Multipolarity IV Game Thread

[Kinich-Ahau]

You misunderstand how a coalition works. If the Golden Horde in this example had been part of it, and you attacked it, it would've constituted an attack on the other six full military partners that volunteered in the coalition before the Yellow Chinese did us a favor and collapsed. You would have been judged to be assisting the Noodle Republic as a full military partner. Luckily, none of that came to past since the 501st would've easily added an extra two years maybe to the war.

The 501st Legion would have considered a declaration of war against us by other coalition members an act of naked aggression, and as such, we would have called our Defensive Allies into the War.

 

[Sonereal]

The 501st Legion would have considered a declaration of war against us by other coalition members an act of naked aggression, and as such, we would have called our Defensive Allies into the War.

Because attacking a member of a coalition isn't an act of aggression against a coalition as a whole. Right.

 

[KaiserElectric]

Because attacking a member of a coalition isn't an act of aggression against a coalition as a whole. Right.

Did you specify that when you formed your coalition?

 

[Sonereal]

Did you specify that when you formed your coalition?

It took me three hours a weekday morning to work up a six major/one minor coalition and eleven assisting states. I don't have to specify anything more than that other than the Crimson Court looks out for friends.

 

[Nukeknockout]

For the convenience of everyone involved, I have begun to spoiler my story RPs.

#12

Spoiler :

The Aleph-Merida tracking station, northwest Madagascar...

"Tracking station" is a really generous title. Thomas Von Ruthless of the greater Ruthlessi thought to himself. This is not what I signed up for when I immigrated from Argentina. He had a point. The "Tracking station" was little more than a concrete bunker crowned by a 10-meter steel structure complete with delicate meteorological & radar air control equipment with a helipad offset on the roof. The only exits were an elevator to the roof, a ladder with trapdoor, and an emergency hatch on ground level. The helipad itself was a sturdy affair, designed for the use of H-62 heavy lift helicopters carrying supplies and rotating personnel on a monthly basis.

Inside, the bunker had two floors. The upper floor contained a rack of two compact assault rifles patterned after a pre-cataclysm design no one could think to remember, a bolt action rifle chambered for the same cartridge, and three special "Tracking issue" sidearms for the 8.11x22mm bullet used by the air tracking service by the emergency hatch as well as extensive electronic consoles used to control the sensor arrays. The lower floor consisted of a small workshop, a kitchenette, a sleeping room with three bunk beds, a large pantry, a small gym, restrooms, and a study/off-duty room/infirmary complete with bookshelf, medical cabinet, comfy chairs, TV, sink, and pool table.

Theoretically, such a post was capable of sustaining itself and the health of its six-person crew for three months at a time. Theoretically.

But Thomas Von Ruthless of the greater Ruthlessi was not manning his post inside the tracking station. He was carrying an armful of pitcher tree limbs (and an awful welt) to a small shack outside the Aleph-Merida tracking station. This should be enough to get some more luxuries out of that conniving Quinn. Thomas thought happily to himself I'd swear they include barter in flight school, the way that pilot acts. It took four limbs just to get some condoms last trip. Oh well, at least my tour will be up soon. Then it's leave in the city of lights with Suzie!

Thomas' pleasant train of thought was rudely interrupted by a a sound which could only be described as a thwack! He quickly put the tree limbs down, drew his sidearm and rushed outside. I left my hatchet by the jungle. Who threw it at... His train of thought faltered as he noticed a nude young blonde woman covered in cuts, burns, and bruises lying unconscious about where he'd left his hatchet. Must have come from the jungle, but I heard that was impossible!

Thomas von Ruthless holstered his sidearm, gently picked the woman up, and carried her to the outside of the emergency hatch. He knocked three times on the outside of the hatch. It was quickly opened from the inside by a dark-haired man wearing a white T-shirt and jeans.

"Wow, must be your lucky day, Ruthless. Who is this?" He asked.

"I don't know. I just found her at the edge of the jungle while-" Thomas began.

"Jungle? Amatyi." The other man gasped.

"What?" Thomas asked quizzically.

--------

Inside Aleph-Merida, base commander Lieutenant Susan Bertram observed the projection screens. She frowned as several orange currents coalesced into a single red dot in the sea of Madagascar. She picked up a headset and placed it upon her head. "Alpha Mike to Hotel Actual. Situation Sierra."

"Hotel Actual here, Alpha Mike. What's the problem?"

"Typhoon forming in the sea of Madagascar. Project full strength at Charlie Four, position -" Lieutenant Bertram rattled off a location right in the middle of the Sea of Madagascar.

"Confirmed, Alpha Mike. Typhoon, Charlie Four, smack dab in the middle of everything."

"Alpha Mike confirms."

"Hotel Actual acknowledges."

Behind her came a whispered exclamation of "Amatyi!"

Susan turned her head to see Thomas carrying a lady looking as if she'd crawled through the jungle on her hands and knees while William led them downstairs.

Lieutenant Bertram stared in shock for a long minute.

"Hotel Actual, Alpha Mike. Code Echo?"

"Alpha Mike, negative Echo." She finally forced herself to say. "Amatyi has arrived at our facility. Say again, alpha mike alpha tango yankee indigo!" Bertram whooped.

"Hotel Actual, confirm last message."

"Alpha Mike confirms. Female, mid-twenties, blonde. Need a medievac."

"Hotel Actual acknowledges. Dispersing wide-band weather report, dispatching courier."

----------

Zoe awakened. I'm alive? Where am I? She wondered. Alright, you're not tied to a branch. White ceiling, is this a shirt? Sheets? Maybe slavery, and the jungle, and that sack of flaming horse droppings Devon, and this whole world where countries openly sell slaves and dangerous wildlife was just a fever dream. Maybe I've been in a mental hospital the entire time! Zoe thought with a hint of hope Hold up. If that's the case, why do I hurt all over? And why is this is a bunk bed and on the ceiling is...the Tayloristani crest. Well carp. She accepted dejectedly.

"You're awake. How about that." A male voice stated. "No, don't get up. You've been through a lot."

"Who are you and where am I?" Zoe questioned weakly.

"Look at that. You're already coherent." The voice responded.

"Who are you and where am I?" Zoe asked again, this time with an edge in her voice.

"The name's Jacob Taylor. I work here at the Aleph-Merida tracking station, northwest Madagascar, in the vicinity of Haven, Tayloristan." Taylor answered. "You arrived in the middle of my sleep shift."

"Taylor?" She interrogated.

"Ah yes. You see my father." Jacob replied.

"Father?" Zoe questioned suspiciously. "Your skin is dark. His is light."

"My father, our illustrious leader." Taylor chuckled darkly. "Knocked up a prostitute, let's see, eighteen or nineteen years ago? She came forward about it ten years later of course, when she needed money to help raise me. Course he denied my birthright, took me in only to 'Show his benevolence' to the people. Cut off my money and had his witch of a bodyguard expel me from his convoy two years ago."

"He didn't seem that old..." Zoe murmured.

"He's older than he looks." Taylor replied angrily. "Now shut up and listen for a little bit. You're Amatyi. Do you know what that means? Everyone will want to know you, everyone will listen to every stupid thing you say - even my father. Use that power and influence."

"Maybe I will." Zoe replied. "He certainly didn't seem the caring type when I met him."

"Good, good." Jacob answered. "Now, my father's power seems absolute, but in truth it comes from the cities. Every year at the Unity ceremony, they give him a year's worth of power. Make something go wrong, and he loses his power. Return the wrong to right, and the city elders will deem you more worthy of power. And then, you and I, we can be kings. Well, I'll be the king. You're sort of a woman."

"I think I just want to get better." Zoe answered firmly.

"Well, if you find the opportunity, the Unity ceremony is in three days. Haven is sending a transport to take you there." Taylor continued. "It's some weird law that all existing Amatyi must travel with the Dictator and must be present at the ceremony."

"I think I want to rest." Zoe stated.

"Well sure, I can see you're lying there-" Jacob Taylor began.

"Alone." She answered coldly. "We can have this conversation again some other time."

"Fine, fine." Jacob replied. He left.

---------

Three hours later....

"Alpha Mike, Whiskey Six. Pleasure to see you, courier. Got a VIP here, stinking up the joint." A brisk female voice sounded over the radio.

"Whiskey Six, Alpha Mike. Glad to be your problem-solver today and every day." Flight Officer Phillip Seymour of the Haven Air Patrol replied energetically.

"Cool it, wings." The radio answered.

"I'll need some fuel. Next leg of the trip is going to be a long one." Seymour requested.

"Roger that. Helipad clearance is less than ten meters in all directions. Wind speed is 12 kph north by northeast."

"Confirming, zero clearance, twelve-Kilo north east wind." Might be tricky.

"That is correct, Whiskey Six."

"Roger." Seymour replied nervously. Who normally lands here? Larry Foulke?

Seymour's aircraft, a Si-47 Leopard swept-wing multmission VTOL of the kind normally carried as strike craft by military zeppelins, slowed to a 40 kph crawl as he directed the aircraft's engine thrust downwards. He skillfully brought the aircraft to a stop above where he thought the helipad was.

"Whiskey Six here. Position check." Phillip Seymour called out per protocol.

"Alpha Mike. Center of pad is two meters south, three meters east."

"Whiskey Six acknowledges." Seymour answered. Small adjustment. Not easy.

Flight Officer Seymour cautiously angled his aircraft forward and to the left for just a second. "Whiskey Six, position check."

"Alpha Mike, zeroed correctly."

"Whiskey Six acknowledges. Commencing descent." Phillip carefully reduced the thrust of his engines and lost altitude. About a half minute later, Seymour set down. No ladder? I'm touched. They must not normally deal in jets. Seymour opened the aircraft canopy, lowered himself out the left side of his craft, then dropped to the helipad. A fuel tank a meter and a half behind my tail? Thank heaven for protocol.

Standing on the helipad were two men and a woman. A rough and tough brown-haired man in a T-shirt and jeans, a blonde man wearing a baseball cap backwards, and a blonde woman in an ill-fitting shirt and slacks with a face covered with partially healed cuts and bruises. Her arm was laid up in a cast.

The rough-looking man extended his hand "Corporal William Tenny. This is Corporal Thomas Ruthless and our Amatyi, who hasn't given us her name."

"None of you asked. My name is Zoe." The woman spoke up.

"Pleasure to meet you all. Flight Officer Phillip Seymour." Phillip shook hands with all of them. "Zoe, I'm here to take you to where you need to be."

"And where is that?" The bright-eyed Amatyi questioned intently as the men with her set to refueling Seymour's jet.

"The Unity ceremony, by way of the Dictator's convoy. You're part of our world now, miss." Flight Officer Seymour replied politely.

"Well watch out for the weather." Corporal Ruthless spoke up. "Suzie says there's a typhoon forming about where they're headed, and you know the Dictator will be going straight through."

"Suzie?" Zoe and Seymour asked at the same time.

"Uh, Lieutenant Susan Bertram, base commander." Corporal Thomas Ruthless clarified. "The lady who talked you down."

"Typhoons are no laughing matter." Phillip Seymour stated gravely. "Finish the fueling as quickly as possible - we need to catch up to Echelon before the storm breaks."

"Echelon?" Zoe questioned.

"Military code phrase for the Dictator's convoy. Echelon Alpha is the Haven, Echelon Beta is the Monsterguard, Echelon Charlie is the Apocalypta, and Echelon Papa is the Absolute Power." Flight Officer Seymour answered honestly. "I suppose you have a right to know, given who and what you are now."

"Hey! Fueling's done. We went ahead and attached extra tanks to your outer wing hardpoints while we were at it." Corporal Tenny called.

"You have Si-47 drop tanks?" Phillip asked incredulously.

"Had. We were using them as fuel tanks for our extra generator." Corporal Ruthless piped up. "The one provided has a tendency to randomly drop power to everything that isn't the lights or sensor arrays. It's actually listed as a feature in the brochure."

"Those tanks cost us a hundred kilograms of Pitcher Tree branches." William Tenny mourned.

"I'll bring them back." Flight Officer Seymour promised. "If you're done fueling, it's time to go. Right this way, miss." He added as he offered his hand to Zoe.

"Why thank you." Zoe smiled for the first time she could remember as she took Seymour's hand with her left.

"Only seat we have, I'm afraid." Seymour apologized as he physically lifted Zoe into the second seat of his aircraft.

"It's quite alright." Zoe answered. "You're strong for a pilot."

"I'm unique." Seymour replied as he clambered into the pilot's seat and closed the canopy. "Whiskey Six ready to burn." He called into the radio.

"Alpha Mike, picture is clear. Windspeed is 14kph north by northwest."

That much change? Seymour thought as he took off.

----------

Captain Ursula sat in her chair, outwardly composed. Inwardly, she seethed at her ship, at high command, at the complete idiots who had chosen her crew and built her vessel. "Anything to report?" She asked the room at large.

"Armory, aye." Specialist Grink answered. "Bomb team reported back - the device was a t-o-r-p-e-d-o."

"A what?" Ursula questioned curiously.

"A torpedo. It's a weapon which originated forty years ago, during the Coastal Rebellions. This particular one was apparently issued to HAV-666. As far as we can tell, it's defunct." Grink replied matter-of-factly.

"As far as you can tell?" Captain Ursula interrogated dangerously.

"Ma'am, technical diagrams for this sort of weapon no longer exist. They were created as an answer to Formidda's threat to construct a sea-going airbase, deployed to sink that airbase before G-2 Shooting Stars could be sent to it, then forgotten about after Formidda surrendered." Specialist Grink explained. "We have no idea what makes this weapon tick or why."

"Learn how." Ursula ordered. "Without our ASMs, that's the best we have if we have to fight a ship."

"Armory, aye." Specialist Grink answered resignedly.

---------

"Captain?" Billiam shouted. "The wind's picking up!"

"Oh, it's nothing! Just a little bit of salt for yer gizzard!" Captain Harkness answered.

----------

The luxury cruise airship Gloria sailed majestically through the sky. The gleaming white vessel floated gracefully far above the sea of Madagascar until a discord traveling faster than the speed of sound appeared. It approached the ship's broadside, split into three, then scattered into a storm of white-hot pellets which ruptured every single gas bag and set the Gloria on fire.

The battered airship fell at an increasing rate until it impacted with the water in a mighty splash.

 

[Tani Coyote]

Oh yes. I think we can make this more interesting. Feel free to decide whether your slaves' children are granted freedom due to jus soli or not.

Obviously this can wait until next turn because most of you have already sent me PMs.

 

[KaiserElectric]

It took me three hours a weekday morning to work up a six major/one minor coalition and eleven assisting states. I don't have to specify anything more than that other than the Crimson Court looks out for friends.

In other words, no.

 

[Sonereal]

I did a lot of backroom dealing, and it was assumed Leth would jump in, to which earned me an enormous amount of support.

Because, you know, your kind.

 

[KaiserElectric]

OOC: Oh, so you're wrong and racist?

 

[Sonereal]

OOC: You repeat yourself.

 

[Nukeknockout]

#13

Spoiler :

Less than a thousand meters above the sea, an H-62 Quapaw flew in a random pattern.

"If you look out of your left window, you'll see a pod of majestic whales! And if you look out of the window to your right, you'll see our Gloria from the outside." Pilot Star Johnson stated with boredom.

The H-62 Quapaw in and of itself was a really ugly helicopter, consisting in its most basic form of a two-person cockpit, a narrow dragonflyesque fuselage with an open space in the center and two giant wheels on struts straddling this central compartment, this jewel of a flying machine was then crowned by double layered counterrotating blades with a tail rotor small in comparison. This particular Quapaw was painted blue & white and had a ten-person passenger compartment with windows in place of the open area, as well as a door between the cockpit and the passenger compartment. Neutered piece of carp. The pilot thought humorlessly.

Under normal circumstances, H-62s (As well as the older H-44, H-48, H-56 & H-57) were used by military and civilians alike for airship and remote settlement resupply and heavy lift operations, as well as firefighting and rescue missions. In short, the H-62 Quapaw was an extremely popular mass produced helicopter sporting a couple new variants every day and heavily utilized in the construction, logging, mining, transit, and military industries.

This feels wrong. Star Johnson thought to herself. My bird is offended at how they've tried to dress her up, make her look pretty.

This particular excursion flight was stated to last three hours, so three hours it would last. Even though there's nothing to see here but ocean, the Gloria, and the occasional other airship. Ten passengers had paid extra to be flown around extra special. Fools and their money... Star Johnson spotted an object in the sea as she began another pointless figure eight turn. "And if you look out your right windows now, you'll see an ancient fishing trawler depleting the world's reserve of fish."

The oohs and aahs emanating from the passenger compartment did nothing to help Star's mood.

----------

Three hours later...

"Passengers, we are now approaching the Gloria. We request you remain seated as we land." Finally. "Thank you for flying Magenta Lines." Not really.

The Gloria was truly beyond beautiful - an airship the hull of which had been bleached white, blue trim added around the engines in circles, engines themselves encased in white fiberglass. Even the vessel's landing deck seemed beautiful instead of being tacked on as most airships appeared.

Star Johnson approached the landing deck at roughly one third of the practical speed - strict orders not to scare the passengers or require them to fasten their seat belts.

At about that time, a streak trailing smoke shot straight past Star's Quapaw towards the broadside of the Gloria, split into three smaller trails, then each of those shattered. Although Star and her passengers couldn't see it, the smaller warheads threw a spray of burning hot depleted uranium pellets across the full length of the Gloria. What Star Johnson did see, however, was a significant number of holes appear across the length of the liner. Each of these holes immediately began to belch green gas and flame. My god.

The Gloria seemed to hang in the air for a moment, then it deflated, for lack of a better term. With every single gasbag ruptured in multiple places, the once-beautiful cruise liner fell towards the sea, gaining velocity with every second. The aircraft oriented itself nose towards the embrace of Poseidon as it dropped, seemingly for an eternity.

In our time, the Gloria's fall lasted seventy-eight seconds. For Star Johnson and her passengers, time was not so merciful.

Eventually, the liner splashed into the sea with a terminal thud and drove itself underwater almost immediately. There must have been four hundred people in there...

A moment of stunned silence reigned, then it grew.

"Passengers." Johnson began. "I, I don't know what to tell you."

------------

Billiam straightened up at the sound of an explosion, followed by a mighty splash. "Did you hear that, captain?" He asked.

"Tis the sea, me lad! Ye starting to hear it like a real sailor!" Harkness bellowed, tears in his eyes.

"Then tell me what it means!" Billiam shouted back. "I think an airship was shot down and hit the water."

"Ye be daft, lad! Twas clearly Neptune and Jupiter havin' their wee brawl!" Captain Harkness called back.

-------------

Unknown to Star Johnson or most others, a second pair of eyes observed the Gloria's destruction. A shrewd, calculating pair of eyes watching through binoculars.

"Well now. Your device works." A figure clothed in purple with yellow flowers sewed onto the arms of his uniform congratulated.

"Of course it works." A balding man with glasses replied. "It's designed from the ground up to take down airships. You'd think that would be easy, but it isn't - military airships have so many redundant defensive systems...it was truly a pleasure to construct a weapon to overcome them."

"Ya ya." The colorful figure answered noncommittally. "I need eight of them."

"That won't be a problem, for the proper sum." Balding promised.

"$18 million?" Colorful stated. "But each missile costs $2!"

"But you used a missile in your test." Balding pointed out.

"Si si, I did. Santiago was just making sure you were paying attention." Santiago grinned. "Take the money, we'll take the missiles."

"Captain!" A man wearing green shouted.

"Hey! Santiago told you to call him Santiago!" Santiago called cheerfully.

"There's a helicopter over there!" The green man called.

"A witness? No no, this could ruin everything!" Santiago yelled. "Ready the weapons and make with the going!"

As if ashamed, a red and blue painted frigate, of the type armed with a 105mm cannon, a triple-shot model missile turret and three 25x62mm chainguns, began moving. Flying above the vessel were two flags. The higher one an orange skull and crossbones on a purple background, the lower one a bowl of noodles.

Almost unnoticed in the background, balding jumped off the frigate onto a small black vessel with a crane. The crane released a set of eight missiles onto the frigate's rear deck, then quickly collapsed into the black ship's deck. The black ship then sank below the surface of the water.

------------

"Uh, passengers." Star Johnson began. "I see a ship - it redefines ugly. I'm going to approach it, see if we can get-"

*BOOM* Some form of gun on the ship fired!

"Passengers, strap yourselves in!" Star Johnson yelled as she attempted to touch every control at once.

To its credit, the H-62 surged like a stallion, its present weight load being roughly a tenth of what it was designed for. Too much like a stallion, in fact - there wasn't enough time for the passengers to fasten their seat belts.

"That ship just shot at us!" Johnson shouted. "I'm getting us away from it, then we can think about finding a place to land."

-----------

"So Biscuit burst into the mess hall shouting 'Where's my darn bacon?!' but he didn't know we rigged the door to unzip his dress, so Biscuit-" Phillip Seymour related.

"Presented Admiral Winky to a room full of officers?" Zoe guessed with a smile.

"It was the base social! We couldn't afford to let the officers go without seeing what they put us through." Seymour joked.

Zoe laughed, a clear and vibrant sound. "Next you'll be telling me it's like that at all bases." She grinned.

"Nah, I've only ever been to the one." He smiled. "Defensive air patrol doesn't let you see all too much of the world."

"And here I thought you were a courier delivering a package." Zoe teased.

"When I heard they needed a courier, I took the opportunity." Seymour corrected. "I should see the world, go to other nations..."

"Other nations don't have much to offer." She stated grimly.

"Why do you say so?" Phillip expressed curiously.

"I just do." Zoe answered flatly.

"Oh. Okay, I see how it is." Seymour returned quietly.

"What?" Zoe questioned.

"You have a family elsewhere." He answered.

"Not anymore." Zoe stated firmly. "Something happened, and I'm not ready to talk about it."

"If you say so." Flight Officer Seymour replied. "Hey, did you ever realize how great it is to be a pilot?"

"Sure I did!" Zoe eagerly stated.

"What?" He asked, taken aback.

"I used to fly when I was younger." She smiled. "Civilian airliners, not military jets, but it was great."

"To soar, free of the bonds of the earth." Phillip recited.

"Beautiful." Zoe complimented.

"Not so much as the recipient." The pilot joked.

They both laughed then.

-------------

"Alright." Star Johnson began. "We don't know where we are. We don't know where we can land. We have about sixteen hours of fuel left, and I am the only one qualified to fly this helicopter."

"Now, here's what we're going to do. We're going to fly east as far as we can. When we run out of fuel, we'll break out the life rafts and do our best to make it to shore. Someone killed the Gloria for a reason which was clearly important, else they wouldn't then try to eliminate the witnesses."

-------------

On board the Absolute Power...

The Dictator lounged in the conference room. "I'm bored." He stated flatly. "I need a national emergency to make a ruling on. I'd appreciate it if Raek, Dou, or Annabelle would do something silly I could laugh at."

The empty room did not answer him. The Dictator sighed.

On the bridge...

Captain Krystolis waited in his chair on the bridge.

"Hotel Actual, Echelon. Hotel Actual, Echelon."

Krystolis picked up his radio. "Echelon Papa here, Hotel Actual. Go ahead."

"Typhoon, sea of Madagascar, Charlie Four. Echelon Papa, confirm."

A frown creased Captain Krystolis brow. "Typhoon directly in our flight path, Charlie Four."

"Hotel Actual acknowledges. Hotel Actual out."

"Echelon Papa, Echelon. Typhoon, Cat four in our flight path! Storm stations!"

Three decks below...

Raekhimnijong angrily punted a white ball across a green table. The white ball impacted with and knocked a black ball into a hole by the table's side.

Raekhimnijong swore and stalked to the other side of the table. He pushed the white ball again, only for it to completely miss everything. The ball rolled across the table, then was caught by a pair of hands.

The owner of these hands then stated "Your anger weakens your concentration, Raekhimnijong."

"Angry? I'm not angry, why should I be angry?" Raekhimnijong whispered. "I'm not angry, I'm furious, Doumont!"

"What's eating you?" The older man requested patiently.

"Just...seeing Annabelle..." Raekhimnijong stuttered.

"In our leader's room?" Doumont finished.

"Yes. She...I never thought she was that kind of..." Raekhimnijong almost continued.

"Control your stutter." Doumont chided absent-mindedly. "Why should you be surprised? He holds all the power. He could command her presence if she didn't go willingly."

"Don't say that." Raekhimnijong breathed painfully. "I don't want to think about that."

"You want her." Doumont stated.

"Yes." Raekhimnijong answered.

"Then answer me this." Doumont gently stated. "If you were in her boots, seeing you right now, would you want you?"

"What?" Raekhimnijong quizzically replied.

"Meditate on it." Doumont suggested. "Or abuse a pool table. Your call."

-----------

Star Johnson flew on into the night as the wind kicked up around her craft. Storm's getting worse.

Ice began to crawl across her windshield as the wind kicked up. The mighty Quapaw shook around her, the passengers whimpered, and the engines whined as even they fought the ice.

Star Johnson gritted her teeth and flew on in-

"Unidentified craft bearing zero-nine-four, identify yourself." A female voice on the radio.

Johnson looked at the radio incredulously, then seized her headset and spoke "This is G-02 off the Gloria. Our airship has been destroyed. Who calls?"

"This is the HAV-667 Gargarensis. Haven is a few hundred kilometers aft."

"Look, I have ten frightened passengers and not enough fuel to reach Haven. I need to land."

"This is a military ship, not a cargo tramp."

"I have no other option, Gargarensis."

"Very well."

 

[Omega124]

To: World
From: Hummel

On regards to the Amistad Charter and international discourse of it:

Hummel society has no concept of slavery. We all work for the sake of duty for the queen and hive, and expect nothing more or less. However, we will not tolerate the enslavement of Bienen or humans that are citizens within our queendom, and refuse any slave markets within our nation. There shall be no furthermore action from us as long as those two above points are respected.

---

RP to come never sometime soon in this space

 

[Dem Taqat]

Atop his mountaintop, deep in the Andes, the wise old man stared up at the stars through a battered-looking old telescope. He was troubled. Strange signs had been rushing back and forth across the heavens, many of which appeared to be nothing more than aircraft. But man was of the gods, and the creations of man were all part of the great plan. And so the man known to the world only as 'that nutty hermit', or 'the wise old man of the mountains' depending on who you asked, included the aircraft in his readings of the universe.

Much was in disarray he feared. He could feel the disturbance in the force; his very bones told him that some great force was discontent. It was as if some vital prophecy had gone unfulfilled, and without it the very world might be brought to ruin. The tension was mounting, and perhaps it was far to late for him to relax it now.

A sudden flicker in the far reaches of the night sky caught his eye. He brought the telescope up, seeking the source. In the distance, a tiny streak of fire sped down towards the distant horizon, a meteor perhaps, or a crashing aircraft. Either one was most portentous. He stared for a moment, then lowered the telescope slowly, tracking back to the ground below the flame.

The telescope settled almost directly atop the winding path that led to the old mans home, and he frowned as his mind connected the dots. Clearly some figure of significance would soon crest the peak, seeking either his advice, or his destruction. For several minutes he stood thus, hoping against hope that his dreams might be fulfilled. And in time, he did indeed make out the faint shape of a man struggling up the rocky path.

Moments later, the ominous tension of fate began to fade.

-----

A lound 'DERP' echoed across the bridge.

Even as Captain McTavish rocketed to his feet, a second 'DERP' sounded. It was then that the red lighting cut in, filling the room in a flashing confusion of sound and movement. McTavish voice cut through the blaring of alarms, attempting to organise the sudden madness. "Status report! Somebody tell me what's going on!" A rapid succession of confused negatives came back before a productive report filed in.

"Surface sensors are picking out some sort of flare tracking west-northwest at extreme altitude. No indications of what it is exactly, but could be some sort of missile so it fits the bill for an emergancy alarm." The tremor in Ensign McShoutout's voice was the only indication of his anxiety.
"Could be a missile? Is that the best we can tell? Somebody run a second scan, and then get a line to command if we can't say anything more concrete!" A few moments later he frowned again. "West-northwest you said? That's away into the depths of the pacifc, what could it possibly be?" Seconds later another inconclusive report came back, and McTavish contacted headquarters.

"Uh, Comrade One this is Brother Wolf Two Six we have an unidentified flaming object bearing west-northwest at extreme altitude in region Pack One Alpha, any idea what it is?"
"Hold on just one moment please Brother Wolf, we're on the case." Several agonising minutes dragged by, and the crew began exchanging nervous glances. What could possibly take so long to identify? "Brother Wolf Two Six this is Comrade One. False alarm, you're looking at a meteorite coming down somewhere in the pacific region, nothing to be worried about."
"Roger that Comrade One, nice to know we're in the clear. Almost had a heart attack when people started yelling 'missile' at me."
"No problem Brother Wolf. You'll probably find somebody wanting to re-tune your equipment when you get back, I doubt anybody wants our entire Pacific Defence Net to go red hot next time a meteor comes along"
"That bad?" McTavish felt a bit better to hear his ship hadn't been the only one caught off guard, it probably wouldn't be mentioned on a report if everyone had the same problem.
"Yeah, that bad. Biggest false alarm I ever saw, and I expect a lot of others got the same. Well, probably best to stop chattering. Good hunting Brother Wolf, Comrade One out."

-----

Grunt McRedshirt was an important man. He had risen far above where any had ever expected him to rise. Some had claimed he would never top cannon-fodder in the infantry. They had been wrong. Yes, McRedshirt was still one of the boots on the ground, but he was an important set of boots. His boots were the property of the Republican Guard, the most elite soldiers in all Argentina.

He had spent the past several weeks constantly on parade, in marches, or otherwise showcasing the might of Argentina. He had grown almost sick of his bright red uniform, which the soldier in him recognised as unpractical even whilst the Argentinian within him recognised it as one of the great military honours. But those times were over. He was back in his comfortable camoflauge, however unsuited it was to the city where he now stood.

But Grunt did not stand in the city proper. He patroled the outer gardens of the Presidential Palace, entrusted with the safety of McIronfist himself. To his eye, the garden was no ornament either. The palace had belonged once to the military genius that was McConqueror, and had clearly been designed with an eye to defence. Grunt walked not in a garden, but a carefully laid out killing field. Should an attack come, it would find itself a brutal defence.

McRedshirt expected no attack.

DT
Captain McTavish

 

[Tani Coyote]

Le FAQ

Is diplomatic annexation of clients still possible?

No. Territory is secondary to the actual clienting in this game.

Is it possible to give orders without numbers?

Yes. You may hire me as your Prime Minister, basically, and give me a general direction for investment; I will invest to the best of my abilities. This is good if you don't want to micromanage or don't have time.

Can I perform an espionage mission against myself?

Yes. Oz robbed itself in MP1, so it'd honor the tradition by allowing false flag hilarity.

Orders locked, mates!

 

[Double A]

You said orders lock Monday and it isn't Monday anywhere in the US.

 

[Tani Coyote]

Didn't think I'd get back this early.

We've had well over a week to get orders in, anywho.

 

[KaiserElectric]

Can I get you my orders in the next 5 minutes and still be counted?

 

[Jehoshua]

You said orders lock Monday and it isn't Monday anywhere in the US.

Tis in Australia, the time of which every IOT GM worth his salt rightly follows

 

[Ravus_Sol]

Quick! Everyone send an emergency PM with your orders! Better to ask forgiveness then permission

PS: Australian Timezone is best Timezone

 

[KaiserElectric]

Spoilered, as it took up three pages in word.

Spoiler :

This can't be right, Simon said to himself. Tightening his grip on the leather suitcase, he nervously glanced at the station's departure board to make sure he was in the right place.

"Something wrong?" came a voice from behind him.

Simon turned around to face a red-furred fox standing behind him, wearing a light jacket and jeans. A rather jarring contrast from the familiarity of the station platform, but at least it told him he was in the right place.

"Uh, nothing, just gathering my thoughts."

"Alright then, take care," the Leth said with a smile. Simon stared curiously after the Leth as he left, but his observation was interrupted as two younger Leth, possibly college-aged, walked past him.

"...should have the right to remain sovereign, no matter what the UN says."

"Stuss, they give up their right to rule when they enslave people. You'd think they'd learn after however many years it's been..."

Simon collected his thoughts as he walked out of the station. To say he didn't expect this was an understatement. After his rival won a Pulitzer for a story on the bee people, the nonhuman nations were supposed to be a literary gold mine. The Lethian Confederacy was supposed to be, for lack of a better word, backwards. He expected to see a city in utter chaos, run by feral animals performing deviant acts on every street corner. But this? Take away the fact that the population was a thousand or so anthromorphic foxes and it could be mistaken for any other city. So much for the Pulitzer, Simon thought gloomily.

Simon made his way through the streets, looking for anything taboo, anything that had the slightest chance of making a good story. Besides a few suggestive ads featuring Leth females instead of regular people, though, his searching proved fruitless. They're animals, for God's sake,mutant freaks of nature spawned by a defective cancer cure. Why the hell are they so...normal?

Close to admitting defeat, he ducked into a small cafe on the street corner. A coffee shop, going by the smell. The place was packed full of Leth and humans alike, but he finally found an empty seat across from a young Leth female, busy typing on a laptop.

"Is this seat taken?" he asked.

"No, go ahead," she said politely, not looking up from her work. Throwing himself into a chair, he suddenly became aware of how heated the atmosphere was, and not just because of the brewing coffee. Everyone seemed to be grouped together, talking in whispers ...

"Sure is...busy today..." Simon mentioned to the Leth female, trying to sound casual.

"Hey, this is the hot spot for all of your civil disobedience needs," she said sarcastically.

Simon felt a surge of hope. "There's a protest going on?"

The Leth paused to stare at him. "You didn't hear about it? It's all anyone is talking about."

"Well, I'm new here, so maybe you could fill me in?"

The Leth looked at him curiously. "Where are you from, might I ask?"

"Cascadia. Name's Simon Cote. I work for the Vancouver International," he recited.

"Oh, a journalist. No wonder you're interested," she commented, with a hint of either distaste or amusement. "My name's Hilde Veers. V-e-e-r-s."

"Got it," Simon confirmed, whipping out his notepad and jotting down her name. "So, the protest..."

"From what I understand, they're planning on picketing the embassy of the People's Kingdom."

"What for?" he interrogated.

"Well, you can only talk about someone like they're dirt for a while before people get angry. Not to mention how their idiot Obermufti keeps going on about how great a bunch of genocidal terrorists are."

The crowd began to disperse around them, going a half-dozen at a time in the same direction. "Genocidal terrorists?" he asked, ignoring the movement around him.

"Humanity First." she said, filling the two simple words with as much bile as she could muster. He half expected her to spit on the floor afterwards.

"They haven't done anything noteworthy, though," he reasoned.

"They announced to the world that they were willing to exterminate us."

"It's only words," Simon reasoned.

"Yes, but people are still scared. Scared that the next human they see hates them enough to do the unthinkable. Scared that they'll leave their house to see their friends and family turn to a red smear on the pavement in an instant. It's only a matter of time before Humanity First starts dismembering children to promote their perverted agenda."

"Not to change the subject," Simon interjected. "But you sound like you practiced this."

"I wrote my dissertation on this," she said. "Who says learning isn't fun?" Her long muzzle bore a slight smile. Unnerved, Simon figured it would be best to change the subject.

"Does it bother you that some humans are afraid of you? That you and your...ilk, might want to take over?"

"I can't speak for everyone..." Hilde said uncertainly. "But you remember that huge bio-weapon that got launched over the entire western half of North America? There's a reason the Leth didn't go along with that plan, and not just because it would have killed us too. The others, the other evolved species, thought they were superior to humanity, and wanted to prove it with that bomb. The first stepping stone to world domination and whatnot. That's what made us different than the others, I guess. Lethenberg oppressed us all the same, but while the other races they created wanted vengeance or dominance, we just wanted acceptance."

Simon, listening intently, realized he had forgotten to take notes, and hurriedly marked down what she told him. "Interesting. Well, that should be all I need. I'd better get going."

"Take care," Hilde said, smiling. Simon collected his things and began to leave, but not before his curiosity got the better of him.

"If you don't mind me asking..." he slowly began. "What do you think about humans?"

Hilde thought for at least a minute before answering. "I think your species is incredible. Everything you have ever done, from your art to your science, is miraculous. Your species has done the impossible, and then some. I just...I just wonder..."

"About what?"

"Sometimes I wonder how your species could be so...hateful."

Simon blinked. "Hateful?"

"Hateful. Not to the Leth, but to yourselves. Slavery, genocide, fascism...it's scary to think that the same people who are willing to die for their freedom would be equally willing to enslave someone. To kill someone who did nothing wrong, just because of how they look, or what they believe in. I'm not saying our kind wouldn't have done the same thing, but it still makes you think, you know?"

Simon swallowed, wondering what to say.

"We're...trying to fix that..." he muttered.

"I know," Hilde said. "That's what most of us hope for. We're all hoping that mankind will come to accept us."

Simon bid her goodbye and stepped out into the street, a breath of fresh air overcoming him. Strolling along casually, his thoughts briefly drifted to the elusive Pulitzer. He may not capture it this time, but since he was here for the rest of the day, he might as well do something productive.

"Pardon me," he asked a passersby. "You wouldn't happen to know where the embassy of the People's Kingdom is, would you?