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Generals, Governments and the God-Awful

Bergenheim

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A cold-wind blew across the parade-grounds of the Konigsruhe parade-ground. It blew, and kicked up soft clumps of unsettled snow, unmarked by the tread of jackboot or the shovel of the draftees whose job it was to keep the parade ground clean.

Lotti Degurechaff watched the snows fall. From the high, double-sided windows that marked her office, she could see relatively clearly into the white-blue gloom outside. She could almost see the grey-green mass of the forest beyond.

Swirling, senseless chaotic patterns were formed in the snow, and for a moment she watched mesmerised.

It was not like she had anything better to do.

As First Fist of the Republic, General of the National Defence Forces, her responsibilities were numerous. They were also relatively meaningless.

It was always worst at this time of year, she thought. Thousands saved up their holiday time, or used deferment excuses, or any and every dodge in the book to be home for the Christmas Holidays. If Crotobaltoslavonia decided to invade on Christmas Day, it would make it to the steps of the Midweis House of Burghers before it found any resistance.

And the only resistance theyd meet then, she thought, would be the drunken and unruly mercenaries who filled the streets of the capital.

She turned her attention back from the cold and dark, and towards the warm, almost palatial confines of her office. It was a strange hybrid of the early modern and the modern. A large, old-fashioned radiator plinked away in the empty fire-place. Her modern, Gouw-Marken imported desk and sleek black, highbacked office chair felt distinctly out of place in this room designed for the Roccoco era. But so did she.

Lotti ran her fingers along the edge of the window. The glass had been replaced long ago with bullet-proof plexiglass, but the walls felt...thin, to her. Any assassin could easily kill her from out there, with a single .50 caliber bullet. Right through her pretty little head.

The General sat, regardless, settling into her comfy, plush modern chair. She caught a glimpse of herself in the small, oval-shaped desk-mirror, that she had placed so she could see behind herself, towards the window, when sat like this. A paranoid precaution from her younger, more militant days.

It now mostly served as a way for her to make sure her hair wasn't too messy when receiving visitors.

At Fourty-one, Lotti Degurechaff was the youngest person to ever hold this post. Also one of the first females, though the first was back in 1972. A more progressive age, she thought. Andrea Grossmann had been sixty-two, a hausfrau and an Olympic Champion Shotputter. They had called her Andrea Grossmutter, and her reign as First Fist had been, in Lotti's opinion, a golden age, now long past.

Looking at herself, she sighed. How could anyone take them seriously, when she herself still looked, miraculously, like she was barely into her twenties? Ice-blue eyes, puffy-lips, a mess of blonde-hair, and a boyish-slim body. One thing- or perhaps two-that at least distinguished her from the Milchmadchen whose posters adorned the lockers of most of her men.


She turned her attention back to her laptop, and the assortment of paperwork- both hard and soft copies- that awaited her. She should have had a secretary. A whole team of secretaries. But this time of year, it was just her and the cleaning staff that filled the Konigsruhe Headquarters.

She took it seriously, damnit. She was the Devil of the Line, the Little General, the Iron Bitch. She had joined the military at fifteen, looking all of twelve, and had been punching and kicking and shouting her way up ever since.

And now here she was, at the very top, only to realise everybody else more worthy had gone into the private sector, to make huge money as security consultants or mercenary captains.

She checked her twatter again. A bad habit, but one she shared with most of the Greater Council. She smirked. Her twatter follower numbers were almost the same as the number of men and women she commanded on paper.

40,000. The National Defence Forces, in theory comprising a portion of the entire adult male and female population of Bergenheim, at any one time could in theory be 250,000 to 300,000 strong. But nobody took it seriously, anymore. She had 40,000 men who showed up most of the year, and of them, maybe half a dozen companies she'd call -really- serious soldiers.

It was funny, she thought, drumming her fingers on her smooth, varnished desk. You spend your whole life hoping for a rest, hoping there's peace at the top...

And that's exactly what you got.

But now, she was bored. Eiffeland had refused her efforts to purchase their top-of-the-line assault rifles. They'd offered their standard 1950s crap instead. She should have taken the offer. Give them something to hold while they march up and down the square, she thought.

Its not like they'll ever fire a shot in anger.

No, she wanted more than that. She wanted...well, God forgive her, she wanted some damn action. She wanted to jump out of an airplane with the Jagerkommandos, parachute into some Kadikistani command post, kill everyone and get a real fucking medal.

What was she doing here, an unmarried tomboy with the face of a twenty year old, commanding the entire national defence?

Fuck it. Everybody else was goofing off for Christmas. Time to give herself an early Christmas present, she thought.

She picked up the phone on her desk, and began dialling the Jagerkommandos.
 
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Bergenheim

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ACT I-
GENERALS



The Albatross Nest stood tall and remote from the cold waters of the Polesian Sea, a huge and formidable naval defence platform built at the one mile mark from shore. The Polesian Coast of Bergenheim was rocky, remote, and had few ports.

But back in the 70s there had been a conviction that oil and natural gas lay in the Polesian, and in a rare mood of national avarice the Administration funded the construction of three defence platforms to lay claim to their share, of which only one ever achieved full completion.

Officially abandoned, the Albatross Nest now served as one of the Jagerkommando's operating facilities. It was to this remote location, on the very eastern edge of Bergenheim territory, a water-lapped citadel with its Radar pointed towards Trivodnia and Ruthenia, that General Degurechaff now found herself travelling to.

The whine of the heavy utility helicopter's blades almost deafened her, sat tightly strapped into the back of this vehicle. The churn and bump rattled her, but she was used to it. Despite her slender build, she had never shyed away from the more active parts of service.

"Pass data accepted, roger wilco. Permission to land granted on Western Airpad, over and out." The crackle of response came from the tower over the headphones, and the pilot leaned back to give her a thumbs up. She simply scowled back at him.

Whipping about in the wind, high from the conning tower, the battered, sea-sprayed flag of the JKK(Jagerkommando-Kraft) could be seen. An elite special operations force put together out of the older Jager and Anorimer Mountain units in the 60s, the JKK now encompassed both elite mountain, sea and urban tactical operations, its personnel all highly trained for a multitude of counter-insurgency and black ops purposes.

They were by far Degurechaff's best asset. They were also about as expensive as a whole division. It was long overdue, she felt, for her to put them to some good use.

She stepped out of the chopper as soon as it had touched down, blades still whipping about overhead. The wind threatened to knock her into the Polesian sea, thirty metres below. She hurried forward, her tousled blonde hair whipping about wildly, the smell of brine and motor oil stinging her nostrils.

A man in a heavy green sou'wester and tactical gear greeted her with a smart salute. "Welcome to the Albatross, Fraulein General."

"Please, a simple ma'am or sir will suffice." She yelled to be heard, waving away the formality. "You are Lieutenant Colonel Student?"

The man gave her an eerie-wide grin, two razor-blade scars either side of his mouth. A disfigurement that he had earned in a bar brawl. He badly wanted his nickname to be Totenkopf. Instead it was Lachenjunge.

"Let's get inside. I've assembled the whole crew."

Once inside, shaking the wind and wet from her hair, she gratefully unzipped her heavy green flight-suit, revealing her crisp field-grey staff officer uniform below. Gold-frogging adorned her shoulders, along with the three stars of a Korpkommandant. She was the only person in Bergenheim who wore this uniform in active service at present.

The mess hall inside was rather cramped, and the tempting smell of freshly cooked goulash wafted through the hall. About thirty-five men and a handful of women were gathered, living cheek by jowl on this cramped oversized oil rig. A rather wilted looking christmas-tree was in the corner, decorated with baubles.

The sight reminded her of her strange purpose, and filled her with determination. Perhaps, in another time or context, she might have felt bad for wanting to do this, with these men, at a time of holiday and celebration.

But she could think of no better time for executing this plan.

"At ease, all." She said calmly, and the room quickly relaxed. Student towered next to her, a wild mess of scraggly brown-grey hair. The man looked like he wished he could wear an eyepatch as well, or at least have a peaked cap. Sadly, that type of headgear had been retired from service long ago.

She stood up on one of the cafeteria tables unselfconsciously, and looked down at the curious, quizzical, tired faces of the gathered commandos.

No doubt most of them, too, had been hoping for holiday leave. A respite from another year of gruelling training, of mountain-hiking, of deep-sea diving, of fighting in mock-towns and storming parked air-planes to practice their exhausting and demanding trade.

Well, now she was going to give them all a very strange, and yet very appropriate gift.

"Gentlemen. I love my country." She began. "I love her so much that I have dedicated myself to her, body and soul, in a career where I may defend her, no matter how feeble my form or how devalued my duty."

There were murmurs in the mess, uncertainty. They probably couldn't begin to imagine why their top boss would visit them at this time of year, in so remote a location, alone without her usual staff entourage.

"Gentlemen, I presume those of you here are here mostly by choice. You may have families. You may wish you were home, for Christmas. I do not blame you. But you chose to be Jagerkommandos. I presume you did so, not because you want to make great amounts of money, or because you enjoy sitting in this rustheap, but because, deep down, you love your country as much as I do."

There was no laughter at her mild joke. Simply curious, blank faces. She pressed on.

"What I am about to propose is a highly dangerous, and completely top secret mission. I will accept only the most committed of volunteers. Let me be clear. We will be going into extreme danger, and whatever happens, success, failure, life, death, you cannot ever tell another living soul. If you feel you cannot meet these terms, then please remain where you are. Enjoy your goulash. I was never here. But if you are as insane as me, then by all means, follow me and your Lieutenant-Colonel into the adjacent briefing room. We have work to do, this Christmas."

She allowed her words to hang in the air for a long moment, before she saluted them, jumped down from the table, and walked into the cramped briefing room, the long-table scattered with detritus and navigational and depth charts for the surrounding waters. On the board behind her was a faded radar map of the entire Polesian Sea.

It wasn't long before the entire base began filing into the briefing room, most electing to stand, their eyes grim.

She waited untill the last one had joined them, and she looked at them all. She gave them a wide, slightly evil looking smile.

"Thank you, my countrymen. God bless you for your service. Now, to business..." She cleared a space on the conference table, and unrolled her much crumpled, creased map.

"This will be our mission."
 
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Bergenheim

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The skies over the Polesian Sea were pitch-black, save for the driving sleet-winds, flickers of snow so sharp they were but momentarily glistening razors.

The roar of powerful rotors pushed through the blackness, shimmering, churning waves not far below. Three Super Puma heavy utility transport helicopters in total, more than enough for what the mission demanded. Some might think it would be crazy to fly a Puma in this kind of weather, but the Little General knew her army's equipment well.

She looked across at the dozen or so fully outfitted Jagerkommandos sharing the cramped helicopter space with her. She had picked up a furlined, water-proof sou'wester for this mission, and the heavy hood engulfed her petite head, wild, idiot straw-blonde hair poking out from under the rim. Her breath warmed her own face, for like most of the commandos she had elected to wear a balaclava. Wrapped up as she was in all-weathers gear, all rank insignia and identifying marks concealed, she looked nothing so much as like some sort of black-faced yeti.

Even the millitary insignia had been wiped clean from the helicopters they were in with black-light. They were an army without banners, black dogs coursing in the night.

She remembered the legend of the Wild Hunt, and as such had elected to name this Operation Erlkonig. They were, from now untill the end, Teufelhunde.

"We're coming in on the target space now." A low, muffled voice came over her headset. She picked up her chosen weapon for this operation, a customised bolt-action rifle she had brought along for the occasion.

The low, rocky outline of the Polesian Coast could be seen dimly through the sleet and fog. They were flying low over the waves, to avoid radar detection.

Ahead lay foreign territory.

"We're in foreign airspace. There's no turning back now. This is invasion."

Within half a minute they had crossed from sea to coast, the black below replaced by frightfully close hinterland. Within another minute they would be on top of a fishing village, identified as a major smuggling route for drugs, used by a major Polesian cartel.

She didn't know the details. She wasn't supposed to know this sort of thing, it was Police business. But she'd leveraged her contacts at the National Police Committee, and drawn up a list of a half dozen targets along this coast.

All of which she planned to erase from the map by the end of this night.

"Weapons check."

A last minute series of checks were performed, as faceless warriors prepared for their duty.

"Remember, we shoot to kill. No Survivors."

With the issuing of that last, highly illegal order, she was now fully committed to this course of action. If anyone ever suspected, she could face a war crimes tribunal at the very least.

She tried to tell herself she was doing it for her country. Because the drugs trade was a growing menace she was ill equipped to deal with by normal means. But the truth was, a part deep inside of her yearned for this.

She shuddered at the thought. She was a combat junkie, all right.

"D Minus Five...Four...Three...Two...One...Drop!"

With a sudden, stomach-churning lurch, the helicopter broke over the tops of the village, a church spire emerging from the gloom mere feet below. The hatches dropped, and the interior was suddenly filled with the roar of the wind and the icy cold.

The Jagerkommandos began their rapid, silent descent onto the church's gabled roof, and from there down into the village.

She would not be dropping with them. It was far too dangerous for that. Still, she wished she could at least provide fire support.

The men in black began to fan out, submachine guns and carbines at the ready.

A sleepy sentry, some 'Slavonian citizen with a shotgun, emerged a distance below, awakened by the thunderous roar from above. A storm, he thought.

Thwip-thwip.

Two short, silent bursts ended his life. The first of many extrajudicial murders she would be responsible for tonight. She licked her lips. War's hell all right.

"You have five minutes. Good hunting, Teufelhunde."

The helicopters cargo discharged, they quickly roared back into the night, to circle from afar. She watched as the village vanished below, her heart racing. She really should feel worse about all this, she thought. Well, she could always go to a priest and confess. She grinned at the idea. She doubted any Supreme Being would approve of a creature like her.
 

Bergenheim

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Operation Erlkonig took all of five minutes to complete. Six villages, thirty-seven designated criminal targets, all successfully neutralised, and the entire raid force inserted and extracted without any loss of life. As far as they knew, they hadn't been detected.

Degurechaff was unhappy about only one thing. She'd not gotten an opportunity to fire her rifle. She caressed her customised Gottenschilt, a Steyr Mannlicher with an enlarged chamber and reciever to fire custom dragon's breath-tipped rifle rounds. Even if the round didn't blow your head out, it would certainly set it on fire. Expensive overkill, but she treasured it like a gift from God.

Holding it allowed her to pretend, if even for a moment, that she was a real warrior, and not an armchair general for the army of a nation of bureaucrats and watchmakers.

The helicopter-ride back through the storm, though no less rough or choppy, was one filled with cautious, tense elation. They were silent, but the mood was palpable. They'd done it, they'd really done it.

Now the only question that remained was: Had they gotten away with it?

Dawn was breaking as they landed at the Albatross's Nest. Within seconds they had exited the cramped, fuel-smelling transports, and were racing indoors for hot chow and showers. Lotti lingered behind, and watched as the ground-crews methodically began hosing the helicopters down. When someone came back with fresh paint, She raised a gloved hand.

"No. Its risky. Best to lose them." She folded her arms thoughtfully. "We will lose these helicopters in the transport pool. I'll send over some fresh Tigers. You all deserve better rides anyway." She smirked.

Colonel Student came out to see her, his face grinning in its distinctive, evil way. This man was a born killer, much like herself.

"An excellent little excursion, Meine Kommandant. But I doubt, having tasted blood, our Teufelhunde will be content with just one raid."

She nodded in response to that. "We have begun something today, its true. I will consider wether there will be further...opportunities, in the new year. Untill then, rest your men. Keep them away from shore, give them a merry time of it here, but keep everyone lying low. You understand?"

"Of course...ma'am." He saluted her stiffly.
"You know they've another nickname for you now. They're calling you simply...Boss."

She turned away, to hide her expression. A personality cult was never her goal, but...

"I'll send over some party favours for Christmas. Hope it'll make up for the...well." She gestured widely to the shitty, creaking, rain-soaked platform they were standing on.

He chuckled. "Aren't you going to stay? At least for a little while. The men would like to toast their victory with their commanding officer."
"I'm not their commanding officer, Student. I didnt fire a shot in anger the entire operation. I'm just the one who set the whole thing in motion."

She began stripping the sou'wester and gloves. "You have a shower/changing room I can use in private? I need to prepare for my return."

She sighed inwardly. Now came the hard part.

"I have a wife to go back to. Can't be smelling of motor oil and gunsmoke, can I?"
 

Bergenheim

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(ooc note: This will be the last post of the first part of this segment of Generals, Governments and the God-Awful. I'll try to do a bit more on King's Sword before starting the "governments" section of this three-part tale. Rest assured, however, Lotti Degurechaff and her adventures are far from over)

Midweis, Capital of Bergenheim, Midwinter's Eve(December 21st)

The bright midwinter's sun hung faintly in the clear skies, its wan light seeming to suffuse the snow that lay crisp and even. The grounds around the Konigsruhe Headquarters and Army Base were pristine, wide open lawns and 18th century gardens, now given a light dusting of thin snow, making everything look faintly cake-like.

Natalya Srebinoff, the Civil Partner of Bergenheim's Head of the Armed Forces, couldn't help but feel like a giddy child, wiping away the misting on the glass with her sleeve, as she looked out on the winter wonderland that seemed to surround their home.

"It's only four more days till Christmas, Lotti." She grinned, her cornflower-blue eyes wide with excitement. "Our first Christmas living together in an actual mansion!"

Lotti Degurechaff yawned sleepily, her hair even more messy than usual, as she padded to her partner's side, still wearing a thick, pastel-pink dressing-gown with a cartoon bunny-rabbit on it. She had only just gotten back from her little excursion, with a slight detour to make sure everything needed to cover her tracks was set in place.

It was somewhat surreal, to stand beside her life partner, and look out on an enlightenment-era Christmas tableaux, as if she hadn't gotten blood on her hands. As if she wasn't a war criminal.

No, she suppressed those thoughts ruthlessly. She'd done what had to be done. And she could sleep soundly, in this luxury, with the woman she'd married, knowing that all of it was justified. She'd earned all of this, damnit.

Lotti reached up and flicked some of Natalya's long brown hair out of the way. "You should come back to bed. I dont have anything scheduled of major importance till the afternoon. Besides, you know I'm not a morning person."

Natalya gave Lotti one of her childish pouts, before startling the grouchy little general with a warm bear-hug. "Does my little warlord need her loyal concubine to warm her feet in bed? Oh, heavens, I pray some handsome man saves me from your cruel tyrannies."

Lotti rolled her eyes. "Quit being overdramatic. And you were in the service too. You chose to quit all that for this. I didn't make you."

Natalya huffed. "Oh, I was just playing around. Do you want me to bring you breakfast in bed? I can't lie around on a morning like this. I have to be doing -something-. Oh, I can feel Christmas in the air!"

While her buxom bed buddy ran off in her short pajamas, the bottoms riding up between her butt-cheeks, Lotti scratched her head dazedly. How she had ever managed to convince such a woman to hang around a short stature soldier-girl like her was a mystery. But Natalya's fantasies of being her servant extended beyond the verbal. Sometimes Lotti wondered if, in another life and another place, they really were boss and subordinate, or teacher and student, or commander and lieutenant, or something.

In reality, however, Natalya seemed quite confident in forging her own path in life, and tended to obey Lotti only in the most private of spaces, for the most...private of purposes. Otherwise, she couldn't compel the Kadikistani girl to do anything she didn't want to.

Reluctantly, despite her own fatigue and desire to just snooze the day away, she went back into the bed-room to change. She wasn't quite fully off duty for the holidays yet, but she had managed to outsource much of her paperwork to her real subordinates, so she had a little time to herself yet.

Natalya returned with a breakfast tray, a mobile phone, and a loving kiss.

"Look at you, all smart in your uniform." She smirked again. "And here I was thinking my warlord was going to ravage me after breakfast..."

Lotti reddened at that. "Well, I guess work can wait a little longer..."

She shoved some toast in Degurechaff's mouth.

"Eat first. I know you're not following your diet at work, but you can at least pretend to keep a healthy appetite by eating some Gallic toast."

Lotti sat back down on the bed, the breakfast tray slid between them. She looked up into Natalya's wonderfully blue eyes, and for a moment she thought she could see the dark Polesian sea, rushing out before her, in the blacks of Natalya's iris.

She looked away for a moment, awkwardly, and focused on eating toast. "You're too good for me, you know that?"

"I'm exactly as good as the General needs, or wants." She teased once again.

"Maybe I've been naughty." She grinned. "Maybe this General needs a firm discpline for her wicked ways..."

"I thought you said you had some work to do? Organising Border patrols, or something like that?"

"Eh, that's not our problem anymore. Government settled with the Border Guards again. Against my advice. And I rather think they can wait, don't you?" She took her hat off, and leaned it on Natalya's own head at an angle, provocatively.

"Seems like you're the General right now..."

"Well, alright. But just a little while..."

The tray was swept aside in short order.

She would be ten minutes late to her meeting, but nobody really minded. This was Bergenheim, afterall. Who would ever threaten her national defences? Things could afford to move at a more sedate pace, especially at Christmas.
 

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A Christmas Interlude
The snow was drifting lightly in the still air, clumping cosily around the thick windows of the Konigsruhe Palace.
The 18th century manor grounds served as both headquarters for the Bergenheim National Defence Forces, and also private residence for its appointed head and his/her family.

The impressive ball-room of this estate was filled with guests this Christmas Eve, both official and unofficial. Strelienoff's family mingled nervously with the functionaries and officials of Bergenheim's upper millitary and national security elite.

Dressed in her immaculate field dress, only her peaked cap missing, Lotti Degurechaff endeavoured, despite her diminutive size, to dominate the room through sheer force of will. Her efforts to seem commanding and imposing were only undermined whenever she caught sight of her lovely wife, gliding through the room in a beautiful white dress, starkly off-setting her own black uniform.

Ignoring this distraction as best she could, Lotti invited several of her most distinguished guests to partake of sherry and cigars in the Drawing Room, and to discuss more pressing matters. The room milled about as they left, music provided by the Republic Army Choir and Band, who played and sang a series of gentle and traditional Germanic Christmas songs, as well as a few more contemporary hits.

Once safely ensconced in the drawing room, she poured herself a glass of fortified brandy. The business they were about called for strong drink, she felt. And it was Christmas. Surely one could indulge?

"I take it we're not discussing minced pies in here."

Lotti turned, and faced the group of Six Very Important Men she had gathered here today. Air Force Marshall Gerhard Barkhorn, National Police Committee Superintendant Conan Lawliet Edogan, National Intelligence Agency Colonel Walther C Donez, Border Guards General Armstrong, and the Chief Commissars of the Yharnam and Midheim Regional Police.

"Yes, one might get a very suspicious vibe from this sort of gathering." advised Superintendant Edogan. "Why have you called us here, Frau General? I would guess some urgent matter of national security, but since this is not the House of Burghers or the Archchancellor's Office..."

Lotti shot the annoying, sunken-eyed man a withering look. "Gentlemen. Yes, you've guessed right. I have called you here to discuss a very important matter. One that the civillian authorities have...yet to act decisively on. I propose no conspiracy, only co-ordination. Something that is gravely lacking in this country, right now."

"Would this be about your rifles?" General Armstrong huffed. "Not our problem. And my boys didn't appreciate the way you spoke to the press so candidly about your...alternative."

"It didn't matter did it?" She responded "The civillian government gave you what you wanted. But that's not what I have called you all here to discuss. Our...various internal priorities aside, I have a far more important matter on the table."

She placed her phone on the table in front of her, and thumbed the screen to show off a map of the border with Crotobaltislavonia.

"As you have all become aware, we have a growing criminal problem. The Slavonian syndicates, who may be co-operating with the MacLeish clan and Yiddish mafia, have been importing not just Blud, but several hundred tonnes of hard drugs every month into our country. I blame noone for this, I am simply stating facts."

"The drug matter is something we are taking very seriously, but we don't see how-"

She cut off the Chief Commissar for Yharnam. "I know you're doing your best with what you have. But thats my point. We all each of us have only a small piece of the puzzle. I propose we co-ordinate."

"That's exactly what we were set up to do." The Superintendant interjected. "And again, its not a military matter."

"Actually, the General may have a point." Walter Donez spoke up from where he was leaning, his tones clipped and smooth. "Our...sources indicate that there is an ongoing escalation of drug violence across Gallia-Germania. The Eiffelanders are prosecuting a lead on the MacLeish right now, and I know for certain my counter-parts in Trivodnia are trying to produce some impressive results ahead of the election."

"Indeed." Lotti spoke harshly. This conversation was being pulled too many directions, she had to take firm control.

"This is a matter of national security. No, it is a matter of national pride. Its not just drugs, or arms, or the sex trafficking. Its that an international network of foreigners have sullied our sacred borders, have slandered our pride, and polluted our sacred Homeland. We owe it not just to ourselves, but to our countrymen, to work diligently and together to root out and eliminate these crooks everywhere they may be found."

"Everywhere?" asked Donez. He was a sharp one, Lotti noted. Someone to be careful around.

Lotti put her glass of half-drunk brandy down, and slammed her fist into her palm.

"Gentlemen. We can make a difference. We each have resources the others need. Let us share information, and share our assets, and take this syndicate and all its affiliates and supporters apart, branch, root and stem."

Armstrong murmured approvingly. "Our boys stand ready to do their bit for the Homeland, General. I would be happy to smash the communi- i mean, the criminals."

Lotti smiled. "Excellent. Any objections? No? Good. Then let us celebrate this occasion, and Christmas. Our wives and partners are waiting in the ball-room, im sure."

There were murmurs of laughter, and a clink of brandy glasses. The Gang of Seven had been formed, Lotti thought to herself. Though, as she caught Walter's eye, she suspected he knew what she was up to here.

As they left, he gently whispered to her. "Ambitious aren't we? Is it true you were born a man?"

Such a bold statement might have provoked her in another context. But she replied suavely. "No. Were you?"

Walter smiled. "You will go far, Frau General. But be careful where you tread. The heights are slippery in Bergenheim."
 

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ACT II
GOVERNMENTS
For two hundred years, the seat of civillian power in Bergenheim has been the Midstrasse Building, a conjoined complex that takes up the entirety of Midstrasse, the former merchant quarter in the heart of Midweis. Rising above all of the ramshackle early 19th-century houses is the Midweis Clock Tower, an elaborate mechanism that precisely sounds the hour, as well as charting the progression of the moon and stars in her orbit.

Tourists visit the Clock Tower throughout the year, but today, at this time, it was closed to the public.

Tradition stated that the House of Burghers could not open before it was formally reconvened by the Keyholders on 1st January. So, shivering in their exquisite fur-coats, the Cabinet was meeting now in the Clock Tower, or more precisely the offices below its enormous mechanism.

Arch-chancellor Sigrid Vogt looked serene, despite the constant rumble and churn of gears overhead. She found the white noise soothing, a reminder that the business of government and power went on, like a finely tuned machine, regardless of whether there was anyone there to tend it or not.

She was a stern woman in her early sixties, close-cropped white hair and steely grey eyes. She wore an immaculate black women's office suit, and a skirt that went down to just above her ankles. She had her hands clasped in front of her, locked together tight as a vice, as she sat, cross-legged, beneath the crest of the nation, two keys crossed over the Schwarzekreuz.

Facing her, across a plain wooden table, were the nervous faces of the entire Inner Council, those appointed by her or inherited from previous administrations. Only absent were the other Chancellors, and the First Fist- ah yes, here she came now.

Sigrid regarded the late arrival of her General with implacable cool.

"I am glad we are all here now." She said, with slightly raised voice.

"It is time that we co-ordinated on our actions. I know some have taken....initiative to handle the situation. Understandable, but perhaps also regrettable." She carefully avoided looking at General Degurechaff as she did so.

"Events have rapidly spiralled out of hand. Multiple Great Powers now threaten the sovereignty of a troubled neighbour. I take it you made it out of Banja Luka safely, First Hand Zweigler?"

The young, blonde diplomat blushed a little. Her...close trade talks with Minister Jedreck had come to an been unfortunately interrupted, in the middle of...intimate discussion. It was unclear if such close relations with the Farrago Regime or its coterie would ever be sought again. But Zweigler had moved on with aplomb, and appeared now to be working on a costume to court Xinhai with.

"Yes, Archchancellor."

"Good. Our position must be stated, clearly and unanimously. Our neutrality and sovereignty cannot be compromised, under any circumstances. I call on all of you, as the chosen agents of my government, to work together. I understand the First Fist has already taken steps to better co-ordinate already."

Lotti was defiant, and held Vogt's gaze. "I have simply begun what should have been done a long time ago. Greater security cohesion and co-ordination. How many refugees spill over our mountain borders even as we speak?"

"Now is not the time for questions, First Fist." Vogt reprimanded sharply.

"The New Year's Opening Speech is one of the most important political events in the Bergenheim political calendar. It will be even more important now. I intend to announce our position as mediator, and to invite all the great powers to halt events and come to talks in Midweis. I will be relying on you, Miss Zweigler, to soften up the delegates when they arrive. However, I will talk to the major representatives personally, to show how seriously we are taking this."

There were murmurs around the table. The Archchancellor was typically not a public-facing figure. But, Vogt conceded inwardly, that had been part of the problem. That would change.

"The rest of you, business will continue as it always has. We will fortify our borders as necessary, but no other changes will be taken. The Crisis will not disturb the peace of Bergener life."

"But Archchancellor-"
"Food prices-"
"The roads-"

A chorus of voices sprung up, chattering incessantly, a host of issues clamouring for attention. She let them talk themselves out. Lotti maintained her composure as well as the Archchancellor, though the anger in her eyes was plainly evident. For all that girl's brilliance, Sigrid thought, she still had a youthful spark of impetuosity. Almost enviable, really.

"You have heard our will. We will deal with the objections of the other Chancellors and the House come January. We stand strong, we do not appear fazed, and we calmly invite a return to civil discourse."

"And what if that fails?" Lotti asked, sharply.

The silence of the room was broken only by the loud, muffled booms of the chiming clock above.

"It's one o clock. Time for lunch." Sigrid said, rising cooly from her seated position.

The room quickly broke up as they ran to get warm food. It was not very well heated here in the Clock tower, unlike the sumptuous Midstrasse Building.

Lotti remained, even as the Archchancellor left.

She looked up at the crest for a few moments, and then left.
 

Bergenheim

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On the 2nd January 1798, High Protector Oskar von Darkenseele liquidated the rump House of Burghers that he had put together after the First House had refused to implement his Universal Human Act. He had then ruled the next three years as a reluctant autocrat, even as his short-lived Humanist Republic was attacked from all sides.

This little bit of trivia was not forgotten by General Degurechaff, who had been something of a fan-girl of Oskar when she'd been learning history as a school-girl. However, she did not see herself as Oskar right now.

The Archchancellor on the other hand...

The whirlwind of power moves she had unleashed was breath-taking. For someone who had been struggling in the polls and with the utility of social media, Sigrid Vogt seemed to have found some balls at last.

Her popularity seemed to rise the more bold policy initiatives she announced. It was a truly incredible 180 from her milquetoast and feminist-orientated domestic policy goals of even a few weeks ago.

Despite her own ambitions, Lotti found herself being sucked along in Vogt's wake, as she set out to almost overnight turn herself into an International Stateswoman.

Sigrid was talking now, her crows-feet and age-worn face smoothly hidden behind expertly applied make-up. Lotti smirked to herself. She doubted any of the men here, or that youngster Angela, knew what Sigrid really looked like before her team of stylists had made her up for the day.

"I want a smooth transition from airport to the conference centre. Can the Gendarmerie manage that? I'm sure we have a little more in the way of emergency funds for extra part-time security if not."

"No, hiring the Eagle Legion won't be necessary." The Commissar hastened to assure her. Like most of the Cabinet in this meeting, they seemed mildly alarmed by Sigrid's sudden inner fire. I wonder if she's related to Von Darkenseele?

Sigrid's eyes glowed with dynamic determination. "Good. Next item on the agenda....The Draft. Degurechaff, where are we on this?"

Lotti snapped to attention. "I can begin calling in reservists tomorrow. But with the weather...I fear its been too long since we've had a mobilisation drill. Many people wont know how to react to a mobile phone text ordering them to the nearest barracks. Most don't even know where that is."

"How long?" Vogt asked.

"I can have a few scratch battalions put together in thirty-six hours...but it could take a week or more before we have the whole Defence Force assembled. Longer, if assembly is hampered. Ironically, the rural draftees will probably know what to do better than the urban ones, and the village units will be ready before the city ones."

"Can we hold the borders with what we have currently?"

Degurechaff winced at the bluntness of the question, and began to privately wonder just how much attention Vogt had really been paying attention to the state of the nation's defences. She'd assumed she was niave, ignorant, unconcerned, but...

"Against Crotobaltislavonia? Normally, yes. But there are signs of other forces...Kadikistan, in particular."

"What about the Vanderfeld Line?"

Degurechaff was impressed. Hardly anyone remembered that a line of mountainous defences even existed.

"They were built to last, but I doubt 1930's era fortifications will...deter a determined modern invasion, if it came to that. We also lack modern missile systems, both AGM and Anti-Air."

"Mmm. Keep the draft going, but don't make it emergency level yet. Take the week or two if you have to. Confidence, Order, Strength." Vogt nodded to herself, as if satisfied.

"Find out what's going on with the mercenaries. Get the Supreme Court to write warrants if you have to. I want to know how many men have been sent to Slavonia, and wether any laws have been broken. See if we can't compell a breach of national interest voiding of whatever deals KSB has got going on."

There were some murmurs from the Cabinet about that. Nobody liked interfering in mercenary business. It was an unspoken rule of Bergenheim politics. They did not interfere domestically, and the government did not interfere with business abroad.

Still, CBS was rather close to home...

Lotti watched as Sigrid continued to plough through the meeting, addressing each point raised. This style of leadership, she noted, could only work in a crisis situation. Sooner or later Vogt's energy would run out, or the government's patience would, or even her own Inner Cabinet's apparent willingness to let her boss them around.

She smiled thinly to herself. Oskar von Darkenseele's mistake was to try to make a better class of human, the failure of which left the burden rest on very few shoulders indeed. The key, she knew from her own millitary experience, was effective delegation. Sigrid knew how to be a human dynamo, but could she hold for the long-term?

Past experience suggested otherwise....
 

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Sigrid Vogt massaged her temples, trying to relieve some of the pressure. She was definitely coming down with some kind of migraine. She sat in the luxurious Ski Chalet-styled Lounge of the Conference centre, her plush reclining chair next to a simulated crackling log fire.

Elsewhere guests were milling about, drinking the complimentary spiced hot chocolate or mulled wine that was on offer. But she had made some space for herself from the general crowd, in order to have a few minutes to herself, and to address a few pressing issues.

A laptop with an encyrpted video-conference call was sat on the table in front of her, and she looked at the grainy, staticy faces of her Inner Cabinet. Degurechaff was wearing her thick fur-lined coat and peaked cap, looking like a damned teenager playing at being some sort of Generalissimo. Sigrid was beginning to question the wisdom that had guided her to appoint such a woman to so high an office. Then again...she turned her head slightly, to see Angela sat opposite her on the other sofa. The woman was starting to feel overheated, so she had unbuttoned her blouse a little.

Vogt rolled her eyes. It's true, she had appointed the blonde sex-kitten for precisely this reason as a diplomatic tool, but....seeing her doing it so naturally was just unseemly. And left the Archchancellor, twice her age, feeling a might envious.

"The comminque is confirmed as genuine?" She asked her aide. The aide simply nodded, apparently uneasy about talking about high government affairs in what amounted to a Hotel Lodge.

"I propose a closed Cabinet vote, gentlemen and women." She said simply, suprising many of them. She had been acting boldly, unilaterally, and dragging them along with her on many issues. But on this, she was asking for their vote?

I can sacrcely contain my anger. She thought coldly. And I can't let them see my anger. Let them say it for me.

"
I vote we agree to their terms." Degurechaff said first, predictably. "Trier is a power, and they have been playing cagey with us for years. Now is the time to make an alliance with a logical ally."

"It would mean the end of over a hundred years of strict neutrality." Kessler interjected, his gravelly voice counterpointing Lotti's more high-pitched one. "We cannot make a decision of this magnitude alone. We have to consult the Burghers."

"The Burghers are slow, overfed, pompous windbags." exploded her First Secretary of the Treasury, Daniel Cohen. "Our brethren in Trivodnia need our aid now. This is the clear path to wining the crisis."

"Our brethren?" Kessler mocked. "You speak for yourself, Jew."

"Thats enough." Sigrid snapped. "I wont have talk like that in a cabinet meeting. We will each take turns, and vote aye or nay."

They all looked at her through the computer screens.

"Are...are we really doing this?" said Professor Altdorf, her Education Secretary. "A closed circle of the powerful, voting in a...a ski chalet lodge? This is a decision of the highest order."

"All we are deciding is whether to respond to the comminique." Sigrid lied smoothly. "This is not the same thing as agreeing to violate neutrality and secure millitary alliance."

"Times are tough." Degurechaff said quietly. "Our mountain walls won't protect us from the Kadikistani. Trier's missiles will."

"You have said your say, First Fist. Does anyone else have anything to add? Or shall we take the vote?"

First Judge Weber interjected. "I ask that the Lord God bless and guide this council, and help us reach the wise and just decision. For Our Lord is good and great, and it is only by his grace can we do what is right for Bergenheim."

Vogt resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. Appointing this god-botherer as her Justice minister had been a purely political compromise, meant to appease the conservatives. Now he wanted to bring his Old Reformism into her cabinet meetings? She sighed, and let it be.

"The art of politics consists in knowing precisely when it is necessary to hit an opponent slightly below the belt." replied Adenauer, the Secretary for Transport/Public Works. "Perhaps it is time to remember that history is the sum total of things that could have been avoided. Let us avoid this looming disaster, and respond, but with cleverness, not agreement or rejection."

"Thank you for your fine quotations, First Secretary. Now, anyone else? No? Good. Let us cast the votes..."
 

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A cold wind blew across the Konigsruhe parade ground. It blew, and kicked up soft clumps of unsettled snow, now little more than sleet and dust, churned by the march of booted feet. The air was rent by the non-stop roar of rotors, as helicopters landed and took off, moving the headquarters division to a more secure location, beneath one of Bergenheim's many snow-capped mountains.

Lotti Degurechaff watched as another gun-metal grey chopper lifted off, the down-draft ruffling her unruly blonde hair, and threatening to rip the peaked cap from her head. Around her, the mood was suprisingly jubilant, despite the anxiety of the times.

Obst sturm oder schneit, ob die Sonne uns lacht...

The NDF men were singing. To them, she supposed, a chance to see action was a thing of glory, a thing to be celebrated. A Career in the NDF was rarely exciting, and most who chose it were not men who sought glory or war above all else. But still, even in their reservist hearts, the prospect of getting to act like real soldiers was a little too much.

Der Tag gluhend heiss, oder eiskalt die Nacht...

"
Think it will be this cold in Trier?" Her adjutant asked. An eager young man, back from his holidays. He had no idea what was really going on, or what she had been doing these past few weeks. She looked into his naive eyes, and remembered an earlier time, when a different adjutant had been assigned to her, and she had seen a different kind of loyalty there.

"I am sure our reception will be frosty enough." she said cryptically. Lotti Degurechaff was taking a small compliment with her, mostly IT staff, a few honour guard, and a handful of other hangers-on. If it had been up to her, she'd have brought her whole Command Company, but she supposed they would be needed here, to co-ordinate things in her absence.

She wondered how the Eiffelander millitary would react to her arrival. She had had little experience of the Eiffel military, despite knowing their representatives on and off for many years now. Something about the Eiffelander sense of professionalism, she supposed. They were not an easy people to get to know.

Es braust unser COPTER im stormwind dahin!

The men were laughing, but her face remained stern. This would not be a joyous occasion for any of them in the end, she suspected. Her transport was now ready.

Steadying herself, she readied to board. As she did so, she looked back, one last time, to the silhouette in her window, far above.

Her old adjutant, and current wife, looked down, her expression unreadable.

She gave a playful salute, and then stepped into the chopper.

Wether exile or glory awaited, only time would tell.
 

Rheinbund

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Airforce base Luttach
30 km from Trier, Eiffelland


Originally a Navy man, Generaloberst Lorenz Feders was the highest military officer of Eiffelland. He commanded the Land Army, the Navy and the Air Force. With his 57 years, he was considerably older than First Fist Lotti Degurechaff, and he was also visibly older. His hair was reduced to a millimetered grey small band around the lower part of the rear skull. His face was weather-beaten as a result of his years at the Navy. But those were the only signs of age. His body was athletic, and he was as fit as a 25 year old. He was still able to outrun marines. While most people of his age had to take blood pressure pills and medications to lower the blood cholesterol levels, he had the blood pressure of a 25 year old and perfectly normal cholesterol levels. He had brown eyes and a slight tan.

Feders had decided to personnally welcome the Bergenheimer First Fist to Eiffelland. The highest military officer had to be received by the highest military officer. The program would be full. Both military cooperation and the delivery of military equipment was on the agenda. Originally the order for Beck & Böhm’s most modern battle gun (the ) had been refused because Bergenheim was not an ally, but now things were different. Now even the delivery of the was on the table.

Eiffellandian air force bases were not really large, but there were a lot of them. This was part of the strategy: Not a few air force bases which could easily be knocked out, but many small bases scattered over the country. Luttach was not really a large base, either. It was one of the bases where the jet fighters were stationed. But of course the First Fist would not stay there. Instead, a comfortable hotel near the Trierer See had been reserved for the First Fist and her staff.

“First Fist, welcome to Eiffelland,” Feders said heartily. “I hope you had a pleasant trip.” A motorcade with a Raimer and several Raimers were waiting to take the delegation to the hotel, where the First Fist would meet representants of Eiffelland’s arms industries, and representants of the Government, among others Chancellor Von Seydewitz himself.

OOC: Oops. I didn’t see this up to now. Sorry.
 

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Somewhere over Eiffeland, the sky had broken once again, and a thin grey light illuminated the small Airbase at Luttach. Rubbing sleep from her eyes, Lotti watched as the escort chopper landed first, disgorging support staff, before the green light was given and her own transport landed next.

It was a little odd to be landing in a place so familiar yet so different, and saluted by men and women in uniforms so subtly similar and yet so different. Eiffeland's whole millitary aesthetic had been shamelessly lifted and copied by the National Defence Forces sometime in the early 1900s, the traditional red and ducal blue replaced by a marginally lighter shade of field grey for non-coms and Lotti's own distinctive Teutonic black for officers. She affixed her peaked cap tightly, aware of the down-draft from the helicopter, and stepped out awkwardly, stiffly saluting her waiting opposite.

"Thank you. A pleasure to be here, Herr Generaloberst," She replied formally. The title of Einzersfaust had always struck her as a little pompous. Technically speaking she had the rank of Korpskommandant, not too different from his own. But being Korpskommandant and being First Fist- the civilian office of Minister of Defence and Chief of Staff, rolled into one- had gone together for so long that not even most Bergenheimers really thought about it.

"I trust you did not have to wait long." She replied, a little less stiffly, uncertain as yet how formal things were to be. She looked up at him, her own face starting to show the slightest wear of age. She had been gifted with an exceptionally youthful appearance for a long time, but now, entering menopause, the crows-feet marked her startlingly blue eyes. She was pleased she was not called on to perform physically as much anymore. She had had always fought against the limitations of her wiry, feminine body, and her other physical defects. Thankfully, in the NDF, standards of peak health like Feders were not as rigidly required as in a more active military.

Quickly bundled into the back of the motorcade, she let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Inside, in the warm, away from public military appearances, she could be more herself, and show a face she took care not to display in public.

"I take it from this itinerary we are to meet the Chancellor himself?" she said, cocking an eyebrow inquisitively at Feders. No reason she couldn't start talks while en-route.

"And representatives from your arms industries..." she suppressed the desire to smirk at this. She remembered her quite informal and frustrated communiques with Beck and Bohm, and wondered what those pompous industrialists would make her of her return here. She wondered if she could ask for, or recieve, a StG-2 for her own personal collection.

"Tell me honestly, Generaloberst, what do you make of the modern Bergenheim military?" she said, intrigued to know his perspective. And in any case, she couldn't resist indulging in a little "shop talk" when the opportunity arose...
 

Rheinbund

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“Well, First Fist,” Feders said, “I know about your previous contacts with Beck&Böhm for the SG-2. I have to confirm that it is an order from us to Beck&Böhm to only deliver this weapon to us and our allies, but I also know that the Eiffellandian Government would have approved delivering the SG-2 to Bergenheim if Beck&Böhm would have asked for permission. I understand that you were a bit astonished by the fact that we offered you the SG-1, a model from the 1950s. I have to say, however, that that gun is still a good match to most other weapons on the market. It is not for nothing that Beck&Böhm still sells it. But indeed, maybe we should allow Beck&Böhm to sell the SG-2 to other interested parties than Eiffelland and its allies. In any case, Beck&Böhm has got the approval to sell the SG-2 to Bergenheim, if you are still interested. I can also confirm that we will not only discuss military equipment, but also a defence strategy against Kadikistan and the Rurikgrad Pact. It is bad enough that Crotobaltislavonia fell prey to the Rurikgrad Pact, but I’m afraid that Farrago is very happy that the Kadikistani kept him in the saddle, and I’m afraid with the approval of the people of Crotobaltislavonia. We have to make sure, however, that Crotobaltislavonia is the last country to fall prey to Kadikistan. Bergenheim, and also Trivodnia, must remain out of the hands of the Rurikgrad Pact. Therefore, Chancellor Von Seydewitz will join our talks as well.”

Air force base Luttach was situated to the North of Trier, along the motorway A3. This was a five lane motorway, and it was one of the busiest motorways in Europe. The A3 connected to the Trierer Outer Ring (A10) at the Autobahnkreuz Oranienburg. While the motorcade was crossing this motorway junction, the First Fist asked her question about Feders’s opinion on the Bergenheimer armed forces. Feders replied: “I think that the Bergenheimer armed forces are as well-trained as the Eiffellandian ones. Of course I know that you want to modernize the equipment of the Bergenheimer armed forces, but apart from that I think that the Bergenheimer armed forces are enthousiastic and professional enough to deal with that situation.”
 

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Degurechaff nodded. Much of what Feders said was to be expected. She found his manner and appearance familiar, and she was reminded of the aged, Old Teutonic officers who she had charmed and impressed in her early years. Coming up through the ranks, she had found that playing on such old men's patriarchial and paternal instincts had served her well. Many of them had had daughters of their own, and she had contrived, through her youthful appearance, to subtly play on their sympathies for such.

It had been far more effective, and a lot less dishonorable, than simply trying to suck her way to success, as some other female officers had tried.

Now as the motorcade smoothly navigated the Autobahn junction, she wondered if she could try similar tactics here. Touching the lines at her eyes subconsciously, she ruefully concluded it probably wouldn't work, not anymore.

"You flatter us with such a commendable appraisal, Herr Marshall." she replied. "Truthfully, we are but a handful of Old Teutonics and storm-trooper cosplayers, surrounded by and reliant on masses of weekend warriors. Bergenheim has never had a national army the way Eiffeland does. Our true veterans are the mercenaries, and their loyalties to even our own homeland have always been...mixed."

The motorcade was soon approaching its destination. She leaned across. "I sometimes wonder if sustaining the mercenaries after their...betrayal in the Revolution was a mistake. It is true they have made many rich, and maintained a rich warrior tradition...but our borders have grown soft. Every man thinks himself a fortress, with his rifle and his cottage. But modern war, modern security, is not maintained by riflemen or millita. Being ready to fight against an occupation is not the same as trying to prevent that occupation."

"I believe Eiffeland's military well understands the need for such...forward-looking guardians." she said subtly. "But I wonder if our politicians see things as clearly as we do."
 

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“A modern war is indeed different from the wars fought fifty years ago, mainly because of the appearance of the aeroplane and the helicopter. Nowadays a war is won in the skies. But don’t underestimate the importance of the land army. A modern war is won in the skies, but the decisive battle always takes place on the ground,” Feders said. “And don’t forget that the Eiffellandian armed forces partly rely on conscripts as well. The only difference is, that we have a larger standing army, and maybe that we train our conscripts more thoroughly. Furthermore, our conscripts serve for at least a year, excluding the training period.”

Trier was a large city. Not in terms of inhabitants (3.5 million), but in terms of area. The city hardly knew any buildings with more than ten floors. Furthermore, the streets were very wide because of a King who loved military parades and, therefore, wanted to have a capital city with wide boulevards. Another factor that gave Trier its wide appearance was the fact that it was mainly a collection of villages. During the 1920s, the city suddenly became twice as big as it was, because all the villages around it became part of Trier. As a result, some streetnames occurred more than once in Trier; luckily always with a different postal code. Because of the wide boulevards, traffic was relatively easy in Trier, despite the fact that the city centre mainly consisted of well-preserved buildings from the 18th and 19th centuries.

Schloss Köpenick was from the end of the 17th century. It was a baroque palace that served as a luxury hotel and conference venue. During Winter, which could be relatively cold in Trier, the Government always received foreign guests in this palace. Unless in the case of a state visit, the meetings with the foreign guests were held here as well. This also meant that Chancellor Von Seydewitz would meet the First Fist in Schloss Köpenick. He was already there when the motorcade arrived.

Von Seydewitz was 59 years old. His hair was not completely dark brown any more, but his face was far less weather-beaten than Feders’s face. His constitution was also less robust than that of Feders, but also he looked healthy. He made sure that he did enough of sport to stay healthy. As a result, he did not have a visible belly. He always wore taylor-made white shirts, made of a thicker cloth than conventional shirts. Today he wore a taylor-made dark blue suit with a dark-blue-dark-red striped silk tie.
 

Bergenheim

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First Fist Lotti Degurechaff had been in Eiffeland for nearly six months, now. In that time she had liased with a number of its highest ranking millitary officials, and met with the Chancellor at Schloss Köpenick several times. Though her presence in Eiffelland was intended as political exile, it had had the opposite effect. It had allowed her to accomplish some of her most cherished goals. The Jagerkommandos had been training with their counterparts amongst Eiffelland's most elite special forces, in a number of scenarios and terrains.

Pilots from the Bergenheim Air Force had gotten much needed air-time in Wirbelsturm craft, and even some of the Coast Guard had visited while she was there, though neither were strictly under her direct command. Nonetheless, she had made the most of this time to ensure Bergenheim's armed forces recieved at least some training from a far superior millitary with more direct experience.

And now, the nightmare she had been preparing for all her life was finally beginning. Kadikistani troops were even now overrunning Trivodnia, while Crotobaltislavonia collapsed into chaos. All that stood between them, Trier, Armstov and perhaps even Midweis was time and distance.

Time, distance, and the boys, women and men who had been training for six months for just such an eventuality.

She looked over one last time the gathering of men who had followed her here.They had come as NDF men, as commandos, as volunteers. Now they would be staying on as soldiers. The 11th South Trier, or some such nonsense. It mattered little. They were mountain-boys at heart, whatever Mitteldeutsch nonsense was put on their uniforms. They donned their balaclavas, and half a hundred of her countrymen vanished, to be replaced by Little Grey Men.

She stood in full dress regalia, her peaked cap pressed down tightly over her fading blonde curls. She gave them a crisp salute.

"I see no volunteers here. I see only soldiers." she said. "I see only brothers-in-arms, ready to do their duty. Not because it was demanded of them, no, but because they chose. Herz und Seele! Gott mit uns."

"HERZ UND SEELE!"


They roared back. They were ready. It was a token contribution, really. What difference could fifty men make to a war machine of over a hundred thousand?

But it was something. The beginning of something. A crack in the armour of neutrality that had both protected and weakened Bergenheim from its destiny in the outside world.

She turned her back with some effort on her men. Her brothers. And she boarded the helicopter once more.

She was going home. God only knew if they would.
 

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The Prisoner's Tale
The Fortress of Solitude, or Stalag Null, in the Midgard Canton was one of the most formidable prisons in Bergenheim. An old munitions vault turned into a maximum security facility, the Stalag held over two thousand prisoners, a significant proportion of which were Crotobaltislavonians. Mafia, drug runners, hit-men, highly dangerous political prisoners...all were mixed together, though rarely given a chance to socialise.

The Prison was regimented, it was controlled. The guards were faceless, the showers always watched, the meals taken in segmented cages, a few dozen at a time. Any infraction, speaking out of turn, dropping your dinner tray, being too late for roll call, was punished with absolute ruthlessness.

Every prisoner soon came to wear a thousand-yard stare, along with their shapeless, formless grey uniforms. Bright, uniform lights that never dimmed obliterated any sense of time. Day and night passed in much the same way. There were no books to read, no luxuries, no activities. There was only hourly exercise, where groups of prisoners jogged at a set pace in an open, concrete space devoid of greenery, furniture or anything except more guards and their dogs.

Drago Vukovic was but one of this forgotten two thousand. He'd tried to cross the border during the Christmas Crisis, but had been caught by the Border Guard. His tattoos had misidentified him as a ruthless sex trafficker, and so, without much in the way of due process, he like all the other "slavonian trash" had been swept away into a regimented hell like this one.

The hour when he got to feel the cold, biting wind of the mountains on his face was harsh, but it was also life. A reminder that the sky existed, that there was an outside world, away from the barking guards and their ever-ready batons and tasers.

He shuffled alongside six others, jogging silently under the watchful gaze of snipers. He was Prisoner 7654, and his comrades were 7655, 7657, and 7661. He didn't know their names. They didn't know his. Exchanges of pleasantries like names were a luxury that could cost you a severe beating, and a day or more in the isolation boxes.

Nobody survived too many trips to the isolation boxes. A perfectly crafted, senseless hell, devoid of sound, light, or any variation in environment. The Bergenheimers did not mess around when it came to breaking criminals, at least not here, in Stalag Null.

Some people, he suspected, counted the days till release. But he knew that was futile. You did not get sent here to be rehabilitated. You were sent here to be forgotten, and to die.

He had a sentence of fifteen years for sex trafficking. He had gotten off lightly. But fifteen, twenty or five, it was all the same here. They could always find ways to add on more years.

And so, this day might have passed like any other, until there was a sudden burst of static over the tannoys. He was surprised. Nothing ever changed here. They still had twenty minutes of exercise remaining.

"All Prisoners will halt. All Prisoners will turn, raise their hands, and face the gate."

There were soft murmurs, as the mass of exercising prisoners came to a reluctant halt. A suprise inspection? Who would dare conceal something in this place?

They reluctantly began to comply. Dragar began to sweat. He didn't have anything concealed on him, did he? What about one of his cellmates?

To everyone's surprise, the huge, black, metallic gates that dominated one side of the prison began to open, revealing the outer bailey. Almost none ever saw this part of the prison, permanently gated and sealed off from the rest of the compound. Beyond they could see dozens of unmarked army trucks, and men in green uniforms and black balaclavas, with submachine guns and rifles. It was almost surreal, to see a different colour like green, in this place of greys, blacks and whites.

"Prisoners will step forward in groups of six to be searched."

There was a murmur once again. What was going on?

Soldiers and guards alike took the first batch of six, searching, stripping, restraining as necessary. They were then given plain civillian clothing, told to dress, and then escorted to one of the trucks. While all this was going on, another batch of six had begun being searched and stripped, and then another. A transfer? So many? To where? But why the clothing?

Some began to jostle, trying to get forward, to get a better look. Those that caused too much of a commotion were suddenly illuminated by a painful, searing light, as guards pushed forward with batons and tasers, beating those too slow to move.

"Prisoners will be still. Prisoners will comply. Non-compliance will be punished."

One rowdy inmate tried to break free, but was quickly illuminated and tracked by snipers.

Dragar watched with sick horror as he heard the crack of high-powered rifles. But these weren't tranquillisers. The inmate fell to the ground, his head a bloody ruin.

The guards almost never killed anyone. They prided themselves on maintaining compliance through pain, keeping you alive to endure your whole sentence.

This was different.

Finally, it was Dragar's turn. He was uncuffed, stripped, and handed an ill-fitting t-shirt and pair of shorts.
He looked at one of the soldiers. Dull blue eyes stared back. Where were they being taken?

A sudden, paranoid thought filled his mind. Were they being driven to a mass grave? No, they were being given clothes. So...what, then?

Climbing nervously onto the back of one of the trucks, now filled up with twenty nervous, twitchy convicts.

"Whats going on?" he dared to whisper. Some of the older convicts glared daggers at him.

But no swift punishment followed. Apparently the soldiers didnt care as much if they talked or not.

As he looked out the back, the tailgate on his truck was slammed shut.

"Don't try to jump out, or you will be shot." The masked soldier ordered, cocking his rifle to illustrate his point.

The trucks throaty engine roared to life, and, like some strange dream, he watched as the mass of prisoners, and the dull, grey courtyard of Stalag Null receded behind him, as the truck followed the others, rattling down the thin mountainside road. The feel of a strong wind on him chilled him in his new, lighter clothes to the bone, and they sat shivering in the truck.

Some began to whisper, to talk, to hum a little.

The faint possibility of hope, of freedom, began to dawn. Some men began to smile. Some even wept.

Dragar couldn't fathom it. Why would they all be just...freed? Why such speed? Such numbers?

It was four hours before the trucks finally stopped once again, and this time Dragar began to get an inkling as to why.

Ahead were high, barbed-wire electrified fences, and the outlines of guard towers. A concentration camp? No, it was the Bergenheim border. He recognised the olive green uniforms of the Border Guard, distinct and different from the camo of the Army.

A dirt-track led to a small opening in the border, away from any official crossings. They were being hustled across it on foot. Some were being handed backpacks, others were just given more clothing or a hunk of bread, and hustled across the border.

"What the fuck?"

"Shut up." One of the soldiers said, raising his rifle menacingly. "You roaches are going home. Do whatever the fuck you want. Rape, raise hell, start a revolution. Just don't come back. The Border is bullets for you now."

"I don't understand." Dragar admitted.

"I don't either." the soldier laughed, bitterly, and walked off.

Soon Dragar was part of the queue to cross the border. A few, perhaps possessed by fear or a manic need to be free even sooner, did try to break free. But few made it too far before a rifle cracked, or, in one case, dogs were loosed.

As he approached the gate, a weary soldier shoved a back-pack into his hands. Feeling it, he could feel it was filled with clothing, a bottle of water, and...some papers.

Fishing them out, he saw briefly they identified him as some Crotobaltislavonian Soldier. They were poor quality military identity papers, probably forgeries. But given the chaos, who even knew? He made a note to ditch the papers as soon as possible. He'd rather risk being shot by some overzealous functionary than try to pretend to be someone other than he was.

Once he was across, he felt a powerful desire to sprint. Many did, simply vanishing into the woods. Those who lingered soon attracted the ire of the guards.

Yet, for a brief moment, he considered his position. He was...free. No doubt some of his comrades would try to return the way they came, but...he sighed. He remembered as a small boy hearing the story of Lot and Sodom and Gomorrah. Those who look back are turned to salt, he remembered vaguely.

There was nothing but salt for him in Bergenheim. So, back home it was. Better the devil you knew, eh?

He set off at a brisk pace, keeping a wary eye out for his former comrades. No doubt some were lying in wait to pick off the weaker ones, and double their supplies.

"A knife, a drink, a good woman, and a bed." he said to himself. "If you are feeling even more generous today, God."

He laughed, and vanished into the woods.
 

Bergenheim

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The Generals
First Fist Lotti Degurechaff relaxed into her familiar leather-backed chair, gazing down the length of her conference table. For the first time since her appointment to the post three years ago, the entire Command of the Bergenheim Armed Forces were present in one location. It was a hell of a risk. A single Kadikistani missile gone astray now would decapitate the Bergenheim millitary.

But, despite the almost catastrophic blunder of the Archchancellor, they were still neutral.

Lotti aimed to be ready for when that changed, one way or the other.

"It is a grave pity that our enemies are not in the West." Lotti observed. "It seems all our advantages lie in that direction. Are we truly so lacking in missiles?"

"Regrettably so, First Fist." Admiral Harker, nominally Head of the Bergenheim Naval Arsenal in Yharnam. "We have two, maybe three hundred Komoran-2 surface-to-ship missiles. Maybe about the same number in Roland Surface to air missiles."

Lotti steepled her hand, concealing her dismay behind a studied frown. She had known the Navy was underfunded, undermanned, never a priority. Who would attack across the Polesian, after all? But what she hadn't realised was that they were also, due to some obscure agreement made back in the early 1900s, the sole caretakers of Bergenheim's strategic missile force.

"So you're saying, that if a flight of bombers takes off from Kadiki-controlled airfields in Trivodnia, we could at most shoot down two hundred of them, if we were lucky? What about the next wave after that? Or the next?"

"We do still have the Oerlikons..." observed the head of the Air Force.

Lotti shot him a dark look. "Obsolete flak guns will make a pretty light show when your house in Midweis is burning." She pointed out acerbically.

"First Fist, might I suggest we crack open the Black Vault?" this from the Head of the National Intelligence Agency, a real snake.

"The Black Vault is useless. Chemical weapons from the last century wont stop strategic bombers!" She reminded them. "Face it gentleman, we have a crippling weakness, one that Kadikistan will exploit ruthlessly. Our cities will crumble. Your third-generation interceptors wont even be able to see their bombers, let alone their fighters. We cannot stop them without a massive upgrade in air defences."

She frowned. "Unless we make a deal with someone."

"Who? Eiffelland is already at war with the Kadikis!"

"Perhaps another power. One that is engaged in some opportunistic conflict of its own. The only one that might have a grudge against the Rurikgarders and also the power to aid us in doing something about it."

"You're not suggesting...?"

"Yes, I am. We must buy missiles from the First Republic." She snorted at that name. Bergenheim was more of a "First" Republic than Engellex. But it would swallow its pride, and empty its vaults of treasure.

"I just hope they don't send us "human missiles" instead of the real thing." she darkly joked.​

The Government

The grandly titled Emergency Powers Cabinet held a similar meeting, in a similarly grand conference room, with similarly tired old men looking to a younger woman for answers, for direction, for salvation.

The main difference was that the politicians uniform was a suit rather than battledress.

"I have spoken with the First Secretary." Sigrid Vogt began. Bags were plainly visible under her eyes. She had already looked fairly dowdy and old already, but the last few weeks- no, months, really- had visibly aged her.

This was not how she had envisioned her premiership proceeding. She had begun with bold, liberal, feminist policies and initiatives. Getting the nationalists on board with that madwoman Lotti Degurechaff, and pacifying the conservatives with a nice-looking broad like Angela Zweigler had been strokes of genius on her part.

Some might criticise her tactics as being distinctly un-feminist. She disagreed completely. Hers was a feminism of hard realities and practicality. Women had to use what they had to hand. The Patriarchy could not be overcome by crying about it.

Instead, she had found herself pulled into the Great Crisis of the times. She had never dreamed that she would be in power when a World War broke out. The Crisis in Crotobaltislavonia had seemed bad enough, but this was a thousand times worse.

And now she was being pulled a hundred directions at once. She wasn't a human dynamo. She wanted, badly needed, to delegate, but she and her predecessors had so established the Arch-chancellorship as a centralised, presidential role that she simply didn't, couldn't, trust her peers to act on their own initiative.

Hell, look what that mutinous, warmongering ungrateful -bitch- Lotti was doing with the armed forces! Practically acting like some high and mighty Taishogun, more or less running Bergenheim's military as her private fiefdom, an autonomous defensive force conducting god knows what sort of operations.

"It has been agreed that we will discuss a more lucrative "favoured neutrality" policy with Rurikgrad rather than Trier. They will send dignitaries when able to discuss terms."

"This is a national disgrace." Muttered the First Judge, the old conservative puritan Christ-Giveth-Eternal-Life-To-All Weber. "Communists? coming here? More like damned orientals come to take our tribute."

"Peace, please." She urged.

"Regardless of the exact causes of the circumstances, I- no, we, will do everything we can to ensure the safety and security of Bergenheim."

"You could start by removing the First Fist." insisted the First Castellan, Thomas Muller. As head of the Internal Affairs department, he was convinced Lotti was damn near treasonous in her actions. He wanted to arrest her and the whole general staff, and bring back the death penalty too.

The fact Lotti might have spurned his advances some years ago probably had nothing to do with it. Probably.

"Decapitating our command structure at this precise moment would be a grave mistake." She stated. "We need capable officers as a fall-back option. Not that I intend for things to come to that."

"We should recall the First Hand. She'd be ideal for talking with the Kadikis."

"I'm afraid she is...unavoidably detained in New Cathay."

"Archchancellor, we have been talking in circles for hours." exploded the First Judge once again. "By thunder, we have to take decisive action! Reactions aren't enough. We should address public order first."

"Actually, we badly need to arrange for more foodstuffs from somewhere. We're not at risk of starvation, but with waves of refugees coming in, rations will sour the national morale." this from the First Provisioner, Rickard Schramme. He slid a mountain of paperwork across the table to the Archchancellor.

She waved it away. Too many numbers, too little time.

"Solve both problems at once." insisted Castellan Muller. "You have strengthened the borders, and we have...reluctantly caved to the Border Guard's damned demands. They have their guarantees. More trustworthy than the army right now, frankly. But we should thin out the illegals already in our borders. Enlist the Millita, and use them to deport the illegals."

"The illegals, as you call them, are war refugees." Vogt pointed out. "People will not look kindly on us using the Millita to drag such people from their homes."

"If we don't do it ourselves, Archchancellor, the nationalists will." Muller warned darkly. "Its brewing, in the bars and the sports clubs. The visible increase in predominantly Slavonian or Yiddish people on the streets has got them restive. They're still behind us for now against the Kadikis, but if your peace deal works..."

"It must work." She sighed. "I got us into this mess, so I will get us out. I had hoped perhaps...Well, you all seem to know what you want to do. Get on and do it."

"Archchancellor..."

"I'm tired, Thomas." she said sadly. "I will speak to you all again in the morning. I will see if I can get the Rurikgrad Pact to send their damned delegates here sooner rather than later..."

The Cabinet murmured, and reluctantly began to leave.

Vogt sat there awhile, alone, with just her thoughts. She opened a cabinet drawer, and pulled out a half-empty bottle of schnapps.

National addiction. She thought. Why not join in?
 

Bergenheim

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The God-Awful
The Heimatsfront were the closest thing to a united far-right paramillitary organisation that Bergenheim had. There were a few, miniscule groups that were further to the right, but they were mostly in prison, or the mental hospitals. But now the Heimatsfront was drifting towards populism, and with the prospect of war against the Rurikgrad Pact on the horizon, the front leaders were downplaying their anti-semitism considerably, in favour of popular, militant jingoism and displays of national cultural virtue.

The Chaos Festival was an excellent opportunity for this. A gathering of heavy-metal, grindcore and industrial bands in Bergenheim, the Chaos Festival traditionally rejected displays of narrow, sordid nationalism and right-wing politics.

But this year would be different. While some bands had pulled out in disgust, others gleefully took to the stage, to packed crowds of thousands.

A large, vaguely slavic effigy with a cossack-looking hat, some thirty feet tall, had been assembled in a clear area. Fluttering from the wooden struts, soaked in petrol, were various red flags representing Kadikistan, Serenierre and Xinhai.

As the Festival's headline acts reached the crescendo of some of their most popular and loudest songs, fireworks erupted in the sky, and a member of the local Fire Brigade authorised the ignition of the effigy.

"THE ROOF, THE ROOF IS ON FIRE!
WE DON'T NEED NO WATER
LET THE MOTHERFUCKER BURN!"


The Crowd sang and cheered, and thousands of young eyes, male and female, watched as a giant slav burned against the night sky, fireworks like bursting bombs in the air far overhead.

Discreetly moving among the crowd, handing out pamphlets, were Heimatsfront organisers. Teenagers were encouraged not to defer their national service or take it in civilian roles. The Homeland needed soldiers. Demand your rights, take up arms! Was the call.

Amidst the heady summer night air, many of them drank, took Blud and snorted cocaine, and fucked each other. All while the sneering effigy burned and crumbled.

Elsewhere, on the other side of the country, at Bergcon and at other more regional gatherings, left-wing groups, directly or loosely affiliated with Lansky's Maxist-Leninovist Party, did much the same. They drank, they took drugs, and they had fun. The crumpled pamphlets, demanding action now, crept into every student's bedroom, into every teenager's rucksack, into every classroom and every cafe.

Red. Stand for Neutrality and the Working Class.
Black. Stand for the Homeland, take arms.
Red. March on Midweis and evict the Bankers.
Black. March on the Borders and keep the Slavs out.

While the elders and adults bickered and argued in their comfortable estates, politics leaked into every home and every school. An ever widening gyre. Would the centre hold?
 
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Elben

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Iowa, USA
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Malat
As tensions continued to build, it seemed fortuitous that this Gospel reading should be what would be proclaimed in the churches across Bergenheim and all of Europe.

"But a certain Samaritan as he journeyed came upon him, and seeing him, was moved with compassion. And he went up to him and bound up his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. And setting him on his own beast, he brought him to an inn and took care of him...

"Go and do also in like manner."

At sermon time, the priests echoed the words of the Gospel. War was raging, many were suffering. Prudence was a virtue and ought to be exercised of course in keeping Bergenheim safe. But it did not dispense the people from their duty to love their neighbor.

No one got drunk or hopped up on drugs or made out in the vestibule. the people were simply told at the end of Mass to Go, marching orders to spread the Word. Would any listen?
 
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