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Victoria Falls: A Post-Collapse American Nation Quest [Down With Victoria!]

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so how bad have the Inquisitors been hit by this war and civil war? i mean they are a secret police, but during conflicts they have been acting as Commissar, and they have been dying hard
 
Thule said:
so how bad have the Inquisitors been hit by this war and civil war? i mean they are a secret police, but during conflicts they have been acting as Commissar, and they have been dying hard
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Hmmm... per my imagining most "Inquisitors" wouldn't publically be so. They're members of the priesthood, army chaplains, any Christian Marine...

So, I would say the Inquisitors ability to personally project force across Victorian territory will be effectively shattered by the civil war.

Their intelligence gathering should be relatively untouched aside from locations where its a moot point because the town was abandoned or razed.
 
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Canon Omake: Vox Populi Dispatches, Ghost Stories
  • Sidestory
    • Vox Populi Dispatches
    Ghost Stories

    We all have our Ghost Stories. Our mythologies. Out taboos. In a chaotic, uncertain world, we all need something that says that this will keep us safe, that this is dangerous. In North America, nowhere is that more apparent than the mythologies of what brings Victoria.

    Victorian attention tends of follow a simple formula. Power plus belligerence equals destruction. If you start getting too powerful, then no amount of embracing of Retrocutlure will save you. To belligerent, and well.... individuals get shot all the time. But sometimes, places that are more powerful, and seemingly more belligerent than others are passed over, and we ask why. Why did they this place die, and this place not? Why was the culling here so bad, and here so light? Perhaps it was secret deals, or one being stronger than thought, but there is always that feeling, that feeling that it could be something else.

    The generals of Victoria have great leeway and run, or ran, their armies semi-independently. Perhaps the state did something they, personally, didn't like. Or this one pleased them and was granted indulgence. My name is Karen Throine, and I am studying the mythology of Victoria.

    Before I continue let me say that I have never been so happy to study a subject that is going to fade into antiquity. Even now, some of you may ask, "why bother?" "It's over, can't we forget it?" To that I say that it is vital that it be remembered. Our children should never know the experience personally, but they should know what letting something like Victoria arise creates. The fear, the way you twist yourselves over the smallest possibility of safety, we must remember, never again.

    I had planned to travel the US, keeping my research hidden until it could all be published. But with the defeat of Victoria, and the formation of the Vox Populi, circumstances change. In truth, I am announcing this tonight as much as anything else to get my name out there, to let people know that there is someone who wants to hear their story, as I am for the sake of news.

    Andrew, Matthew, Philip. Three names that echo through the lakes. Thomas has some traction recently, but only due to Blackwell's survival. But those three, every Victorian division has an area that they tend to specialize in, and those three were the great lakes wardens.

    Of those, Philip division was said to be the simplest. Keep your white men in charge. Don't mix races. Big on Christianity, the others approved of it, but their general was the only one reluctant to do anything to fellow Christians until he could determine how they were heretics. Don't ask for mercy, because Philip division is the sword of god and has none too spare. The general didn't like to go out much, or interact with others, it was said to be a bad sign if you met him. He was said to hate the color red, perhaps because of Communists.

    General Robert Foulkes, known colloquially as Bob, though don't risk such familiarity unless you are sure he likes you, was the opposite. Liked his hospitality, talking with people. That formed the superstitions around Matthew division. Don't show anything but the best to traveling Victorian's lest you draw his attention. Greet him, treat him like an honored guest, have a pretty young thing show him around. If he wanted to come back, it met he wasn't likely to let too much be destroyed.

    Though one should remember he was a Victorian general. One story claims that Matthew came to a town that knew they were in trouble. Too prosperous, or had thrown out a Victorian merchant the story varies, so the mayor invited him to their finest restaurant. He accepted, and a sigh of relief was breathed, then Bob told the mayor to step outside, as he wished to dine alone. A gunshot was heard. With that the division began to massacre the town. Inside the restaurant, Robert calmly asked if the service always dawdled.

    For the night, he was served everything he wanted, as screams and shouts came from outside. None of his men were said to be inside, just him, if anyone had dared, he could have been killed. None did. After he finished his dessert, he is said to have declared it the finest he'd ever had, and to give his compliments to the chef, insisted on paying the check, and walked out. Rumors vary on if he tipped, and how much. The survivors didn't dare leave until the next morning, but when they did, the town was gone.

    I personally, must confess my doubts as to the story's true veracity. The town is never specified, just some town 'over there'. A few even try to place it in Ashtabula after the Vox Populi have helped undue its destruction. I have never encountered anyone who claimed to be personally from the massacre, only friends of friends. But for showing what Robert was like, I can think of no story more evocative.

    Then, there was Andrew division, and General Smith. One of the most commonly agreed upon Victoria taboos was to let a division know that you found another scarier. Rivalry was fierce, and sometimes, it was even said that badmouthing another division could leave them laughing, at least as long as they thought it was a rival you were badmouthing, and didn't take it as a lack of respect for Victoria. But the truth is that for all Philip's fanaticism, and Matthew's terrifying friendliness, it was Andrew division that people most feared.

    Full disclaimer, Andrew division is the reason I am speaking right now, twice-over. Its actions lead to my original interest in the subject, and the echoes of its actions are why I have been granted the radio time. For those who wish to not think about it, I must warn that the rest of this broadcast will concern Andrew Division. If you can stay, I encourage you too, though much of it you may already know, this is leading to new developments. If you cannot, then I wish you good luck, and if, by any chance, you are not from the lakes, I beg you stay for this. To talk about Andrew Division, we must talk about their Garden.

    The Georgian Bay Confederation was a prosperous community situation at the southern end of its namesake bay, west of Detroit for those not on the lakes. Exactly why it had to be destroyed, is, as per Victorian policy, frustratingly vague. From talks with the survivors the most likely reason speculated was that its trade networks were becoming too powerful, and its links to Toronto too friendly. That said, that may be the bias of survivorship. Those who lived, or to be more precise those who got away, tended to be merchants who were out of port at the time.

    It was 2050 when Andrew division descended upon the Confederation, and, in an unusual move, stayed the winter. This doesn't always happen, but it isn't unheard of, when a division feels the need to achieve destruction that can't wait over winter.

    According to those who remember the time, the Garden started as rumors. Andrew division and its General Smith had always been known to be softer with young children. Often leaving them alive in the ruins of their parents' home. It met finding them in the search, though they were often dead of exposure or starvation by the time they were found. The first hints that something amiss was that they no longer appeared. Very young children just disappeared, no bodies, no children, nothing.

    At that point it was only rumors, but rumors grow. As Andrew division entered a period of aggressive destruction of polities along the lakes the rumors of their basing within the old Confederation grew. When they passed by communities they didn't destroy, people heard talk of the 'Garden'.

    One particularly striking tale came from a restaurant in Detroit, where a woman who once worked as a waitress saw them debating the merits of 'negro' children. Several members expressing disgust, but others insisting that they were naturally less willful and easier to keep docile, at least if you wanted them for work.

    It is at this point that my own story intersects, five years past the destruction of the Confederation. I was seven at the time. The Victorians visited my town. It was, on the whole, a very businesslike visit. A few stayed by, they talked with the mayor, and in the middle of the night a few houses were burnt down, and the inhabitants killed.

    There is always a strange sense of normal when a community submits, and Victoria accepts the submission. Murder becomes mundane. I would barely have noticed, had one of the families not been my aunt and uncle, who had two identical twin girls, they were toddling at the time, I remember playing with them, setting up my own 'races' uses pieces of food. What I most remember is the what people had said afterwards. Of course, Andrew would come, it was identical twins. They should have hidden them, fools.

    Which struck me as odd, because I could remember no talk of that before. Cooing over them, saying how adorable they were. Pride and happiness. Afterwards, a certainty that they had brought the Victorians to the community grew. In this I had witnessed the development of the taboos for Andrew division.

    These days, the taboos are well known. Girls are focused on more, as the traits are thought to matter more. Blond hair and blue eyes are the worst. If you are so cursed with a child, dye their hair, dirty them up, do not let them out. If you can, pretend they are a boy until they are seven. Seven is the year they become too old. Equally dangerous are unique traits, unusual eye colors, red hair, identical twins. For girls, it is generally thought that it is one of the few blessings of being non-white. Even then, it is no guarantee, especially if one is considered 'exotic'.

    It is thought to be something of an inverse for boys. According to one story, a woman had disguised her blond child as a boy, when a younger Victorian stopped her, looking at him. Before he took her an older one came over to him. She didn't dare move as they talked. The older one telling the younger that it seems tempting, but don't go for such perfect males. You might start to think of them like a real Victoria, and indulge them, and it was always such a shame to put them down later. It may seem harsh right now, but you want to make sure that they ain't too much like a son.

    Even so, this train of thought it less absolute in boys. One strong back is as good as another to Victorian, and tales of abducted male children of all races abound. What few rumors exist say not to let your male child appear to active, too healthy. This is not to say that they are safer, merely… there is less ability to know if you are in danger or make them safe.

    For all the taboos of Andrew's Garden, it is the stories that most intrigue me. That most capture me. Two kinds of stories tend to exist. The first are the stories of the parents who survived. Parental survival is rare, why bother to leave people with nothing but rage alive? But I have heard reasons, and even found those who claim to be such. Sometimes, its simple certainty of safety, point a gun, tell them to hand over the kid, if they do, then it shows they are docile enough to be left alive.

    More often, it's a point. Dead men tell no tales, and those with children taken act as example for those who still have them. One of the favored tactics of the officers dealing with local powerbrokers with multiple children is to take one and make it clear that if things do not change to their liking they will be back for the others. A clear threat and punishment, while leaving them with something left to lose.

    Talking with those parents was one of the most difficult parts of this project. The mixture of fear and uncertainty. For some, they think it best to treat their child as dead, for others, the hope that they are out there is the only thing worth staying for. After the defeat of Victoria, I talked with one mother.

    [recording plays]

    It's hard, I had told myself to think of her as dead. We were never getting her back. But now… now Victoria is dead and she might be alive. Or might be dead. Or married off, and in Victoria. It has been fifteen years; how do you deal with that? What could I even say to her? If there anything of the babe I remember left after years in that… place?
    [recording ends]

    [silence]

    Apologies, the recording… it helps illustrate my feelings on my cousins. Perhaps that is why I keep it with me, so I do not have to say the words myself.

    Not all stories are as sympathetic to the parents. Perhaps one of the most persistent is the sacrifice town, that offers a newborn babe to Andrew division once a year, wrapped in white Baptismal gowns, in exchange for safety. Again, I do not believe this story to be real, as the town is never specified, only 'some small village', and it echoes the more generic story of a town offering one young woman as a bride once a year, wrapped in a white wedding dress.

    Finally, we must bring our attention to the other story. Those who have gone to the Garden and lived to come back. Getting to Andrew's Garden is not easy. Like a miniature Victoria, General Smith made sure to devastate any local areas as best he was able. Even if one was to ignore that, and go in winter, a small garrison is permanently stationed there, and will shoot on sight. But there is one way to see the Garden and live.

    To start with, you must be male, preferable white, but that isn't essential. You must have a unique trade, one you are thought of as among the best at, said trade can't involve electricity or anything modern. Blacksmithing, carpentry, cobbling, there was even at least one fiddler. If so, you may be taken to the Garden. You do not go yourself, of course, it is at the discretion of General Smith that you will be brought, and if you do, you will first appear before him.

    He will state that his children need to learn, and you shall teach them. For three years you will teach them, and if in that time he is satisfied with their progress, and you do not attempt to corrupt them, you will be let free. Lodgings and food will be provided, though their quality will depend on your behavior.

    Then you will be taken to the lodging, where you will meet the other guests of the Garden, guarded by armed men and safety away from anyone else. There you will meet the other guests, who you will be allowed to talk freely with, under the eyes of the guards. According to them, the offer is genuine. Others before them have left, and were even allowed one letter back, with codes inside they agreed upon. Though, of course they could have been shot after writing it. And the threats are very real, do not break the taboos.

    Perhaps you will be asked to list any materials you need, or perhaps you will be shown a workshop intact, with the note that the previous inhabitant either left, or was shot. The guards will freely tell you which.

    A few days later you will see your students. Boys all, so happy and smiling to see you, on their necks is a tattoo, often somewhat distorted and misshapen, but if you look at enough you can see that it looks to have once been a fruit tree, stretched and distorted and faded as they grew.

    They are eager to learn your lesson. In the back, guards will watch as you nervously instruct. After a while you will find the smiles, the relentless cheer, off-putting, but no matter what they will have it. Even injuries will only produce cries for a few moments, as the others surround the one and tell him not to cry. Perhaps that is the first time you will see one dragged away. If he does not struggle against the guards as they take him, perhaps you will see him again. Sometimes one of them will simply not show up. Do not ask about them. If you do the others will smile and say that obviously he wasn't ready to learn a trade, shouldn't we continue? Their smiles are bit too tight, eyes too bright, a shake or two from those with less control.

    After a few weeks of safety, you might even find you can talk to them. They are happy to tell you how wonderful the Garden is. How great their papas are and how they will make them so proud. How happy they are that their papa brought them here, that Grandfather Smith built this place for them, and even tell you about their siblings. Don't tell them about your home, the guards don't like that. Don't ask them if there is anything they don't like. Sometimes, one might ask you. Ignore it, hopefully another will loudly start telling you a story about his home and the guards will not come forward. Otherwise, they might give discipline.

    If they give it in front of you, for any reason. Do not argue. Do not say it is wrong. Be like the other boys, agree the discipline was appropriate, and continue on. Even the one disciplined will do so. So don't worry.

    If you do well, and do not cause trouble, you may see some of the girls. Having your room cleaned and non-hard-tack food is a privilege, one the girls of the Garden will provide it. They are different than the boys, there is no tattoo, at least no-visible one, tattoos are not something one would want to see in a Victorian wife. Do not talk to them, at all. It isn't worth the risk. The boys might tell you that their sister is the one who cooked last night's meal for you, is so complement it, but do not talk to her. For best safety, do not even talk about her, if you do, she will not be coming back. The brother will not say anything, but he will not continue to talk to you.

    Once or twice, as you are being escorted, you might see someone out in the field, older, too old to have been brought here. Do not ask about them, do not acknowledge them.

    Follow these rules, and in three years you will be evaluated. If you did well, General Smith will give you a tip of silver or gold. Expresses your gratitude, even if the amount is not nearly three years wages. Then you will be taken home. Or at least as near home as they feel like taking you, and you are free. Send your own letter back.

    You may worry about telling anyone of your tale, but don't. There will be no retaliation for telling it, if anything Andrew division encourages it. Let everyone know of the wondrous Garden they have created, full of innocents free from the sins of the world.

    General Smith is dead. To beak my veneer of objectivity for a moment, I doubt he will be mourned. But the Garden still exists, and that is where my story lead to now. The Vox Populi have confirmed that ship was seen leaving the Garden, headed to Chicago. It seems they will be joining the conference.

    I've always had a fascination with the horror of the garden. Perhaps it's because I want to understand why my aunt and uncle were killed. Perhaps it's because I too have family that were taken, as I said before, I believe my cousins were taken, I hope they are still alive. Perhaps it is the age of taking, I was seven when it happened, and part of me can't help but think, had I been a year or two younger, would I have been taken in the same raid.

    Some of the questions I may never know, but the mysteries of the garden are closer than ever. This is Karen Throine, signing off.


    AN: Not a strictly necessary piece, but the idea of the garden being a fae-like place that you could be abducted for a year-and-a-day three years. Full of horror and not-quiet human actions, but stay careful and you can be safe.

    Also if you want to be able to track down your escaped-slaved, missing children, tattoos are great. Female tattoos are placed more discretely, to not ruin marriage prospect, though part 3 of the Lamb series hints at where. The design is supposed to be an apple tree, because 1st​ Grade level Garden of Eden references hoe!

    I'm on a creative roll, but what really gets my juices flowing are comments. So if you have any thoughts, let me know what you think.
     
    Last edited:
  • Sidestory
    • clockworkchaos said:
    Vox Populi Dispatches
    Ghost Stories

    We all have our Ghost Stories. Our mythologies. Out taboos. In a chaotic, uncertain world, we all need something that says that this will keep us safe, that this is dangerous. In North America, nowhere is that more apparent than the mythologies of what brings Victoria.

    Victorian attention tends of follow a simple formula. Power plus belligerence equals destruction. If you start getting too powerful, then no amount of embracing of Retrocutlure will save you. To belligerent, and well.... individuals get shot all the time. But sometimes, places that are more powerful, and seemingly more belligerent than others are passed over, and we ask why. Why did they this place die, and this place not? Why was the culling here so bad, and here so light? Perhaps it was secret deals, or one being stronger than thought, but there is always that feeling, that feeling that it could be something else.

    The generals of Victoria have great leeway and run, or ran, their armies semi-independently. Perhaps the state did something they, personally, didn't like. Or this one pleased them and was granted indulgence. My name is Karen Throine, and I am studying the mythology of Victoria.

    Before I continue let me say that I have never been so happy to study a subject that is going to fade into antiquity. Even now, some of you may ask, "why bother?" "It's over, can't we forget it?" To that I say that it is vital that it be remembered. Our children should never know the experience personally, but they should know what letting something like Victoria arise creates. The fear, the way you twist yourselves over the smallest possibility of safety, we must remember, never again.

    I had planned to travel the US, keeping my research hidden until it could all be published. But with the defeat of Victoria, and the formation of the Vox Populi, circumstances change. In truth, I am announcing this tonight as much as anything else to get my name out there, to let people know that there is someone who wants to hear their story, as I am for the sake of news.

    Andrew, Matthew, Philip. Three names that echo through the lakes. Thomas has some traction recently, but only due to Blackwell's survival. But those three, every Victorian division has an area that they tend to specialize in, and those three were the great lakes wardens.

    Of those, Philip division was said to be the simplest. Keep your white men in charge. Don't mix races. Big on Christianity, the others approved of it, but their general was the only one reluctant to do anything to fellow Christians until he could determine how they were heretics. Don't ask for mercy, because Philip division is the sword of god and has none too spare. The general didn't like to go out much, or interact with others, it was said to be a bad sign if you met him. He was said to hate the color red, perhaps because of Communists.

    General Robert Foulkes, known colloquially as Bob, though don't risk such familiarity unless you are sure he likes you, was the opposite. Liked his hospitality, talking with people. That formed the superstitions around Matthew division. Don't show anything but the best to traveling Victorian's lest you draw his attention. Greet him, treat him like an honored guest, have a pretty young thing show him around. If he wanted to come back, it met he wasn't likely to let too much be destroyed.

    Though one should remember he was a Victorian general. One story claims that Matthew came to a town that knew they were in trouble. Too prosperous, or had thrown out a Victorian merchant the story varies, so the mayor invited him to their finest restaurant. He accepted, and a sigh of relief was breathed, then Bob told the mayor to step outside, as he wished to dine alone. A gunshot was heard. With that the division began to massacre the town. Inside the restaurant, Robert calmly asked if the service always dawdled.

    For the night, he was served everything he wanted, as screams and shouts came from outside. None of his men were said to be inside, just him, if anyone had dared, he could have been killed. None did. After he finished his dessert, he is said to have declared it the finest he'd ever had, and to give his compliments to the chef, insisted on paying the check, and walked out. Rumors vary on if he tipped, and how much. The survivors didn't dare leave until the next morning, but when they did, the town was gone.

    I personally, must confess my doubts as to the story's true veracity. The town is never specified, just some town 'over there'. A few even try to place it in Ashtabula and the Vox Populi have helped uncover its destruction. I have never encountered anyone who claimed to be personally from the massacre, only friends of friends. But for showing what Robert was like, I can think of no story more evocative.

    Then, there was Andrew division, and General Smith. One of the most commonly agreed upon Victoria taboos was to let a division know that you found another scarier. Rivalry was fierce, and sometimes, it was even said that badmouthing another division could leave them laughing, at least as long as they thought it was a rival you were badmouthing, and didn't take it as a lack of respect for Victoria. But the truth is that for all Philip's fanaticism, and Matthew's terrifying friendliness, it was Andrew division that people most feared.

    Full disclaimer, Andrew division is the reason I am speaking right now, twice-over. Its actions lead to my original interest in the subject, and the echoes of its actions are why I have been granted the radio time. For those who wish to not think about it, I must warn that the rest of this broadcast will concern Andrew Division. If you can stay, I encourage you too, though much of it you may already know, this is leading to new developments. If you cannot, then I wish you good luck, and if, by any chance, you are not from the lakes, I beg you stay for this. To talk about Andrew Division, we must talk about their Garden.

    The Georgian Bay Confederation was a prosperous community situation at the southern end of its namesake bay, west of Detroit for those not on the lakes. Exactly why it had to be destroyed, is, as per Victorian policy, frustratingly vague. From talks with the survivors the most likely reason speculated was that its trade networks were becoming too powerful, and its links to Toronto too friendly. That said, that may be the bias of survivorship. Those who lived, or to be more precise those who got away, tended to be merchants who were out of port at the time.

    It was 1950 when Andrew division descended upon the Confederation, and, in an unusual move, stayed the winter. This doesn't always happen, but it isn't unheard of, when a division feels the need to achieve destruction that can't wait over winter.

    According to those who remember the time, the Garden started as rumors. Andrew division and its General Smith had always been known to be softer with young children. Often leaving them alive in the ruins of their parents' home. It met finding them in the search, though they were often dead of exposure or starvation by the time they were found. The first hints that something amiss was that they no longer appeared. Very young children just disappeared, no bodies, no children, nothing.

    At that point it was only rumors, but rumors grow. As Andrew division entered a period of aggressive destruction of polities along the lakes the rumors of their basing within the old Confederation grew. When they passed by communities they didn't destroy, people heard talk of the 'Garden'.

    One particularly striking tale came from a restaurant in Detroit, where a woman who once worked as a waitress saw them debating the merits of 'negro' children. Several members expressing disgust, but others insisting that they were naturally less willful and easier to keep docile, at least if you wanted them for work.

    It is at this point that my own story intersects, five years past the destruction of the Confederation. I was seven at the time. The Victorians visited my town. It was, on the whole, a very businesslike visit. A few stayed by, they talked with the mayor, and in the middle of the night a few houses were burnt down, and the inhabitants killed.

    There is always a strange sense of normal when a community submits, and Victoria accepts the submission. Murder becomes mundane. I would barely have noticed, had one of the families not been my aunt and uncle, who had two identical twin girls, they were toddling at the time, I remember playing with them, setting up my own 'races' uses pieces of food. What I most remember is the what people had said afterwards. Of course, Andrew would come, it was identical twins. They should have hidden them, fools.

    Which struck me as odd, because I could remember no talk of that before. Cooing over them, saying how adorable they were. Pride and happiness. Afterwards, a certainty that they had brought the Victorians to the community grew. In this I had witnessed the development of the taboos for Andrew division.

    These days, the taboos are well known. Girls are focused on more, as the traits are thought to matter more. Blond hair and blue eyes are the worst. If you are so cursed with a child, dye their hair, dirty them up, do not let them out. If you can, pretend they are a boy until they are seven. Seven is the year they become too old. Equally dangerous are unique traits, unusual eye colors, red hair, identical twins. For girls, it is generally thought that it is one of the few blessings of being non-white. Even then, it is no guarantee, especially if one is considered 'exotic'.

    It is thought to be something of an inverse for boys. According to one story, a woman had disguised her blond child as a boy, when a younger Victorian stopped her, looking at him. Before he took her an older one came over to him. She didn't dare move as they talked. The older one telling the younger that it seems tempting, but don't go for such perfect males. You might start to think of them like a real Victoria, and indulge them, and it was always such a shame to put them down later. It may seem harsh right now, but you want to make sure that they ain't too much like a son.

    Even so, this train of thought it less absolute in boys. One strong back is as good as another to Victorian, and tales of abducted male children of all races abound. What few rumors exist say not to let your male child appear to active, too healthy. This is not to say that they are safer, merely… there is less ability to know if you are in danger or make them safe.

    For all the taboos of Andrew's Garden, it is the stories that most intrigue me. That most capture me. Two kinds of stories tend to exist. The first are the stories of the parents who survived. Parental survival is rare, why bother to leave people with nothing but rage alive? But I have heard reasons, and even found those who claim to be such. Sometimes, its simple certainty of safety, point a gun, tell them to hand over the kid, if they do, then it shows they are docile enough to be left alive.

    More often, it's a point. Dead men tell no tales, and those with children taken act as example for those who still have them. One of the favored tactics of the officers dealing with local powerbrokers with multiple children is to take one and make it clear that if things do not change to their liking they will be back for the others. A clear threat and punishment, while leaving them with something left to lose.

    Talking with those parents was one of the most difficult parts of this project. The mixture of fear and uncertainty. For some, they think it best to treat their child as dead, for others, the hope that they are out there is the only thing worth staying for. After the defeat of Victoria, I talked with one mother.

    [recording plays]

    It's hard, I had told myself to think of her as dead. We were never getting her back. But now… now Victoria is dead and she might be alive. Or might be dead. Or married off, and in Victoria. It has been fifteen years; how do you deal with that? What could I even say to her? If there anything of the babe I remember left after years in that… place?
    [recording ends]

    [silence]

    Apologies, the recording… it helps illustrate my feelings on my cousins. Perhaps that is why I keep it with me, so I do not have to say the words myself.

    Not all stories are as sympathetic to the parents. Perhaps one of the most persistent is the sacrifice town, that offers a newborn babe to Andrew division once a year, wrapped in white Baptismal gowns, in exchange for safety. Again, I do not believe this story to be real, as the town is never specified, only 'some small village', and it echoes the more generic story of a town offering one young woman as a bride once a year, wrapped in a white wedding dress.

    Finally, we must bring our attention to the other story. Those who have gone to the Garden and lived to come back. Getting to Andrew's Garden is not easy. Like a miniature Victoria, General Smith made sure to devastate any local areas as best he was able. Even if one was to ignore that, and go in winter, a small garrison is permanently stationed there, and will shoot on sight. But there is one way to see the Garden and live.

    To start with, you must be male, preferable white, but that isn't essential. You must have a unique trade, one you are thought of as among the best at, said trade can't involve electricity or anything modern. Blacksmithing, carpentry, cobbling, there was even at least on fiddler. If so, you may be taken to the Garden. You do not go yourself, of course, it is at the discretion of General Smith that you will be brought, and if you do, you will first appear before him.

    He will state that his children need to learn, and you shall teach them. For three years you will teach them, and if in that time he is satisfied with their progress, and you do not attempt to corrupt them, you will be let free. Lodgings and food will be provided, though it's quality will depend on your behavior.

    Then you will be taken to the lodging, where you will meet the other guests of the Garden, guarded by armed men and safety away from anyone else. There you will meet the other guests, who you will be allowed to talk freely with, under the eyes of the guards. According to them, the offer is genuine. Others before them have left, and were even allowed one letter back, with codes inside they agreed upon. Though, of course they could have been shot after writing it. And the threats are very real, do not break the taboos.

    Perhaps you will be asked to list any materials you need, or perhaps you will be shown a workshop intact, with the note that the previous inhabitant either left, or was shot. The guards will freely tell you which.

    A few days later you will see your students. Boys all, so happy and smiling to see you, on their necks is a tattoo, often somewhat distorted and misshapen, but if you look at enough you can see that it looks to have once been a fruit tree, stretched and distorted and faded as they grew.

    They are eager to learn your lesson. In the back, guards will watch as you nervously instruct. After a while you will find the smiles, the relentless cheer, off-putting, but no matter what they will have it. Even injuries will only produce cries for a few moments, as the others surround the one and tell him not to cry. Perhaps that is the first time you will see one dragged away. If he does not struggle against the guards as they take him, perhaps you will see him again. Sometimes one of them will simply not show up. Do not ask about them. If you do the others will smile and say that obviously he wasn't ready to learn a trade, shouldn't we continue? Their smiles are bit too tight, eyes too bright, a shake or two from those with less control.

    After a few weeks of safety, you might even find you can talk to them. They are happy to tell you how wonderful the Garden is. How great their papas are and how they will make them so proud. How happy they are that their papa brought them here, that Grandfather Smith built this place for them, and even tell you about their siblings. Don't tell them about your home, the guards don't like that. Don't ask them if there is anything they don't like. Sometimes, one might ask you. Ignore it, hopefully another will loudly start telling you a story about his home and the guards will not come forward. Otherwise, they might give discipline.

    If they give it in front of you, for any reason. Do not argue. Do not say it is wrong. Be like the other boys, agree the discipline was appropriate, and continue on. Even the one disciplined will do so. So, don't worry.

    If you do well, and do not cause trouble, you may see some of the girls. Having your room cleaned and non-hard-tack food is a privilege, one the girls of the Garden will provide it. They are different than the boys, there is no tattoo, at least no-visible one, tattoos are not something one would want to see in a Victorian wife. Do not talk to them, at all. It isn't worth the risk. The boys might tell you that their sister is the one who cooked last night's meal for you, is so complement it, but do not talk to her. For best safety, do not even talk about her, if you do, she will not be coming back. The brother will not say anything, but he will not continue to talk to you.

    Once or twice, as you are being escorted, you might see someone out in the field, older, too old to have been brought here. Do not ask about them, do not acknowledge them.

    Follow these rules, and in three years you will be evaluated. If you did well, General Smith will give you a tip of silver or gold. Expresses your gratitude, even if the amount is not nearly three years wages. Then you will be taken home. Or at least as near home as they feel like taking you, and you are free. Send your own letter back.

    You may worry about telling anyone of your tale, but don't. There will be no retaliation for telling it, if anything Andrew division encourages it. Let everyone know of the wondrous Garden they have created, full of innocents free from the sins of the world.

    General Smith is dead. To beak my veneer of objectivity for a moment, I doubt he will be mourned. But the Garden still exists, and that is where my story lead to now. The Vox Populi have confirmed that ship was seen leaving the Garden, headed to Chicago. It seems they will be joining the conference.

    I've always had a fascination with the horror of the garden. Perhaps it's because I want to understand why my aunt and uncle were killed. Perhaps it's because I too have family that were taken, as I said before, I believe my cousins were taken, I hope they are still alive. Perhaps it is the age of taking, I was seven when it happened, and part of me can't help but think, had I been a year or two younger, would I have been taken in the same raid.

    Some of the questions I may never know, but the mysteries of the garden are closer than ever. This is Karen Throine, signing off.


    AN: Not a strictly necessary piece, but the idea of the garden being a fae-like place that you could be abducted for a year-and-a-day three years. Full of horror and not-quiet human actions, but stay careful and you can be safe.

    Also if you want to be able to track down your escaped-slaved, missing children, tattoos are great. Female tattoos are placed more discretely, to not ruin marriage prospect, though part 3 of the Lamb series hints at where. The design is supposed to be an apple tree, because 1st​ Grade level Garden of Eden references hoe!

    I'm on a creative roll, but what really gets my juices flowing are comments. So if you have any thoughts, let me know what you think.
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    God, I love the Dispatches series. Your presentation really is fantastic.
     
    @PoptartProdigy

    If I may ask (and this bears on future omake material I and @clockworkchaos are collaborating on, as well as my own curiosity)...

    Was Andrew Division part of the Leamington force, or the southern force, during the Detroit campaign? I find myself increasingly curious as to when and in what manner we smashed it.
     
    Simon_Jester said:
    @PoptartProdigy

    If I may ask (and this bears on future omake material I and @clockworkchaos are collaborating on, as well as my own curiosity)...

    Was Andrew Division part of the Leamington force, or the southern force, during the Detroit campaign? I find myself increasingly curious as to when and in what manner we smashed it.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    Hm...I'll say the Leamington force.
     
    PoptartProdigy said:
    Hm...I'll say the Leamington force.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    I like this as it gives a good edge of why there was such a panic among those remaining in the area to get out and help save their division immediately. This probably puts Philip in the southern, if only because I imagine that they'd want one "local" in each area. Or maybe they stacked them on the basis of making the Leamington as dangerous as possible. Or stacked them because they knew Leamington would be mauled somewhat, and it was punishment for their divisions letting Chicago get to this point. Who knows, with Victorians.
     
    Canon Omake: Lamb Among Wolves, Part 4
  • Sidestory
    • << Previous | Next >>

    Lamb Among Wolves/Sheep in the Big City
    Part 4: The Lamb and the Crow

    PoptartProdigy said:
    Smith has another of those flashes of temper-fear-smooth-happy before saying, "I'll go and get my Sunday best on, ma'am!"

    A shudder wracks you at that fucking expression of hers. You nod, to cover it, and say, "Please. We'll meet you back here."

    The girl vanishes back into the boat. You faintly hear her footsteps escalate to a run the second she turns out of view.

    "Fuck," you say, staring up at the boat.

    "What the hell do they do in that Garden?" asks Sara.

    "I don't want to know," you say. "I have to say, though..." You trail off, still staring.

    "What?" asks Sara. When you don't respond, she looks over. "What-?" She peers at you, eyes narrowed. "Oh, for heaven's sake."

    You blink. "What?"

    "You and strays. Sara, she's not a cat!"

    You blink, jerking back. "I'm well aware!"

    "Right." She stalks off, shaking her head and muttering to herself.

    You roll your eyes, settle yourself, and wait.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    The two women stood at the dock. Watching the gangplank.

    "You know," President Johnson said, thoughtfully. "Ralson sent an interesting report to my desk this morning. Apparently, we've confirmed that Toronto and Hamilton are sending someone."

    "And you didn't tell me? I'm hurt, devastated." Sara Goldblum gave an overdramatic look of betrayal, clapped a hand to her chest, and feigned collapse.

    "Slipped my mind." The president smiled.

    "Well, then! I'm off to help den-mother the ambassador from our favorite on the list of Places Whose Very Name Makes Children Scream In Terror!"

    "Oh?"

    The president tilted her head so, and Goldblum gave the rippling hand signal they'd been using since '57 for 'bear with me, aides, overliteral military officers, and other kinds of impressionable small children are watching.'

    "It's my field of responsibility. I'm reclassifying her as a type of highly portable bridging equipment."

    The best deadpan the Assistant Secretary of War Excuse Me Defense For Munitions had was almost good enough to make a majority of bystanders take that seriously. For a moment.

    "I mean, seriously, we know how this plan ends. It would hardly do for the head of the country to miss two of the most important ambassadors to arrive today! But me! Little me! I'm just some military bureaucrat. Meek. Inconsequential. Replaceable. You'll whistle up another assistant under-whozit that they might actually want to talk to in minutes. I'll make sure that Madame Ambassador Layers doesn't accidentally barricade herself off from the entire conference."

    "Don't break her." The president's gaze went flat for a moment.

    Goldblum sighed. "I know, I know. I'm going to need a Layla for this, aren't I?"

    "Maaaybe."


    Mary walked out of the ship, calmly heading down the gangplank. She reached the bottom feeling, strangely, much calmer. She had failed, but this was a script she knew. She knew the way the woman (who was perhaps a grandma) had ordered her. This was failure enough that she had to be ordered to be corrected. But having time to think about it, that they had bothered to give her instructions, rather than going straight to discipline, met her offense had probably not been as great as she had first feared.

    When she reached the bottom, she curtsied. "I'm sorry about my poor choices of clothing. It's my first time coming to your city, and without my husband, I didn't know what to wear. Thank you for instructing me." Smile, apologize, give a reason, and thank them for instructing her. If they let it go, act extra happy and grateful. If they did discipline, accept it without complaint, but make it clear you felt it, so they know it worked. It was all easy.

    But when Mary looked up at them again, the two were looking at her, and then each other with a look she didn't recognize. It wasn't anger. It wasn't the indulgent smile of mercy. It was.... what? It was something she didn't know.

    Mary flipped through her memory, what had she done wrong? They had instructed her, it was something she knew, what had gone wrong? Had it been her husband? Perhaps they were some of those 'lesbians' Mary had heard about, and any mention of a husband was a death sentence for him. No, she couldn't let this go, she had to focus on the now.

    One of the women held out her hand, and Mary shook it. "Sara Johnson, President of the Commonwealth." Handshakes weren't really something the Children did that much, but she knew of them. Probably something she should have practiced more, but she could do it. Focus on the now and not making the worse, worry about John's death and/or castration later. "If you head to the end of the docks, there will be a car waiting to take you to your lodgings." A pause. "Do you know what a car is?"

    "Yes, ma'am. I received lessons on them. Am I to drive it?" Mentally, she thanked God that she had had the foresight to learn of them, and then despaired at driving one of those... things again.

    "No, we have a driver for you, and if you have any baggage, you.... you know what? Never mind. We will send you a set of appropriate clothing."

    Mary curtsied again. "Thank you for your generosity." She waited a moment to see if there was anything else. She then began to move, not so swiftly as to look like she was retreating from the terrifying women, but not so slowly as to be slothful. As she walked down the dock, her thoughts turned to that look.

    She had seen it before, once. Grandpa Smith loved his Children and wanted to make sure they built a community. As such, there were specialized trades that were needed, such as blacksmith and carpenter. In time, once enough Children learned them, they would pass them on to the younger ones. But for now, in the planting time of the Garden, outsiders were needed, which were dangerous. Thus only a few Children, those most trusted, would learn.

    She and John had both been so proud, and admittedly a little nervous, when Enoch had been selected to learn cobbling. Part of her hadn't wanted him to risk such corruption, but learning a trade made him a vital figure who mattered. That someone she was raising was selected was an honor. One time she'd had to pick Enoch up. As she talked with him to tell him he was needed back home, the instructor had looked at her with the same look.

    It must be something that orcs did, and she didn't know what it was. As she arrived in the car, a man stood by, holding open the door for her. She curtsied to him and got in. He made his way to the front but stopped at the footsteps from behind. The maybe-Grandma had followed her. Mary's heart stopped. Sometimes, if an officer was over, Papa would wait until after dinner to discipline, so as not to disturb the meal. Those were usually some of the worst punishments. Mary tried not to shake as the woman approached her and walked by.

    "Keys, please." She said to the man.

    "Ma'am?"

    "Keys. I'm driving. Go check if Sara needs anything. And call up Layla. She should be at Montoya Engineering; mama needs her soonest, at the Light Feet Hotel."

    With that, the woman swiftly sat in the front seat, pulled the door closed behind her, twisted this with the rumble of an awakening engine, pulled that, and reached down and did something that made a startling CLUNK noise. The vehicle began moving. Without looking behind her, the woman with the gray curly hair began to talk. "So tell me, Mary, has anyone ever given you lessons on how to do 'being an important person?' "

    Mary was grateful that she was sitting behind the woman, who couldn't see the spike of orcishness hit her again. Of course, she had. She'd had lessons on how to be a good wife, a wife to a Victorian. There wasn't anything more important she could be!

    Only, only Mary was pretty sure that wasn't the right answer. She was pretty sure that this woman didn't consider it to be. "No, ma'am." She answered, adding the unfamiliar word to the end.

    "Well congratulations! You've probably already figured this out, but you are now an important person, and what you do matters. Some people very, very much want to be important; they're mostly rats. But you? Importance fell on you out of the sky, didn't it? Been there. Not a fun thing, is it?"

    Again that orcish. She didn't even know why this time. It wasn't like she wanted to be here, in this den of madness and machines. She'd volunteered, but only so John didn't have to. It wasn't like she wanted this, so why did that sentence feel so wrong? "No, ma'am."

    "So, first lesson. Very important lesson. You've probably already thought of it at least once- but you're going to need to carry it next to your heart for what's coming. Remember, always, g-."

    Then she stopped in mid-sentence.

    "No, excuse me, I apologize, remember always, Madame Ambassador. Remember, the perfect is the enemy of the good. If you wait until your decision is perfect, you may never get time to make it at all. And usually, a good enough decision is much, much better than no decision, or wobbling between two decisions. Or all the decisions at once."

    She continued to lecture, but Mary could already see where this was going. She had waited too long on the clothes and had to be dressed-down. It had been wrong, but after her first set nearly cost her arm, it had been... difficult, to try others. Still, she knew not to say anything. Papas (mamas?) did not like their lessons interrupted.

    "What was your first goal today, when you walked off that ship for the first time?"

    "I wanted to make a good impression, ma'am." She stated with just the right hint of shame to make it clear she knew she was being lectured, but not so much as to not be paying attention.

    "Well, if you'd been met by an idiot, you might have had a problem. But now that we're driving away from it and it's over? You did good enough." There was a chuckle of amusement with perhaps an undercurrent of approval.

    Mary waited for the next line, which didn't come. That wasn't right. The lecture was supposed to go on. Ask if she knew what she did wrong, or just tell her. Not stop right there. That just... ended. You didn't get that when failing that badly. "I---"

    It was the recovery. It must have been. She'd done wrong, but recognized how wrong it was, and fixed it. That made sense. She was waiting for her to state that. "Thank you ma'am. I always correct my mistakes quickly. If I do anything else wrong, let me know, and I'll fix it right away." The last part was something of a gamble, admitting that more mistakes might come, but the woman seemed happy. It was probably a good time to talk.

    If it was a good time to talk... Mary felt butterflies in her stomach. "Ma'am, I don't know this place well, is it okay if I ask you something so that another mistake isn't made?"

    "Perfect. You already know the second lesson." Mrs., she might be a grandma so surely Mrs., Goldblum paused. "That didn't answer your question, Madame Ambassador. Again, my apologies. Yes, yes you go right ahead and ask." She nodded.

    More approval, still a good sign. It was easy to move forward."Yes, um, your patrols were helpful in telling us where to dock, but we aren't sure what we are supposed to do next."

    "Your ship, you mean? Or do you have a staff still on board?"

    "Yes ma'am. Were we supposed to all get off?" Mary frowned. If they were all kept, then there was no one to run. But she had told them to obey everything. She should have told them to run. Probably. Mary kept her breathing still. Trying to show more worry.

    "Why would you? Nobody else did. Does the-" she paused, and from behind Mary could see her jaw shift a little "Eve's Redemption have a captain aboard, or was that your hat too?"

    Anger, not safe, answer now. "Yes ma'am!"

    "Yes, you have a captain, you mean? Well, we have a contract with Red Banner Repairs and Provisioning a way down the waterfront to take care of arriving diplomats' ships, so as long as your crew doesn't have an allergy to socialist pamphlets, you should be fine. Someone will get them a map and tell them where it is if they need supplies or repairs."

    Mary kept her smile. "No that's fine." It wasn't fine, but she didn't dare say that, more pamphlets! But it was okay, they didn't have to read them, probably. If they did, hopefully, the captain could lock himself away, and read them alone. Unless they wanted everyone to. "Do you have pamphlets for the conference?" She wasn't sure if it was the right thing to ask, but they seemed to love them here, and then could read it, alone, away from the terrifying maybe Grandma.

    "I… don't know, actually. But I imagine the State Department's got staff at the hotel; if anyone's written up orientation packets, it'll be them. Which reminds me- do you have any staff you'll need room for at the hotel with you, Madame Ambassador?" Mrs. Goldblum's head shifted a bit, and for a moment Mary's gaze was distracted by the movement reflected in the…

    Mirror. It was a mirror. In the middle of the car, small. She had thought it was just… some strange parts. But there was a reflection. There had been a mirror the entire time. No wonder the woman had been willing to let Mary behind her, she could see her sins the entire time! Mary froze, letting instinct take over, panicking now was death.

    Answer the question! "I don't need anything ma'am." She had to have seen the orcishness. Where was the punishment? Perhaps at the end of the ride, in a place of her choosing. Yes, that made sense, keep it together then. Nothing was more annoying than a Child who whined about their punishment. "If, if you need another ambassador, we will try our best. But we don't have the fuel for another trip." If her defiance meant she needed to be weeded, at least they wouldn't punish the rest for not sending someone else.

    Silence hung in the air as Mary waited. She dared to glance at the mirror; if Mrs. Goldblum could see her face in it, then Mary could see… hers…

    Mrs. Goldblum was staring straight ahead, probably looking at the road. She looked confused. Very confused. Then she spoke.

    This is it... Mary thought to herself.

    "Madame Ambassador, have I done something to frighten you? Did I say something wrong?"

    'No, nothing at all' almost came out of Mary's lips.

    But, but none of this, it didn't. This was… she knew the words that had come. Papa said them, as the last warning on how thin ice you were, the idea of him saying anything wrong. But here… the tone was wrong it sounded concerned. Papa could be concerned, but he didn't have to be concerned that he did something wrong, because he never did.

    And the confusion. She had to have seen the mirror, why the confusion. Why anything? "I don't… I don't understand." Mary finally whispered out in defeat.


    @Simon_Jester originally suggested this and co-wrote. would not have been possible without him.

    Also, my personal favorite part of the development.

    Simon: Does the ship have a name painted on the side?
    Me: Oh god it's probably some hideous Victoria name. Probably referencing the Garden.
    Simon: Ugh you're probably right. I'm bad at names like that
    Me: Eve's redemption. It's awful and references the fact that they are proud of abducting women. I hate it
     
    Last edited:
  • Sidestory
    • clockworkchaos said:
    Lamb Among Wolves/Sheep in the Big City
    Part 4: The Lamb and the Crow

    The two women stood at the dock. Watching the gangplank.

    "You know," President Johnson said, thoughtfully. "Ralson sent an interesting report to my desk this morning. Apparently, we've confirmed that Toronto and Hamilton are sending someone."

    "And you didn't tell me? I'm hurt, devastated." Sara Goldblum gave an overdramatic look of betrayal, clapped a hand to her chest, and feigned collapse.

    "Slipped my mind." The president smiled.

    "Well, then! I'm off to help den-mother the ambassador from our favorite on the list of Places Whose Very Name Makes Children Scream In Terror!"

    "Oh?"

    The president tilted her head so, and Goldblum gave the rippling hand signal they'd been using since '57 for 'bear with me, aides, overliteral military officers, and other kinds of impressionable small children are watching.'

    "It's my field of responsibility. I'm reclassifying her as a type of highly portable bridging equipment."

    The best deadpan the Assistant Secretary of War Excuse Me Defense For Munitions had was almost good enough to make a majority of bystanders take that seriously. For a moment.

    "I mean, seriously, we know how this plan ends. It would hardly do for the head of the country to miss two of the most important ambassadors to arrive today! But me! Little me! I'm just some military bureaucrat. Meek. Inconsequential. Replaceable. You'll whistle up another assistant under-whozit that they might actually want to talk to in minutes. I'll make sure that Madame Ambassador Layers doesn't accidentally barricade herself off from the entire conference."

    "Don't break her." The president's gaze went flat for a moment.

    Goldblum sighed. "I know, I know. I'm going to need a Layla for this, aren't I?"

    "Maaaybe."


    Mary walked out of the ship, calmly heading down the gangplank. She reached the bottom feeling, strangely, much calmer. She had failed, but this was a script she knew. She knew the way the woman (who was perhaps a grandma) had ordered her. This was failure enough that she had to be ordered to be corrected. But having time to think about it, that they had bothered to give her instructions, rather than going straight to discipline, met her offense had probably not been as great as she had first feared.

    When she reached the bottom, she curtsied. "I'm sorry about my poor choices of clothing. It's my first time coming to your city, and without my husband, I didn't know what to wear. Thank you for instructing me." Smile, apologize, give a reason, and thank them for instructing her. If they let it go, act extra happy and grateful. If they did discipline, accept it without complaint, but make it clear you felt it, so they know it worked. It was all easy.

    But when Mary looked up at them again, the two were looking at her, and then each other with a look she didn't recognize. It wasn't anger. It wasn't the indulgent smile of mercy. It was.... what? It was something she didn't know.

    Mary flipped through her memory, what had she done wrong? They had instructed her, it was something she knew, what had gone wrong? Had it been her husband? Perhaps they were some of those 'lesbians' Mary had heard about, and any mention of a husband was a death sentence for him. No, she couldn't let this go, she had to focus on the now.

    One of the women held out her hand, and Mary shook it. "Sara Johnson, President of the Commonwealth." Handshakes weren't really something the Children did that much, but she knew of them. Probably something she should have practiced more, but she could do it. Focus on the now and not making the worse, worry about John's death and/or castration later. "If you head to the end of the docks, there will be a car waiting to take you to your lodgings." A pause. "Do you know what a car is?"

    "Yes, ma'am. I received lessons on them. Am I to drive it?" Mentally, she thanked God that she had had the foresight to learn of them, and then despaired at driving one of those... things again.

    "No, we have a driver for you, and if you have any baggage, you.... you know what? Never mind. We will send you a set of appropriate clothing."

    Mary curtsied again. "Thank you for your generosity." She waited a moment to see if there was anything else. She then began to move, not so swiftly as to look like she was retreating from the terrifying women, but not so slowly as to be slothful. As she walked down the dock, her thoughts turned to that look.

    She had seen it before, once. Grandpa Smith loved his Children and wanted to make sure they built a community. As such, there were specialized trades that were needed, such as blacksmith and carpenter. In time, once enough Children learned them, they would pass them on to the younger ones. But for now, in the planting time of the Garden, outsiders were needed, which were dangerous. Thus only a few Children, those most trusted, would learn.

    She and John had both been so proud, and admittedly a little nervous, when Enoch had been selected to learn cobbling. Part of her hadn't wanted him to risk such corruption, but learning a trade made him a vital figure who mattered. That someone she was raising was selected was an honor. One time she'd had to pick Enoch up. As she talked with him to tell him he was needed back home, the instructor had looked at her with the same look.

    It must be something that orcs did, and she didn't know what it was. As she arrived in the car, a man stood by, holding open the door for her. She curtsied to him and got in. He made his way to the front but stopped at the footsteps from behind. The maybe-Grandma had followed her. Mary's heart stopped. Sometimes, if an officer was over, Papa would wait until after dinner to discipline, so as not to disturb the meal. Those were usually some of the worst punishments. Mary tried not to shake as the woman approached her and walked by.

    "Keys, please." She said to the man.

    "Ma'am?"

    "Keys. I'm driving. Go check if Sara needs anything. And call up Layla. She should be at Montoya Engineering; mama needs her soonest, at the Light Feet Hotel."

    With that, the woman swiftly sat in the front seat, pulled the door closed behind her, twisted this with the rumble of an awakening engine, pulled that, and reached down and did something that made a startling CLUNK noise. The vehicle began moving. Without looking behind her, the woman with the gray curly hair began to talk. "So tell me, Mary, has anyone ever given you lessons on how to do 'being an important person?' "

    Mary was grateful that she was sitting behind the woman, who couldn't see the spike of orcishness hit her again. Of course, she had. She'd had lessons on how to be a good wife, a wife to a Victorian. There wasn't anything more important she could be!

    Only, only Mary was pretty sure that wasn't the right answer. She was pretty sure that this woman didn't consider it to be. "No, ma'am." She answered, adding the unfamiliar word to the end.

    "Well congratulations! You've probably already figured this out, but you are now an important person, and what you do matters. Some people very, very much want to be important; they're mostly rats. But you? Importance fell on you out of the sky, didn't it? Been there. Not a fun thing, is it?"

    Again that orcish. She didn't even know why this time. It wasn't like she wanted to be here, in this den of madness and machines. She'd volunteered, but only so John didn't have to. It wasn't like she wanted this, so why did that sentence feel so wrong? "No, ma'am."

    "So, first lesson. Very important lesson. You've probably already thought of it at least once- but you're going to need to carry it next to your heart for what's coming. Remember, always, g-."

    Then she stopped in mid-sentence.

    "No, excuse me, I apologize, remember always, Madame Ambassador. Remember, the perfect is the enemy of the good. If you wait until your decision is perfect, you may never get time to make it at all. And usually, a good enough decision is much, much better than no decision, or wobbling between two decisions. Or all the decisions at once."

    She continued to lecture, but Mary could already see where this was going. She had waited too long on the clothes and had to be dressed-down. It had been wrong, but after her first set nearly cost her arm, it had been... difficult, to try others. Still, she knew not to say anything. Papas (mamas?) did not like their lessons interrupted.

    "What was your first goal today, when you walked off that ship for the first time?"

    "I wanted to make a good impression, ma'am." She stated with just the right hint of shame to make it clear she knew she was being lectured, but not so much as to not be paying attention.

    "Well, if you'd been met by an idiot, you might have had a problem. But now that we're driving away from it and it's over? You did good enough." There was a chuckle of amusement with perhaps an undercurrent of approval.

    Mary waited for the next line, which didn't come. That wasn't right. The lecture was supposed to go on. Ask if she knew what she did wrong, or just tell her. Not stop right there. That just... ended. You didn't get that when failing that badly. "I---"

    It was the recovery. It must have been. She'd done wrong, but recognized how wrong it was, and fixed it. That made sense. She was waiting for her to state that. "Thank you ma'am. I always correct my mistakes quickly. If I do anything else wrong, let me know, and I'll fix it right away." The last part was something of a gamble, admitting that more mistakes might come, but the woman seemed happy. It was probably a good time to talk.

    If it was a good time to talk... Mary felt butterflies in her stomach. "Ma'am, I don't know this place well, is it okay if I ask you something so that another mistake isn't made?"

    "Perfect. You already know the second lesson." Mrs., she might be a grandma so surely Mrs., Goldblum paused. "That didn't answer your question, Madame Ambassador. Again, my apologies. Yes, yes you go right ahead and ask." She nodded.

    More approval, still a good sign. It was easy to move forward."Yes, um, your patrols were helpful in telling us where to dock, but we aren't sure what we are supposed to do next."

    "Your ship, you mean? Or do you have a staff still on board?"

    "Yes ma'am. Were we supposed to all get off?" Mary frowned. If they were all kept, then there was no one to run. But she had told them to obey everything. She should have told them to run. Probably. Mary kept her breathing still. Trying to show more worry.

    "Why would you? Nobody else did. Does the-" she paused, and from behind Mary could see her jaw shift a little "Eve's Redemption have a captain aboard, or was that your hat too?"

    Anger, not safe, answer now. "Yes ma'am!"

    "Yes, you have a captain, you mean? Well, we have a contract with Red Banner Repairs and Provisioning a way down the waterfront to take care of arriving diplomats' ships, so as long as your crew doesn't have an allergy to socialist pamphlets, you should be fine. Someone will get them a map and tell them where it is if they need supplies or repairs."

    Mary kept her smile. "No that's fine." It wasn't fine, but she didn't dare say that, more pamphlets! But it was okay, they didn't have to read them, probably. If they did, hopefully, the captain could lock himself away, and read them alone. Unless they wanted everyone to. "Do you have pamphlets for the conference?" She wasn't sure if it was the right thing to ask, but they seemed to love them here, and then could read it, alone, away from the terrifying maybe Grandma.

    "I… don't know, actually. But I imagine the State Department's got staff at the hotel; if anyone's written up orientation packets, it'll be them. Which reminds me- do you have any staff you'll need room for at the hotel with you, Madame Ambassador?" Mrs. Goldblum's head shifted a bit, and for a moment Mary's gaze was distracted by the movement reflected in the…

    Mirror. It was a mirror. In the middle of the car, small. She had thought it was just… some strange parts. But there was a reflection. There had been a mirror the entire time. No wonder the woman had been willing to let Mary behind her, she could see her sins the entire time! Mary froze, letting instinct take over, panicking now was death.

    Answer the question! "I don't need anything ma'am." She had to have seen the orcishness. Where was the punishment? Perhaps at the end of the ride, in a place of her choosing. Yes, that made sense, keep it together then. Nothing was more annoying than a Child who whined about their punishment. "If, if you need another ambassador, we will try our best. But we don't have the fuel for another trip." If her defiance meant she needed to be weeded, at least they wouldn't punish the rest for not sending someone else.

    Silence hung in the air as Mary waited. She dared to glance at the mirror; if Mrs. Goldblum could see her face in it, then Mary could see… hers…

    Mrs. Goldblum was staring straight ahead, probably looking at the road. She looked confused. Very confused. Then she spoke.

    This is it... Mary thought to herself.

    "Madame Ambassador, have I done something to frighten you? Did I say something wrong?"

    'No, nothing at all' almost came out of Mary's lips.

    But, but none of this, it didn't. This was… she knew the words that had come. Papa said them, as the last warning on how thin ice you were, the idea of him saying anything wrong. But here… the tone was wrong it sounded concerned. Papa could be concerned, but he didn't have to be concerned that he did something wrong, because he never did.

    And the confusion. She had to have seen the mirror, why the confusion. Why anything? "I don't… I don't understand." Mary finally whispered out in defeat.


    @Simon_Jester originally suggested this and co-wrote. would not have been possible without him.

    Also, my personal favorite part of the development.

    Simon: Does the ship have a name painted on the side?
    Me: Oh god it's probably some hideous Victoria name. Probably referencing the Garden.
    Simon: Ugh you're probably right. I'm bad at names like that
    Me: Eve's redemption. It's awful and references the fact that they are proud of abducting women. I hate it
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    These have been very successful at triggering all of my protective instincts and I just want to give this girl a hug and a psychiatrist
     
    Once we bring the place under our sphere of influence one of our big needs from Europe are going to be a boatload of psychiatrists to help start dealing with en masse PTSD and deprogramming.
     
    clockworkchaos said:
    Lamb Among Wolves/Sheep in the Big City
    Part 4: The Lamb and the Crow

    The two women stood at the dock. Watching the gangplank.

    "You know," President Johnson said, thoughtfully. "Ralson sent an interesting report to my desk this morning. Apparently, we've confirmed that Toronto and Hamilton are sending someone."

    "And you didn't tell me? I'm hurt, devastated." Sara Goldblum gave an overdramatic look of betrayal, clapped a hand to her chest, and feigned collapse.

    "Slipped my mind." The president smiled.

    "Well, then! I'm off to help den-mother the ambassador from our favorite on the list of Places Whose Very Name Makes Children Scream In Terror!"

    "Oh?"

    The president tilted her head so, and Goldblum gave the rippling hand signal they'd been using since '57 for 'bear with me, aides, overliteral military officers, and other kinds of impressionable small children are watching.'

    "It's my field of responsibility. I'm reclassifying her as a type of highly portable bridging equipment."

    The best deadpan the Assistant Secretary of War Excuse Me Defense For Munitions had was almost good enough to make a majority of bystanders take that seriously. For a moment.

    "I mean, seriously, we know how this plan ends. It would hardly do for the head of the country to miss two of the most important ambassadors to arrive today! But me! Little me! I'm just some military bureaucrat. Meek. Inconsequential. Replaceable. You'll whistle up another assistant under-whozit that they might actually want to talk to in minutes. I'll make sure that Madame Ambassador Layers doesn't accidentally barricade herself off from the entire conference."

    "Don't break her." The president's gaze went flat for a moment.

    Goldblum sighed. "I know, I know. I'm going to need a Layla for this, aren't I?"

    "Maaaybe."


    Mary walked out of the ship, calmly heading down the gangplank. She reached the bottom feeling, strangely, much calmer. She had failed, but this was a script she knew. She knew the way the woman (who was perhaps a grandma) had ordered her. This was failure enough that she had to be ordered to be corrected. But having time to think about it, that they had bothered to give her instructions, rather than going straight to discipline, met her offense had probably not been as great as she had first feared.

    When she reached the bottom, she curtsied. "I'm sorry about my poor choices of clothing. It's my first time coming to your city, and without my husband, I didn't know what to wear. Thank you for instructing me." Smile, apologize, give a reason, and thank them for instructing her. If they let it go, act extra happy and grateful. If they did discipline, accept it without complaint, but make it clear you felt it, so they know it worked. It was all easy.

    But when Mary looked up at them again, the two were looking at her, and then each other with a look she didn't recognize. It wasn't anger. It wasn't the indulgent smile of mercy. It was.... what? It was something she didn't know.

    Mary flipped through her memory, what had she done wrong? They had instructed her, it was something she knew, what had gone wrong? Had it been her husband? Perhaps they were some of those 'lesbians' Mary had heard about, and any mention of a husband was a death sentence for him. No, she couldn't let this go, she had to focus on the now.

    One of the women held out her hand, and Mary shook it. "Sara Johnson, President of the Commonwealth." Handshakes weren't really something the Children did that much, but she knew of them. Probably something she should have practiced more, but she could do it. Focus on the now and not making the worse, worry about John's death and/or castration later. "If you head to the end of the docks, there will be a car waiting to take you to your lodgings." A pause. "Do you know what a car is?"

    "Yes, ma'am. I received lessons on them. Am I to drive it?" Mentally, she thanked God that she had had the foresight to learn of them, and then despaired at driving one of those... things again.

    "No, we have a driver for you, and if you have any baggage, you.... you know what? Never mind. We will send you a set of appropriate clothing."

    Mary curtsied again. "Thank you for your generosity." She waited a moment to see if there was anything else. She then began to move, not so swiftly as to look like she was retreating from the terrifying women, but not so slowly as to be slothful. As she walked down the dock, her thoughts turned to that look.

    She had seen it before, once. Grandpa Smith loved his Children and wanted to make sure they built a community. As such, there were specialized trades that were needed, such as blacksmith and carpenter. In time, once enough Children learned them, they would pass them on to the younger ones. But for now, in the planting time of the Garden, outsiders were needed, which were dangerous. Thus only a few Children, those most trusted, would learn.

    She and John had both been so proud, and admittedly a little nervous, when Enoch had been selected to learn cobbling. Part of her hadn't wanted him to risk such corruption, but learning a trade made him a vital figure who mattered. That someone she was raising was selected was an honor. One time she'd had to pick Enoch up. As she talked with him to tell him he was needed back home, the instructor had looked at her with the same look.

    It must be something that orcs did, and she didn't know what it was. As she arrived in the car, a man stood by, holding open the door for her. She curtsied to him and got in. He made his way to the front but stopped at the footsteps from behind. The maybe-Grandma had followed her. Mary's heart stopped. Sometimes, if an officer was over, Papa would wait until after dinner to discipline, so as not to disturb the meal. Those were usually some of the worst punishments. Mary tried not to shake as the woman approached her and walked by.

    "Keys, please." She said to the man.

    "Ma'am?"

    "Keys. I'm driving. Go check if Sara needs anything. And call up Layla. She should be at Montoya Engineering; mama needs her soonest, at the Light Feet Hotel."

    With that, the woman swiftly sat in the front seat, pulled the door closed behind her, twisted this with the rumble of an awakening engine, pulled that, and reached down and did something that made a startling CLUNK noise. The vehicle began moving. Without looking behind her, the woman with the gray curly hair began to talk. "So tell me, Mary, has anyone ever given you lessons on how to do 'being an important person?' "

    Mary was grateful that she was sitting behind the woman, who couldn't see the spike of orcishness hit her again. Of course, she had. She'd had lessons on how to be a good wife, a wife to a Victorian. There wasn't anything more important she could be!

    Only, only Mary was pretty sure that wasn't the right answer. She was pretty sure that this woman didn't consider it to be. "No, ma'am." She answered, adding the unfamiliar word to the end.

    "Well congratulations! You've probably already figured this out, but you are now an important person, and what you do matters. Some people very, very much want to be important; they're mostly rats. But you? Importance fell on you out of the sky, didn't it? Been there. Not a fun thing, is it?"

    Again that orcish. She didn't even know why this time. It wasn't like she wanted to be here, in this den of madness and machines. She'd volunteered, but only so John didn't have to. It wasn't like she wanted this, so why did that sentence feel so wrong? "No, ma'am."

    "So, first lesson. Very important lesson. You've probably already thought of it at least once- but you're going to need to carry it next to your heart for what's coming. Remember, always, g-."

    Then she stopped in mid-sentence.

    "No, excuse me, I apologize, remember always, Madame Ambassador. Remember, the perfect is the enemy of the good. If you wait until your decision is perfect, you may never get time to make it at all. And usually, a good enough decision is much, much better than no decision, or wobbling between two decisions. Or all the decisions at once."

    She continued to lecture, but Mary could already see where this was going. She had waited too long on the clothes and had to be dressed-down. It had been wrong, but after her first set nearly cost her arm, it had been... difficult, to try others. Still, she knew not to say anything. Papas (mamas?) did not like their lessons interrupted.

    "What was your first goal today, when you walked off that ship for the first time?"

    "I wanted to make a good impression, ma'am." She stated with just the right hint of shame to make it clear she knew she was being lectured, but not so much as to not be paying attention.

    "Well, if you'd been met by an idiot, you might have had a problem. But now that we're driving away from it and it's over? You did good enough." There was a chuckle of amusement with perhaps an undercurrent of approval.

    Mary waited for the next line, which didn't come. That wasn't right. The lecture was supposed to go on. Ask if she knew what she did wrong, or just tell her. Not stop right there. That just... ended. You didn't get that when failing that badly. "I---"

    It was the recovery. It must have been. She'd done wrong, but recognized how wrong it was, and fixed it. That made sense. She was waiting for her to state that. "Thank you ma'am. I always correct my mistakes quickly. If I do anything else wrong, let me know, and I'll fix it right away." The last part was something of a gamble, admitting that more mistakes might come, but the woman seemed happy. It was probably a good time to talk.

    If it was a good time to talk... Mary felt butterflies in her stomach. "Ma'am, I don't know this place well, is it okay if I ask you something so that another mistake isn't made?"

    "Perfect. You already know the second lesson." Mrs., she might be a grandma so surely Mrs., Goldblum paused. "That didn't answer your question, Madame Ambassador. Again, my apologies. Yes, yes you go right ahead and ask." She nodded.

    More approval, still a good sign. It was easy to move forward."Yes, um, your patrols were helpful in telling us where to dock, but we aren't sure what we are supposed to do next."

    "Your ship, you mean? Or do you have a staff still on board?"

    "Yes ma'am. Were we supposed to all get off?" Mary frowned. If they were all kept, then there was no one to run. But she had told them to obey everything. She should have told them to run. Probably. Mary kept her breathing still. Trying to show more worry.

    "Why would you? Nobody else did. Does the-" she paused, and from behind Mary could see her jaw shift a little "Eve's Redemption have a captain aboard, or was that your hat too?"

    Anger, not safe, answer now. "Yes ma'am!"

    "Yes, you have a captain, you mean? Well, we have a contract with Red Banner Repairs and Provisioning a way down the waterfront to take care of arriving diplomats' ships, so as long as your crew doesn't have an allergy to socialist pamphlets, you should be fine. Someone will get them a map and tell them where it is if they need supplies or repairs."

    Mary kept her smile. "No that's fine." It wasn't fine, but she didn't dare say that, more pamphlets! But it was okay, they didn't have to read them, probably. If they did, hopefully, the captain could lock himself away, and read them alone. Unless they wanted everyone to. "Do you have pamphlets for the conference?" She wasn't sure if it was the right thing to ask, but they seemed to love them here, and then could read it, alone, away from the terrifying maybe Grandma.

    "I… don't know, actually. But I imagine the State Department's got staff at the hotel; if anyone's written up orientation packets, it'll be them. Which reminds me- do you have any staff you'll need room for at the hotel with you, Madame Ambassador?" Mrs. Goldblum's head shifted a bit, and for a moment Mary's gaze was distracted by the movement reflected in the…

    Mirror. It was a mirror. In the middle of the car, small. She had thought it was just… some strange parts. But there was a reflection. There had been a mirror the entire time. No wonder the woman had been willing to let Mary behind her, she could see her sins the entire time! Mary froze, letting instinct take over, panicking now was death.

    Answer the question! "I don't need anything ma'am." She had to have seen the orcishness. Where was the punishment? Perhaps at the end of the ride, in a place of her choosing. Yes, that made sense, keep it together then. Nothing was more annoying than a Child who whined about their punishment. "If, if you need another ambassador, we will try our best. But we don't have the fuel for another trip." If her defiance meant she needed to be weeded, at least they wouldn't punish the rest for not sending someone else.

    Silence hung in the air as Mary waited. She dared to glance at the mirror; if Mrs. Goldblum could see her face in it, then Mary could see… hers…

    Mrs. Goldblum was staring straight ahead, probably looking at the road. She looked confused. Very confused. Then she spoke.

    This is it... Mary thought to herself.

    "Madame Ambassador, have I done something to frighten you? Did I say something wrong?"

    'No, nothing at all' almost came out of Mary's lips.

    But, but none of this, it didn't. This was… she knew the words that had come. Papa said them, as the last warning on how thin ice you were, the idea of him saying anything wrong. But here… the tone was wrong it sounded concerned. Papa could be concerned, but he didn't have to be concerned that he did something wrong, because he never did.

    And the confusion. She had to have seen the mirror, why the confusion. Why anything? "I don't… I don't understand." Mary finally whispered out in defeat.


    @Simon_Jester originally suggested this and co-wrote. would not have been possible without him.

    Also, my personal favorite part of the development.

    Simon: Does the ship have a name painted on the side?
    Me: Oh god it's probably some hideous Victoria name. Probably referencing the Garden.
    Simon: Ugh you're probably right. I'm bad at names like that
    Me: Eve's redemption. It's awful and references the fact that they are proud of abducting women. I hate it
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    Do I need to say it, at this point? Probably. Canon! And thank you. :)
     
    Canon Omake: [PLACES IN NORTH AMERICAN YOU’D MOST/LEAST WANT TO LIVE: PG2]
  • Sidestory
    • [PLACES IN NORTH AMERICAN YOU'D MOST/LEAST WANT TO LIVE: PG2]


    >[Bee_Ball_A_Day]

    "MacroMan" said:
    Most is obviously California, least is probably one of those places that's got two hovels and a skeletal cow in the south somewhere
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    You say that but California is basically a starving puppet, the Arctic actually has a free hand to run their own issues. They're colder, sure, but they don't actually have Alexander looking over their shoulders the same way that California does.

    And as for worst: I'm actually going to say Victoria. A least said cow doesn't have to worry about getting shot for having once looked at an electrical outlet like you do in Victoria.

    I can't imagine living in a place that's as restrictive as Victoria is.

    ----

    >[TheGoodBird]

    My answer to both: Cascadia.

    You ever actually been to Cascadia?

    I went there for work for half a year back when I worked for The Bank. Fucking awful place. I was woken up twice by bombs going off in 2071. Twice.

    But the cities have a lot of infrastructure, and if you're a Japanese Settler, or working with the Japanese, or have a lot of cash, you've got a lot of leeway to do whatever you want. And the big coastal cities there have all the amenities of a modern city. They're as high tech as you'd think a Japanese colony would be, I think the internet is actually faster than it is on the Home Islands. Though I suspect that's because they have equal infrastructure most people in Cascadia aren't allowed to buy the faster internet.

    And if you're in Seattle, Vancouver, or Rupert you can get just about anything through the black market. Anything. Friend of mine bought some old awards for this 80 year old movie that he loved. Absolutely wild. I picked up original release copies of games that came on actual cartridges.

    I was there for the Bank so it was a bit stiff and creepy but basically nice.

    On the other hand the interior of Cascadia is a goddamn nightmare. You know that parents won't let their kids out on sunny days? Basically everyone stays inside, and the Japanese banned dense forest cover in small towns so their drones can get clear images of the inhabitants.

    And there are no trials out there. If they even think you look funny, they'll drag you off to one of the work camps. And that's just the Japanese. Another guy I worked with was kidnapped by the "Blue Army Fraction" and the company had to pay a two million Ruble ransome. Apparently he was treated well after he told them that his grandpappy was from Kentucky and his grandma was Texan and he lived in India.

    If he'd been picked up by the Vic-wannabies they'd probably have vapourized him for being black, and the Commies'd do him in for being a manager.

    ----

    >[Moonshadow]

    I'd probably go with the Commonwealth, they're actually like, building Socialism and shit. Basically no one else in America has their head on straight like that. I'm still kind of delighted that it was Communists that took down the Victorian Fascists.

    "Plan go burble"

    Worst is Victoria, obviously. I wouldn't last two seconds.

    ----

    >[ClickClackClock]

    "Moonshadow said:
    I'd probably go with the Commonwealth, they're actually like, building Socialism and shit. Basically no one else in America has their head on straight like that. I'm still kind of delighted that it was Communists that took down the Victorian Fascists.

    Worst is Victoria, obviously. I wouldn't last two seconds.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Lol.

    SOME media likes to talk them up but they're just as shit as everyone else. They like to talk about how the Chicagoans threw out the Nazis and then built this little paradise then beat the Vics, but they don't have clean hands either.

    You know they threw those "Nazis" into fucking ovens and cooked them? Then they basically took over the area around them. There's a reason why basically everyone around them hates and collaborates with Victoria against them.

    And they're no Democracy. You can't have democracy in America, the whole place is a shithole. Burns still controls all the guns. What do you think would happen if the Chicago "Congress" turned against him? They'd do what Americans with guns always do: Put their own warlord back in charge. Americans basically always follow the loudest guy with the most guns. If they didn't the last sixty years would have looked A LOT different.

    It's telling that basically the first thing they did was try to conquer Victoria too.

    ----

    >JeMeSouviens

    "Moonshadow said:
    I'd probably go with the Commonwealth, they're actually like, building Socialism and shit. Basically no one else in America has their head on straight like that. I'm still kind of delighted that it was Communists that took down the Victorian Fascists.

    Worst is Victoria, obviously. I wouldn't last two seconds.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    ClickClack's basically an idiot, but the CFC isn't really building Socialism right now. There's no DotP, they're basically running a liberal bourgeois democracy on a modernized version of the old United States of America constitution. They're a mob of very angry Social Democrats, a handful of coops, and a bunch of union militias in a trench coat.

    I'd still probably put them about equal with New York for civil liberties though. And I put them well ahead of New York on wealth inequality, though that's mostly because there isn't a lot of wealth to go around yet. And we're still waiting to see if the Commonwealth can get their refugee problem under control.

    (I include the Arctic in this ranking, even though I live here. If I voted, I'd vote Bloc every time. I detract points because we host Russian troops and haven't kicked them and the Victorians out yet.)

    As for the worst place: I want to say one of the smaller communities on the Victorian border. From what I understand they sort of "Farm" that area to blood their troops and police in action against the locals. Which means that you're basically living under damocles' hammer your entire life without even the security of being brainwashed into believing Victoria's retroculture bullshit.

    ----

    >[Mainm'n]

    I've heard good things about Miami. Messy, but democratic. But I'd probably still pick Cali, New York, or the Arctic. Sucks that Cali's Russian, but the weather's nicer than the other two. Maybe I'd pick Miami if I wanted to do some real Yar-Har hours.

    Anyway, I had a friend in high school who used to live in Cascadia, came from some red town with like, fucking two ks and three ts in the name. He was raised with a bunch of other kids, cause it's a fucking commune right? No mom or dad, calls basically every woman there aunty and every man uncle. But all of the kids there are raised like that, just how they do it, no one was told who their parents were.

    Anyway, he's like ten or eleven or something, and he gets up one morning and there's like, an entire new person in his house. Finds out that it's his mother. She was rounded up after '62, and he'd never even known. So she takes him and they get smuggled out of the country to Australia.

    Anyway, he didn't realise until years later that the entire town was an orphanage and he and his mom had to leave the country because she'd been sprung out of one of the work camps early on in the years of fire by a red army unit.

    So, yeah, just going by what I know personally, I'm probably going to say Cascadia. Shit's fucked up.

    ----

    >[whitecoatwhiteheart]

    best: new york no contest we have actual pizza

    the worst: there's this place in i think pennsylvania i was out there with the msf but fucking goddamn asshole vees had been through there but got mauled bad enough that they tore the entire goddamn place apart. so a couple of us head down the road from our cam to help out and it was the worse thn hell they actually cricified a bunch of teenage kids for some reason and everyone else was down the wells and every building was on fire

    we didn do any doctoring that day

    basically anywhere the vees are is the worst place

    and they're all over the place.
     
  • Sidestory
    • clockworkchaos said:
    Vox Populi Dispatches
    Ghost Stories
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    -My favorite of the series so far. There are shades of some of the worse governments and terrorist armies here, of the RUF and LRA and drug war paramilitaries and the Ugandan Army circa Idi Amin. I was almost beginning to expect to see you write about long sleeve or short sleeve choices being offered to people who had offended but not to the point of death.

    -Kidnapped children from living and dead parents is very Argentinian Dirty War.
    And given the post-abduction murders of children who don't meet some arbitrary standard, the turnover must be horrific even by Vic standards. Digging in the woods around the Garden will turn up so many skeletons....

    One does have to wonder if any were sold off abroad.
    Or traded as gifts. If there is a Russian intelligence officer somewhere with an adopted kid who has no official record of where they were born.

    -I actually have to wonder if anyone tried to take Andrew Division prisoners. Because if they have distinctive insignia, and were at Leamington......those the Commonwealth didn't pulverize would have gotten especial attention from the locals whose territory they retreated through. And divisions active in the Great Lakes area are most likely to have people just...not take chances.

    -It does look like neither General Carter nor General "Bob" Foulkes will be going home after all. What a shame. If multiple warcrimes can be reliably attributed to units under their command and at their direction over the last decade.....well, I don't really think the Commonwealth has a real choice in the matter. War crimes trial with external observers, and either a noose or a comfortable cell with multiple life sentences. Probably prison.

    Same as the pilots who machinegunned ejecting pilots.

    General Shane of the VAF probably gets to go home, though.
    Depends on if he can be held responsible for the murder and mistreatment of the PoWs, or if that fell into Crusader jurisdiction.
    clockworkchaos said:
    Lamb Among Wolves/Sheep in the Big City
    Part 4: The Lamb and the Crow
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    I generally dont have much to say about character pieces.
    Nice work though.
    AKuz said:
    [PLACES IN NORTH AMERICAN YOU'D MOST/LEAST WANT TO LIVE: PG2]
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    Needs better formatting :V

    It does sound like a typical forum thread of SB vintage, so you did get that bit right. Shades of Waziristani drone strikes there; I do wonder if the drone operators at the local military base ever make it out of their base into the local town, or if they're sequestered for fear of the local insurgents getting their hands and knives on them. And how many times killteams have crossed the wire to murder them in their beds.

    Your Seattle sounds very much like something out of Shadowrun.
    And PA is the predicted shithole.

    I forsee New York grabbing the coastline as far south as Norfolk real soon now.
    Philly, Baltimore, Washington DC and Norfolk.
    Then work inland.
     
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