyes you wince, the terrible beer threatening to crawl back up your throat as sunlight stabs at you. Nausea forces you up and out of that uncomfortably damp coil of sheets, hopping with a practiced rhythm towards the chamber pot tucked against one wall.
Stomach safely evacuated and contained, you pull back the curtains and try to take in as much of the Stollirussian port town as your addled brain will allow. Vestkoppgang, the Western Trading Port in the local dialect, was exactly what it sounded like. Bleak and windswept, it's a good match for your current mood. Perched on the far Western coast of Varnmark, it is about as far from your old home as you could have been dragged.
Whatever home is these days. With all the changes of the last few months, with the declaration of war… You're not certain you know what home is. After the disastrous peace conference in Helvetica you and Sasha had attempted to create a home for yourselves in Polyapavlosk. Once the memories had grown too bleak and it became clear that the rebuilding would take far longer than you were willing to give, you had moved together to Sundsvall in the North. But once the war came it had forced another change.
Sasha had taken a seat at the dining table and insisted that you sit opposite her. With a loving yet ultimately cold expression she explained that she had to make a decision. That she had a duty to contend with and that demanded sacrifices of her; of both of you. You asked her why she would make such decisions without you but your protests fell on unwilling ears. She had no choice but to return to the Army and, if they would let her, to her commission. She said that and more as if each of you hadn't given enough to Varnmark ten times over.
Her decision to leave had left you wandering your suddenly empty apartment with no company but the cat and your own mind. Two weeks you managed, two weeks of a slow descent into the darker reaches of your thoughts. You think you'd have gone quite insane had it not been for the arrival of a small, plain government stamped envelope. Contained within was an opportunity - Travel on the government's credit and narrate tales of naval life to distant towns and villages.
Perhaps if you'd thought for more than a split second you'd have realised that you'd be expected to simply regurgitate government propaganda. Then again, if you'd have been thinking clearly maybe you wouldn't have considered this some small, petty vengeance for Sasha's decision. Now, looking out over this snowy little town, you are beginning to regret the distance even more.
"Miss Mikhailova?" The question was accompanied by a swift rapping on the door. It was followed by the rattling of a key in a lock and the door swinging open.
Lit by a back-glow of the open window, wearing nothing but underwear and a nightgown, you stare down the figure standing in the doorway.
"Rittmeister Haugen, I keep my door locked for a reason."
"Yes, Miss Mikhailova, but I have called on you three times now." Her smile doesn't move, her expression doesn't change from one of false pleasantries.
It's disgusting how she stands there and presents this false front of care and attentiveness. She's your minder. You're not stupid. You remember the newspaper headlines the last time the government had let you off the leash; they had found an officer they could spare and assigned her to keep you in line.
Still, if you hadn't woken after three knocks then maybe she had earned the right to feel a little frustrated with you.
"Okay, okay." You sit down on the edge of the bed and reach for your prosthetic, "what's our agenda for the day?"
You stand at a lectern in your third chapel of the day, invited up by a priest who by this point barely looks like an individual to you. They have the same calming smile, the same obsequious tone as they introduce the 'hero of Polyapavlosk' to their flock.
You had made your way slowly between silent pews, trying to lean as lightly on your cane as your prosthetic foot would allow. Haugen had suggested that putting too much emphasis on your wounds might disincentivize some of the younger types from volunteering. The medals on your chest clinked gently against each other in the otherwise quiet space. It had been firmly suggested that you wear them all in a way that meant it wasn't really a suggestion. Even now, perhaps especially now, they felt like a sham.
"Good afternoon, Ladies and Gentlemen of Vestkoppgang. Thank you for inviting me to your beautiful church. I am Valentina Mikhailova."
You're a propaganda officer now. What do you speak about?
[ ] Glory
[ ] Duty
[ ] Valour
Hello and welcome to this sequel to a previous quest! If Mahan Could See Us Now' was the story of Valentina's journey of self discovery and trauma. This will be the story of... Well, the impacts of a war nobody wanted. The previous story was published here If Mahan... or can be purchased in it's novella form with major edits here Itch
Good luck, have fun, and vote true.
Chapter One
The dreams haven't changed in the two years since the running street battles in Polypavlosk. The screaming of artillery, the whip-crack of gunfire, the throat-clutching sobs of the wounded and the dying. You can't escape the sounds or the visions no matter what medication the doctors prescribe. Soporifics, opiates and narcotics have no effect on the nightmares but at least they let you fall into a restless slumber. They have become as much a crutch as your walking stick in that way. You rely on them just to be able to close your eyes without the images wrenching you retching into full wakefulness.
You wake in a pool of rapidly cooling sweat, screwing your eyes shut against the glowing unseen lights. For barely a moment you reach for the other side of the bed before retracting your hand self-consciously. You want comfort, the solid, muscular form of the woman who you've shared your life with since the January Rebellion. But there's nothing there now - no woman, no body, not even another half of the bed. Instead there's just empty space.
The scratchy sheets of hotel linen bring the memories of the night before drifting back; a dim bar you spent too much time and too much money in to avoid crawling into a cold little single bed. Better a drunk in the company of drunks than alone in the company of memories.
Finally opening your eyes you wince, the terrible beer threatening to crawl back up your throat as sunlight stabs at you. Nausea forces you up and out of that uncomfortably damp coil of sheets, hopping with a practiced rhythm towards the chamber pot tucked against one wall.
Stomach safely evacuated and contained, you pull back the curtains and try to take in as much of the Stollirussian port town as your addled brain will allow. Vestkoppgang, the Western Trading Port in the local dialect, was exactly what it sounded like. Bleak and windswept, it's a good match for your current mood. Perched on the far Western coast of Varnmark, it is about as far from your old home as you could have been dragged.
Whatever home is these days. With all the changes of the last few months, with the declaration of war… You're not certain you know what home is. After the disastrous peace conference in Helvetica you and Sasha had attempted to create a home for yourselves in Polyapavlosk. Once the memories had grown too bleak and it became clear that the rebuilding would take far longer than you were willing to give, you had moved together to Sundsvall in the North. But once the war came it had forced another change.
Sasha had taken a seat at the dining table and insisted that you sit opposite her. With a loving yet ultimately cold expression she explained that she had to make a decision. That she had a duty to contend with and that demanded sacrifices of her; of both of you. You asked her why she would make such decisions without you but your protests fell on unwilling ears. She had no choice but to return to the Army and, if they would let her, to her commission. She said that and more as if each of you hadn't given enough to Varnmark ten times over.
Her decision to leave had left you wandering your suddenly empty apartment with no company but the cat and your own mind. Two weeks you managed, two weeks of a slow descent into the darker reaches of your thoughts. You think you'd have gone quite insane had it not been for the arrival of a small, plain government stamped envelope. Contained within was an opportunity - Travel on the government's credit and narrate tales of naval life to distant towns and villages.
Perhaps if you'd thought for more than a split second you'd have realised that you'd be expected to simply regurgitate government propaganda. Then again, if you'd have been thinking clearly maybe you wouldn't have considered this some small, petty vengeance for Sasha's decision. Now, looking out over this snowy little town, you are beginning to regret the distance even more.
"Miss Mikhailova?" The question was accompanied by a swift rapping on the door. It was followed by the rattling of a key in a lock and the door swinging open.
Lit by a back-glow of the open window, wearing nothing but underwear and a nightgown, you stare down the figure standing in the doorway.
"Rittmeister Haugen, I keep my door locked for a reason."
"Yes, Miss Mikhailova, but I have called on you three times now." Her smile doesn't move, her expression doesn't change from one of false pleasantries.
It's disgusting how she stands there and presents this false front of care and attentiveness. She's your minder. You're not stupid. You remember the newspaper headlines the last time the government had let you off the leash; they had found an officer they could spare and assigned her to keep you in line.
Still, if you hadn't woken after three knocks then maybe she had earned the right to feel a little frustrated with you.
"Okay, okay." You sit down on the edge of the bed and reach for your prosthetic, "what's our agenda for the day?"
You stand at a lectern in your third chapel of the day, invited up by a priest who by this point barely looks like an individual to you. They have the same calming smile, the same obsequious tone as they introduce the 'hero of Polyapavlosk' to their flock.
You had made your way slowly between silent pews, trying to lean as lightly on your cane as your prosthetic foot would allow. Haugen had suggested that putting too much emphasis on your wounds might disincentivize some of the younger types from volunteering. The medals on your chest clinked gently against each other in the otherwise quiet space. It had been firmly suggested that you wear them all in a way that meant it wasn't really a suggestion. Even now, perhaps especially now, they felt like a sham.
"Good afternoon, Ladies and Gentlemen of Vestkoppgang. Thank you for inviting me to your beautiful church. I am Valentina Mikhailova."
You're a propaganda officer now. What do you speak about?
[ ] Glory
[ ] Duty
[ ] Valour
Hello and welcome to this sequel to a previous quest! If Mahan Could See Us Now' was the story of Valentina's journey of self discovery and trauma. This will be the story of... Well, the impacts of a war nobody wanted. The previous story was published here If Mahan... or can be purchased in it's novella form with major edits here Itch
Good luck, have fun, and vote true.
Is it the one called Mahanian Doctrine?
4WheelSword
The original N-body Problem
- Pronouns
- It/She/They
Yeah it got a rename
