All is Quiet in Boliatur

[Northern Cooperative Unions]

The sea water slowly crept up the surf of Mrysini, the sun rising upon the quiet city. The beach was perpetually empty, anyone with a right mind having fled to the inner city. The surf constantly waded in and out, tides reaching up to a very large amount of makeshift pillboxes. The Boliaturian Army, a string of various militias armed with various foreign weapons, consisted purely of many volunteers armed with their own weapons or given weapons. Many lucky divisions would get helmets and Boliaturian-made weapons, but farmers and laborers simply had their own pipe-designed weapons. The pillboxes were tiny, many not even in strategic positions. Voices were hushed in the morning sunlight. Fishing barges slowly entered the port from the Snieg and Boliatur's islands. A group of four men sat nearby the port, huddled together as they scanned their foreign-made equipment from Europaland. They were dressed in simple commoner clothing. Not commoner clothing of Boliatur.

The Boliaturians had already lost hundreds of exports and imports. They sat in front of a large fishing barge built for the ice of the Snieg, one beached to prevent the halt of trade and repair lost materials. The Boliaturian Army had taken most food from nearby villages and left crops to wither, without proper technique or irrigation the steppe-growing crops died. Without any foreign food supply, the little fertile land in Boliatur was being overused. Villages were cleared out as people began to move inland and south to the fertile lands. The Citizen's Council was rumored to have fled, having not released any statements to foreign powers in a number of days. There was rumor of a planned attack outside of Boliatur, or at least a planned defense in the deserts.

 

[Northern Cooperative Unions]

Magleis silently stroked his temple, sitting deep under Mrysini in an urgently constructed saferoom made for ten councilmen. The council members remained quiet as Magleis angrily glared at a map of the world as his councilman slowly crossed out countries that began to freeze their assets. He was watching his homeland fall apart, all in part due to the vote of the Citizen's Council to create the ABJ Pact. Many citizens were against it, but a majority citizen vote were for the ABJ Pact. Now, he watched the same citizens who had voted for the Pact's creation slowly wither away and die, piling up along roadsides due to undernourishment. The Boliaturian Army was literally just a squabbling, quiet force sitting in the innards of Boliatur with militias guarding the shore. He realized that they would strike from sea, seeing as all of Boliatur's southerly borders were arid deserts which the steppe-horsemen were adapted to.

"How long do we have until they break the ice of the Snieg?", Magleis sneered, speaking to his circle of ten councilmen that remained behind in Mrysini.

"In my assumption, several days." The Councilmen looked towards Balkhash, a Turkish man sitting across from Magleis.

Magleis shook his head, loosening his tie and traditional Boliaturian clothing. The ten men sat quietly, pondering the thought of being invaded.

 

[Northern Cooperative Unions]

CHAIRMAN COMMUNIQUE TO CITIZEN'S COUNCIL: HIVATALOS MAGYAR KOMMUNICACIO
ELNÖK SZAVAI


STATEMENT BY THE CITIZEN'S COUNCIL AND CHAIRMAN MAGLEIS NODOVINYA

Friends, it is with a deep and heavy heart which I view Boliatur.

We, the one hundred people, must convene in Mrysini once more. We cannot hide any longer. The world continues to pull us deep into their hole which we will not climb out of once we are in. We are not fully within the hole yet, brothers. Some may call us terrorists, but our people call us heroes. We are the ones who have stood up against the oppression of the Western heathens and erased the yoke of oppression from the many Khans who once controlled our land. Magyaristan shall not fall. The whores, the tyrants, the idiots, the foreigners, they all rally against us for no reason but to destroy our peaceful way of life. We have devoted ourselves to the peaceful dissolution of monarchy and sponsoring of subversive elements to contain monarchies, yet the monarchies fight against us. Today is our day, friends. Today is the day of freedom.

Our people may starve, our friends may die in combat, our economy may be destroyed, and Boliatur may never be the same. Boliatur's spirit will always be the same, though. We must remind our people. Perhaps they shall claim our land, perhaps subjugate us, but we can never give up. Boliatur will always be free, as said by the government of our fathers.

The dirt that is monarchy shall have to pry our great country from our fingers. We, the Boliaturians, shall smear butter on one hand and hold a knife in the other.

 

[Northern Cooperative Unions]

Alpo stared out from the passenger seat of the lorry, scanning the sidewalks as his colleague drove the truck as fast as it could go. Several crates rumbled around in the back, with occasional coughing and muffled speaking from behind the driver-cargo curtain. He was a young Boliaturian militant, like his brothers and friends in the back of the lorry. The wafting smell of the dead slowly found its way into his nose as they neared Mrysini. He adorned a small bandanna, staring at the dirt roads and sidewalks connecting into the main road. Ahead was the dark city of Mrysini. He had heard rumors about food shortages in the cities and the north, but he had no time for such trivialities until the news of war reached his village on the Karakh border. He and his friends tuned into the radio to hear of the need for soldiers, but conscription was unheard of. With no enlistment office nearby, they simply equipped themselves with their hunting rifles and climbed into a rusty cargo truck.

The putter of the truck crept over Mrysini, and the smell of the sea met the smell of the dead to produce a strange, salty smell. Alpo stared at his colleague and friend, Mozes. Mozes peaked back at Alpo briefly, but the sound of shouting ahead of the truck snapped his head back to the windshield. The truck's headlights slowly flickered on to beam forward. Ahead was a checkpoint, a soldier having raised his hand upward at a small shack with a gate. The soldier was a part of the Boliaturian Nemzeti Hadsereg, the Boliaturian National Army. He was equipped with a mixture of native and foreign gear, Boliaturian desert camouflage with a gun from Chryse and helmet and kevlar from Europaland. The soldier stepped up onto the side of the truck, staring in at Mozes. He tapped at the window with his index finger.

Mozes slowly cranked the window down and swiveled his head towards the soldier, withdrawing a small badge showing a symbol for the Citizen's Guard, a local and volunteer militia. The guard bowed his head and stepped away, opening the gate. The lorry sped on under the moonlight, puttering into the city. Trash lay scattered on the road to Mrysini, the outer villages and shacks showing obvious signs of poverty and having been abandoned at least a week ago. Soldiers rarely walked past.

The view shifted from the outskirts and into the city, the smells of death becoming extreme. The men in the back of the truck coughed wildly, many even vomiting as the smells wafted about in the truck. Alpo then spotted the source.

Piles of dead or dying Boliaturians lined the streets, unorganized and spread along sidewalks and roads. They died where they fell. They had small stomachs, signs of starvation, many deathly pale or decomposing. Under the moonlight, flies and crows picked at the dead bodies of those who could not find food after the embargo was put in place. The unstable government had barely fed them before the embargoes, but now they had nothing. Within days of no water, dehydration claimed the first victims. Ditches were dug on the roadsides. Alpo stared in anguish. He knew of pride and nationalism. He had been taught of the Great Khanates and the first Khan, as well as the collapse of the tyrants and the beginning of freedom.

Now, he had learned of murder and revenge.

He was flooded with feelings of hatred as he saw the pale faces of the dead. Boliatur was no farmland. He slowly adjusted his facemask and pulled his rifle, a Boliaturian NIES-42 away from its holster.

 

[Tulus and Biminis]

High Commission of the Republic of Karakhstan
Mrysini, Boliatur

The High Commissioner sat at his desk with his cigarette dangling from his fingers. He was exhausted, having spent the last few days on countless conference calls with Almatii or getting debriefed by the Security Intelligence Bureau. It was the middle of the night, but he and his aide, who was on the leather sofa trying to catch some sleep, were expecting a fax.

The machine finally lit up and a single page came through. High Commissioner Viktor Kuroff threw his matchbox at the aide, who awoke with such a startle that he rolled off the sofa onto the carpet. He sat up, composed himself and went over to retrieve the fax. After glancing at it, he handed it to Kuroff.

'All right,' he finished his cigarette and extinguished what little remained of it in the ashtray.

'Have the car ready to bring me to the Boliaturans at 8 tomorrow morning.'

'You mean in four hours, sir.' the aide pointed to the late hour on the clock.

'No matter, they won't mind if I'm dishevelled-looking. Almatii wants me to offer them a full-on humanitarian campaign. Planes and all.'


Stupetna Sky Force Base
Air Strip 2L
North-Central Steppe

The massive skylift plane glided down from the cloudless sky. As it approached the air strip its four massive jet engines kicked up whirlwinds of sand and dirt. The pilot skilfully guided the monster down the middle. As the reverse thrusters were applied the men nearby covered their ears before the plane slowed and began a taxi to the staging areas.

A team of crew members in small vehicles and on foot surrounded the aircraft, blocked its tyres, began refuelling, inspecting the wings and engines and immediately started to prepare its cargo hold for loading. Crates and pallets of rice, flour, medical supplies, blankets and tents were waiting to be brought on by the waiting forklifts. The parcels and bags of food had the blue words 'Karakhstan' stamped on them in Cyrillic and latin characters.

At the main warehouse on the base a newly-arrived caravan of trucks from the far southeast near Almatii began to offload their goods. They were scanned and delivered to different sections of the warehouse to organise their next step. Each palette had a barcode, which helped the military keep track of where each palette was and where it was destined for. Most of these would be put on the skylift aircraft, however some of them would wait here before being transferred to an overland caravan.

The crews were ready to take off and enter Boliatur. The had only confirmation from Almatii to wait for.

 

[Tulus and Biminis]

Mrysini, Boliatur

Viktor Kuroff, High Commissioner of Karakhstan, exited his car with his trusty aide in tow. He carried a leather briefcase, the contents of which were detailed documents for a proposed humanitarian effort. He wanted very much to cover his mouth and nose with his handkerchief to put off the wretched stench of decaying bodies and raw sewage, but refused such an action so as not to insult the officials he was about to meet. He was ever the diplomat, perhaps too much so.

He shook hands with those who greeted him and was brought inside where, to his great thanks, the air was filtered and breathable.

'Gentlemen, I want to be as brief as possible. You know why I am here. I am about to show you a plan that we in Karakhstan believe will save many, many lives. It will, however, involve ROK Defence Force personnel and equipment entering Boliatur to distribute needed aid. These convoys will not be offensively armed and they will operate in conjunction with your personnel tasked with humanitarian relief. Now, before I go into more detail I want to know if any of you have questions or concerns.'


OOC: Boliatur, I don't know any names of who Kuroff should be meeting with. Is this top leadership, for example? Just include all of this in your response, thanks!

 

[Northern Cooperative Unions]

OOC: Ten Councilmen and Chairman Nodovinya. The Councilmen are (by lastname) Mozes, Szabó, Varga, Eve, Kovács, Halasz, Olah, Lengyel, Jozsef, Horvat. Most speak and give their two cents in, but mainly just follow Nodovinya around.

The Councilmen scanned the Karakh envoy, each offering a warm smile. Nodovinya slowly stepped to the front of an unorganized group of dirty, suit-clad men. Each appears unkempt, but Magleis is the worst. He has grown a massive, dirty and fuzzy beard. He cleared his throat, his eyes sunken and distant from several days of no sleep and hiding inside of a bunker. The building was literally derelict of all furniture.

"To accept this agreement is in the blood of all Boliaturians. We are being starved by the oppressive tyrants halfway across the world, and yet we still press on. With your aid, my brother, we can finally withstand this blow against our people. My Council has discussed this thoroughly, and we all agree to your friendly offer. I am sure the Boliaturian people will be just as eager."

The Chairman and his Council slowly walked, assuming the envoys walked behind them. They eventually arrived at an old, rusty vault-like door. A rare Boliaturian soldier stood guard, slowly tilting the pad-lock like entrance to fit a passcode. The door slid open to reveal a dank, filtered bunker. The Chairman beckoned inside.

"Show me your thorough plan, my friends. We can work out the details within the vault."

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[Northern Cooperative Unions]

The smell of death had first reached the valley of Balgaa a month ago, but it was not strong. It was the occasional rotting body somewhere in the roads leading to Mrysini. Vaclav's family had long been gone, having fled to Karakhstan with his entire village, and rumor was that Balgaa was empty and open for any looters. The police of his town had left all the young men to fare for themselves and protect their families as they went to the coast or simply ran. The summer rain had not come, and the dry steppes were not gifted with any food. Usually he relied on bought food, although he was unsure where it was imported from. Yujin? Seora? No difference, but there had been no food for weeks. He had heard rumors of the people in Mrysini feasting, and even the Citizen's Council having a ranch of chickens and cattle. He dismissed this, he knew his faithful government was there because of the votes from the people.

Vaclav surveyed the horizon, propping himself up on a makeshift watchtower created by the elder of the town some time ago before he had left. Vaclav was the guardian of his home village now, alone as the entire village went to seek help in the Karakhstan refugee camps or flee through ships. He stared down at the gravesite in which nearly a three-fourths of his town had failed to flee. His mother, his father, his son, and his wife had all died. His cousins and his uncles and aunts had fled. But he stayed. The hungry and sick had been left to fend for themselves. He had a small cough himself, but he simply called it a cold. He knew in the back of his head he was sick from one of many dead bodies he had handled into the mass graves.

He watched over the horizon, leaning on his rifle. His only reassurance of his survival alone out here had left long ago. It was a matter of Boliaturian honor to his village. The Army had said the radio would stop working this day, and Vaclav had come to decide this day was his day to stop working. He looked for forradalom, freedom. He realized that as long as the tyrants of the west were to be, he had no freedom. He undid his hunting knife, the same knife his father had used to eviscerate many herds of ibex. He tossed the rifle into the arid steppe below and sat in the watchtower's chair. He would join his people in Heaven, those who had died from hunger and sickness.

He first stabbed his chest, his eyes widening as he coughed wildly. He dragged the knife down his stomach as his own organs spilled out. He slumped back in his seat, managing a smile. He would rejoin his village.

 

[Northern Cooperative Unions]

The Citizen's Council was small now. Nearly forty men flanked by guards each, and the others having been relocated south to the deserts. Nearly ten councilors were missing, rumored to have fled Boliatur, and news was now arriving of plans for a coup if action was not taken. The group was stark silent, huddled around a rectangular table. The problems presented themselves one after another. It was internal and external strife. The Boliaturian government had to make a gamble to keep up with the agressors, and their friendly steppe-neighbors would have to handle the civilians who did not come to fight for their homeland. It wouldn't look good to the outside world when they found the graves of the starving, but it was not their country. It was Boliaturian tradition to give soldiers all crops during wartime.

Danmark, Eiffelland, Engellex, all foreign places. The Citizen's Council did not have time for trivialities such as names, but they all understood that the idiots of the West would invade an ideology. Deprived of sleep and food themselves, the Citizen's Council would have to soon resort to negotiations either way. Their friends were coming together now, Republicans and people who share the ideals of freedom sending their supplies. Miroslavl, Karakhstan, Oikawa, all friends to the Boliaturian people and saviors.

Boliatur's government was steadfast, or so the government thought themselves to be. Staunch in the face of aggression and colonialism, or as they were taught. Freedom? Already have it!