The Queen of Cities

[Pelasgia]

Makri, Makriotica

The smell of dump foliage and sand filled the air; it had rained overnight, making the otherwise arid atmosphere of Pelasgia's southernmost island quite damp. Despotess Anastasia quite enjoyed that smell, and had done so since childhood: it reminded her of the forests on the Island of Despotikon, whose damp and rainy climate combined with thick pine forests to create a uniquely pleasing and strong version of this smell. Except during springtime, she thought, recalling how the pollen of the pines would combine with the rainwater to create a thick yellow moss all over the cobble streets of the islet's towns, the smell of which would make her sensitive skin turn red and itch, while also giving her a runny nose. Alas, those times where long past—she had hoped to bring Tivyros Argyropoulos or Andronikos Angelopoulos following her wedding, but the former had been bought out by her father for less than one of the high-class prostitutes the late widower-emperor used to frequent and the latter had disappeared since then assumption of power by the new dynasty. Last she had heard of him, he had been arrested by his own men after attempting to resist the Nationalists' seizure of power in Propontis; the same day, an unmarked helicopter had been spotted over Despotia, flying to Rhodokastellon Naval Fortress. No doubt, he had little chance of making it out of there alive. It is a good thing that I did not conceive after our... mistake, she reasoned, wondering whether it had been Angelopoulos, rather than his ex-wife, who had been to blame for their childlessness after all.

As she walked the beach (with some agents of the Krypteia following her discretely in the distance), Anastasia, who was now a Despotess only in name, caught sight of some of the warships in the distance. The Megas Doux had once explained the different classes to her—during a particularly boring official dinner—and she recognised them as transport ships, most likely ferrying tanks and other materiel to the island. As she paused to see her father's erstwhile banner flying above the small flotilla, Anastasia Komnenopoulaina saw that a child was also waiting, just at the edge of the fencing that covered the perimeter of the nearby military dock. Normally, guards warned off passersby who loitered, but they had probably figured that the child was no threat. «Τὶ κανεὶς ἐδῶ ὁλομόναχος μικρέ μου;» ("What are you doing here all by yourself, little one?") the Despotess asked, approaching the boy. Her Krypteia "observers" drew a bit closer, as they always did whenever she interacted with anyone.

«Περιμένω νὰ δῶ ἕναν Πελασγόν.» ("I am waiting to see a Pelasgian,") the boy answered, speaking with a particularly heavy accent and in the local dialect. He must have been from one of the nearby fishing villages no doubt. «Μὰ ἐσὺ δὲν εἶσαι Πελασγός;» ("But aren't you a Pelasgian?") the slender, pale-skinned woman asked, raising one of her red eyebrows. «Οὔχι, ἐγὼ εἶμαι Τιβυραῖος.» ("No, I am Tiburan,") the boy answered, as if he was stating the obvious. Stepping back, Anastasia stared out into the azure main again with a pensive gaze. Back in Propontis, in Pelasgia's core regions, the transition to a nation-state had been obvious, almost natural; the terms "Pelasgian" and "Tiburan" had been quite synonymous for a long time. But out here, to these people, it was not at all obvious that this new nation-state was a thing at all. Old, local loyalties and a reverence for tradition where the glue that held such antiquated communities together; the flag, the law, the judge were not to be respected because they represented the nation, but because they existed "by Divine Right." An anachronism, but a very human one.

Turning around, Anastasia tightened the black coat that covered her purple dress and headed straight home—if one could call the luxurious prison that she had been "granted" that. It was a beautiful and quite elegant residence, the old home of a defunct aristocratic family from the island which had been seized by the State for unpaid debts and was now used as an official guesthouse of sorts. The Despotess was surrounded by a small army of servants, who were slightly more discreet in their espionage than her ordinary Krypteia guards. Not that this was out of the ordinary for her, but now that her immediate family was out of power, it felt slightly more nefarious than usual. At any rate, she directed the most trustworthy of the servants in question (Katerina, a half-Thrakian like herself), to bring her paper and the sort of special ink that the Imperial Family used for official documents. «Γιὰ ποιὸν σκοπό;» ("What for?") had been the obvious question; Anastasia Komnenopoulaina knew that the Government was asking through her maid's mouth, but she cared not, for the answer was innocuous. «Γιὰ νὰ γράψω στὸν εὐσεβέστατο Βασιλέα μας καὶ νὰ τοῦ ζητήσω νὰ μοῦ ἐπιτρέψει νὰ ἐργαστῶ ὠς δασκάλα σὲ ἕνα τοπικὸ σχολεῖο. Ἀν εἶναι νὰ μείνω ἐδῶ, ἀς θέσω τουλάχιστον ἐαυτὸν στὴν ὑπηρεσία τῆς χώρας.» ("To write our most pious Emperor and petition him to let me work as a teacher at a local school. If I'm to stay here, I wish to at least make myself useful to the country.")

---

11 January 1967

The roaring of the ocean sounded as the sea crashed onto the rocky coast of the island. From the harsh southern shore of Makri, the locals could see a small flotilla of ships returning. They were transiting the Sea of Dahab, or the Klysma as the Pelasgians called it, returning from the harsh, distant lands of the Far South. All the ships bore the Empire's civil ensign: a yellow flag with a black cross surrounded by four capital betas. On their bow was painted a large cross, the symbol of the Far Southern Company, known in common parlance as the Southern Cross.

«Τὰ φαλαινοθυρικά!» (“The whalers!”) shouted Loukas, pointing to the flotilla. «Ἐπιστρέφουν!» (“They’re back!”)

As the ships drew closer to the Empire’s southernmost isle, a pair of coast guard vessels, one cutter and one light corvette, approached. The attacks upon PFSC vessels in recent years had grown more frequent, as the global anti-whaling movement became radicalized. True, whaling was only a minor part of the PSFC’s globe-spanning activities, but Pelasgia was probably the foremost whaling nation outside of Toyou and the former Scanlaw.

For most, the flotilla represented mystery and adventure: a sense of heroic feats in an age when cold reason had come to dominate even in Europe’s last quasi-theocracy. But for Christophoros, Loukas’s brother, it represented something more concrete: the chance for a life off Makri, off the accursed, sun-scorched faraway corner of the Pelasgian world. As he saw the assortment of whalers, cargo vessels and research ships approach, observing from the hill where stood the tiny all-white chapel of Saint Andrew, he could almost picture himself atop one of those metal leviathans, sailing straight for Propontis. With enough luck—and even more guts and wits—he could just make that dream a reality.​

 

[Pelasgia]

Propontis, Pelasgia

A white coat, a sheet perhaps, had covered Polytechnic Park. The flat green space, with its tall trees and its pedestrian path near the shore of Lake Makra (the second largest of Propontis' lakes) was quite unlike the likeness seen in photos of the two adjoining educational institutions: the Imperial Polytechnic and the Great School of the Nation. Still, that did not deter the parks usual visitors, along with a host of other citizens of the Queen of Cities, from taking advantage of the rare weather to see the snow up close. «Θαρεὶς πὼς εἴμαστε στoὺς Γρανίτες,» ("You'd think we're in the Granites,") said Andreas, in reference to the famously harsh and cold twin states of @Natal. Viktoria, for her part, seemed unamused—and not because, as a Pannonian, she found snow to be quite unremarkable. «Προσωπικὰ θαρὼ πὼς εἶμαι στὸ κολυμβητήριο...» ("Personally, I'd think I'm in the swimming pool,") she commented, catching Athina staring at them in the corner of her eye, before the swimming team's captain looked away and went back to trading snowballs with the rest of their teammates. «Ἀνδρέα, τὰ ἔλεγα μὲ τὴν Ἄρια τὶς προάλλες...» ("Andreas, I was talking to Aria the other day...") she started, only to lose her courage, allowing Andreas just enough time to cluelessly intercede. «Ἄ, ἡ Ἄρια! Πῶς τὰ πάει; Γύρισε στὸ Ῥαδίλο;» ("Ah, Aria! How's she doing? Is she back in @Radilo?"). A tremor went through Viktoria's body, half fear and half annoyance at her friend's digression. Drawing a deep breath, the pale Pannonian released just in time to answer before the clueless lad from the Metaxadon Theme had time to interject with another irrelevant pleasantry. «Ναί, μία χαρὰ εἶναι. Τέλος πάντων, ὅμως, πρέπει νὰ σοῦ πὼ κάτι: μοῦ ἀρέσεις, καὶ ὄχι ἀπλὰ σὰν φίλος.» ("Yes, she she's fine. But, anyway, I need to tell you something: I like you, and not just as a friend.")

Andreas paused, and the snow that was falling on him and had started to stick to his dark brown curls seemed to pause with him. He was not confused like the last time they had talked, back at the Central Railway Station. This time, he seemed concentrated, as if he understood Viktoria's meaning—as if he had expected this conversation. Something, Viktoria reasoned, without a shred of doubt, must have happened back home. «Κοίτα, Βικτωρία, καὶ 'μενα μοῦ ἀρέσεις.» ("Look, Viktoria, I like you too.") At once, the tall, clumsy teenager from Kispest felt her heart skip a beat, hardly believing her ears; butterflies filled her stomach, and she could almost convince herself (as all teenagers do) that she would marry Andreas Vasilopoulos right there. Then, however, something within her sensed the oncoming "but," and the poor girl's heart skipped another beat. «Μοῦ ἀρέσεις πολὺ νὰ σοῦ πὼ τὴν ἀλήθεια. Εἶσαι ὄμορφη, εἶσαι ἐξυπνὴ καὶ δὲ χαραμίζεις τὶς μέρες σου με βλακεῖες καὶ μόδες ὅπως οἱ περισσότερες κοπέλες ἐδῶ στὴν Βασιλεύουσα. Ὅμως πρέπει νὰ σοῦ πὼ πὼς μίλησα μὲ τοὺς δικούς μου καὶ δὲ θὰ ἐκτιμούσαν οὔτε θὰ ἐνέκριναν ἕναν δεσμὸ μὲ μία "ξένη", ὅπως θὰ σὲ θεωρούσαν.» ("I like you a lot, to tell you the truth. You're beautiful, you're smart and you don't waste your time with bullshit and fashions like most young women here in the Capital. But I must tell you that I spoke with my family and they would neither appreciate nor approve of a bond with a 'foreigner,' as they'd consider you.")

A sharp dagger went through Viktoria's heart. Her skin grew paler still, almost the colour of the snow; somehow, she could feel Athena Nikolaou's stare in her back. «Παρ' ὅλα αὐτά,» ("Nonetheless,") Vasilopoulos continued calmly, as if he were delivering a speech, «Τὸ καλοσκέφτηκα καὶ νομίζω ὄτι δὲν τοὺς πέφτει λόγος. Ζοῦν σχεδὸν σὲ ἕναν ἄλλον κόσμο. Ντροπή μου ἴσως ποὺ τὰ λέω αὐτά, ἀλλὰ πῶς μποροῦν νὰ μοῦ ποῦν ποιὰ ν' ἀγαπήσω; Αὐτοὶ μὲ ἔστειλαν ἐδῶ, καὶ ἐδῶ τὰ πράγματα εἶναι ἀλλιῶς. Γι' αὐτὸ καὶ 'γω σὲ ἀγαπάω κι ἀς λένε ὅ,τι θέλουν.» ("I thought it over, and I don't think they should get a say. They almost live in a different world. Perhaps it's improper to say this, but how can they tell me who to love? They sent me here, and here things are different. So, I love you, and they can say whatever they want.") As if raised from the dead, Viktoria felt warmth sip back into her skin; faster than she thought she could, faster than she even moved in the water when passing Athina and those bimbos from Thermi, Viktoria threw her arms around Andreas. «Καὶ 'γω σὲ ἀγαπώ!» ("I love you too!") was all she could say, repeatedly. Andreas nearly fell on the snow, and a weaker man likely would have.

From a distance, the sight was perhaps comical or even cute. Doubly so for the other group that had flocked to Polytechnic Park that day: the Seminarians of the Grand Seminary, who had been at the Polytechnic itself for a seminar on the ethics of military technology and materiel development. «Ἀν ὁ Νικαίας ἦτο ἐδῶ, ξέρεις ἤδη τὶ θὰ ἔλεγε περὶ τοῦ ἤθους τῶν σημερινῶν νέων.» ("Were [the Metropolitan] of Nikaia here, you already know what he'd say about the morality of today's youth,") said one black clad man, who went by the name Vasileios and had deep brown eyes like those of Andreas. Perhaps, in a very distant way, they were related. «Ὁ Νικαίας θὰ κατέκρινε καὶ τὴν ἠθικὴ τοῦ Ἁγίου Ἀντωνίου μέχρι. Ἡ ἀγάπη εἶναι τοῦ Θεοῦ, ποὺ λέει καὶ ὁ Πατριάρχης Σελεύκειας.» ("[The Metropolitan] of Nikaia would even criticize the morality of Saint Anthony. Love is a thing of God, as the Patriarch of Seleucia says.") replied another, a slender but remarkably tall Stephanos with deep blue eyes, who, by his accent, was clearly from Makri. «Τὸ οὐσιαστικὸν πάντως θέμα, ἵνα ἐπανέλθωμεν εἰς τὴν ἀρχικήν μας συζήτησιν, εἶναι τὸ τὶ μέλλει γενέσθαι ἐν Νικοπόλει.» ("The real question, to return to our original topic, is what is to happen in Nikopolis.") Vasileios seemed unperturbed as he responded in a calm, Propontine accent, «Τὶ να γίνει ἀδελφέ; Ἡ Μαύρη Πέτρα ὑπάρχει ἐδῶ καὶ μισὸν αἰώνα καὶ ἀκόμα ὑφίσταται ὁ κόσμος, παρὰ τὰς καταστροφολογίας τῶν ἀριστερῶν.» ("What do you think will happen, brother? Mavri Petra has existed for half a century now, and the world has gone on existing, despite all the disaster-talk of the leftists.")

The seminarian from Makri felt a chill go through him at the mention of Mavri Petra—the massive base in the heart of Himyari Pelasgia, near the White Mountains, that housed the heart of Pelasgia's WMD arsenal and command, including a significant part of its nuclear deterrent infrastructure and production facilities. An abomination if there was any, in the words of Patriarch Photios IV, who had preferred to be removed by the Emperor rather than to bless the site. Still, as he brought up the image of the day's lecturers, he was somehow convinced that this matter was even worse. «Οἱ γιατροὶ ἐκ τῆς παιδείας των καθίστανται ἀναισθητοποιημένοι πρὸς τὸν ἀνθρώπινον πόνον καὶ τὰς ἀηδιαστηκότερας ὄψεις τῆς ἀσθενείας καὶ τοῦ θανάτου. Παρὰ ταῦτα, ὁ ἰατρὸς Χριστίδης ἐφάνη μοι σκεπτικός. (Ὁ νεώτερος, ἐννοώ.) Ἀς ἐλπίσομεν πὼς τὸ ὅ,τι κάνουσι μὲ τὸ ἱερὸν γονιδίωμα τοῦ ἀνθρώπου ἐν τῷ τῶν Ὀπτιμάτων οὐ στοιχειώσει τὸ γένος ἡμῶν. Αμαρτίαι γονέων παιδεύουσι τέκνα...» ("Doctors, by the nature of their education, are desensitized to human suffering and to the most disgusting aspects of illness and death. However, Dr. Christides appeared pensive to me—the younger one, that is. Let us hope that whatever they're doing with the sacred genome of man over in the Optimatoi [Theme] will not come to haunt our race. 'The sins of the parents are visited upon the children'...") Beautiful as Stephanos' homily was, his Propontine colleague seemed to have ignored it, instead snickering half-foolishly at the sight off Andreas trying to get the snow off him as Viktoria dragged him by the hand somewhere. A few moments later, realizing from Stephanos' silence that it was his turned to talk, he offered a short, dismissive retort: «Τῶρα πράγματι ακούγεσαι σὰν τὸν Νικαίας, ἀδελφέ.» ("Now you truly sound like [the Metropolitan] of Nikaia, brother.")

Far beyond the horizon, in the same direction where the Propontine student-theologian was staring, a high-speed train bearing the insignia of OSPE, the Pelasgian state railway monopoly, was headed for Nikopolis in the Optimatoi Theme. Aboard that train, Alexandros Christides tried his best to remain immobile and silent: his wife and colleague, Athanasia Phoka, was fast asleep on his shoulder, and his brother, who was sat right across from the two of them, was equally lost in dreams. Cursed to never be able to sleep while travelling for some reason or another, the younger of the two scions of the late Kosmas Christides contented himself with reading an aged hardcover book with half-yellow pages—a monograph inherited from the two men's father. "The Separation of Science and State as a Necessity to Ensure Scientific Ethics," the book's cover read, with an unpronounceable Germanic name of some professor from the @Rheinbund as author and the name of some other long-dead Pelasgian colleague as the translator in smaller font. What a funny, utopic concept, Alexandros reasoned, shaking his head. Then again, maybe not so much for one who has never set foot in Pelasgia.​

 

[Pelasgia]

Zarakas, Tephanon

Christophoros Neolkeus wiped the sweat off his forehead, though it did little good. Cloudy as the day was, the temperature in Zarakas scarcely fell below 25 degrees celsius even at this time of the year. Though not warm for a Pelasgian, it was warm for the sort of thick clothing that he had worn while boarding his flight in Propontis. There was no point in changing, for he would be in snow-coated Thermi by midnight. And so, the sweat continued to drip from his thick greying hair onto his face and fine linen shirt. The horn of a ship distracted him and the group of men who were walking with him along the quay.

«Αὐτὸ εἶναι τὸ πλοῖο μας;» ("Is that our ship?") asked Andronikos Makrianos, Neolkeus' second in command and the lawyer who had helped him build up the PFSC's shipping wing into a mighty force through the clever use of tax exemptions and subsidies. «Ναί,» ("Yes,") came the laconic response. «Ἀν εἴμαστε τυχεροὶ θὰ βρῆκε αὐτὸ ποὺ ψάχναμε στὸν Μεταξωτὸ Ὠκεανό.» ("If we're lucky, it will have found what we were looking for in the Silk Ocean*.") Neolkeus leaned on the port's guard rail and turned to the local Coast Guard commander, who stood beside him. «Εἶναι ἕτοιμη ἡ ὁμάδα σας;» ("Is your team ready?")
*The Pelasgian name for the Silk Seas.

---

Propontis, Propontis M.P.

Ioannes Laskaris ran his fingers over the golden embroidery of his sleeve. The work done by Aslanides was a work of beauty, so much so that he could definitely deem it to be worth every penny. In so far as fashion designers went, the Aslanides family were the best Pelasgia had to offer, and among the few such companies from the country to find any success outside its borders. We can even overlook the fact that they were once Catholic, the Emperor thought, as he allowed the Procurator General to finish his lecture on the legal aspects of the matter being discussed. «Καλῶς ἔχουσιν πάντα ταῦτα,» ("That's all well and good,") Laskaris said once the lengthy diatribe was finally at an end. «Τὸ θέμα ὅμως, πράκτικως, τὸ τὸ δικαστικὸν σῶμα καὶ τὸν λαὸν πείθειν πὼς οὐδεμίαν προϋπάρχουσαν γνώσιν εἴχαμεν μίας συνωμοσίας ἥτις προϊὸν ἡμετέρας μηχανορραφία ἐστί.» ("The real issue, however, is convincing the judiciary and the people that we had no foreknowledge of a conspiracy that we ourselves set up.")

General Phassianos—that mountainous behemoth of a man—leaned forward in his chair, catching the attention of all by its creaking. «Εἰ μοῖ ἐπιτρέπετε, Εὐσεβέστατε, θεωρὼ πὼς οὐκ ἰδιαιτέρως δύσκολον θέλει καθίστημι.» ("If you would allow me, Your Majesty*, I believe that it will not prove to be too difficult.") Upon receiving a nod from the Basileus, the General continued, with remarkable vigour for a man of his age. Clearly, he enjoyed his job. «Ἡ διαίρεσις τῆς Κρυπτείας εἰς τρία μέρη προσφέρει ἡμῖν τὴν τέλειον μέθοδον διὰ τοῦτον ποιεῖν. Ἡ μὲν Ὑπηρεσία Πληροφοριῶν Ἐξωτερικοῦ ἄσχετος ἐπὶ τούτων οὔσα, δύναται ἐξερείσθαι, πλὴν τοῦ συλλέγειν πληροφορίας ἐπὶ τῶν ἐξωτερικῶν σχέσεων τῶν ἐν λόγῳ πολιτικῶν καὶ δυνατῶν, ὠς οὔτως ἢ ἄλλως πρέπει. Ἡ δὲ Ὑπηρεσία Κρατικῆς Ἀσφαλείας διατελέσει τὸ ἔργον τοῦ συλλέγειν στοιχεῖα διὰ τὴν δίωξιν τῶν "συνωμοτῶν". Ἐν τέλει, ἡ Προστατευτικὴ Κρυπτεία, ἀπευθείας ὑπαγώμενη Ὑμῖν, Εὐσεβέστατε, βέλτιστος τῶν τριῶν ἵνα δημιουργήσῃ τὴν "συνωμωσία" λόγῳ τῆς ἐλαχίστου ἀλληλεπιδράσεως μετὰ τὴν Κυβέρνησιν καὶ τῆς ἐλλειψης ἐλέγχου της ἐξ αὐτῆς.» ("The breaking up of the Krypteia into three parts offers us the perfect solution to achieve this. First, the External Information Service, being irrelevant to what we are planning, can be excluded, except in gathering information on the foreign links of the politicians and potentates in question, which it is already required to do anyway. Then, the State Security Service will perform the task of gathering evidence for the prosecution of the 'conspirators.' Finally, the Secret Protective Service**, due to reporting directly to Your Majesty, is best placed to fabricate this 'conspiracy' by reason of its minimal interaction with the Government and the lack of any control thereby.")
*Lit. "Most Pious One"
**Technically the Protective Krypteia, though that translation is not preferred.

The Emperor stroked the hairs of his short, black beard for a second before nodding. «Καλῶς. Εἰς ποιὸν ἀναθέσετε τὸν σχηματισμὸν τοῦ φακέλου;» ("Very well. To whom will you assign this file?") Phassianos' sole working eye (he had been born blind in the other due to congenital disease) shifted to the stack of papers before him. «Ὁ ὑπεύθυνος τῆς Διευθύνσεως Ἐσωτερικοῦ Πολιτικοῦ Ἐλέγχου πρότεινέ μοι ἕναν ἔκ τῶν κατωτέρων του... Ὀρίστε: Ἀντισυνταγματάρχης Ρῆγας Καβαλλάρης, ἀγνώστου πατρός, Πελάγων. Διεκρίθη κατὰ τὴν Ὑπόθεσιν Τιβεριάδου, τὴν Κρίσιν τῆς Ὑπερποταμίας καὶ τὴν Διαδοχὴν τοῦ Θρόνου παρ' Ὑμῶν.» ("The chief of the Internal Political Control Directorate recommended me one of his subordinates... There: Lt. Col. Rigas Kavallaris, father unknown, from Pelagonia. He distinguished himself in the Tiveriades Case, the Hyperpotamia Crisis and Your Majesty's Succession to the Throne.") Laskaris shot a glance at the map of Pelasgia that hanged inside a frame, between two Corinthian pilasters of red marble on the largest wall of the Privy Council Room. A Pelagonian and a bastard, he thought to himself. No wonder the man's a good spy. He must have come up with more stories than Aesop to survive down there. Another nod was sufficient to show his approval, and Phassianos reciprocated with a deeper one, almost a bow.

«Ὅσον ἀφορᾷ τὰς ἀστυνομικὰς ἀρχάς ποὺ ἐκτελέσουσιν τὰ τελικὰ στάδια τοῦ σχεδίου αὐτου...» ("Regarding the law enforcement agencies that will carry out the final stages of this plan...") interjected Procurator General Alexandros Sarantapeches, who was still concerned with legal details of the scheme. «Θεωρὼ πὼς ἡ παρούσα συνήπαρξις τῆς Ἀστυνομίας καὶ τῆς Χωροφυλακῆς δύναται προκαλεῖν σύγχησιν. Ἡ πρότασις τοῦ ἐπὶ τῆς Δικαιοσύνης ἄξια σοβαρῆς ἐξετάσεως ἐστί. Μία συγχώνευσις τῶν δύο εἰς ἕν νέον σῶμα, τὴν λεγόμενην Πολιταρχίαν, ταυτοχρόνως μετὰ τοῦ διαχορισμοῦ τῶν στοιχείων ἐσωτερικῆς ἀσφαλείας τῆς Χωροφυλακῆς ἐν μίᾳ Ἐθνοφυλακὴ δύναται διευκολύνει ἰδιαιτέρως τὸ ἔργον ἡμῶν, ἰδίως ἐὰν πρόκειται ὑπάγεσθαι ἡ Ἐθνοφυλακὴ εἰς τὸ Γ.Ε.Ε.ΔΥ., ὅτι ἐλέγχεται ὑπὸ τοῦ Θρόνου.» ("I believe that the current coexistence of the Police and the Gendarmerie might cause confusion. The proposal by the Secretary of Justice warrants serious consideration. A merger of the two into a new force, the so-called Constabulary*, combined with the separation of the Gendarmerie's internal security arm into a National Guard can greatly simplify our work, especially if the National Guard in question is placed under the authority of the General Staff of the Armed Forces, which answers directly to the Throne.") A tiny bit of light shined through the stained glass windows of the room's dome, onto the shining brass buttons of the Procurator's uniform, with the Double-Headed eagle on the shoulder insignia. This was a man who truly understood the law for what it was: a means for giving order and structure to the exercise of power. The exercise of the power itself was not within his purview, and he merely sought to facilitate the said exercise by those who had a right to it. Before he retires, I shall make him a Permanent Judicial Privy Councilor, and perhaps give him a medal, Laskaris Reasoned, before answering out loud, «Καλῶς. Ἡ Βουλὴ δώσει μοι τὸ σχοινίον μετ' οὗ κρεμάσω την. Σιγουρευτεῖτε ὅπως τὸ νομοσχέδιον ἐγκριθῇ.» ("Good. The Boule shall give me the rope that I will hang it with. Make sure the bill is approved.") The Procurator offered a bow, and made a note to relay it to the Council of State and the Senate to speed up their review. «Φυσικῶς, Βασιλέα μου.» ("Of course, my Emperor.")
*"Constabulary" is used as a synonym for "Politarchy," to denote the agency's paramilitary law enforcement character, which is not limited to rural regions, unlike a Gendarmerie.

Seeing no other point to the meeting, the Basileus placed his hands on the finely crafted oak-wood table before him and stood up, causing all around him to follow suit. The meeting was at an end.​

 

[Pelasgia]

Nikopolis, Optimatoi

The symphony rose like a majestic wave through a mighty ocean, going higher and higher until foaming, falling suddenly with a mighty crescendo, and then rising again. Truly, for a man who had only seen the high seas a handful of times, that man from Vranon (@Socialist Commonwealth ), Dvorak, truly knew how to describe it like no one else! There, there! Emmanouil K. Christides thought as the most emblematic part of the symphony, allegedly inspired from the artist's first seeing a shark approached... Only for a tap on the shoulder to distract him. Damn it, he groaned in his mind, taking off his earphones, have I not told these imbeciles- His brother, Alexandros, stood opposite him. «Μανώλη,» ("Manolis,") Alexandros, started, calling him by his diminutive, «Εἶναι τὰ γενέθλια τῆς Κωνσταντίνας, τῆς φίλης τῆς Νάσιας ποὺ γνώρισες τὶς προάλλες. Δὲ θὰ ἔρθεις;» ("It's the birthday of Konstantina, the friend of Nasia's you met the other day. Aren't you coming?") "Nasia," as Alexandros referred to his wife, Anastasia Komnenopoulaina, who was just behind him, watched carefully with her soft brown eyes, with apparent eagerness. They really want me to get with that colleague of hers... Manolis throught to himself. Not that it mattered, anyway. «Ἔχω πολλὴ δουλειά. Πηγαίντε χωρὶς ἐμένα καὶ θὰ σᾶς βρῶ ἐκεί.» ("I've got a lot of work left to do. Go without me and I'll meet you there.")

And thus, Manolis turned back to his duties, examining closely the data before him. Whether it was in the Level 4 Lab at Nikopolis State Medical Research Centre, which stood contained within a closed-off military zone, or at the dinner table, Manolis was either always working or thinking of work. Anything else was a mere distraction—which left anyone who knew him with little surprise as to how both how he had become so successful and how he had so few (if any) real friends outside of his professional circles. "If he can't talk to him about his research, he's no worth talking to," Professor Lykaonas, their supervisor had once joked—though Alexandros had always thought it to have been more than a joke. At any rate, why should his room be any exception? He had long wished to get a place of his own, but his brother and sister-in-law kept him closeby, as if he needed to be watched for his own good. At least I'm saving, he always thought, as if the military didn't guarantee him a home practically for free in exchange for his services.

«Μανώλη,» ("Manolis,") his brother started again, interrupting his train of thought. The sister-in-law was gone, no doubt giving the two brothers a moment at her husband's insistence. «Πρέπει νὰ σοῦ μιλήσω. Δὲ νομίζω πὼς σοῦ κάνει καλὸ νὰ ἀπομονώνεσαι ἔτσι. Ἀκόμα καὶ στὴν ἔρευνά σου δὲ βοηθάει. Ἀν δὲ σ' ἀρέσει ἡ φίλη τῆς Νάσιας, ντάξει, τὸ καταλαβαίνω. Ξέρω πὼς οἱ Κρηνιώτισσες εἶναι ψωνάρες, ἀλλὰ τουλάχιστον ἔλα νὰ ποῦμε δυὸ κουβέντες μὲ τὰ παιδιά. Θὰ εἶναι καὶ ὁ Μάρκος καὶ ὁ Λουκᾶς ἐκεῖ, αὔριο γυρνᾶνε στὴν Προποντίδα.» ("I need to talk to you. I don't think it's good for you to isolate yourself like this. It doesn't help your research either. If you don't like Nasia's friend, fine, I get it. I know that women from Krini are stuck-up; but at least come to trade a few words with the guys. Markos and Loukas will be there too, and they're returning to Propontis tomorrow.") Manolis, for his part, could not but sigh. Yet again, his brother was lecturing him as if he were the eldest and as if their father had no let him raise the both of them when he passed. «Δὲ ἀπομονώνομαι, ἀπλὰ πρέπει νὰ τὰ παραδώσω αὐτὰ μέχρι τὴν Παρασκευή. Ὁ Διευθυντῆς θέλει νὰ ἔχουμε κάτι νὰ δείξει στὴν Προποντίδα μέχρι τὴν ἐπόμενη βδομάδα, ποὺ θὰ γυρίσει ὁ Βασιλιᾶς ἀπὸ τὴ Μάκρη.» ("I'm not isolating myself, I just need to hand these in by Friday. The Director wants us to have something to show Propontis by next week, when the Emperor will be back from Makri.")

A deep frown appeared on Alexandros' dark olive-skinned face. «Καὶ μοῦ λὲς πὼς δὲν μπορεῖτε πέντε ἄτομα στὴν ὁμάδα σου νὰ τὰ βγάλετε πέρα μέχρι τὴν Παρασκευή;» ("And you're telling me than all five of your team can't get that done by Friday?") Manolis' own equally tan skin seemed to grow slightly red or, perhaps, purple. «Δὲν μπορὼ νὰ τοὺς ἐμπιστευτώ. Οἱ μισοὶ εἶναι πρακτικάριοι.» ("I can't trust them. Half of them are interns.") The youngest of the two brother shook his head. «Πρακτικάριοι μὲ τόση ἐμπειρία ποὺ ὁπουδήποτε ἀλλοῦ θὰ ἦταν μόνιμοι ἐρευνητές. Ἔλα, θὰ σὲ βοηθήσω ἐγώ. Ἤ μήπως οὔτε ἐμένα δὲν ἐμπιστεύεσαι;» ("Interns with enough experience to have made tenured research fellow anywhere else. Come, I'll help you. Or do you not trust me either?") For an instant, Manolis thought to raise a question about cross-project restrictions, but he knew better than to insult his brother like that. «Ἄντε, κέρδισες, ἔρχομαι. Ἀλλὰ μόνο γιὰ ἕνα ποτό.» ("Fine, you win, I'll come. But only for one drink.")

---

Episkopi, Tephanon

All night, the waves of the Basilisk Sea had crushed into the steel bow of the ships docked at anchor off the second largest city of the exclave of Tephanon. Through the fanfare for the opening of the LNG terminal and other facilities in the city, the vessels had remained docked, quiet, seemingly almost deserted apart from the occasional sailor cleaning the deck, or the force of Naval Police officers patrolling the restricted area near the dock. Just before dawn, once the storm had finally subsided, the sailors were roused from their bunks and finally given the order to set sail. As the suns ray's slowly broke over the horizon, the residents of Episkopi's traditional Tephanese homes, with their limestone walls and their sharp arches, would gradually begin to awake. A few, peaking through their light blue window panels, would see the outline of the fleet's last few vessels, behind which flew the ensign of the Pelasgian Empire with the tetragrammic cross.

Thus the flotilla began its journey across the Silk Seas, hoping to put Director Neolkeus' ambitious new strategy into practice—a move that would either make or break his career in the long arm of the Pelasgian State in the corporate world, which was the PFSC. Escorting the dozen or so civilian vessels, ranging from freighters to construction ships and even passenger vessels, were two of the PFSC's Hagios Georgios-class Gunboats/Offshore Patrol Boats (the Atromitos and the Phalainotheras), while the whole contingent was led by one of the crown jewels of the PFSC's small fleet, the Attaleia-class corvette Sebastos. All these were vessels retired from Imperial Navy service for some reason or another and purchased by the PFSC at convenient rates, allowing the Company to act as an extension of Pelasgian power and to also safeguard its own (and Pelasgia's) interests in the Far South, without drawing too much publicity about State intervention to safeguard corporate interests. From the surface, this was quite alike any other major PFSC contingent heading to the Far South, with an escort corresponding to its size lest any pirates, ecological activists or both seek to obstruct or otherwise harm it.

The real, protector of the small force, however, was hidden under the surface of the sea. Deep beneath the waves, two Xiphias-class nuclear attack submarines (the Triton II and the Makhaira) followed the flotilla using passive sonar, remaining quiet and undetectable in so far as technology allowed. Thus, the flotilla continued south through international waters, into the Index Sea, keeping well west of the islands surrounding the Oite Sea and heading south and slightly (albeit increasingly) eastward (safely away from the Himyari mainland) until it reached the height of the Midori Sea, where its external emissions went silent, as if in wartime. From there, it continued its course.​

 

[Pelasgia]

Nikaia, Achthmonia

The blackest of smoke rose over Nikaia, whose white buildings had turned ever more grey with every passing decade since its industrialisation—the earliest in Pelasgia, thanks to the city's proximity to the @Rheinbund. From the slope of the hills to the south of the city proper, it appeared like a thick, dark cloud haunted the city like a spectre, waiting to release its rain but never doing so, only to get thicker and darker. And darker it would only get—for the ornate, well decorated and decidedly neoclassical palace from where Konstantinos Sphrantzes gazed out into the expanse of Pelasgia's northernmost metropolis.

The old, leather ouch where Sphrantzes was lying offered a beautiful view of the frescoes and mosaics that covered the interior of the Gubernatorial Palace—the place where he had been politely exiled through a nominal promotion with the coming of the new dynasty due to suspected political disloyalty. As he shifted his peaked cap from hand to hand, he wondered where he would end up next, for Propontis preferred to shift its black sheep around. At least Nikaia is home, he figured, gazing once more into the distant black smog. He could almost see his father toiling double shifts at the docks to pay for the tutors that financed his education in a country with supposedly free education. Losing himself in his thoughts, he nearly failed to notice the knock on his door.

«Κύριε Κυβερνήτα,» ("Governor, sir,") sounded the voice of his aide-de-camp, Commodore Alexios Notaras, who had been transferred with him for very different reasons to the same unfortunate posting. No doubt, he was bringing some other letter from the Shipping Magnates' Association and their political allies, fantasizing about bringing market liberalism to Pelasgia and how he could play a role in that wild goose chase. No doubt, Alexios would be quite the poster child for that, being from a merchants' family and all, Sphrantzes figured. But as for me, I'm the son of illiterate workers, and a suspected SEKP fellow traveller. Had I not been tainted by those associations after becoming a 'war hero,' I'm sure they would have drummed me out by now.

«Ἄσε το στὸ γραφεῖο μου, Ἀλέξη.» ("Leave it on my desk, Alexios,") he commanded in turn. Alexios, naturally, complied... with a look of distinct pleasure as he did so. No doubt, Sphrantzes would soon enough find out why, as he stood up, straightened up his uniform, and headed for the desk. His eyes widened as he saw the sender's address on the envelope: it was from the Great Palace. Unsealing the resealed enveloppe—truly, did his aide-de-camp and those fat cat idiots whose class he belonged to think he could not tell the difference?—Sphrantzes shot a glance at his email. This must really be a special one, he reasoned, they haven't sent it by email. As he read through the document, the Governor-Admiral's eyes widened more and more, as if he were an owl seeking prey at nighttime. Then, he turned the letter around to make certain that it was empty, and took a closer look at the Emperor's golden seal and red-ink signature.

It's real alright, he reasoned. They're recalling me back to Propontis. Ostensibly, it was because of growing geopolitical tensions and the need for his expertise... Somehow, he found that hard to believe. In the meantime, Alexios would take ever. The power-hungry fool, does he not realize the Great Palace is digging his grave as much as mine? At any rate, it was another thing entirely that had shocked him, for he was long used to such court intrigues that plagued the Empire's politics, military, civil service and broader society by now: he was required to report to Dept. V of the Armed Forces General Staff, the unit tasked with military counterintelligence. Very often, this was the cover used to bring senior officers before the Krypteia (or one of its new successor agencies) without forewarning. Whatever are they planning...

---

Nea Lykaonia, Propontis M.P.

«Ἐργάτες ὅλου τοῦ κόσμου ἑνωθείτε! Δὲν ἔχετε παρὰ τὰ δεσμά σας!» ("Workers of the whole world, unite! You've naught to lose but your chains!") As always, some poor sod or another had sprayed the graffiti on the side of the dockworks of Nea Lykaonia, the Meridian's largest allegedly, to be seen by a small army of workers as they made their way to the stinking marine slavepit that helped their pay their bills like every morning. No doubt, a much smaller but still significant army of gendarmes and policemen was already looking for the culprits, who would deeply regret their small act of rebellion if caught. Somehow always finding themselves on the receiving end of every shitstorm in Propontis' most industrialised suburb, Nikos Palatianos and Stergios Karaoglou had been tasked with painting the wall back to its original, sterile white. Partly out of solidarity with his friends, and partly out of desire to gossip, Avraam Benlevi had volunteered to help. Though perplexed, Stavros Stylianides, the new foreman, had not refused. If Benlevi preferred that to his assigned task for the day (verifying registration numbers on crates, considered an "easy" job), so be it.

«Αὐτὰ τὰ βρωμοκομμούνια μᾶς κάνουν τὴ ζωὴ πατίνι,» ("These filthy commies are always making our lives miserable,") Palatianos barked as he applied paint to the concrete wall. «Τὶ νομίζουν πὼς θὰ πετύχουν μὲ αὐτὲς τὶς καραγκιοζές;» ("What do they think that this clown shit will accomplish?") Karaoglou was too stunned by his friend's suddenly political conviction to answer; but Benlevi, on the other hand, jumped on the opportunity like a seasoned prosecutor after a defendant had made an admission contrary to interest. «Ὥστε τελικὰ εἶσαι ἀντικομμουνιστής, φίλε Παλατιανέ; Μάθαμε ἐπιτέλους καὶ σὲ τὶ πιστεύεις, τουλάχιστον γιὰ ἕνα θέμα.» ("So you're an anticommunist after all, my friend Palatianos? Now we finally know what you believe in, at least on one matter.") Palatianos shooked his head and dipped his brush into a bucker held by Karaoglou. «Ἀντικομμουνιστὴς δὲν εἶμαι, ἀπλὰ θέλω νὰ κάνουν τὸν "ἀγώνα" τους χωρὶς νὰ δυσκολεύουν τοὺς ἐργάτες ποὺ ὑποτίθεται πὼς βοηθάνε.» ("I'm no anticommunist, I just wish they'd conduct their 'struggle' in a way that doesn't inconvenience the workers they're supposed to be helping.")

«Δὲ μᾶς δυσκολεύουν, ἀπλὰ προσπαθοῦν νὰ μᾶς ξυπνήσουν, ὅπως ὁ πατὴρ Γρηγόριος.» ("They're not inconveniencing us, they're trying to awaken us, like fr. Gregorios,") Karaoglou said, having finally gotten over his shock—only for Benlevi to be shocked this time. «Καλά, πλάκα μοῦ κάνεις! Ὁ Λυκάονας εἶναι ἀριστερός; Σὲ εἶχα γιὰ λαϊκιστὴ ρὲ Στέργιο, ἀλλὰ ὄχι καὶ ἔτσι.» ("You've got to be shitting me! The Lycaonian is a leftist? I knew you were a populist, Stergios, but not that far gone.") Benlevi interjected a laugh before continuing, «Εἶσαι καὶ καραθρῆσκος!» ("You're super religious too!")

Karaoglou, for his part, saw nothing wrong with that. «Καὶ γιατὶ ὄχι; Ἀπλὰ πιστεύει ὄτι στὴν Πελασγία κουμάντο πρέπει νὰ κάνουν ὁ λαός, οἱ Πελασγοί. Ὅσο γιὰ τὴ θρησκεία, στὴν χώρα μας, ὅλοι εἶναι θρῆσκοι, ἀκόμα καὶ οἱ ἄθεοι. Κοίτα τοὺς ἀκόλαστους βασιλεῖς μας, παραδείγματος χάριν!» ("And why not? I just think that Pelasgia should be ruled by the people, the Pelasgians. As for religion, in our country, everyone is religious, even the atheists. Just look at our godless emperors, for example!")​

 

[Pelasgia]

Esperian Islands, Tsumujikaze Sea

The PFSC fleet landed on the peninsula at the tip of the southernmost of the two large Esperian Islands, commonly known as Megali Esperida, just as dawn was breaking. They had been sighted from the handful of fishing boats from the towns of Hagios Petros kai Pavlos and Nea Attaleia that roamed the area, surprising the locals for two reasons: first, because of the size of the fleet, and second, because of its direction. Heading for neither of the major fishing towns, the fleet instead chose a secure location that formed an ideal port and was located exactly next to the deposits that had brought it to the distant Exarchate to begin with.

For the first few days, the men of the PFSC would have to eat and sleep on the passenger ships that had carried them, as they gradually brought prefabricated buildings and construction equipment ashore, setting up docks and a small town, large enough to host a couple thousand people under conditions that were not at all luxurious but certainly bearable. Then, they began digging: deeper and deeper into the mountainside of the hilly island, with protective equipment that surprised the locals who had gradually come up to meet them.

Before long, the guards of the PFSC's mercenary wing had been forced to establish a cordon with concertina wire, keeping away all suspicious eyes from the operation. Evidently, the denizens of the isolated but peaceful little island group were not too thrilled about the heavy equipment and explosives that were used to carve up the mountainsides of the area. Nor where they delighted to be told that, from now on, the seat of the local Governor or "Exarch" would be the makeshift settlement that the Company had put up. There was not, however, anything that they could do about it.

In a few days' time, the operation was up and running, and the PFSC had started to load secure crates of its precious cargo to ship back to mainland Pelasgia under protection, while the workers and guards remained on the island to await more ships. Communicating directly with Propontis, the local Company leadership had been presented with a single question: "What is the name of the new settlement?" They deliberated for a bit, but decided to honour the mastermind behind the operation—and to avoid any negative connotation if the whole thing went south. "Neolcis," came the laconic response. "After the man who planned the operation." Propontis gave no response; instead, a decree appointing Adm. Konstantinos Sphrantzes, recently recalled from Nikaia, as Exarch was penned. Not that he would have much real control over an island that was, for all intents and purposes, a PFSC company town...

After all, the Empire had need of both uranium mines for its nuclear industry and new places of exile for its penal labourers. In the heretofore unexploited land of the Esperian Islands, Christophoros Neolkeus had found it both.​

 

[Pelasgia]

Makri, Makriotica

An overcast day in an otherwise warm setting. That was what passed for winter in Makri, both the island and the city. Anastasia Komnenopoulaina had almost gotten used to the humid, almost oppressive weather of the Empire's southernmost outpost. The clothes here never dry, she thought to herself, as she watched a few of the housemaids attending to her residence hang out bedsheets to dry. Not that she had much time for that—the Queen of @Angliarique was on her way, escorted by a motorcade also carrying Empress Theophano, or as Anastasia knew her, "my baby cousin." The endless contingents of guards that had turned the remote palatial residence into a fortress were testament enough as to how much things had changed. Last time I saw Theophano I was still talking to her about her work, she remembered. I wonder if I'll have to bow before her now, as she had to do before my father.

The answer would come rather quickly—but Anastasia herself changed into her finest royal blue (for she could no longer wear the purple) and prepared to meet her most distinguished guests at the entrance of the palace—if one could call the beautiful neoclassical residence with its modest but well-kept gardens that. For anyone else this might have passed as a perfectly respectable country residence for a royal family, but for one who had been raised in the halls of the Great Palace of Propontis, which was a small town in its own right, it seemed like a snippet of the real thing taken and removed to the far end of the country. I think this was about the size of father's apartments, if one were to put them all together, she thought to herself with a smile.

"No signs of any protestors or trouble, Your Highness," said Linus Johansen, one of the Varangians who had been sent from the Capital to arrange for the security of the three royal women. The elderly man had been one of Anastasia's favourites from her childhood days, back when he was still a fearsome young man with bright red hair—his daughter, a friend of Anastasia's, had shared the feature, and since they were always seen together, the palace staff would refer to them as "the Red Twins". A fond memory from a time long gone... Johansen's wife had passed away, and his daughter had returned to @Jydsken-Østveg. Still, the now-grey-haired guardsman remained at his post, faithful to the death. Perhaps he had been gone so long that he had no home to return to...

"Thank you, Linus," the Sebaste replied in her broken Austwegian, which the Guard Captain appreciated nonetheless. Before long, the two royal ladies had arrived. Answering her own question, Anastasia had offered her cousin—who now wore the Purple in her stead—a bow, only for the cousin to embrace her. Both bowing and pitied, the Despotess-turned-teacher thought to herself, somewhat bitterly. Then, came the time to meet the Queen of the Anglians, whose coming had brought two regiments' worth of troops and Lord-knows how many Politarchy officers to the island. "Your Majesty," Anastasia offered, with another bow. Before the Queen had had a chance to respond, Anastasia noticed a shy women behind her, who was gazing at her with glee not seen since she had visited a local orphanage—was this the fan-club president they had mentioned?​

 

[Pelasgia]

Syrallos, Pera Theme

Luka enjoyed riding the train. His late father, Josip, had always said that you could tell much about how a country operated based on its railway network; throughout his foreign travels, he had come to agree. Though to be well-travelled was a rarity for @Socialist Commonwealth citizens, being the son of a (now retired) diplomat and the winner of scholarships to study at foreign universities to bring back specialised knowledge to his native land was both a privilege and a duty that he took seriously. This latest academic conference in Propontis had been no exception: say what you will about the Pelasgians, probably one of the most reactionary peoples on earth, they knew shipping. So when AI got into automating the operation of maritime trade, Propontis jumped on it gladly. Though one got the sense that official Propontis was torn: on the one hand, they could use the drop in demand to finally crush the shipping workers' unions; on the other, they would lose a major source of employment if the concept went anywhere, causing major social instability.

Anyway, that's their problem to deal with, Luka thought to himself, and he leaned back on his seat aboard the comfortable high-speed rail of OSPE*'s internationally acclaimed jewel, the Himyar Express, and allowed sleep to take him as the steel snake sped out of Propontis Central Railway Station, across the Propontis Straits and toward Germania. The train was quite modern and fast, and the service was on-time; that much spoke to renowned Propontine efficiency. The cheaper tickets were accessible to most, though the more expensive ones (ironically not at all expensive for citizens of wealthier nations) were well out of reach of the average person. For the very destitute the ordinary, non-high-speed rail was well-maintained and next to free. Regardless of which train one took, ticket control and policing were heavy, and the only thing more remarkable than the stations' cleanliness was the sheer number of cameras on every corner. Clean and orderly, with the luxuries afforded to the wealthy inaccessible to most people but the poor taken care of just enough to not revolt, and the middle class given just enough of the pie to feel like they benefited from the nation's advancement. It really was the antithesis of the Commonwealth in every respect. Though technically outlawed, Luka thought just before finally falling asleep, fascism really is Pelasgia's OS... Or 'national autocracy' or whatever they call it here.
*

You must be registered for see links

The sudden deceleration of the train caught Luka by surprise. He had done the same trip before, and could have sworn that it had taken many times longer. Checking his phone, with a picture of his girlfriend, Vesna, as the wallpaper, he noticed that it was barely past midnight... Dumbfounded, the young man looked outside to see lights illuminating a railway station with Pelasgian writing all over it, and smaller inscriptions in a few foreign languages (though not in his native Carentanian). Regardless of language, the station's main sign was clear enough:
​

ΣΥΡΑΛΛΟΣ
Syrallos​

Syrallos?! he thought to himself, pulling up a map on his phone. They were still on the border of Pera Theme, the southernmost tip of the Haemus Peninsula, as the Pelasgian and Thrakian part of Germania was known. It was a major railway junction with lines north, to Pyrgos, west to Thermi, Nauplia and the Rheinbund, and northwest, to Germania and home. Maybe they wanted to do maintenance? he reasoned. Only, that was not like the Pelasgians. Their trains ran on time and worked well, even if it meant jailing any worker who dared mention a strike out loud...

Before long, his question was answered. A soft, almost sterile feminine voice cried out from the speakers, first in Pelasgian (which Luka did not understand), then in Engwahlian (which Luka spoke better) and Rheinish (in which he was fluent): "Dear passengers, please note that the train has had to make an urgent stop in Syrallos, Pera Theme. Please prepare your travel documents and tickets for inspection. Your cooperation is valued and will speed up our departure." A great rumbling came about the train, as the middle-class Pelasgians and the humble students like himself in the cheaper seats took out their IDs or passports, and their tickets. Like many younger people, Luka had his ticket on his phone as a scannable image from OSPE's international travel app, including both the fare he used to come into the country and the return ticket he was travelling on.

A door opened, and men in greyish-green uniforms walked in along with the conductor. These were the famed "Politarchs", as the Pelasgian national police constables were called.* One by one, seat by seat, row by row, they started to check the details of all passengers for some opaque reason that was only known to the higher-ups of this strange country.
*

You must be registered for see links

After what seemed like an eternity, they finally got to to Luka's seat. "Papers, please," one of the constables said, as if he knew that Luka was a foreigner. Whether it was the palour of his skin or the way he was dressed, Pelasgians seemed to have a way of knowing. Luka complied, only for the man's eyes to widen once he saw the cover of the passport. Coming from a country that was not known for foreign travel always raised an eyebrow, but in Pelasgia, coming from a socialist country was cause enough to be seriously suspect. As if that wasn't enough, the constable's colleague seemed to be staring at Luka's bag for some reason. Amidst tourist patches, there were pins for environmentalist and other social causes that he had gotten at a student event and the accompanying concert in the @Rheinbund. "Open your bag, please," the other constable said, after conferring with his colleague in their unintelligible tongue. Again, Luka complied, only for the article to be seized from his hands and rummaged through excitedly.

Almost as quickly as it had started, the rummaging stopped and the constable pulled out a book. Anarchy and the land, was the book--a gift from his friend Markus in the Rheinbund, whom he had met at a student panel discussion. A staple of the radical ecologists who would later grow into the ecoterrorist movement, it was still interesting to read, even if not the best thing to have at an airport or to take too seriously. Still, it was just a book. "Is there a problem?" Luka asked.

"This book is prohibited in Pelasgia," the constable replied, with a hint of disdain in his voice. "What is your final destination?"

"Home," Luka explained. "The Socialist Commonwealth." The constables checked the electronic scan of his ticket, which the conductor had provided them with. "It says here you went through Nauplia on your way into the country."

"I came through the Rheinbund, there was a conference there..." Luka said, before catching himself. They probably heard it was a panel discussion on ecology...

The constables traded a glance before voicing the same conclusion: "You are under arrest."​

 

[Pelasgia]

Nea Lykaonia, Propontis M.P.

Luka woke up to the clunking of a metal door. He had been sleeping in a cell, having been arrested well after midnight. A pair of guards entered the room and addressed him: "Get up." Almost mechanically, he held out his hands to be handcuffed and followed them through the prison. The facility itself was massive—now that it was day time it was easier to see. They must keep all the arrested people for a city of ten million here... he reasoned. The whole place had an almost sterile, hospital-like look about it. This weird feeling only got stronger as he reached the room where they were taking him: an all-white square space, with mirrored glass wall on one side and absolutely nothing on all other walls. Nothing, that is, except an Icon, for Pelasgians even placed those in a jail. Strong fluoride lamps buzzed overhead and the jailers shackled Luka to the metal table, which was bolted on the ground, and placed a chair under him. Ironically, there was water on the table, though he could not reach the glass.

In the corner of his eye, the young Carentanian noticed that a man in a greyish-green uniform was standing guard in the corner behind where he was sat, holding a sub-machine-gun. The man wore sunglasses despite being indoors, and his insignia was similar to that of the Politarchs (a golden eagle on a green field), only more... elaborate. He thought to ask who the man was, but before he could, the door opened again, and the jailers were replaced by a pair of men, both in uniforms of the same colour as the armed guard.

"I am Warrant Officer Markos Stavropoulos of the State Security Service," said the first man, who wore his light brown hair very short. "This is my colleague, Master Sergeant Prokopios Efthymiou."

"I want a lawyer," Luka said.

"You can't get one right now," replied Stavropoulos. "You are in our custody under the counter-terrorist law. At any rate, I think if you talk to us, there's a chance you might be able to get out of all this without a trial. Am I clear?"

Luka nodded. "Can I at least have some water?"

Stavropoulos nodded in turn and his colleague got up, unshackling the lad. "Now then..." he started, and Luka expected the same flurry of questions that his first night's interrogation had entailed: Was he a member of any communist party? Had he ever joined a radical group designated as such by the Pelasgian Government? Why was he carrying that book? Who had given it to him? How had he met that person? Why had he stopped in Nauplia? What was his opinion on the Inova-Nauplia Transit Corridor? Instead, Stavropoulos asked him a new question: "Why did you participate in the open forum against the Inova-Nauplia Transit Corridor in Nauplia? There's no use denying it, we have photos of you there."

As if to prove his point, the Warrant Officer produced a folder with pictures, placing it in front of Luka. "I thought it was simply an academic discussion, not an opposition gathering... My minor is in environmental technology, I have been to many conferences like that. In fact, I... I just came from one in the Rheinbund."

"I see," said Efthymiou, breaking his silence. The two men had remarkably good accents, meaning that they were educated; their questions, too, were more focused than those of the Politarchs or the National Guardsmen. They knew what they were after... which meant that they had likely been the ones to order Luka's arrest. "We also know that you joined the protest afterward. Did you think that that, too, was an 'academic conference'? You do know that it's illegal for non-citizens to participate in political activities without police permission, yes?"

Luka sunk in his chair. Father did always say not to get involved in things like this abroad... Seeing that he was unlikely to answer, Stavropoulos jumped in. "Now, that makes it... three violations of the Delictum Sui Generis Law*? Perhaps two, if we're being generous. Moreover, at least one of these was directly aimed against a project characterised of National Importance under the Counter-Terrorist Law, which makes it a terroristic act and also a felony. I'd say you're looking at at least half a dozen years in a labour camp. Do they have those back home?"
*Law 429/1929, officially titled "On measures for the security of the social regime and the protection of civil liberties", is the primary piece of legislation used to prohibit radical political activities in Pelasgia. The law is often named after its most notorious provision, which makes activities aimed at overthrowing the "social regime" a sui generis delict.

"I didn't know it was illegal," Luka meekly replied, without looking up from the table where his eyes were now fixed.

"No matter," Efthymiou noted, catching Luka's attention, "having you convicted and sentenced won't really do much for us. You're not really all that important, and those f*ggots in @Radilo or the commies back home in the @Socialist Commonwealth won't let us hear the end of it. What we do need is information."

Looking Luka straight in the eye, Stavropoulos explained his colleague's proposal: "We have a deal to offer you: You let us know who invited you to the protest; who the key people in the protest were; you make a sworn statement identifying them, in writing; and we'll let you off the hook. You'll go back home, with a clean record. What do you say?"

A deep ponderance came about Luka. Efthymiou got up, his chair screeching as it scratched against the floor tiles. "No need to answer us right away. In the meantime, we'll get you out of here and transfer you to a more residential setting—under our surveillance, of course, so don't do anything stupid."​

 

[Pelasgia]

Far Southern Islands

The "Far Southern Islands," as some Pelasgian had named them on a map a few centuries prior, were, in truth, anything but a single entity. The tiniest, westernmost islands were generally uninhabited, being too small and hilly for any of the tribes that had reached southern Himyar by foot to bother to make the trip by sea (assuming they could, for the pastoralists in question were generally not maritime peoples). Only the three northernmost of the isles had any real habitation and, then too, their population makeup was anything but homogenous.

On the northern half of the largest island (Kranae as it was known from Pelasgian maps of the region), lived the Bushmen of southern Himyar, chased there by the tribes who had migrated to the region from the continent's centre several centuries prior. Their way of life was mostly pastoral to this day, having generally escaped the urbanisation that colonisation had brought to the nearby Dune Sea. Due to this lifestyle, their numbers never climbed above a few thousand, since the eschewed the sort of modern urban living that would allow for such growth, preferring traditional hamlets of tightly-knit clans.

On the smaller island of Kouloura (again, from Pelasgian maps) and the eastern side of Kranae lived the Arubi, a unique people who were remarkable first in that they were mixed and second in that they had next to nothing (ethnically speaking) to do with Himyar. Though shrouded in legend, it was clear that their origins were maritime, since they themselves admitted to having reached the isles by boat centuries prior (a fact also attested to by the Bushmen). Most likely a nomadic people from the Silk Seas (one of many who lived a semi-transient lifestyle in island chains of southern Toyou), they had apparently settled down in the isles by 1502. Since then, they had built fishing towns, which were still the largest ports and urban centres in the area before the appearance of the Gallo-Germanian colonialists in the Dune Sea.

Having resisted the pressure of Muslim merchants and explorers to convert to Islam, the Arubi still largely clung to their traditional faith. Nevertheless, a minority had been induced (since the 19th century) to gradually convert to Pelasgian Orthodoxy, even if a peculiar version thereof. For this reason, Pelasgian ships occasionally used the area as a convenient anchorage, ostensibly transferring some priest or another every now and then. That being said, the majority of the local people seemed to distrust the distant foreigners, having learned to fear colonization both due to Urudoah raids and the nearby Dune Sea colony. Having no religion, they practiced ancestor worship, and so treated Pelasgian claims of a God who will resurrect all the dead as somewhat peculiar. Every now and then, tensions between them and the Bushmen (or, indeed, between the Christian and traditional Arubi) would flare up.

The winter of 2024 was one such time. Driven by a desire to build more fishing boats, men from the town of Saints Peter and Paul (as the Pelasgian map called it anyways) had crossed over the mountains and into the western side of the island, to engage in logging. The outraged Bushmen had chased them back, using firearms that they had managed to acquire. ("Managed" from their own viewpoint perhaps, because the Pelasgians had been feeding used weapons bought from other Himyari countries (to give them plausible deniability) into the islands for some time, seeking to destabilize them.) The Arubi had returned with weapons of their own and, before long, a low-intensity war had erupted on the island. The Bushmen had engaged in guerilla tactics, attacking smaller Arubi towns in the inland opportunistically, and the Arubi had retaliated by setting fire to the pastures that the Bushmen used to feed their livestock. A clash was imminent.

It was on the backdrop of this conflict that the PFSC flotilla that had set sail from Tephanon a couple of weeks prior reached the Far South. Almost instantly, the small fleets of the Arubi crowded near the docks, hoping to trade with the merchants (and perhaps to buy weapons to use against the Bushmen). The Bushmen, too, had caught sight of the fleet from hilltops, and had sent for agents to purchase arms. Only, this time, the fleet did not make a stop at the normal docks that it used, instead heading for convenient anchorages in unsettled areas on both Kouloura and Kranae; in both locations, the fleet first landed a contingent of PFSC troops (marine mercenaries, really) who set up a perimeter with concertina wire. Then, the passenger vessels and cargo ships that the flotilla included started unloading their respective cargo: workers and pre-fabricated structures.

Within a few days, pre-fabricated docks and housing units had been set up on the two coastal outposts, named "Nea Attaleia" and "Tzamantourion," respectively. Around them, a trench had been dug and the wire had been reinforced by two lawyers of walls, which were patrolled by armed guards and watched from towers. The PFSC flag had been raised over both locales, and signs had been set up in the local language, indicating that the locals would need permission to enter. In effect, the PFSC had set up permanent bases on the island.

As this was going on, the PFSC sent envoys to both its contacts in the Arubi towns and also in the Bushmen's clans chiefs. To the Arubi, the PFSC's leadership pretended that it intended to set up anchorages to secure the area from pirates, and that it was willing to sell them arms, so long as they endorsed this project. To the Bushmen, it promised aid and support for much the same price. It was to the Christian Metropolitan of the islands, one Fr. Theodoros Agathos, that the PFSC revealed its real intentions: to establish permanent control over the islands. For this, it requested from him a simple but urgent task: to compile a list of all within his flock that could serve as interpreters and assist with administration; and to explain to them how quickly he could transfer the said flock to the settlements. Clearly, this would not be a short-lived or simple operation.

Notes
The Bushmen are based on the Khoisan of South Africa.
The Arubi are based on various Austronesian sea nomad peoples.​

 

[Pelasgia]

Propontis, Propontis M.P.

"You can do many things with a bayonet except sit on it." These famous words, attributed to a onetime chancellor and foreign minister of the empire that once had ruled over what was now the @Socialist Commonwealth, were drilled into every man who set foot into the Imperial Intelligence Services Agents Candidates' Academy, the school that produced the agents for the entire Pelasgian intelligence community, held just as true today as it did when it had first been uttered, some two centuries prior. As Europe advanced and Pelasgia remained a determined, hard autocracy, the bayonet became ever more useful—and those wielding it found it ever harder to sit down and relax.

From the start of his career, Lt. Col. Rigas Kavallaris could trace a mental line between his advancement and the stress associated with his job. True, any advancement in rank brought more responsibility with it naturally, but as the Sublime Throne tried ever harder to cling to power in spite of a growing list of opponents, he could also feel the scope of those he was supposed to keep an eye on grow. First, it had been the unions; then, it had been dissident academics and journalists; in turn, the oligarchs and capitalists had found themselves in the Throne's crosshairs, after climbing to high close to the sun and threatening to re-establish bourgeois constitutional parliamentarism in something other than name; then, political elites that were not loyal to the Throne's top-down reforms had found themselves a target—a project that had partly failed, leading to a dynastic change and the current regime. Only, this regime too, was locked in an internal battle: the new Emperor wanted to do away with the inconvenience of a cabinet that wanted to limit him to more of a figurehead; the cabinet wanted to do the opposite, having only just rid Pelasgia of the more autocratic Komnenopouloi in favour of nominal national, popular sovereignty. The conflict was inevitable; and the Throne had decided to preempt it by fabricating a conspiracy to weaken the Boule and reassert sole rule over the State, using the loyalty of the top echelons of the security forces, civil service, judiciary and military to enforce its rule. A palace coup, if Rigas had ever seen one; a parody of the coup that the army had carried out against the Throne in the late 20th century.

«Ποιὰ εἶναι ἡ ἄποψή σου γιὰ τὴν ἱστορία μὲ τὸν νεαρὸ ἀπὸ τὴν Καραντανία;» ("What is your opinion on the whole story with the Carentanian boy?") Anna, Rigas' wife had asked him the previous night, as they had both laid in bed. In her tone, he remembered the same hint of admiration that she had once asked him all sorts of questions in. Back then, she had been his subordinate and the daughter of his one-time mentor, whom he had promised to take care of. Even with all that had happened, times truly had been simpler back then. «Δὲν εἶμαι σίγουρος ἀν ἐπιτρέπεται νὰ ἔχω ἄποψη,» ("I'm not sure I'm allowed an opinion,") Rigas had answered honestly, («ἀλλὰ μοῦ φαίνεται πὼς δὲν εἶναι οὔτε ἀθῶος, οὔτε ἔνοχος. Ὄχι ὄτι θὰ ἔκανε διαφορά. Τὸ μόνο ποὺ μετράει εἶναι πὼς οἱ πράκτορες τοῦ Θρόνου τὸν βρίσκουν χρήσιμο μὲ κάποιον τρόπο καὶ, αὐτὴ τὴ στιγμή, ἡ χρησιμότητά του εἶναι πιὸ σπουδαία ἀπὸ τὶς δυσκολίες ποὺ συνεπάγεται. Αὐτοὶ κρατοῦν τὴ λόγχη, ἐνῷ αὐτὸς εἶναι ἄοπλος.» ("but I think he's neither innocent nor guilty. Not that it matters, anyway. What matters is that the Throne's agents see a way of using him, and, right now, the inconvenience is outweighed by the potential usefulness. They've got the bayonet and he hasn't got anything.") Anna had placed an arm on his shoulder, as if to ease the guilt she could sense in his voice. («Ἴσως νὰ μπορεὶ νὰ τοὺς κάνει νὰ τὴν καβαλήσουν. Στὸ μεταξύ, μπορεῖς νὰ ἀνοίξεις καμιὰ ταβέρνα...» ("Perhaps he can make them sit on it. And you can start a tavern in the meantime...")

Most men would have been insulted, but Rigas had known Anna well enough to know that it had been a joke. After all, he himself had thought of retiring before, but he knew another truth of the Service: once a Krypteia man, always a Krypteia man. Retirement merely meant deep cover as a civilian. The only way out was the grave, whether by nature or by choice. He sighed. Too late for that know, he admitted to himself. I've got a family to feed, and another baby on the way. He straightened his tie and opened to door into the conference room. «Συγγνώμη γιὰ τὴν καθυστέρηση, Ναύαρχέ μου.» ("My apologies, Admiral. I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long...")​

---

Nikopolis, Optimatoi Theme

Dry. That was how Emmanouil K. Christides would describe the lab. Outside, Pelasgian winter was in full swing, being humid and dump and wet, but inside, the lab was pristine, without a single sign of excess humidity except where the conditions of some specimen or experiment required it. The inside in question, of course, was underground, but that was immaterial. In the present moment, in so far as Dr. Christides was concerned, Nikopolis State Research Institute might as well have been the whole world.

«Εὔρηκα.» ("Eureka.") the eldest of the two Christides brothers proclaimed. «Δουλεύει.» ("It works.") As if she were finding out the object of their work for the first time, Nasia leaned on her husband in awe and terror. It was one think to theorize an ethnic bioweapon... it was quite another to develop one. Her husband, the younger Dr. Christides, was note entirely sure whether he could believe his brother, setting aside the question of whether he wanted to. «Εἶσαι σίγουρος; Μήπως νὰ ξανακάνουμε τὸ πείραμα;» ("Are you sure? Maybe we should run the experiment again...")

Emmanouil K. Christides shook his head. «Δὲ χρειάζεται. Οὕτως ἢ ἄλλως, μὲ ποντίκια δουλεύουμε. Τὸ ζήτημα εἶναι νὰ φτάσουμε σὲ πιὸ ἐξελιγμένους ὀργανισμούς. Μὲ αὐτὰ τὰ ἀποτελέσματα, θὰ μᾶς ἐπιτρέψουν νὰ κάνουμε ἔρευνα σὲ σκηλιά, ἴσως καὶ σε πιθήκους.» ("No need. Anyway, we're working on mice. The real issue is reaching more advanced organisms. With these results, they'll let us graduate to dogs, maybe even apes.") Alexandros took a step forward, hoping to catch his brother's attention; the latter seemed too lost in his thoughts, to fixed on the method and the advancement of it all to consider how far the matter had progressed. «Μανώλη, ἄλλο πράγμα ἢ θεωρία καὶ ἄλλο ἡ πράξη. Φαντάσου νὰ μᾶς ἔβλεπε ὁ πατέρας...» ("Manolis, theory's one thing and action's another. Imagine if father were watching...")

Alas, the warning seemed to have fallen on deaf ears. «Οἱ νεκροὶ δὲν ἔχουν μάτια γιὰ να δοῦν τοὺς ζωντανούς. Ζοῦν μονάχα μέσα ἀπὸ τὰ ἔργα μας. Κι αὐτὸ εἶναι ἕνα ἄξιο ἔργο.» ("The dead have no eyes to watch the living with. They only live through our deeds. And this is a worthy deed.") Unconvinced, the young brother stared the other in the eye. «Γιὰ ποιόν; Γιὰ τὸ Ἴδρυμα;» ("For whom? The Institute?") Manolis' returning gaze was unrelenting. «Γιὰ τ' ὄνομά μας καὶ τὴν ἐπιστήμη μας.» ("For our name and our science.")

 

[Pelasgia]

Propontis, Propontis M.P.

The door slammed shut, and an eerie silence filled the room. It must have been the fifth of the sixth time Luka was having a "chat" with the organs of the Pelasgian securocracy, and yet the underlying unease had still not gone away. Though the sterile white interrogation room had given way to nicely decorated, "simplified neoclassical" (as the Pelasgian State called its favourite building style) conference room, Luka saw through the suits and ties of the men across from him, as if they were still in uniform.

"I trust you had a good night's sleep?" Warrant Officer Stavropoulos asked, as his colleague, Master Sgt. Efthymiou shifted through the stack of papers before him. Luka saw through their feigned caring, as did his attorney, though he held his tongue—if for no other reason than that they had technically done him a favour by allowing him to bring his lawyer along, this being a national security matter and everything. Fascists always call everything a 'matter of national security,' Luka thought bitterly, before politely but coldly answering, "Yes, thank you. You?"

The question took Stavropoulos by surprise. "Not much sleep in my line of work, I'm afraid," he answered, before adding, "But thank you." An awkward silence ensued for a few instants, until Efthymiou finally found the right document. It was a pair of documents, really: a statement based on everything Luka had spoken about with the men, along with a translation, and a line for Luka to sign at the bottom. "I trust you know what this is," the Warrant Officer explained. "Now-

"My client isn't signing anything," Demetrios Doukides, the public defender assigned to Luka's case, intervened. "He comes from a socialist country, and his denouncing left-wing activists here could cause problems back home." Efthymiou jumped forward, as if he were about to shout something about calling the prosecutor and throwing a wrench into the whole thing, but his colleague stopped him with a soft tap on the shoulder. "I see," Stavropoulos answered. "Only, without a signed statement identifying any wrongdoers, your client is not of any particular use to us. There is, therefore, little reason for us to intercede on his behalf with the Procuratorate... unless, of course, Mr. Horvat has any additional information to give us that could be of use."

Luka, in turn, nearly jumped forth, only for Doukides to hold him back in turn. "And what will a trial accomplish? Throwing the boy into prison for three months and embarrassing the country internationally? It's not like a three month sentence would intimidate anyone." Stavropoulos shook his head. "Perhaps. But, you know as well as I do that a Pelasgian prison is not exactly like those luxury facilities tourists are used to back home. Then, this is a crime under the delictum sui generis law, so he could see a labour camp or a military prison. Do you think pampered little ambassador's son here will be able to withstand that?"

"Don't drop the soap," a slouched Efthymiou said almost under his breath, just loud enough to be heard, before sitting up straight. Luka turned to look at his lawyer with concern, equally apparent to both him and the two YKA agents. Seeing that this would undermine any chance he had at bluffing, Doukides tried to break it all off. "We will have to retire to confer-

"No conferring, no retiring and no delaying," Stavropoulos asked. "The deal is this: you either give us something now or the deal's off. If you walk out that door, you either walk out a friend or an enemy." Perhaps this was lost on Luka, but Doukides knew the phrase that the Warrant Officer was alluding to all to well: 'whoever comes in here leaves either as a friend or as a casualty,' the infamous unofficial motto of the YKA's interrogation specialists. Still, Luka knew a threat when he heard one. "Fine," he interjected, finally speaking. "I won't sign, but I've got something else for you."

His lawyer was taken aback, and the two securocrats visibly frowned. Was he buying time? Was he making things up? Had he lost his mind? "I actually do know the name of the person invited my friend Johann to the protest, and me and the other foreigners through him. Her codename was really 'Aspa,' but I caught a glimpse of her student ID while she was using it for a discount. 'Alexandra Despotakaina' is her real name. She studies political science at the Imperial University of Thermi."

For a moment, Luka was unsure of the effect that his information had had on the two men. Was it enough? Do they believe me? Stavropoulos, sitting right across from him nodded approvingly, but remained otherwise stoic. Glimpsing to his right, it was Efthymiou who set aside his doubts: a wide smile appeared on the Master Sergeant's face. "Very well," Stavropoulos said. "That's more than enough for us." As he spoke, Efthymiou crossed out a few lines from the agreement and flipped it over to Luka to sign. Doukides skimmed through it, as did Luka (using the translation). After a few reads, Doukides assured him that he could sign, and Luka did so with quite some relief.

"So I'm free to go?" he asked, standing up and straightening the tie that his lawyer had lent him. Stavropoulos nodded again. "Yes, quite free," he replied, checking the

You must be registered for see links

that he had been given following his official swearing-in into the Service a few years prior. "We will communicate with your ambassador on our end, and the Politarchy will conduct you to the airport to be repatriated in the coming days. Just remember: everything we said in here is confidential, as per our agreement. Though, I think you know that it'd hurt you more than us to reveal anything." He turned to Doukides and continued, "That also applies to you, counselor."

Far from excited or relieved, Luka was mostly perplexed. Why were they this quick to release him? What they expected things to turn out this way? Had this been their angle? Did they not want to verify that his intel was at least truthful? As he stood up and felt Doukides' hand softly but firmly push him toward the exit, he caught a glimpse of the two men chatting confidently, as if they had just heard someone confirm something that was useful to them? But she's just a student, like all the others they already knew about. Why do they care so much? The two men's chatter was unintelligible to him anyway, except for a few phrases here and there, but, before the door closed, he heard a couple of words he could have sworn Alexandra Despotakaina had mentioned to him once before: "Tagma Omega" or "Omega Battalion". Whatever that was...​

 

[Pelasgia]

Thermi, Pieria Theme

«Κέντρο, ἐδῶ Ξίφος 3-1, αἰτούμεθα ἐπιβεβαίωσιν ἐξουσιοδοτήσεως.» ("Control, this is Dagger 3-1, requesting conformation of authorisation.") sounded a masculine voice behind a gas mask. A pause was filled with static, before the radio sounded back. «Ἐπιβεβαιώνομεν.» ("Confirmed,") said a cold, mechanical, almost inhuman female voice. «Προχωρήσατε.» ("Go ahead.") Dagger 3-1, the author of the masculine voice, acknowledged the command and turned to his men. «Νὰ θυμάστε: Στὸ κρατητήριο ἢ στὸ κοιμητήριο.» ("Remember: The holding cell or the cemetery.") With a nod, the black-clad commandos, whose only identifying mark (apart from cryptic numbers on their helmets and the initials of the State Security Service (YKA)) was an all-white Omega that featured on their armour.

Like ghosts, the men split up into pre-arranged groups, surrounding the elegant townhouse that served as the residence of Senator Despotakis, and which had housed that esteemed political family for several generations now, as indicated by a plaque on the gate of the tall fencing that surrounded the edifice. By a prearranged plan, a nearby group of YKA technicians cut the power to the residence just as the commandos were about to enter the field of vision of its security cameras; then, they jumped over the fence at different spots, while on of the fireteams forced open lock of the fencing gate. A battering ram forced open the house door, and flash-bang grenades broke the glass of various windows, preceding the entry of the Omega Battalion's troops into the building.

«Κρατικὴ Ἀσφάλεια, ψηλά τὰ χέρια!» ("State Security, hands up!") shouted Dagger 3-1, entering through the main door and training his weapon on the residence's main hallway. «Ἔχουμε ἔνταλμα!» ("We've got a warrant!") The maid and chauffer of the household were the first people the commandos came across, and they were thrown on the ground and handcuffed. Then, the commandos proceeded through every room in the house, until they found the terrified Senator and his wife hiding in the bedroom closet. The three daughters' room was vacant, but that was no news to the commandos. Two of them were on a returning flight from an exotic vacation in @Imimoya, and they would be arrested at the airport soon. As for the third...

«Ἐλάτε κύριε Γερουσιαστά,» ("Come, Senator, sir,") said Dagger 3-4 and Dagger 3-5 as they helped Senator Despotakis to his feet, while still in cuffs. «Θὰ σᾶς πάμε νὰ βρεῖτε τὴν κόρη σας, τὴν Ἀλεξάνδρα.» ("We'll take you to meet your daughter, Alexandra.") The Senator practically barked back at them. «Τὶ σᾶς φταίει ἡ κόρη μου ρε ἀλήτες;» ("What ill has my daughter done to you, you punks?") The two commandos laughed in lieu of an answer. «Θὰ τὸ μάθετε σύντομα ἀπ' τὶς εἰδήσεις.» ("You'll learn on the news soon enough.")

But though the arrest of the Senator and his household had been an important objective, it had not been as important as gathering evidence. Dagger 3-1 and most of Dagger team stayed back as YKA technicians entered the palatial home and began extracting files, both electronic and physical, as well as any other records. For Senator Despotakis had had very close links with many of the more liberal-leaning oligarchs who financed his campaign and his party's projects through private loans of questionable legality, given Pelasgia's strict electoral law, often using foreign accounts. The YKA had known about these for a while, but it had waited to find a use for them. And find it finally did: what better way to prove a conspiracy between an entire class (or a segment thereof) than through their funding a traitor?​

 

[Pelasgia]

Propontis, Propontis M.P.

A flew flakes of snow blew past the window looking out from the Emperor's study into the Imperial Gardens. The gardens themselves, that beautiful oasis of green in the midst of the Propontine Metropolis, were covered in a white sheet. A beautiful day to make so tragic a decision, Emperor Ioannes Laskaris thought to himself, before the tapping of a foot a few meters behind him caught his attention. The Emperor turned around to face Grand Secretary Chrysanthos Photiades, whose pale blue eyes seemed almost green and whose complexion had taken on both palour and gloom, as if he were a reflection of the late winter sky outside.

«Εὐσεβέστατε, τὸ καθῆκον μὲ ὑποχρεώνει ὅπως προειδοποιήσω Ὑμᾶς διὰ τὸν κίνδυνον ποὺ ἀποτελούσιν οἱ στρατοκράται διὰ τὸ Ἔθνος,» ("Your Imperial Majesty, duty obliges me to warn You about the danger that the Militarists pose to the Nation,") said Photiades, his voice seeming remarkably calm when compared to his outside appearance. «Εἶναι ἄκρως φανατισμένοι καὶ μοναδικὸς σκοπός των τὴν Πελασγίαν εἰς πόλεμον ὀδηγεῖν ἐστί. Εἰς πόλεμον, μάλισταν, ὅντιναν οὐ πιστεύω πὼς δυνάμεθα νικάειν.» ("They are totally fanatical and their sole purpose is to lead Pelasgia into a war. A war, in fact, which I do not believe we can win.")

Laskaris paused for a moment, unsure what to say or do. The fact that he was not porphyrogenitus—that is, that he had not been born to the Purple and raised accordingly—would haunt him at times like these, for the uncertainty that was normal in an ordinary noble was not befitting an Emperor. At any rate, it was doubtful whether his guest even had the mental energy to perceive this. Fixing his gaze on an icon of Christ Pantokrator that hanged over his desk, Laskaris delivered a calm answer, in a regal tone but using ordinary, demotic Pelasgian: «Τὸ γνωρίζω, Χρύσανθέ μου. Μὰ δὲ δύναμαι νὰ κάνω τίποτε. Ὁ Μεγάλος Θεός, στὴν ἀπέραντη Σοφία Του, βρίσκει πάντοτε ἕναν τρόπο νὰ μᾶς ταπεινώνει ὅλους. Ἐμένα, λοιπόν, ποὺ μὲ θεωροῦν Ἐπιστάτη Του ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς, μὲ ἔχει κάνει ἀνίκανο νὰ σταματήσω αὐτοὺς ποὺ δροῦν ἐν ὁνόματί μου ἀπ' τὸ νὰ ὀδηγήσουν τὴ χώρα μας στὸν γκρεμό. Ἀς βάλει λοιπὸν τὸ χέρι Του, διότι ἐγὼ πλέον ἐξεπεράσθησα ἀπὸ τὶς ἐξελίξεις.» ("I know, Chrysanthos. But I cannot do a thing. Great God, in His infinite Wisdom, always finds a way to humble us all. Thus, he made me, the person who is considered the Viceroy of God on Earth, incapable of stopping those who act in my name from leading our country to the brink. Let Him do His part, then, because I have been left behind by events.")

Hearing this, Photiades knew had no recourse left. He tendered his resignation the same day and handed the keys of his office to Exterior Secretary Phokas—Phokas, who had finally gotten what he had been seeking after nearly two decades as right-hand man two three different Grand Secreataries. May God keep him safe from himself, and Pelasgia with him.​

 

[Pelasgia]

Multiple locations

The regional situation was rapidly deteriorating. In Propontis, as the Neo-Militarist Regime put the last nails in the coffin of parliamentarism and sidelined even the Emperor to the role of a mere figurehead, a certain paranoia nevertheless abounded. Ebria had overturned its monarch. At home, links had been discovered between disloyal oligarchs and Radilan intelligence. Communist agitation had forced the YKA to conduct night-time raids and round up socialist and union leaders. Phokas and the military men surrounding him were increasingly concerned about external interference in the region, with the Radilans and the Republican Ebrians as the conduit of other, more powerful forces. As more and more powers outside the Meridian supported the new Ebrian "Union," and as the much-hated Papacy took its side, Pelasgians found themselves ever more isolated. The question on everyone's mind was simple: Would Pelasgia be next? Certainly, it seemed that way... and, if that "change" were to come from anywhere, Radilo to the West seemed like the most likely conduit for the global liberal order to impose itself upon the Propontine Imperium. As such, the Pelasgian General Staff decided to adjust its mobilisation orders accordingly.

The Pelasgian submarine fleet, some 36 boats in total, was one of the largest in Europe. Of these, 10 were ballistic missile submarines (SSBN), the kind reserved for keeping Pelasgia's strategic deterrent and carrying out long-range strikes on land targets. The remainder, however, were nuclear attack submarines (SSN). Used as Pelasgia's main offensive instrument in underwater warfare they were distributed among the fleets based on their tasks: the Archipelago Fleet (including both the Capital Squadron in Propontis and the Thermi Squadron in Thermi) had a total of 9, as did the Meridian Sea Fleet (headquarted in Makri). The remaining 8 were under the control of the Eastern Fleet, with the main force in Neapolis controlling 6 and the Tephanon Fleet Squadron having 2. One from both Neapolis and Tephanon (the Triton II and the Makhaira) had accompanied the PFSC force in to the Far Southern Islands.

Already raised to combat alert per the general mobilisation order, the crews of these boats, many led by veterans of the Archipelago Crisis of 2006, understood well what the order they had just received meant as they were commanded to set sail. The attack submarines of all three Pelasgian fleets were ordered to disperse in the Meridian Sea, each being assigned a grid sector that it would patrol individually. The two submarines in the Far South were ordered to head back north, through the index sea, and to take position in similar individual grids in the bottleneck between the Index Sea and the Meridian. There, the assembled Pelasgian submarine fleet would wait in the shadows for any Radilan ships returning from Nuovo Porto to the east.

In the meantime, the entire Pelasgian Imperial Navy's surface fleet, consisting of 4 amphibious assault ships/light aircraft carriers, 16 destroyers, 22 frigates, 24 corvettes, 36 submarines, 26 patrol vessels and 17 mine warfare vessels was ordered to set sail for the waters to the west of the Aresura-Makri-Valetta triangle, in full battle readiness. 4,000 of men of the Pelasgian Imperial Marine Corps, the Empire's finest land troops, were abord the vessels. The remainder, some 26,000 men, awaited at Makri, Propontis and Thermi.

While this was all going on at sea, on land, the Pelasgian Imperial Army took its own battle readiness position in keeping with mobilization orders. The Pelasgian land forces were split into four field armies: the First Army (HQ in Propontis), the Second Army (HQ in Ioannoupolis), the Third Army (HQ in Thermi) and the Fourth Army (HQ in Paradesoi). These locations corresponded with the areas of responsibility for each force: the Haemus Peninsula for the Third Army, Propontis and the area around the Straits for the First, western Himyari Pelasgia for the Second and eastern Himyari Pelasgia (including Tephanon) for the Fourth. Due to general mobilization, each of the armies had moved to its assigned readiness locations along the border (or, in the First Army’s case, to defend the Straits from assault in either direction).

Orders, however, had modified this: the Second Army, already on the border with the Radilan colony of Aresura, numbered some 114,000 troops as well as 43,000 reservists, who had been activated by the mobilization order. Accompanying these troops were 913 main battle tanks, 1250 armoured fighting vehicles, 2500 artillery pieces, 143 multiple rocket launchers and 40 guided missile systems. The Fourth army, which consisted of an almost identical number of troops and materiel, was ordered to leave its positions along the border (which would be taken over by local National Guard units) and to head for the border with Aresura, which it would reinforce, standing in reserve for the Second Army.

The Pelasgian Imperial Air Force, also mobilized, had seen little modification in the placement of its forces, since these were generally also split along the same “quarter” structure of regional responsibility. The Western Himyari Military District thus had its aerial forces (151 fighters/interceptors, 28 dedicated attack aircraft and 42 attack helicopters) activated and placed on standby. Joining it on alert the about equisize forces of the Eastern Himyari Military District and the Haemus Military District, which would be on call to assist with West Himyar Air Command’s operations if need be. The local HQ (in Ioannoupolis) had made sure to requisition a sufficient number of the 61 transport aircraft and 1104 non-attack helicopters of the entire Air Force as would be needed to ferry some 5,000 airborne troops to secure airfields and other footholds in case of an amphibious operation.​

 

[Pelasgia]

Propontis, Pelasgia

Viktoria peaked outside her dormitory window, into the street beneath the Great School of the Nation. Outside, the Carnival of Apokries, the great holiday of frenzied partying before the start of Great Lent, was unfolding, as thousands upon thousands of people dressed up in costumes and followed chariots and inflatables mocking popular figures. Still, this year's event was weirder than most, for censorship of the costume choices had been actually enforced, and a sort of anti-Western or pro-War propaganda defined what few political stunts were permitted. Viktoria could not celebrate for, to Catholics, it was already lent—but she always enjoyed watching. Andreas, who had decided to dress up as a shampoo bottle along with most of the men's swimming team for some inexplicable reason, had done her the kindness of stopping by in his costume for her to laugh at.

Ever since the two high schoolers had started dating, Viktoria's dormitory, which was normally vacant, had found other uses, even if they had to be careful about the whole thing, this still officially being a religious school and all. «Οἱ κοπελιὲς ἄκουσα πὼς θὰ ντυθεῖτε ἐξωγήινοι,» ("I heard that your girls will dress up as aliens,") Andreas said, trying to extract from her, even at the last minute, a tip on what the women's team would be coming to the carnival dressed up as. Viktoria allowed herself a laugh. With everything going on—the constant military police patrols, people disappearing at night, talks of world war, bombing drills and sheltering instructions, and now general conscription—it seemed like a welcome break into another time, before all this "Special Military Operation" madness.

«Νὰ πᾶς νὰ ρωτήσεις τὴν Ἀθηνά,» ("Maybe you should go ask Athina,"), the ginger Pannonian teased her olive-skinned friend, with a sardonic smile appearing on her lips. Andreas shook his head leaned on Viktoria's desk. «Στὸ τέλος θὰ νόμιζε κανεὶς πὼς ἐσένα γουστάρει.» ("The way you talk about her, one would think it's you she has a crush on.") Taking on a fierce look all of a sudden, as if the mere thought offended her, Viktoria jumped up, only to realse that Andreas was no longer looking at her, but at the things on her desk. As he picked up a small, inconspicuous envelope, Viktoria froze. «Ὄχι, μήν- ("No, don't- )

«Βικτωρία, τὶ εἶναι αὐτό;» ("Viktoria, what is this?") he asked, showing her the address, which belonged to none other than Aria. Without hesitation, the tall, olive-skinned man from the Metaxadon Theme teared open the envelope and read through its contents; then, after a few moments, he rummaged through the envelope again, pulling out a few banknotes. «Ἔχεις χάσει τὰ λογικά σου;» ("Have you completely lost your mind?") he asked, placing the cash on the table and tearing the letter up. Almost reflexively, Viktoria jumped up and tried to... lunge at him, perhaps? She wasn't sure herself. Andreas grabbed her hands pretty easily and sat her down, in between calm but stern pleas to "keep it down," for fear a prefect or a teacher might hear them.

«Ἀπλὰ ἤθελα νὰ πῶ στῆν Ἄρια πὼς δὲ συμφωνὼ μὲ τὸν πόλεμο, καὶ νὰ τῆς εὐθυχὼ Καλὸ Πάσχα.» ("I just wanted to tell Aria that I disagree with the war, and to wish her Happy Easter,") Viktoria explained. Andreas seemed quite unmoved. «Καὶ ναί τῆς ἔδωσα λίγα λεφτὰ γιὰ νὰ δωρήσει στὶς οἰκογένειες τῶν θυμάτων τῆς εἰσβολῆς, ποιὸ εἶναι τὸ πρόβλημα;» ("And yes, I gave her a bit of money to donate to the families of the victims of the invasion, what's the problem?") Try as she might to convince herself otherwise, Viktoria was all too familiar with what the problem was. «Ἀς ἀρχίσουμε μὲ τὸ ὄτι τὸ γράμμα σου δὲ θὰ ἔφτανε ποτὲ στὸ Ραδίλο καὶ μὲ τὸ ὄτι θὰ σὲ συνελάμβανε ἡ Υ.Κ.Α. καὶ δὲ θὰ σὲ ξαναέβλεπε κανένας.» ("Let's start with the fact that your letter would have never reached @Radilo and that the Y.K.A. would have arrested you and disappeared you from the face of the earth.")

A helicopter passed overhead, or perhaps a flock of them. Viktoria remembered, for a second, that though things might have only shifted in Propontis, the country was very much at war. Just because one wasn't allowed to call it as such in public, didn't mean that it was any less real. «Μὰ δὲ θέλω νὰ νομίζει πὼς εἶμαι μὲ αὐτούς τοὺς Φαλαγγιστές.» ("But I don't want her to think I support the Phalangists,") the teen girl pleaded. «Δὲν εἶναι δικός μου πόλεμος.» ("It's not my war.") Andreas sighed and hugged her. «Εἶμαι σίγουρος ὄτι δὲ θὰ πίστευε ποτέ κάτι τέτοιο. Ἀλλὰ δυστυχῶς, μέχρι νὰ τελειώσει, εἶναι ὁ πόλεμος ὅλων μας.» ("I'm certain that she'd never believe anything of the sort. But unfortunately, until it's over, this war is all our war.")

Like a spark in the dark, a memory popped up in Viktoria's head. How could I have forgotten... she thought to herself, before looking Andreas in the eyes. «Ἔχεις νέα ἀπὸ τὸν ἀδερφό σου;» ("Any news from your brother?") she asked almost with fear. Andreas nodded, much to her relief. «Εἶναι ἐντάξει. Τὸν ἔστειλαν στὸν Ἅη Γιώργη, ἀλλὰ ὅλα πάνε καλὰ πρὸς τὸ παρόν. Τουλάχιστον ἀπ' όσο ἐπιτρέπεται νὰ μοῦ πεῖ.» ("He's fine. They sent him to Hagios Georgios, but everything's good for now. At least in so far as he's allowed to tell me.")

---

The protospatharios, or "First Swordsman," was what foreigners would call an aide-de-camp to the Emperor. A highly prestigious rank, perhaps the second most prestigious for an officer in the Imperial Military after that of Megas Doux and by far the most prestigious for an Army officer, it was reserved to close confidants of the reigning sovereign. In the present instance, it was filled by Major General Alexios Moreatis, a close friend of the Emperor's and a mentor of his in the early days of his military career. Descended from an old and prestigious family of the military aristocracy of Caria, Moreatis was a conservative first and foremost, which made him an unlikely candidate to be placed anywhere near power in the current regime—nonetheless, appearances had to be maintained, and even the Neo-Militarist Dictatorship could not deny the Emperor his choice of advisors without risking an embarrassment that would undermine its own justifications for ruling, and a grave insult to the Army too.

«Μετὰ τῆς τελευταίας σειρός, αἱ δυνάμεις τοῦ Στρατοῦ πλησιάζουσι τὸ ἕν καὶ ἥμισι ἐκατομμύριον. Τὰ δὲ τῶν Ταρυσῶν βλήμματα δύνανται πλήγματα σημαντικὰ ἔναντι τῶν Ἀνατολικῶν ἐπιφέρειν. Οὔτως, ἐξασφαλίζεται εἰς τὸν Στόλον χρόνος πολίτιμος διὰ τὴν ἀποφασιστικὸν νίκην αὐτοῦ ἔναντι τῶν ἐχθρικῶν δυνάμεων.» ("With the latest wave of mobilisation, the land Army forces approach one and a half million. Moreover, Tarusan missiles can score significant hits against the Easterners. Thus, valuable time is granted to the Fleet to achieve a decisive victory against enemy forces,") said Moreatis, looking over a map of the region prepared by the Army Cartographic Service.

The Emperor seemed less than impressed. «Καὶ ἐν τῷ μεταξύ, αἱ βιομηχανίαι τοῦ ἐχθροῦ παράγουσιν ὅπλα πολλαπλάσια τῶν ἡμετέρων, αἱ δὲ θαλάσσιοι ὀδοὶ τοῦ ἐμπορίου κλειστοὶ παραμένουσι, ζημιώνουσαι σφοδρῶς τὴν οἱκονομία τοῦ Ἔθνους ἡμῶν καὶ τὴν τοῦ λαοῦ διαβίωσιν.» ("And in the meantime, the enemy's industries produce arms at rate multiple times our own, while the routes of maritime trade remain close, significantly damaging the economy of our Nation and the standard of living of the people.")

Moreatis paused. «Συμμερίζομαι τὴν ἄποψίν ὑμων ἐπὶ τῶν πιθανοτήτων ἡμων. Παρὰ ταῦτα, ἐπὶ τοῦ παρόντος, οὐδὲν δυνατὸν ἐστί. Ἐφόσον τὸ Ναυτικὸν ἔχει κράτος καὶ ἐξουσία, ὁ πόλεμος θὰ συννεχιστεῖ.» ("I share your view regarding our chances. Nevertheless, at present, nothing is possible. So long as the Navy holds power, the war will continue.") The Emperor's gaze veered toward the Meridian. So long...​

 

[Pelasgia]

Propontis, Pelasgia

A sorrowful song resonated through the Queen of Cities, as a sombre funerary procession marched slowly through the streets of Propontis. Ten myriad voices joined in unison, singing the unofficial hymn to the war's dead:​

You must be registered for see medias

Ἀν βγῶ στὸ πέλαγο, στὰ βάθη θὰ χαθῶ
An vgô sto pelago, sta vathê tha khathô
If I go out to sea, I’ll be lost in the depths
Κι ἀν πάω στὸ βουνό, στὰ χιόνια θὰ παγώσω
Ki an paô sto vouno, sta khionia tha pagôsô
And if I take off to the mountains, I’ll freeze up in their snows
Μὰ ἀν γιὰ τὸ Πελασγικὸ νὰ γίνει ‘γὼ πεθάνω
Ma an gia to Pelasgiko na ginei ‘gô pethanô
But if, for Pelasgia to be made whole, I die
Αἰωνία θὰ ‘χω μνήμη
Aiônia tha ‘khô mnêmê
I shall have eternal remembrance

The charred remains of Megas Doux Nikephoros Andrianopoulos had been laid to rest in a short but highly official ceremony near the Church of Our Lady of the Sailors (Panagia ton Naftikon) in Pyrgos. The band marched back through the city, its members wearing the same black mourning armbands as many of those lining the streets. The Emperor had attended the ceremony, of course, but other obligations had forced him to return to the Great Palace promptly—and, at any rate, it was known among all those near to power that no love was lost between the late Fleet Admiral and the reigning Basileus.

«Πρὸς τὸ παρόν, κράτος καὶ ἐξουσία ἐπὶ τῶν πολεμικῶν ἔχει ὁ Στρατός, καὶ ἄρα ἐσείς.» ("For now, the Army has power and control over all things military, and therefore you,") said General Poulopoulos, the newly promoted Acting Secretary of the Military. Ioannes Laskaris seemed unimpressed, his eyes gazing out, toward the large avenue where the procession had started to appear. «Πρὸς τὸ παρόν.» ("For now,") he merely repeated. Laskaris turned away from the window and stared Poulopoulos in the eye.

«Πιστεύετε πὼς αἱ διαπραγματεύσεις μετὰ τῶν βαρβάρων καρποφορησούσι;» ("Do you believe that the negotiations with the barbarians will bear fruit?") the latter asked honestly. Laskaris did not answer at once; rubbing his hand through his dark, neatly trimmed beard, he pondered the matter for a second. «Εἰ πράγματι προτίθενται ὅπως λάβουσι ὑπ' ὅψιν τὰ νόμιμα συμφέροντα ἡμων, τότε ναί. Εἰδαλλῶς, οὐδεν ἔχομεν ἴνα χάσωμεν: ὁ Ἀρμαγεδδὼν ὁμοίως Πελασγοὺς και βαρβάρους φονεύσει.» ("If they are truly willing to take our legitimate interests into account, then yes. Otherwise, we've naught to lose: Armageddon shall slay Pelasgian and barbarian alike.") The General leaned closer, as if anyone could be overhearing. «Μετὰ τῶν δὲ Ω καὶ Ψ τὶ ποιεῖν; Τὸ Ναυτικὸν καὶ ἡ Υ.Κ.Α. οὐκ ἀποδεχθήσονται οὐδὲν πλῆν τῆς ὁλοκληρωτικῆς νίκης.» ("What to do with Omega and Psi then? The Navy and the YKA will accept nothing short of total victory.")

The Emperor turned his gaze toward the window again. «Στείλατε ἄμεσα τὰ Τ.Ε.Α. εἰς τὸ μέτωπον ἴνα ὑποστώσιν φθοράν. Ὅσον ἀφορᾷ τοὺς δύο ἑτέρους παράγοντας... πῶς καλεῖτο ὁ τοῦ Φασιανοῦ ἔμπιστος Ἀντισυνταγματάρχης, ὅστις ἐφρόντισε τὸν Τιβεριάδη ἄνευ αἱματοχυσίας;» ("Send the Internal Security Detachments to the front so that they suffer attrition. As for the other two... What was the name of that Lt. Colonel whom Phassianos trusted, the one who took care of Tiveriades without bloodshed?")

«Καβαλλάρης.» ("Kavallaris,") came the curt response from a pensive General, who could not help but frown. Laskaris nodded. «Ναί, ταῦτος. Διατάξατέ τον ὅπως ἀπελευθερώσῃ τὸν Ναύαρχον Σφραντζήν. "Ἐκ τῆς κεφαλῆς σαπίζει τὸ ψάρι," ὠς λέγουσιν οἱ πληβίοι.» ("Yes, him. Order him to free Adm. Sphrantzes. 'The fish rots from the head,' as the plebs say.")

---

Antiochia, Pelasgian-occupied Aresura

A shot rang out in the dark—the boys, who had been running up to that point became startled. They were surrounded: soldiers approached from all sides. «Βασιλικοί!» ("Imperials!") said Stamos, referring to the Pelasgian troops. This was the way Aresurans typically referred to those from the Pelasgian Empire, for, after all, they too were Pelasgians, just not subjects of the Empire. No sooner had he finished his sentenced than he felt a kick forcing him to the ground.

«Ἀλητάμπουρες!» ("You punks!") shouted one of the 'Imperials'—a Second Lieutenant by the name of Chronis. «Ψάχνετε νὰ πεθάνετε;» ("Are you looking to get yourselves killed?") The boy and his friends had no real good response. For them, this was a harmless game... until they were caught that was. Early teenage boys rarely plan that far ahead. «Λίγη μπογιὰ εἶναι, θέλετε νὰ τὸ ξαναβάψουμε;» ("It's just a bit of paint, would you like us to repaint it?") said Frangiskos, Stamos' cousin. The soldier sighed, slapping the boy softly.

«Ἀν σὲ πιάσουν οἱ Ἀσφαλίτες, θὰ ψάχνει μπογιὰ ἡ μάνα σου γιὰ τὸ φέρετρό σου!» ("If the State Security troops catch you, your mother will be looking for paint for your coffin!") Chronis roared—the boys' wide eyed, feared gazes seemed to mean that he had finally conveyed his point. As if by some sort of horrible coincidence, a squad of Psi Troopers happened to be driving by on their utility vehicles just at that moment... «Ὅλα ἐντάξει, κ. Ἀνθυπολοχαγέ;» ("Everything alright, Second Lieutenant-sir?") asked a man riding the passenger seat at the head of one of the vehicles. Chronis waved him off. «Σίγουρα;» ("Are you sure?") the man insisted, scanning the boys like a wolf on the hunt. «Ναί, ἀρχιλοχία, συνέχισε τὴν πορεία σου. Ὁ τομέας αὐτὸς ἐμπίμπτει στὴ δικαιοδοσία τῆς Στρατονομίας.» ("Yes, Master Sergeant, move along. This sector is under Military Police jurisdiction.") The Sergeant pondered the awkward scene of the boy on the ground and the officer over him for a few moments more, before saluting and complying.

Stamos looked up at Chronis, who had only one thing to say to him: «Χάσου. Τρέχα ἀπ' τὴν ἀντίθετη μεριά ἀπὸ δαύτους καὶ νὰ εὐχαρισεῖς τὸν Θεὸ ποὺ δὲν ἦταν Ὠμεγατζῆδες.» ("Get lost. Run in the opposite direction from them and thank God that it wasn't Omega Troopers.") Stamos and his friends knew better than to second guess Chronis... or to even say another word for that matter. Psi dealt with military threats, so it had let them off. Omega, on the other hand, focused on people exactly like them. If they loitered any longer, there was no guarantee that they'd be lucky twice...

As for Chronis, luck had nothing to do with it. That truck wasn't going to repaint itself, and there was inspection by the platoon commander at 20:00.

@Radilo ​

 

[Pelasgia]

Propontis, Pelasgia

Andreas took off his knit cap and turned it inside out. He had done this a few times already, each time reading the label as if it had been the first:

ΣΚΟΥΦΟΣ (ΠΛΕΚΤΟΣ, ΣΚΟΠΙΑΣ)
(100% ΒΑΜΒΑΚΕΡΟΣ)
2615-10-113-0136
ΥΠ. 27124
ΠΡΟΔΙΕΓΡΑΦΑΙ Σ.Ξ.
ΠΡΟΪΟΝ ΠΕΛΑΣΓΙΑΣ
CAP (KNIT, WATCH)
(100% WOOL)
2615-10-113-0136
M-27124
ARMY SPECIFICATIONS
MADE IN PELASGIA​

Then, he noted a pair of initials on the bottom of the label, written in blue ink:

Γ.Π.
G.P.​

They were his brother's initials, of course. He returned the cap to its original form and wore it. Then, he pulled out a small, plastic box, which bore the initials of Alpha Clock & Watch Corp. and had some serial number printed on it in white stencil, along with the seal of the Pelasgian Army. Andreas opened the box to produce a watch, which was quite laconic in its construction, with simple stainless steel surfaces and black raisin straps. He turned it around, to read the lettering inscribed in two concentric circles around a beautiful rendering of a traditional sponge-diver, all of which was carved on the metal surface of the watch case:​

ΩΡΟΛΟΓΙΟΝ ΥΠ. 1009
42 ΧΛΣΤ. - ΚΑΤΑΔΥΤΙΚΟΝ 200 Μ.
α Α.Β.Ε.Ω.
ΠΡΟΔΙΕΓΡΑΦΑΙ Π.Ν.
ΠΡΟΪΟΝ ΠΕΛΑΣΓΙΑΣ
WATCH M-1009
42 MM. - DIVER'S 200 M.
α WATCH CORP.
NAVY SPECIFICATIONS
MADE IN PELASGIA​

This, too, had been his brother's. It was all that Andreas had received from the front, along with a letter signed by the Megas Doux only a couple of days before he, too, had died. The young lad from the Metaxadon Theme sincerely doubted that the now-late Fleet Admiral had even looked at the letter, let alone signed it himself... but then, that was the nature of industrial warfare. As the war wound down, and as more and more families received from the front such letters, it became clearer that the "Special Military Operation" was not all that it had been cut out to be. Propontis needed a victory, and perhaps it would gain it in the form of some land. But for the people back home, who had never been asked about this, just like anything else in Pelasgian politics, one could feel that enough had finally been enough. Something had to change.

He pulled out his phone and saw a message from Viktoria. He hadn't told her yet... It was something probably better said in person. He clicked on the message. "Hey, check this out!" it said, followed by a twatter link. He clicked on the link, and he could not help but blink twice, in sheer disbelief. Admiral Sphrantzes put in charge of the Navy? he wondered. Isn't he a Socialist? What's going on?​

---

Antiochia, Pelasgian-occupied Aresura (@Radilo)

"That's the last one," Pvt. Papadimitriou said, as he placed a rifle into a crate. Chronis walked over and examined the stencil markings printed on the crate:

You must be registered for see images

ΤΥΦΕΚΙΟΝ 5,56 ΧΛΣΤ. (ΥΠ. 4)
Ο.Π.Α.Β.
ΙΔΙΟΚΤΗΣΙΑ Σ.Ξ.
1399-22-177-4441
RIFLE, 5.56 MM (M-4)
O.P.A.V.
ARMY PROPERTY
1399-22-177-4441

"Quite well," he said. "Seal the box." Papadimitriou complied, while Chronis surveyed the empty factory yard: trucks manned by Military Police and National Guard troops, while lines of Special Militia volunteers stood, waiting to surrender their weapons. The Special Militia was still under YKA command, nominally speaking, but they were slowly being disarmed. "I heard they're transferring the Marines to Makri and Tephanon, in case Radilo's allies land," said one of the volunteers, a man with a thick moustache by the name of Frangos. Chronis nodded, without giving a clear answer. He knew, of course, that that danger had passed... It was more with getting the Navy's most fanatical troops as far away from Propontis as possible that High Command was concerned with, but the Militia didn't need to know that.

"What now, sir?" Papadimitrou asked, flanked by Cpl. Stavrianos—the tallest and darkest-skinned Pelasgian Chronis had ever seen, respectively. "You two drive the truck to the Old Bus Terminal and then join the next convoy across the Red Line. I have to go liaise with the locals about Saint Augustine's Hospital." Stavrianos saluted, but Papadimitriou, ever inquisitive could not help but ask: "Why do they call it the 'Red Line,' sir? People say that's where the border will be after the war." Stavrianos gave him an angry stare and raised his hand, but Chronis motioned him at ease. "All you need to know is that it's a safe zone. I leave the how and the why to High Command, and you should too." Stavrianos saluted in haste, and then grabbed Papadimitriou and headed for the truck's front in a hurry.

His work there done, Chronis jumped aboard a different truck, one that was transporting wounded troops to the hospital in question, and drove off to the outskirts of the city. Stepping out of the vehicle, Chronis had two soldiers follow him, and he headed straight for the administration wing. The building was slightly old, built in the late sixties perhaps, though a fresh coat of paint made it seem newer. Still, the son of a nurse, Chronis had an eye for that...

"You're back aren't you?!" the Second Lieutenant heard a woman shout at him just as he entered the lobby. He turned around and saw a female doctor, no older than himself by the looks of it, angrily point a pistol in his direction. "You're here to take more of my patients! Go back where you came from!" Taken aback, the two men accompanying Chronis traded bewildered gazes, but he motioned them still. "We're soldiers, not Y.K.A. We need to talk to the Direct-

"I don't care who you are!" the woman shrieked at him. Chronis took a good look at her: she was pale, doubly so for someone in this part of the world, with a prominent black mole on her left cheek, and even darker hair. Neither tall nor short, she wore robes that were slightly too big for her... and she held the pistol like someone who had no idea how to use one. "Shoot me then," Chronis challenged her. His men tried to start forward, but he restrained them. "Shoot me!" he barked at the doctor, starting for her. She grew paler still, taking a few steps back until her back was at the wall. Finally, with a face of disgust, she tried to pull the trigger... only for nothing to happen.

Chronis seized the pistol from her hand, to much shrieking from the woman's part. "Next time," he roared. "Take the damn safety off!" To demonstrate, he did just that and shot a round through the open door into the air. Then, the Second Lieutenant from the Archipelago threw away the magazine and cleared the chamber before returning the gun to the doctor, who had frozen with horror. "This isn't a toy, so don't wave it around like one," he explained. "Now, where's your Director? I need to talk to her about moving patients who are Pelasgian servicemen, nationals or protected persons out of this hospital."​

 

[Pelasgia]

OOC: I realise a link to the

You must be registered for see links

might be useful for this post.

Propontis, Pelasgia

Propontis Army Garrison Base had two distinctions: first, being the only real military facility located within the City of Propontis; and second, being the base of the celebrated Imperial Guards. These four regiments, which consisted of the Varangian (or "Scanian") Guards, the Carian Guards, the Lycaonian Guards and the Euxenian Guards, formed the elite of the Pelasgian Imperial Army, being trained, equipped and selected to the best global standards. Each of these regiments had a distinct history and tradition, and it was known by its unique attributes: the Varangians displayed Scanian features, hailing from the Far North since medieval times, and they could be told apart easily even in camo fatigues by their height, palour and fair hair and blue eyes (let alone in their beautiful all-scarlet ceremonial uniforms); the Carian Guards in their deep-blue (or, in the summer, white) uniforms sported fancy moustaches and were known as the "axemen," after the ceremonial axes their officers bore; the Lycaonian Guards wore grey or khaki uniforms with white helmets year-round and were known to share

You must be registered for see links

and

You must be registered for see links

treats from their native region with passers-by when not on duty in their barracks, being humourously referred to as the "Salep Drinking Regiment"; and, finally, the Euxenians, by far the grumpiest and shortest of the bunch (even if they still met the minimum 188 cm height of all Imperial Guard regiments), wore all-black uniforms reminiscent of their home region, with hussar skulls and sharp swords that had earned them the monicker of "Grim Reapers."

Just one Urban Region over, a stone's toss from the Hagia Pronoia and the Great Palace was located the Old Krypteia Complex, whose different wings currently housed the State Security Service (Y.K.A.) and the Foreign Intelligence Service (Y.P.E.). Staring out from his office at the top floor of the sturdy, simplified-neoclassical style building with its ominous, grey, almost-prison like silhouette, General Gregorios Phassianos, the Head of the YKA, could clearly see the Base. The lights are on, of course, he noted. Let them drink to their hearts' desire... In his hand, Phassianos held a phone connecting him via secure landline to the war room of Daphnium Naval Base, the main Imperial Navy installation of Metropolitan Propontis and the home of the First Fleet's Capital City Squadron. There, Lt. Gen. Konstantinos Hatzistavrou of the Pelasgian Imperial Marine Corps (P.B.S.P.), the Navy's elite ground combat branch, and Vice Admiral Matthaios Roussos of the Pelasgian Imperial Navy awaited. «Ἡ Ἀεροπορία χέστηκε ἀπάνω της καὶ θὰ κρατήσει "στάσιν οὐδετερότητος".» ("The Air Force shat itself and will maintain a 'neutral stance,'") said Roussos, masking the bitterness in his voice with contempt. «Ἔστω. Ἡ ἔκβασις τοῦ κινήματος θὰ κριθῇ ἐπὶ τῆς ξηρᾶς. Τὰ περιστέρια μεθ' ἡμῶν ταχθήσονται ὅταν τὴν Πόλιν ἐλέγξομεν.» ("So be it. The outcome of the coup will be decided on land. The 'pigeons' will take our side once we have the City under our control,") came the impassionate response from Phassianos.

As Phassianos spoke, the sixty-two bells and the four hundred

You must be registered for see links

of the Hagia Pronoia chimed in unison: it was midnight. Normally, in the Queen of Cities, midnight would be when people would only start going out on a Friday night... but with curfew and Lent, most had been forced to stay indoors. That was the signal, thought Grand Secretary Theophrastos Phokas, who was in his study, after having handed his resignation to the Emperor a couple of hours prior. He had been informed of the coup, of course, but he had declined to take a side for or against. If they win, I'm sure they'll make the Emperor refuse my resignation to keep me around as a second political figurehead, Phokas reasoned, as he had done when approached by Phassianos about the matter. If they lose... well, that wouldn't change my predicament either way. Saying that, he fixed his gaze on the old

You must be registered for see links

sword he had been given during his service as an officer in the Imperial Army many decades prior. Though we may not call ourselves Tiburans any longer, honour still demands the same as it did in the days of the Caesars. Concluding his thoughts, Phokas stared out of his own window, on the penthouse floor of an eight-storey building on the slopes of the Hill of Tiberius. From there, he could see most of Propontis, including both the Government Quarter and the highway intersection near Ixus Railway Station, where the thoroughfares leading into the City from the Optimatoi on the one hand and Gerakas and Daphnium on the other overlapped.

In the former, the remaining forces of the Y.K.A.'s Internal Security Detachments awaited orders in the courtyard surrounding the Old Krypteia Complex. With most of its combat troops sent to the frontlines, the Krypteia's main successor agency had only retained a token force of some five hundred special operators, the infamous Special Prosecution Detachments (E.T.K.) and the Special Security Detachments (E.T.A.), which it sent to retrieve specific, high-risk fugitives or to protect VIPs or key facilities during special occasions. Elite even by YKA standards, these men were to be joined by an equal-numbered force of PFSC mercenaries from the Company's Nea Lykaonia Global HQ, as well as half of the Marine force still remaining in Propontis and most of the local Naval Police units (collectively, one thousand men), who would all take the Dromones Highway north of Dromones Bay straight into the Government Quarter. Their objective? To seize the palace. «Ποῦ στὸν διάολο εἶναι τὰ ναυτάκια;» ("Where the fuck are the little sailors?") demanded the Lieutenant Colonel heading the joint ETK-ETA force, as thirty minutes after midnight, the reinforcements were nowhere to be seen. Unbeknownst to him, a significant National Guard Force, which had hidden itself in the nearby industrial zone over the last few days, had blocked the highway connection, holding up the naval troops in their unarmoured jeeps and trucks and forcing many to surrender. One Marine detachment had refused... only to be blown to bits by the National Guard's APCs and IFVs.

«Γαμῶ τὸ μουνὶ τῆς μάνας τους!» ("Fuck their mother's cunt!") shouted Roussos over the conference call, once the news had been relayed to him. «Ἔπρεπε νὰ εἶχαμε ἐκτελέσει τὸν πούστη τὸν Φωτιάδη ποὺ πρότεινε τὴ δημιουργία τῆς Ἐθνοφυλακῆς!» ("We should have executed that f*ggot Photiades, who recommended the establishment of the National Guard.") Hatzistavrou was more sober about their predicament: «Καὶ ἡ Χωροφυλακὴ, ὁ προκάτοχός της, μὲ τοὺς Ἀριστοκρατικοὺς θὰ ἦταν. Φασιανέ, στεῖλε τοὺς δικούς σου ἄμεσα.» ("The Gendarmerie, its predecessor, would also have sided with the Aristocratic Faction. Phassianos, send your men in at once.") The YKA Head complied, and the ETK-ETA troops, in their all-black uniforms and special gear, were ordered to head straight for the Great Palace. The commandos gladly complied, seizing several government building that separated the YKA HQ from the Great Palace and preparing to take over Hagia Pronoia Square and Vasileon Avenue, in order to take over the homes of the Cabinet Secretaries, before storming the Great Palace. The YKA's most fanatical troops cheered as their armoured transports rolled over the marble of Hagia Pronoia Square... only for their celebration to be cut short by the fire of armoured vehicles and anti-tank guns. The Imperial Guard, feigning lights and activity at its Base, had instead been deployed in force to the Government Quarter, changing from its ornate ceremonial uniforms into camo fatigues and driving its cutting-edge armoured vehicles. Though excellent troops, and well-equipped against domestic unrest threats of any level, the outnumbered and outgunned YKA operators were no match for the Emperor's Own. Fighting valiantly, the ETK-ETA stopped and exchanged fire. In fact, with the Imperial Guard, until they were forced to retreat back to the Old Krypteia Complex after suffering heavy losses. One by one, the Imperial Guard cleared the seized government buildings and cleared them by fire, grenade and bayonet, until they surrounded the YKA building. Seeing the writing on the wall, Phassianos took out a pistol and shot himself in the head, just as a pair of Varangians neared his office, shouting in their strange, barbaric tongue. Of his subordinates, many chose to fight, others surrender, and others still had been mysterously absent that night, notably among them one Lt. Col. Rigas Kavallaris... Phassianos had been betrayed obviously, and those absent had exposed his planned coup to the Emperor and the Army.

Further north, at the intersection near Ixus Station, the remaining half of the Navy ground forces were advancing without incident, entering Vasileon Avenue (the main thoroughfare leading straight into the Government Quarter through Bouleutica, the area where most government officials resided) without incident. The scouts at the very tip of the Marines' vanguard had barely entered VIII Urban Region and the Stratiokia (or Military) district when the fire of Imperial Guard vehicles and troops forced them to stop. Almost at the same time, the vanguard got word from the back of the column, which had just cleared the intersection: the armoured units of the Army Base in Selymbria, in the Theme of Optimatoi just north of Propontis, had entered the City and were heading for Vasileon Avenue. Already, the tanks of the battalion that had once been commanded by the Emperor himself in his earlier life had opened fire at the back of the Navy formation, massacring a few transports. Sandwiched on both sides and deprived of the YKA's eyes, the Navy had to concede a fact: the coup had failed. The column on Vasileon Avenue surrendered promptly, while the column on Dromones Avenue did its best to retreat toward Daphnium Naval Base, the Navy's beating heart and fortress. There, inside the command room, Roussos and Hatzistavrou sat, then stood, angrily debating whether suicide, fighting to the death or surrender was preferable. As they did so, a call from Admiral Sphrantzes, the once-imprisoned Socialist Navy commander who had been rehabilitated and placed at the head of the Navy since the Megas Doux's death, came in: «Ὁ Εὐσεβέστατος Βασιλεὺς ἡμῶν Ἰωάννης προτίθεται ὅπως ἐλεήσει ἄπαντας τοὺς τοῦ Ναυτικοῦ στασιαστάς, ἐφόσον παραδοθοῦν αὐτῷ ζωντανοὶ ἢ νεκροὶ οἱ ἀρχηγοὶ τοῦ πραξικοπήματος. Ὁ μὲν Φασιανὸς αὐτοκτόνησε ἤδη. Τὸ τὶ ποιεῖν ἀφήσω ὑμῖν.» ("Our Most Pious Sovereign Ioannes is willing to forgive all Navy putschists, provided that the leaders of the coup are delivered to his custody alive or dead. Phassianos has already killed himself. I leave to you to decide how to proceed.") Roussos, heretofore the advocate of suicide, immediately drew his weapon and shot himself (technically failing both as a Christian and as a Tiburan, since suicide was an unforgivable sin and Tiburitas required suicide by the blade.) Hatzistavrou, unwillingly to part with life as easily as "the admiral of a fleet that no longer obeys him, somewhere in the Axshaina Sea," instead chose to go out fighting. His men, more concerned with their lives, promptly overcame all who objected and seized him, surrendering him to the National Guard and Imperial Guard troops who were convening on the Base. According to official reports, he would escape, only to drown himself in Dromones Bay when the PFSC refused to help him escape to Tephanon to rally his men... though a more likely account would be that he was drowned (slowly and quite sadistically) by the Euxenian Guards on the Emperor's orders to avoid the embarrassment of a public trial (and because he would mock Euxenians as being inbred).

Back at the Bouleutica, Phokas was observing the whole debacle with a peculiar sort of amusement, almost like a child playing with toy soldiers or a young man watching football. «Ἀχ τὶ κρίμα! Μοῦ φαίνεται πὼς ἀπέτηχαν ἐν τέλει.» ("Oh, what a pity! It seems they failed after all,") he exclaimed, jumping in his seat for a moment. «Τὶ ὅμως ποιεῖν; Οὔτως γὰρ ἔχει τὸ ζῆν.» ("What do to, though? Such is life.") From the lights of the occasional burst of gunfire, he could tell just how quickly the combat had fizzled out, and where... which could only mean that the coup had failed, for, if it had succeeded, the fighting would have moved forward, toward the Great Palace. Then again, it could have been that the Emperor's troops had turned traitor and joined the rebels... but then, if that had happened, he would have been summoned to reclaim his post as Grand Secretary by now. Wishing to verify for certainty's sake, and perhaps because, like all men, he had a certain wish to cling to life, Phokas turned toward his trusted aide-de-camp, Air Commodore Grigoris Demetriades. «Οὐδὲν νέον ἐκ τῶν Ἀνακτόρων.» ("No news from the Palace,") the other said automatically, having already been asked for updates a dozen times that night. Phokas nodded. «Ἔστω.» ("So be it.") At the very least, he had lived a life worthy of his name, and he had had the Air Force that he had helped build up on his side up until the end (for, just like the Army was the Emperor's and the Navy the Militarists', the Air Force was his—or, more accurately, the Government's—and it had remained neutral because he had.) Standing up, the late-middle-aged statesman grabbed his old sword, removed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. Turning to his aide-de-camp, he said: «Γρηγόρη, ἔχω χοντρήνει λίγο, ὁπότε ἀν δὲν καταφέρω νὰ μὲ ξεκάνω γρήγορα, σὲ παρακαλὼ νὰ μὴ μὲ ἀφήσεις νὰ ὑποφέρω.» ("Grigoris, I've grown a bit fat, so if I don't manage to off myself quickly, please don't let me suffer.") At once, the Air Commodore saluted—and, with a smile, Phokas went about falling on his saber.

Back in the heart of the City, at the Great Palace, the Emperor's own aide-de-camp, General Moreatis, emerged into the Emperor's office to inform him that the coup was over and that their forces had prevailed. «Καλῶς.» ("Very well,") the Emperor retorted. «Καλέστε τὸν Σφραντζῆ γιὰ νὰ τὸν διορίσω Μέγα Λογοθέτη καὶ ὕστερα φέρτε τὴν ὁμάδα τῆς ΠΕΡΤ.» ("Summon Sphrantzes so I can appoint him Grand Secretary and then bring the PERT radio crew.")​

---

Pelasgian-occupied Aresura (@Radilo)

Pvt. Papadimitriou and Cpl. Stavrianos had been stuck in military traffic toward Hagioi Apostoloi (or "Santi Apostoli" as the Radilans called the place) for over an hour. Night had fallen, and they had given up on spending a night out in the city... Instead, the men decided to take turns sleeping. Around midnight, it was Stavrianos' turn to sleep. He was scarcely a second into closing his eyes when Papadimitriou woke him: «Κοίτα!» ("Look!")

Stavrianos looked up, and in the free lane left to the side for emergency vehicles, he saw prisoner transports of the Military Police passing by. In the back, he recognised the face of the YKA Omega Division Master Sergeant who had had a confrontation with 2nd Lt. Chronis earlier that week. «Τὶ στὸν ποῦτσο;» ("What the fuck?") he said out loud.