Ducks in a Row

[Thaumantica]

For what would be recalled as the longest span of monotonous time in recent memory, was the irksome bludgeoning of keyboards who had each found themselves a preoccupied techie to clomp and clump perpetually mobile fingers over their multi-lingual faces. One memorandum to Sjadnbrdo, another to Sevinmek, and some five movement orders to hotfooted infantry marching across Preria for pure sport. Coalition Technical Operators molded their dispatches like imperial artisans would a sculpture for his highness, ramming the voice of exceptionalism through the barriers of space and time. Radio Waves rise in Sarmatia, so a motley of bombs might drop where the kings and snobs of Europe take their morning tea.

Inlaid items for the habits of excess: liquor and tobacco. However, it was neither the luxurious nor reputable labels that enriched the command room; but ordinary vodka, whiskey, and cigars from substandard dealers, or spirits of the common man. They were the caliber of swag the middle-class would use to inebriate nightly, or the swill a rich mans maid might use to wash out stains. God was said to frown on all manners of excess, cheap or costly, and the Zivotun could be counted upon to sin on a budget. Whether the draw to novelty had been lost to their race or culture is always vulnerable to a war of words, but the sheer economic cavity left by martial expeditions of pride could no longer enjoy the decay left by sophisticated refreshments.

Winds that slice through a cold winters night would never reach this mischievous den, for some plucky engineer had gone out of his way to burrow in to the earth, erect a framework of iron, and slather it all with concrete, while still showing kindness to its future occupants by leaving ample area for spacious rooms and corridors that they now toiled through on each and every ungodly day of the year. Like an elegant, if not dysfunctional, family of moles they worked around the clock twenty-four hours a day, and were notorious for spending more of those days beneath Životinje then they were willing to share aloud with each other, some hundreds of feet beneath the Mountains of the Savage Republic.

"Attention . . Attention . ." an innocent voice from a female lieutenant called out over the intercom, "Security Level raised to Blue . . Blue . ."

General Kholov undressed the budding officer in his mind with every sultry word until not an article was left, some SMC relationships were bound to flower (or deflower) into risque escapades of coition between visits from dignitaries who might object on or under these immoral grounds. A shot of the peasants vodka sedated the primal call before it could be aroused, though that was not to say Kholov of Karpatica had regained his composure enough to focus on the task at hand. His head was where his head was where his head was, lost in the translation of lust and national security -- where many sexually repressed men would find themselves if the Midlands were to be galvanized by the seductions of war.

Boot heels thumped round and round in a slow but steady ditty of ill-intent as his reinforcements patrolled open spaces boorishly, stealing oxygen, and reciting tedious incantations of statistics and data that only a spook might be interested in at this juncture. If he could not bear the burden of conversation from a camp of austere Sarmatians, these little birds would be there to swoop in with a chirp and an obligatory stool-dropping. "We're one-hundred and ten percent behind you, sir!" the most junior announced unnecessarily.

So grotesquely lacking the correct accouterments of genitalia, General Kholov dawdled with his cigarette for a few moments before showing that disappointment of a man his middle finger, "Stay where I can keep my eyes on you, lilac. You'll be under my watch in case you faint when this room is filled to the brim with testosterone and smoke".

"Thank-Thank you, sir"

"Don't get it misconstrued, tiger lily, I want to be the first to laugh my ass off when you crack your head on the floor!" Kholov chuckled enough to send himself in to a gruff coughing fit. It was in fact this category of humor gained at the expense of others that sustained him through days that he only suspected to begin or end, and drew him back within its confines after spending a breaths time topside.

With Security Level Blue, one fairly could surmise that at any moment Kholov's circus would procure several roaring lions from the Empire of Greater Sarmatia, or at least a few men he would not want to cross (so obviosuly), so he stood and ordered his entourage to "stand easy" for their timely arrival.

He glared through eyes of a grayish shade at the nearest blast door, which had taken to howling like his damsel of the intercom; brooding with dissatisfaction over what womanly wiles were not to be anticipated from an Empire of Men, for Men, and most consequentially ruled by menfolk: his nations erstwhile arch-nemesis, and incessantly callous and abusive kinfolk of Sarmatia.

 

[Beautancus]

Stepping through the maw of the blast door and into yet more of the poorly lit gloom that had thus far greeted him since his arrival in this forsaken outpost of Životun military intelligence underwhelmed Brigadier Uriah Khazurin. Though far more willing to acknowledge that "those people" were capable of actually having such a thing - military intelligence- at least now, after slightly more than a year of rather intense cooperation- it still seemed something of an oddity to have actually descended into the very bowels of one of "their" nerve centers.

Having already carefully inspected the myriad of bronze citations decorating the left breast, collar tabs, and shoulder patches of his dress greens, Khazurin was more than sure that he would easily typify the image that the Imperial Armed Forces wished to present to its southwestern sibling...a sibling that had been quarrelsome in the past more often than not.

All of those past melodramas, however epic, aside- it was something of a proud moment for Khazurin, personally, to have been selected for this mission. There were thousands of highly intellectual statisticians in every branch of the Armed Forces that might have been selected to make the journey (and like Khazurin, many of them had even pulled a bit of combat duty, and satisfactorily at that), but something in Khazurin's jacket had caught someone important's eye.

Best not to disappoint now that he was, above all else. Though the price of failure in the Imperial Armed Forces were certainly not as immediately high or severe as in Kijów or Oikawa...better to not even consider it. Hell, far better to consider the delicious young thing that was apparently serving Kholov as an adjutant. It was not entirely uncommon for such specimens to serve in similar respects within the Empire...but very rarely in roles that were so highly sensitive. Yes, she would provide a fine distraction, whoever she was.

Rather than inspiring some new confidence in this venture in Khazurin, it did rather the opposite however. It forced him to recall that he'd been afforded a clutch of subordinates, who could just as easily fuck him with some momentary spat of incompetence as he could himself. Casting an obviously stern glance back at them, a coterie of mostly bare-faced gentile junior officers...all of whom were ugly and unfortunately male...unfortunate from the perspective that mattered the most to whom at this moment. There was always pussy to be had, always. He knew he could count on that from the Živs, as much as he could count upon strong- if cheap- drink and tobacco.

And the moment, or second, had arrived at last- despite, or perhaps in spite of, all of Khazurin's wildly rambling inner dialogue. It being beyond a doubt that Kholov was intimately aware of who Khazurin was, and now that he'd been in the installation for some few minutes, and the Union for several hours, it was entirely likely that he knew exactly what Khazurin looked like, and had at least a few of his mannerisms down.

Disregarding all of that- being largely incapable of pushing his Khazaro-Sarmatian etiquette aside- Khazurin dipped his head slightly and proffered a salute, in the typically stiff clenched fist Sarmatian style. "General Kholov, please allow me to extend the deepest thanks and warmest regards of the Empire for this opportunity to further expand the interconnectedness of our mutual struggles throughout the world. It is of the greatest interest, both to Stary Hrodino and to myself, that we account for the wholeness of our combined assets, and streamline them, as quickly as possible...as you no doubt are already aware."

Sweeping his hand back and motioning one of his subordinates forward, Khazurin presented the hardened laptop to Kholov before opening it. "Before we proceed, I believe it best that we discuss a very recent development in the schema of our own deployments...something that might be called a game-changer, in point of fact."

 

[Thaumantica]

He was the type of man who kept his hair long, and his words short. While fear from his subordinates was the aim, a misfire within the range of hate or homicide would get the job done. As an Officer riding a career that spanned nearly thirty years - perhaps merely a handful of these dreary evenings remained for him as a forgotten pawn, tucked away beneath the ground. Apprehension could easily be recognized somewhere between the scent and sight of smoke, but nowhere was it more prevalent then upon General Kholav's long pale face. Throwing up a lazily assembled salute with his right hand, the left was beckoned to coolly sift through his silver, remembered by his peers as menacing black, hair.

Given the circumstance, Sarmatians in a Zivofortress, the atmosphere had most surprisingly been restored to a relaxing lull before the unkept Commander retook his seat. Taking solace in the comfort of a warm chair, Kholav resumed an obscure train of thought from hours past (of warfare in a video game simulation of the Great War) before properly acknowledging his blatantly smug guests. Rank preceded name, and Kholov was of the mind that no one present was interested in cracking the nut which was his unrefined personality.

"That I am, Brigadier" he replied to Khazurin's suggestion that both were aware of the anticipated topic of resource coordination. "But for the love of our Lord God, do not thank me until I have saved your life, or taken one for you!", a paraphrase from the late Haralamb Munteanu, Marshal of the Union at a time when Zivotinje hungered for violence in the meanest and most insufferable of ways. In those times democracy was a joke, and dictators were doing the laughing. In the early winter of twenty-ten, the punchline had been exahausted, and accountability took precedence at long last. Still, while Midlanders were slaying dragons the size of lizards, the likes of Dionis Huszar toiled and craved with a bloodlust for much much more.

People, common folk, were effectively overwhelmed by the burden of peacekeeping in Barazi and Abruzicstan, and the economy could be classified as haplessly staggered. Men of ambition and courage, however, were cognisant of the underwhelming exercise of military assets (human or material) at the Marshals disposal. "As a Corps of Volunteers, we are operating at a modest thirty percentile of manpower in active participation in combat missions, and an aerial hindrance of mundane transport operations".

"Open a newspaper, Brigadier, you'll read how Zivs are on the run; averting defeat through stubborn luck" an imaginary newspaper was flipped open in thin air with Kholav's knockabout hands, "but open one of these" he suggested, dropping his invisible newspaper to point out a set of manila folders that had been all but concealed by the Sarmatian's toughbook, "you might discover the privileged condition we truly find ourselves in . . I pray that God rewards us for the mayhem we are about to unleash, or so help me, I will do it for free!" Kholav then motioned for his counterparts to make their presentation, "Don't get me wrong, I like the technology you've brought to the table, but I'll always be partial to the sight of incriminating evidence going up in flames, if you know what I mean".