Bergenheim
Establishing Nation
A cold-wind blew across the parade-grounds of the Konigsruhe parade-ground. It blew, and kicked up soft clumps of unsettled snow, unmarked by the tread of jackboot or the shovel of the draftees whose job it was to keep the parade ground clean.
Lotti Degurechaff watched the snows fall. From the high, double-sided windows that marked her office, she could see relatively clearly into the white-blue gloom outside. She could almost see the grey-green mass of the forest beyond.
Swirling, senseless chaotic patterns were formed in the snow, and for a moment she watched mesmerised.
It was not like she had anything better to do.
As First Fist of the Republic, General of the National Defence Forces, her responsibilities were numerous. They were also relatively meaningless.
It was always worst at this time of year, she thought. Thousands saved up their holiday time, or used deferment excuses, or any and every dodge in the book to be home for the Christmas Holidays. If Crotobaltoslavonia decided to invade on Christmas Day, it would make it to the steps of the Midweis House of Burghers before it found any resistance.
And the only resistance theyd meet then, she thought, would be the drunken and unruly mercenaries who filled the streets of the capital.
She turned her attention back from the cold and dark, and towards the warm, almost palatial confines of her office. It was a strange hybrid of the early modern and the modern. A large, old-fashioned radiator plinked away in the empty fire-place. Her modern, Gouw-Marken imported desk and sleek black, highbacked office chair felt distinctly out of place in this room designed for the Roccoco era. But so did she.
Lotti ran her fingers along the edge of the window. The glass had been replaced long ago with bullet-proof plexiglass, but the walls felt...thin, to her. Any assassin could easily kill her from out there, with a single .50 caliber bullet. Right through her pretty little head.
The General sat, regardless, settling into her comfy, plush modern chair. She caught a glimpse of herself in the small, oval-shaped desk-mirror, that she had placed so she could see behind herself, towards the window, when sat like this. A paranoid precaution from her younger, more militant days.
It now mostly served as a way for her to make sure her hair wasn't too messy when receiving visitors.
At Fourty-one, Lotti Degurechaff was the youngest person to ever hold this post. Also one of the first females, though the first was back in 1972. A more progressive age, she thought. Andrea Grossmann had been sixty-two, a hausfrau and an Olympic Champion Shotputter. They had called her Andrea Grossmutter, and her reign as First Fist had been, in Lotti's opinion, a golden age, now long past.
Looking at herself, she sighed. How could anyone take them seriously, when she herself still looked, miraculously, like she was barely into her twenties? Ice-blue eyes, puffy-lips, a mess of blonde-hair, and a boyish-slim body. One thing- or perhaps two-that at least distinguished her from the Milchmadchen whose posters adorned the lockers of most of her men.
She turned her attention back to her laptop, and the assortment of paperwork- both hard and soft copies- that awaited her. She should have had a secretary. A whole team of secretaries. But this time of year, it was just her and the cleaning staff that filled the Konigsruhe Headquarters.
She took it seriously, damnit. She was the Devil of the Line, the Little General, the Iron Bitch. She had joined the military at fifteen, looking all of twelve, and had been punching and kicking and shouting her way up ever since.
And now here she was, at the very top, only to realise everybody else more worthy had gone into the private sector, to make huge money as security consultants or mercenary captains.
She checked her twatter again. A bad habit, but one she shared with most of the Greater Council. She smirked. Her twatter follower numbers were almost the same as the number of men and women she commanded on paper.
40,000. The National Defence Forces, in theory comprising a portion of the entire adult male and female population of Bergenheim, at any one time could in theory be 250,000 to 300,000 strong. But nobody took it seriously, anymore. She had 40,000 men who showed up most of the year, and of them, maybe half a dozen companies she'd call -really- serious soldiers.
It was funny, she thought, drumming her fingers on her smooth, varnished desk. You spend your whole life hoping for a rest, hoping there's peace at the top...
And that's exactly what you got.
But now, she was bored. Eiffeland had refused her efforts to purchase their top-of-the-line assault rifles. They'd offered their standard 1950s crap instead. She should have taken the offer. Give them something to hold while they march up and down the square, she thought.
Its not like they'll ever fire a shot in anger.
No, she wanted more than that. She wanted...well, God forgive her, she wanted some damn action. She wanted to jump out of an airplane with the Jagerkommandos, parachute into some Kadikistani command post, kill everyone and get a real fucking medal.
What was she doing here, an unmarried tomboy with the face of a twenty year old, commanding the entire national defence?
Fuck it. Everybody else was goofing off for Christmas. Time to give herself an early Christmas present, she thought.
She picked up the phone on her desk, and began dialling the Jagerkommandos.
Lotti Degurechaff watched the snows fall. From the high, double-sided windows that marked her office, she could see relatively clearly into the white-blue gloom outside. She could almost see the grey-green mass of the forest beyond.
Swirling, senseless chaotic patterns were formed in the snow, and for a moment she watched mesmerised.
It was not like she had anything better to do.
As First Fist of the Republic, General of the National Defence Forces, her responsibilities were numerous. They were also relatively meaningless.
It was always worst at this time of year, she thought. Thousands saved up their holiday time, or used deferment excuses, or any and every dodge in the book to be home for the Christmas Holidays. If Crotobaltoslavonia decided to invade on Christmas Day, it would make it to the steps of the Midweis House of Burghers before it found any resistance.
And the only resistance theyd meet then, she thought, would be the drunken and unruly mercenaries who filled the streets of the capital.
She turned her attention back from the cold and dark, and towards the warm, almost palatial confines of her office. It was a strange hybrid of the early modern and the modern. A large, old-fashioned radiator plinked away in the empty fire-place. Her modern, Gouw-Marken imported desk and sleek black, highbacked office chair felt distinctly out of place in this room designed for the Roccoco era. But so did she.
Lotti ran her fingers along the edge of the window. The glass had been replaced long ago with bullet-proof plexiglass, but the walls felt...thin, to her. Any assassin could easily kill her from out there, with a single .50 caliber bullet. Right through her pretty little head.
The General sat, regardless, settling into her comfy, plush modern chair. She caught a glimpse of herself in the small, oval-shaped desk-mirror, that she had placed so she could see behind herself, towards the window, when sat like this. A paranoid precaution from her younger, more militant days.
It now mostly served as a way for her to make sure her hair wasn't too messy when receiving visitors.
At Fourty-one, Lotti Degurechaff was the youngest person to ever hold this post. Also one of the first females, though the first was back in 1972. A more progressive age, she thought. Andrea Grossmann had been sixty-two, a hausfrau and an Olympic Champion Shotputter. They had called her Andrea Grossmutter, and her reign as First Fist had been, in Lotti's opinion, a golden age, now long past.
Looking at herself, she sighed. How could anyone take them seriously, when she herself still looked, miraculously, like she was barely into her twenties? Ice-blue eyes, puffy-lips, a mess of blonde-hair, and a boyish-slim body. One thing- or perhaps two-that at least distinguished her from the Milchmadchen whose posters adorned the lockers of most of her men.
She turned her attention back to her laptop, and the assortment of paperwork- both hard and soft copies- that awaited her. She should have had a secretary. A whole team of secretaries. But this time of year, it was just her and the cleaning staff that filled the Konigsruhe Headquarters.
She took it seriously, damnit. She was the Devil of the Line, the Little General, the Iron Bitch. She had joined the military at fifteen, looking all of twelve, and had been punching and kicking and shouting her way up ever since.
And now here she was, at the very top, only to realise everybody else more worthy had gone into the private sector, to make huge money as security consultants or mercenary captains.
She checked her twatter again. A bad habit, but one she shared with most of the Greater Council. She smirked. Her twatter follower numbers were almost the same as the number of men and women she commanded on paper.
40,000. The National Defence Forces, in theory comprising a portion of the entire adult male and female population of Bergenheim, at any one time could in theory be 250,000 to 300,000 strong. But nobody took it seriously, anymore. She had 40,000 men who showed up most of the year, and of them, maybe half a dozen companies she'd call -really- serious soldiers.
It was funny, she thought, drumming her fingers on her smooth, varnished desk. You spend your whole life hoping for a rest, hoping there's peace at the top...
And that's exactly what you got.
But now, she was bored. Eiffeland had refused her efforts to purchase their top-of-the-line assault rifles. They'd offered their standard 1950s crap instead. She should have taken the offer. Give them something to hold while they march up and down the square, she thought.
Its not like they'll ever fire a shot in anger.
No, she wanted more than that. She wanted...well, God forgive her, she wanted some damn action. She wanted to jump out of an airplane with the Jagerkommandos, parachute into some Kadikistani command post, kill everyone and get a real fucking medal.
What was she doing here, an unmarried tomboy with the face of a twenty year old, commanding the entire national defence?
Fuck it. Everybody else was goofing off for Christmas. Time to give herself an early Christmas present, she thought.
She picked up the phone on her desk, and began dialling the Jagerkommandos.
Last edited: