Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Active Measures

October 15, 2023

Beijing, People's Republic of China

"Was he dropped as a child?" the head of the Ministry of State Security asked him with quite the serious tone.

Ambassador Zhang could only nod as the man went over his notes again as if in disbelief.

"He just approached you with this information. No regard for international law or how it would look like if the conversation was ever leaked. What mad world have these men come from?"

"A mystery for the ages, sir."

It had been bad enough that the Russians had acted the way they had before the displacement, but to now have their new "ally" be so blatant about their own wish to likely start a new war? Externally, the Chinese Communist Party was opposed to all unprovoked violence, so of course they could never publicly suggest or even hint that they could agree to such actions. Internally, however…

Zhang was not privy to the plans for the Republic of China, so tantalizingly close and yet so far. America's "One China" policy had ensured their response should the PRC carry out a police action be less of a guarantee than in previous decades, but it was still an uncertainty. One way to have verified would have been Russia's invasion of Ukraine, and the current American president had at the very least hinted that the United States would have remained uninvolved.

Or perhaps not.

The way the Americans and NATO mobilized in response to the sudden disappearance of Russia was concerning. It could have easily been argued that it was panic in the face of such an unknown phenomenon, but neither he nor his superiors were entirely sure. Perhaps NATO would have created a No-Fly Zone, or perhaps they would have counter invaded Ukraine and forced Russia into accepting an uneasy peace. Or perhaps it would have escalated from there.

As it stood now, however, Ukraine had successfully made deals to regain the once contested zones while shipping grain unimpeded. With international cooperation, a global famine had been avoided, and only a few areas in Africa faced worsening hunger issues, but for many in the West, that was just business as usual. The Russian Bear as a threat was gone, and they had cheap oil and food. That left the West in a very, very comfortable spot.

"I understand the sale of weapons, but such a deal is… I'm not sure what to tell the party."

"We're already delivering the new guidance systems for the Russian ICBMs, better radars, replacement tank parts, and now... Now this prince wants even more?" Zhang shook his head.

"And without his father's knowledge." the head of the State Security grumbled, then closed the binder, and sighed as if finalizing a decision.

Zhang said, "He didn't say it, but probably. I mean, if this was for the nation, why ask this way and not the usual formal requests? No, this young man is up to something."

As if to himself, the head of state security said, "Is there an opportunity for us here? Their nation is still trying to modernize, most of their influence is based on what remains of the Russian Federation's influence, and..." the slightest pause, "Did they not push for the Ukrainians to get their land back from the separatists? Any grain deals they could have offered had they kept the separatist states are off the table, and that is assuming this is a request by the nation, not an individual. What exactly would this young man be offering to us?"

That was a different story.

"Perhaps not much if one were to be realistic. Their production of new equipment is, of course, abysmal, their factories are producing older equipment just fine, and I suppose their purchase power upsets that slightly."

"Ragaid."

"Yes. Prince Maximilian recognizes our production capability, and our deals with them to continue Ragnite mining have been lucrative."

"Hmm…"

"But his interest in purchasing our weapons and adapting to this world's fighting doctrine so fast tells me something more and I have to say, it is worrisome."

The head of State Security raised an eyebrow.

"The man is ambitious."

"I concur. Very ambitious if he came at you this way. I shall inform the party, and they will make a decision on this matter. Thank you for coming to inform me of this, Ambassador Zhang."

"Certainly." He concluded and was preparing to head out when the head of state security seemed to recall something.

"Is it possible this is also a distraction?"

"Sir?"

A shake of the head, "Nevermind. He's alone in this if he came to you. We have no information on deals like these with other nations, after all."

Zhang paused, but he had the same question the Ministry of State Security left unsaid.

Who else has he been talking to?

October 30, 2023

Tel Aviv, Israel

There was no need for Calamity Raven anymore and that was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Dahau quietly sipped some tea, a little lost in thought. Had he known the Empire would be transported to another world, let alone one that was more than happy to accept his people, he would have done so much more to ensure his family kept each other alive. It soured his thoughts as he watched some kids playing across the street.

Perhaps the biggest tragedy in his mind was that they had left so many of their brothers and sisters back in Europa. The EEIA, like all other Europan nations, did not harbor any kindness for the Darcsen race. If not for Maximilian, he was certain their world would have gone down a similar path to the one he'd read about in the Israeli capital. Extermination camps, industrialized murder, all those horrors.

But now…

Dahau looked on as cars drove by. Would the Darcsens back home be blamed for the disappearance of the Empire? If this "Russian Federation" appeared there, would they be as accepted as now? He shuddered to imagine it and instead chose to hope that perhaps their worlds would connect again somehow, and therefore give everyone back home the chance to move to this desert paradise.

It turned out, despite the incredible differences in history, this world had a fairly similar race of people who had also been abused and persecuted. Multiple groups, it turned out. But this one had a powerful nation and was more than happy to take in people from Europa who shared almost the same values.

Granted, he wasn't foolish. He looked at the news articles going over how the West Bank was, for all intents and purposes, being taken over, not so much accepted in a mutually beneficial treaty. The Israeli Defense Force had gotten an influx of very well trained troops from his "Calamity Raven" and the Israeli Intelligence Wing, Mossad, was more than happy to have him as a consultant regarding the EEIA, Europa, and of course, Ragaid.

Such a strange world where they had medical science beyond comprehension, yet no Ragaid equivalent. It left them in a very cozy spot. He sipped some more tea and continued to read the newspaper. Unfavored as printed news became in this world, he appreciated the familiarity of it.

The siren was nothing new.

The Mossad car braking to a halt nearby certainly was.

"Dahau!" the man called over the sirens, not stepping out of the car.

He took another sip and turned to him; his lone response was to make eye contact. The man, his real name too long and needlessly complicated for him so he just called him "Abe", waved him over with an urgency that seemed uncharacteristic. People around him were already moving quickly and taking shelter, not so much taking cover.

That was a little odd.

He got up and walked over to the car.

"Abe."

"Get in!"

Well, that was downright strange, but he was no stranger to the urgency in the orders of those above his rank. He did as told, stepping into the vehicle without a word, his gaze on the street around him.

Before he even shut the door, Abe's car had accelerated down the mostly empty road. He wasn't going to ask. Answers would come soon enough. Still, he had to wonder what was going on that warranted such urgency.

Abe said, "We'd been monitoring the Persians. They'd begun moving equipment very suddenly this morning."

He blinked.

The Iranians?

"I think there are over fifty Ballistic Missiles heading our way now. New ones."

"Defenses?"

"On alert, but I don't think they'll be enough. These aren't drones or cruise missiles." A quick, frantic look at his wristwatch, "Should be overhead any– damn it!"

The car sped on. Dahau looked up at the unnatural cloud overhead. A gray puff of smoke that hadn't been there before. He saw another cloud forming after a dart flying higher into the sky, turning at an odd angle, followed by a faint flash as a new unnatural cloud suddenly appeared at the end. Another puff of gray smoke that remained suspended in the morning sky. Something seemed to echo even through the car's safety glass and even the air raid sirens. It was not alone. In the sky he could now see the Israeli rockets, interceptor missiles, flying up through the atmosphere and turning wildly, some ending in puffs, a successful impact, but not all.

"God help us…" Abe muttered and sped on.

He saw that, behind them, the park where kids had just been playing went up in smoke, as if a large artillery strike had hit. Whether due to a direct impact or because an intercepted rocket was hit and the wreck landed there, Dahau did not know, and frankly, he didn't care. The children there had been moved away in time thanks to their alert systems. It was a luxury he doubted the nearby nations had. Which led to his silent, but all too truthful thought regarding the next few days, months, and perhaps even years.

God help whoever decided to start this war.

November 1st, 2023

London, United Kingdom

The term was "Active Measures". It was originally used by the Soviets, but many nations in what was now being dubbed an "Axis of Resistance" had become, from the current results on the screen, full-blown experts on it.

Noah Musab stared at the feed before going over the reports as Iran and its various proxies, within hours, created a regional war in the Middle East. The first step had been to emphasize the "fact" that there had been unprovoked aggression by the state of Israel, emphasizing abuses seen in the West Bank settlements and pushes into Syria by the IDF. The presentation of Iran's cause as noble, of course, as they were fighting not just for the freedom of the Palestinian people, but for the freedom of "all peoples" was also front and center. A call for Israel to "back down", to imply Iran was being reasonable, without directly stating it, of course.

And absolutely flooding the internet with the perception that the war had not, in fact, been started by Iran and their proxies, but by Israeli actions, real or not.

This was just too familiar. Musab thought back to the day everything had changed, when Russia had clearly been on the cusp of invading Ukraine and how similar talking points regarding the treatment of Ukraine's Russian-speaking population had also been flooding the internet.

MI6, the CIA, and just about every Intelligence agency in the West had been keeping an eye on such instances of enemy action. Unlike enemy states, however, the majority of Western nations could not simply clamp down on people. Not legally.

"The flaws of democracies." He mumbled aloud in English as the door swung open, letting the sound of organized chaos outside seep in.

"The flaws of democracy, huh? That sounds like a good title for an article ." A woman's voice burst through the noise.

He replied, "I believe so. Good to see you again, Miss Ellet."

"Likewise."

Irene Ellet was in his office again, notebook in hand. She smiled and sat down on the chair opposite his desk. As the door closed behind her, the sound of a chaotic office where everyone was trying to keep up with the flow of information subsided.

"So, which flaws in democracy would you like to talk about?"

"Democracies. Plural. Our nation and many allied nations, at least on paper, value individual liberties, and that means people have every right to vocally oppose our actions, the actions of the elected leadership, and the actions of other nations allied or otherwise."

Ellet said, "Nobody said being principled was easy."

He did not comment on that.

"But I doubt you asked me to come in just for that."

"That would be true."

Ellet asked, "So, what can you tell me about the EEIA's position in all of this? Are they involved? Is this just unrelated? Where are we in terms of knowing, Mister Musab?"

That is why you're here…

He said, "Like The People's Republic of China, they are calling for peace, and going further, they are setting up humanitarian aid for the affected areas."

"That seems uncharacteristically altruistic of them." Ellet mumbled, then, like any good journalist, asked, "How does British Intelligence view this?"

"There are really only two ways of viewing this, miss. Either they are trying to appear like a well meaning party for personal benefit as they know people will not look to warmongers kindly. Or they are playing both sides, funding one while condemning the actions."

"How would you determine which it is?" she asked.

"Well, if, say, there were photos of leaders within the EEIA meeting with leaders from Iran, or if perhaps we found ties between weapons sales and a new, very widely desired product found exclusively in the EEIA appearing in places like Iran or Yemen…" he left the words hanging while gently pushing a binder towards the reporter.

Irene Ellet beamed, but like a true professional, nodded slowly and wordlessly took the binder. He could see the gears turning behind her eyes, same as any journalist.

"Well, thank you very much for your time, Miss Ellet."

"A pleasure, Mister Musab!"

As the woman left, Musab shoved a hand in his pocket and hoped the situation did not get worse. There really was only one way to respond to Active Measures, and that was to try and put out fires wherever they popped out. An idealist might argue that lies can simply be countered with the truth, but the truth was that lies were less a fire and more a staining mass of rapidly moving sludge. Which was sometimes on fire.

Truth could be mixed in with lies, or sometimes facts could be presented in ways that only led to one conclusion despite the nuance, and worst of all…

Footage of an Israeli bomb decimating a building somewhere briefly flashed on the news.

Sometimes the facts weren't always on your side…

December 10, 2023

Saudi Arabia

Davies watched the discussion on her phone with some worry.

The British host said, "I'm saying that regardless of your opinions on Israel or how they are conducting this war, attacking Jewish students on campus–"

Like all fiery debates, the interruption by the person who disagreed, and had been brought on because they disagreed, because it wouldn't be a good debate if both sides spoke politely, was immediate.

"A few wild extremists shouldn't result in expulsions for all involved!"

"Well what should it result in? I mean, this is open pro-terrorist sentiment, is it not?"

"It's not pro terrorist to point out that Israel, a colonial power, has been not only expanding into areas that do not belong to them, but is using migrants from Europe to do so! Can we blame the reactions we've seen? These Darcsens are tools of a violent colonial expansion, how else can we expect the people to respond?"

"So you believe that justifies these attacks on Jewish students in Britain, Australia, America, and elsewhere?"

"Of course not, but all of these nations have a right to free speech, and students supporting the liberation of the Arab World in the face of a colonial power should not be expelled or deported for holding those opinions. And can I just say that the truth is that claims of harassment are greatly exaggerated?"

"A synagogue in Canada was set on fire."

"One incident does not invalidate–"

"And if I may, various studies have shown an increase in antisemitic attacks ranging from eighty to one hundred and sixty percent over the last month alone."

"Again, incidents, individual incidents do not invadilate the message or the facts."

All while footage of the situation was played on the side, as if to show the audience what was being discussed. She shuddered as even a member of the House of Representatives was shown with a crowd who moments later chanted "Death to America", while crowds in Australia rallied with the flags of regimes that had been calling for open Jihad against the West.

The attacks against Israel were bad enough, but the revelation of so many people around the world backing the acts of terrorism and even trying to intimidate people into agreeing was pushing political discourse to the very limit. Enemies abroad she could handle, but back home? That pesky second part of her oath?

"Think it'll be a civil war?" she sighed.

"Bitch, if you start quoting Beanie Man, I will drag you out and leave you in front of the F-15s."

"Sorry, just real worried."

"Yeah, cowgirl, you're watching the news, get off the fucking net, talk to some real fucking people, drink some real fucking beer…" she groaned the last part while checking her watch.

"Oh, don't call me cowgirl, that position is so uncomfortable." She grumbled, trying not to think about the lack of alcohol or the Airman she was lucky and unlucky enough to spend a few nights with.

"Would you rather be called Missionary or Doggie?"

She stared, then lifted her separated index and middle finger to her mouth like a peace sign, and stuck her tongue out.

"Is that a threat or an invitation, cowgirl?"

She winced at how immediate the response was as well as how suddenly interested her comrade had apparently become. She'd always heard stories, but she genuinely could not tell if the woman was joking or not. She only responded by lowering her hand and looking away. Women just weren't her thing.

"Cowgirl it is." she replied with a sly, victorious grin that was perhaps a tiny bit disappointed, before going back to monitoring their radar screen. Their station. Their little part of a grander defense.

Silence reigned now. They checked in over the radio. Air traffic did not show anything significant. Same as the last hour. Same as the hour befor that. The Box remained relatively quiet with the air conditioner running. Screens still mostly dark with highlighted lines and dots with identifiers almost lazily floating from one end of the screen to the next.

An hour later, the picture had changed only in that the lines and dots had moved and changed. Their significance had not. Her phone was silent, and she'd ignored any news updates. Minutes ticked by. One hour turned into two, then three, and by hour four she needed to say something unrelated to their standard comms.

"Track one-five-five, a Boeing 787 Dreamliner. Been in one of those?"

"Hm." came the lone response.

"Yeah, me neither."

Silence again.

"God damn it, are the Iranians going to make a move or not?" she muttered after another check.

"They're more talk than not often enough even after this, hon. Told you, I'm more worried about some of these fuckers to the north." she mumbled eyeing the top corner of their screen, in the direction of Yemen.

"Either-Or. I think I'd rather just…" she moved a hand in circles like a tornado, "Just get a drill out and see how everything works in practice."

"It's not that special."

"I know it's not that special, but I hate not knowing. God almighty, it's like waiting for the firing squad."

Air defense worked best when it was near the target, after all.

"I guess that's fair. I actually don't remember my first engagement."

"Really?"

"Again, it's not that special. It's like the drills. Birds go up, system works… or you know… it doesn't. Then you die. We'd had a few in my time. System worked then. I'm still here."

She didn't reply to that one.

The hours ticked on. No contacts in the air. No missile alerts. All seemed eerily silent despite the ongoing regional war.

Syria

He walked in step behind the Delta operatives, trying not to stand out as one of the K9s pushed past him, eager to go lie down in a warm corner somewhere on the base. The M249 hanging by his side felt heavier even if he knew it wasn't. Bullets didn't gain weight, and weapons that hadn't been fired didn't lose weight. To that point, carrying all that gear made him appear more like a tank than he actually was, and he didn't really want to steal the thunder from the guys in black jeans and dark caps that looked like they'd just walked out of a pharmacy commercial. Only armed to the teeth. It was almost frightening how elite soldiers really looked like someone he'd see day to day back home.

As officers gave a relatively approving nod, no one spoke, and they simply headed to their barracks to debrief. VIP in tow.

After most of Russia disappeared, every single one of Moscow's overseas projects effectively imploded. That had been notable within Eastern Europe as rebels in Ukraine were quickly brought back into the fold, and Belarus and all that remained of the Russian Federation awkwardly made a deal with the EEIA to focus on keeping the situation stable to ensure a cohesive global response to the disaster. Grain shipments continued just barely, and with help from China, there had been some flourishing. One crisis had been averted.

But not for everyone. The Russian-backed regime in Syria collapsed, and now there was an uneasy peace that had just been shattered thanks to the ongoing war between Israel and Iran. For the American forces under CENTCOM, that meant putting out what fires cropped up where they could, and the current administration was desperately trying to give the impression that they were, in fact, putting out fires. Which meant boots on the ground. Which meant their asses on the line. Which meant his buddies were at risk.

Except, it didn't really feel like they were at risk.

"Shit, I could eat a horse." Master Sergeant Wayne grumbled as he dug into something crinkly he couldn't really see.

His NVGs were up by now, back on the airbase. The desert got scarily cold at night, something about the lack of moisture, and he felt the chills even through his kit. How people lived there was something he really wasn't sure he wanted to ponder as they closed the door behind them and entered the hangar they were staying in.

"They don't taste good." Said Sergeant Coors. His real name wasn't Coors, but with "Silver" as his surname, and with the first name of "Dustin" and with "Silver Bullet" not being a remotely effective nick name… Coors it is.

"Yeah, but neither does this shit."

"Just gotta put some PB on it."

"Fuck no. Save that for the salt crackers."

He didn't ask, though he now sniffed the barest tinge of cinnamon in the air, so he guessed it had to be the First Strike Bar.

Poor guy…

It was more a grumble than an actual complaint. They'd been exhausted not from combat but from waiting. By now, the better half of a day had been spent behind some dunes waiting for a car to drive by. The car drove by at 2300 that night. They were there as QRF for the Delta operatives, but the results were the same. They weren't needed and Delta got their guy without leaving any trace of a firefight. Supposedly only a few shots had been fired, and once the ordnance was identified, and "disposed of", it was a short trip back to base. No AKs required.

So, as someone prior had so eloquently stated, that made the day good.

Wayne was staring at an old book by some operator or another. He could tell he wasn't reading it because his eyes weren't moving.

Ronnie the "cowboy", however, just wanted some shuteye right now. SAW by his side and questions regarding whether they'd be called to relieve someone else before the sun came up, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the wall. A wall that was not glaring at him. As consciousness drifted, he found himself smiling just a little. The best part of making Ranger?

He was too tired to get nightmares.

January 10, 2024

Schwartzgrad, EEIA

The phone call did not matter much to him. The news about the expanded Israeli strikes on Iran was unexpected given just how vaunted their air defense claims were, but it was also good information. Very good information.

"They continue killing our men."

"How awful." he said, feigning concern.

"When are your people going to do something?"

"Soon. I told you, general. My father is a man of peace, no? And this deal to close the Strait seems to be paying off."

"Not fast enough! The westerners have already moved their assets here, Reningrave! Now is when striking would be best! Or are you too scared of photos?!"

He did not appreciate the peasant's tone.

"We shall do what we can. If you need to accept a ceasefire, you may."

"You won't move now?"

"We will move when we are ready. If you cannot handle the wait, then quit the game."

He did not answer. Instead, he hung up and put the phone away. For such a major asset to pushing the world to war, the Iranians were oddly averse of escalating as needed! Though, to be fair, he was in a somewhat similar position, unable to truly carry out the operations he wanted.

He wanted it to be this year. Desperately so, but glancing at the training reports, the production of new equipment, the rates of support for an expansive war when their energy concerns were no longer the same, and with the threat of a united Western response… to say that circumstances did not truly align with his desires was an understatement.

Iran had performed splendidly. Far better than he could have ever anticipated. Israel's war had demonstrated that, yes, the West was very willing to give military aid to an ally, but it also showed just how opposed to war the public there was. It didn't matter to him if the Palestinians or the Jews had been oppressed or not, or both, or whichever. What mattered was how this could be used. Would the public react this way if the Russian Federation had attacked a fellow European nation?

Possibly.

He looked at some of the "reports" about how Ukraine had been "genociding" Russians, how the Russian government had pushed a narrative that the West had a sense of "Russophobia", and how it was very clear there was an attempt at portraying the old Russian Federation as a victim to an ever-expanding Western degeneracy.

It was all a carefully constructed narrative, of course. He did not care how true it was past how he could use it. But the question to ask was how to use it now…

It was an American election year, and the public would be focused elsewhere. Everything was perfect for a quick campaign to take land from the former Eastern Bloc and both give the Russians what they wanted, and his father some "glory".

But there was a problem.

The CCP had happily albeit discreetly sold him weapons. In being so discreet, they had not sold him much, if any, ammunition. That would come "later", and all ammo sold was exclusively to act as "deterrence". Official. Legal. By the books. The United States was not completely devoted to eliminating Iran just yet, and while the Israelis were carrying out a valiant effort, with the American president trying to de-escalate, the CCP would prefer not to lose an ally, and perhaps, strategically, it would be preferable to not lose the Iranians.

Moreover, Zhang, or better put, Zhang's friends, were really pushing the idea that the Empire and China should hold a monopoly on Ragaid. The additional mining equipment was helping them locate and extract Ragnite from areas that were impossible in their world, but his father and parliament both felt some degree of dread with exclusively working with the Chinese. He could understand that much. Who wanted to be subservient to another power, after all?

On the screen, he saw footage of his father gleefully being interviewed by foreign media outlets in Europe. He was selling the image of an old man who was adapting splendidly to his new circumstances.

On the screen he heard the words spoken by the reporter.

"Your majesty, if I may…"

"You may."

"What can you tell us about the implication your government may have pushed Iran to carry out these attacks?" the reporter asked.

He glanced at the news feed.

His father, smiling the whole time, said, "Not possible. While we had been in talks with the Iranians, it was all for diplomatic purposes as they'd had a productive, to my understanding, relationship with the Russian Federation, of which we still have many citizens within our borders."

"Sales of Ragaid?"

"And assistance in shipping grain around the world. The West helped, but the so-called Shadow Fleet was vital in bringing aid to areas that relied on grain from here. This helped avert famines."

"But you did trade some Ragaid with them?"

"Oh, certainly, but if it could have led to this war, that was never our intent."

"There have been reports of Ragaid being used by terrorist groups in areas like Yemen and Lebanon."

"If it came because of our relations to Iran, then that would be truly regrettable."

He turned the television off. Regrettable. What would be regrettable would have to be if everything remained as it had back home. He glared at his reports regarding modernization, the polished surface of his desk briefly reflecting his image at him. He inhaled deeply, ensuring all cracks in his carefully constructed mask were covered up, and his face returned to a neutral, if bored, expression, while his mind raced.

Selvaria, don't you disappoint me…

February 18, 2024

Training Grounds, Army Group Center, EEIA

This was a disaster that wouls surely disappoint Lord Maximilian.

"Lieutenant!" Selvaria Bles barked as the Russian man quietly smoked his cigarette while all of her nearby troops straightened instinctively, the mechanized force around them already halted, and her personal troops in badly painted green armor acting as the OpFor seemed to duck back into the trench, as if expecting fire and brimstone from her.

Not far off…

"Ma'am." the Lieutenant replied, smoke and the smell of nicotine exiting his mouth.

She ignored that and allowed some anger to seep into her words, "Your men's push is not organized at all, but even if it wasn't, it is not as bad as the fact that it isn't dispersed properly! At this proximity, one artillery shell would've wiped your entire squad out in an instant! Everyone here would've either been sent home in a body bag or crippled for life!"

She had punctuated her words by pointing at the young men around the Lieutenant. They all looked like teenagers, and they shifted around slightly as if she'd just scolded them too. There was a second or two of silence where the only noise in the field was the awkward shuffling of boots in the dirt and grass. The Lieutenant adjusted the collar on his vest as he looked past her, presumably searching for an answer. After another second, he took another huff from his cigarette, then, turning back to her, answered dispassionately.

"I trust in our comrades in the counter battery regiments." The man huffed, smoke and the smell of nicotine exiting his mouth once more.

"That is not the point." She forced her frustrations to subside so that she could answer logically and calmly. She'd already made this decision, but the man had still squandered every single opportunity given. He needed to be made an example of. If this had been war, and through some miracle he survived, he would have been hanged for treason and she would have gladly pulled the executioner's lever herself if he'd sent kids like that to their deaths so stupidly.

The Lieutenant asked, "So what is the point, exactly?"

"This was your third warning." She stated calmly, lifting three fingers, but she also made sure every single word was laced with danger.

The Lieutenant did not pick up on it as he continued to smoke his cigarette and only responded with a shrug.

She grabbed the cigarette with her ungloved hands and crushed it. The man chortled and blew the remaining smoke in her face, this time fully. She didn't mind the insolence. No, what she minded was the blatant insubordination in front of the enlisted. She smiled slightly, then quickly grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into the dirt, making a point to suppress her powers. She quickly put her boot on the side of his head, adjusted it, made sure she wasn't crushing his ear while keeping him down, and knelt down just slightly so he could hear her better in spite of his struggle, adjusting her force as needed.

"I don't care how your previous officers ordered you around or what they expected of you or how you think a combat unit should move. This insolence ends now, or you can kiss your position in the Army goodbye. Was that clear?"

"You bitch!" The man growled as he struggled under her boot, trying uselessly to grab at her leg, but she'd chosen how to pin him down carefully. The average Russian soldier didn't carry the type of armor soldiers in the Eastern Europan Imperial Alliance carried, making them an easy target when she wanted to really keep them pinned.

Still, his struggling was enough for her to step away. He sat up, glaring at her, and perhaps the lone bit of discipline shown so far, he didn't look at his rifle as his fingers moved around the trigger guard, as if debating what to do next.

"Very well. Clearly this isn't the job for you." She muttered, reaching down and ripping away his stars, and his firearm.

"You can't do that!" the man barked at her as she walked away.

She didn't dignify the objection with a response and nodded for her men to escort the nuisance of an officer away. The other enlisted Russians did not object. She glanced at one, then another. The fact some looked like teenagers gave her a pang of regret, but…

"You, this is your squad now." She replied to one who looked a bit older than the others.

The man looked at the stars as she handed them to him.

"Do you understand?"

"Uh…"

"Ona govorit, chto teper' vy glavnyy." one of the teenagers replied.

"Ohhh." The new Lieutenant said, then nodded back to her with a wry smile.

She held in a sigh, and stated, "We are doing this again. Regroup!"

It took a moment for the troops to figure out what she'd said and act accordingly. Not good, but at least it wasn't hopeless.

The problem of commanding the EEIA's new allied army was that it was truly a mixed force. Some of the men simply did not speak the language of her forces. Some did, of course, but it meant the men familiar with the more advanced weapons sometimes did not have the ability to communicate with her people.

And if there was one thing that could kill troops in combat, it had to be miscommunication.

Gregor and Jaeger did not have this problem at all. They got the newer forces, all exclusively gathered from around the Empire, with equipment fresh off the factories. Meanwhile, she eyed the tanks that had, just two short years prior, been state of the art. Now they had some ugly pipes next to the main guns. Russian 9M113 Konkurs anti-tank missiles. The turret of the Imperial tank would be aimed, just like the main gun, and launched at range. For some of her tanks, if it was to be fired the shooter had to get out of the tank to do it manually. A half-measure given the funds. Better than nothing, certainly, but not ideal. She knew Lord Maximilian assigned her to this because he trusted her abilities. Her savior would not place her somewhere without reason, after all. But she had to admit, the challenges were well and truly outside her frame of reference.

By lunch time, she had sat down in her tent partly to eat but also to observe footage of the training exercises. The new Lieutenant did do better even if he was a little slower with the commands. The men kept a safer dispersion as they pushed on an enemy position. Very well for green troops from another nation, but she doubted they would survive a hot war.

The way the West could mobilize was almost frightening. They could react, certainly, but even a stalemate would be costly for them. She looked at the "new" weapons systems as they performed, seemingly, without issue. She thought back to the Great War and how it arrived at her doorstep. She lost her appetite.

War is never that simple…

"General?" one of her aides called from outside.

"Yes?"

"The interpreter is here. Should I pass him through?"

"Yes, please. Thank you."

The young man that stepped in was in the new camouflage pattern uniform, and his hair was a little out of regulation. A little. He truly looked like a teenager.

"Lieutenant Johann Oswald?"

"Y-yes, Ma'am!" he said as his voice cracked.

Looks the part, sounds the part…

She checked the age on his documents.

Nineteen?

"Goodness." She mumbled to herself.

"Ma'am?"

"Nothing. It can't be helped if you're the best we have. As long as you can keep up and relay orders effectively between our forces, you'll do."

"I, uh, of course."

"Very good."

"Um… may I speak honestly, General?"

"Yes." she replied, deciding to skip lunch instead.

"I am really glad to be here and have no intent to disappoint!"

"Good." she said, expecting something else.

The kid, Oswald, now shifted slightly as he said, "I just can't say I see the point."

"The point, Lieutenant, is that we must make do of the situation we are dealt. You have read the news of the global situation, Yes?"

"Yes, Ma'am!"

"And you know how unstable things seem as opposed to even back in Europa?"

"Somewhat, I suppose."

"If war were to come to our Empire, our people, your family and friends, would be at risk. Being able to act as an army is the best defense one can hope for, and that means cooperating with our new allies regardless of their ability to speak our language or not."

"I… see."

"Are your bags in order?"

"Yes, Ma'am!"

"Excellent. Follow me, we are about to do an exercise once more. Let's see if you can keep up between translating orders and the battlefield."

"Yes,Ma'am!"

February 26, 2024

Ramstein Air Base, Federal Republic of Germany

The image of the American president explaining his latest policy decision was definitely what pissed Wayne off. Usually the man was fairly straight-faced. Usually he kept his gaze ahead. This time he was frowning and glaring back as they walked as if not believing the headline. The other SOF guys had already split off from them. By the time most of their squad had split off, he was actively mumbling with clear irritation and he was following him along like a loyal dog. By the time they'd arrived at their gate, his mumblings had become intelligible.

"Fucking half measures…" Wayne grumbled as they walked around, finding a spot to shuffle their gear into. He detoured and stopped by one of the vending machines and Wayne eyed the options.

"Telling you, move us in, phase most of us out…" a shake of the head, "...like this? De-escalation? Bullshit. Fucking pony show, Cowboy. Hope it fucks him over."

"Huh?"

"President. Four months in, maybe put out a few fires, and then most of us pull out? This thing isn't cooling down, it's on hold while they recover. It's a fucking half measure."

"Ah. So, we might have to be back in there in a year or two?"

"If I were a betting man, I'd say so. Shit, you heard about the dead civvies. Syria is barely holding itself together. It's the fucking Middle East, whole region can't be trusted to carry on without some mass international supervision. Coke or Fanta?" Wayne changed the topic with a grunt.

He eyed the soda machine.

The question was rhetorical. Probably. He didn't really bother answering and Wayne didn't ask it again. Ronnie Earp, tired from the flight as he was, turned his attention elsewhere while Wayne looked at the options.

Guy in a uniform, guy in a uniform, guy in an older uniform–

The first woman in uniform he saw was very beautiful. German Bundeswehr, blonde, green eyes that seemed to shine as she stopped to adjust her hair not too far from him. The insignia told him she was a Lieutenant, her uniform fit perfectly, and, as he thought about it, only emphased how very much out of his league she was. At least, according to the disquieting thoughts in the back of his head. The mocking voices that he sometimes struggled to shut out, albeit less now than before. Still, it wasn't as easy as he thought.

You?

Shutting his eyes, he pushed the irritable thought away. Truth be told, he knew he had to get in the game. He wanted to get in the game. Getting in the game should be easy. He'd undergone RASP, the torture of getting his tab, he lugged around a SAW in the desert, for crying out loud. This should be easy street!

Didn't even see combat, you pathetic fuck.

The gorgeous Bundeswehr Lieutenant finished adjusting her hair in a very neat bun, then picked up her ruck, turned and walked away without him saying a word and without her doing more than briefly making eye contact, which let him see her name tape. As she began to blend into the crowd of uniforms ahead of them, he felt the regret instantly begin to pile up.

Sergeant Wayne huffed and when he glanced at him the man shook his head.

Wayne said, "God. That was fucking sad."

He wanted to give a snarky response. He really did. The woman had been gorgeous, her tape read "Gisela", which sounded like "Giselle", which put certain images in his mind. His still very naive and perhaps even underdeveloped mind. And like those thoughts, as the woman disappeared into the crowd of uniforms, they too vanished with her. The regret he felt plateaued and he felt ready to move on.

He sighed and let the opportunity walk away, and that was that.

"Jesus."

He looked at his sergeant again, then said, "You got your soda or not?"

"Not yet, was watching the show of you looking like a lost puppy. Like a kid staring at a candy shop through glass walls after mommy told him he was diabetic. Like…" Wayne didn't bother with the analogy and just said, "Jesus, man, you're…" he tilted his head once, sharply, his eyes directly aimed at his Ranger Tab.

He smiled, "Sarge, I dated a few girls, I just never…" a shrug, "I don't know. None went anywhere."

"Clearly. Look, I feel for you, cowboy. Like you skipped something. Should've at least gone through the stripper phase already, right?"

"Uh, I did. After AIT. She was from a place called Monrovia, hair dyed blood red, great figure, and just the nicest accent. Called herself Cherry. Not original, but I didn't really care."

"Uh huh? Then what?"

"Well, then I got her doing this pole dance and she was getting into it, and I was throwing her some bills, thought about asking her for a private dance, you know, but then I thought about my grandma and my better judgment took over."

"Fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I'm going to wait for a woman who shares my values like any good American."

"And what values might those be, Cowboy?"

"Uh… Preservation of the white race, manifest destiny, sex only in the missionary position with intent to reproduce, a love for the trad–"

The slap to the back of his head was followed by a snickering chortle.

"Look, I'm getting some shuteye."

"You have the whole flight for that."

"Yeah, and you can do that. Tell you what. Go chase that officer. I'll buy you both a beer if you bring her back."

His mouth opened to say something but Wayne lifted his hand and shut him up before any response could be formulated.

"Seriously, let me get some shuteye."

He blinked once.

"And by shuteye I mean something else." Wayne grumbled, looking at his phone, "Go to a bar, cut loose a bit. This was an easy deployment." Wayne spoke with a harshness that left an element unsaid.

They won't all be.

"Right."

"Good." Then, to his phone, "Hey, Babe. No, should be back by tomorrow."

He watched Wayne vanish into a crowd of multicam. And again, he was alone in the world. Ramstein was the largest Air Force base in Europe, and the main spot for guys going to the Middle East or returning home from the Middle East. A pretty comfortable pit stop to and from. Not too much time to waste today, but as Wayne had said, it had been an "easy" deployment, and they'd be heading home soon enough, with the next mission unclear. He might not see many German girls for a while.

With that sad thought in mind, he did stop by the bar, but didn't really feel like actually drinking. Granted the news on the TV overhead showing people discussing the US elections made him want to drink, but he instead eyed the non-alcoholic options. His last feeble attempt at drinking and the incident with the bottle of Jack Daniels had been to fit in. He was comfortable now, and he really didn't need to hurt his liver any–

"Holy shit, Cowboy?!"

He turned to the familiar face.

"Uh…"

"Oh my God! How are you? Uh, Cap, this is the guy!"

The dark-haired woman behind the blonde girl was chewing gum, blowing a bubble, and looking bored as shit. He noted the two, silver bars on the woman, alongside the badge showing a missile flying with three stars to one side and one on the other.

Air defense girl… wait…

The excited southern girl said, "Ranger?! Omigosh, uh…" her eyes darted for a target and found it down the counter, washing a glass, "Hey, two beers!" she called.

"I don't…" he said, pointing to the menu, but the words died in his mouth.

The girl said, "You don't drink?"

"No, not really." He muttered, unsure why he was feeling uncomfortable saying it.

"Uh–"

"Bye." her Captain said.

"Oh, uh, see you!" the blonde called after the dark-haired woman, then, back to him, "My CO. She's a doll when you get down to it."

"Uh…"

"Davies." She said, pointing at her name tape.

"Yeah."

First incredulous, then, as if sad, "You forgot?"

Yeeoo Foh-goht?!

"Oh! You're the girl that fucked up the enlistment back–"

"Ahp-ahp-ahp, that is way in the past. Like, uh…" a spark of recollection, "Oh…" a mischievous grin, "...like you being a narc."

He huffed.

"And apparently stealing High Speed's MOS, too. What a bad boy." she mumbled, sipping from her drink and pushing the second beer towards him.

He stared at it.

"Right. Bad boy who also doesn't drink. Come on, what'd you like, I'm buying."

He blinked.

"What? You gotta drink something! Water? Everyone drinks water. Except for this girl I read about. Water gave her hives. Crazy."

"Beer's fine." he grumbled and took the glass.

"Is it? You know, you look a bit too young for that, Cowboy."

"Lee-ook ah beet two yang fer that, caw-bouy." he mocked, then took a sip he probably shouldn't have, and noted, "We're in Germany. Kids leave middle school and graduate as alcoholics."

"That's Finland."

"No, it's all of Europe east of France."

"I have family in Denmark, I don't think that's the case."

"That where you got that accent?"

"Ooh, rude! Where was all that bite when Moore was being… himself?"

He shrugged, wondering if by "himself" she meant "acted high off his ass", but chose not to dwell on it or ask about it, and, seeing as she wasn't leaving, decided to change topics.

"Air defense, huh?"

"Yup! My folks are proud. Mom's a bit sad because she wanted to have a grandson but, oh well."

"What?"

"Forget about it."

"Okay."

"But seriously, you made Ranger?"

"Yeah."

"How come? I thought you wanted to stick to regular infantry?"

"Cause I could and I guess I was less fucked up than the other guys that didn't make it."

Barely.

"Well, that's humble. So how is it?"

"I can't complain."

"Bullshit."

"I can't complain any worse than anyone else. I mean, shit, where'd you deploy?"

"Saudis."

"Shit."

"Shit job. You?"

"Syria."

"Fuck."

"Not at all. Combat where we deployed was pretty sporadic. We mostly helped clean up after there was a fight, or… Well, felt that way, at least. I think once the IDF cut off Iran, their buddies just…" he waved a dismissive hand to symbolize dust blowing in the wind and took another sip, not liking the taste one bit and already feeling like he was going to puke.

Davies said, "Oh. That might explain the lack of action on my end, too."

"I thought you guys got like twelve missile attacks this year."

"Oh, we did, but the Navy got them long before we did. Fucking AEGIS. Not one leaker got to us. Not one!"

"Ah."

"Drones, too. Those went mostly after ships. I think the THAAD battery in Israel was probably a juicier target. Patriots seem to be old news at this stage. My old man would be so sad if I told him."

While she concluded her lamentations with a sigh, his eyes darted to another woman just past her and outside the bar. This one looked to be USAF. Dark hair also tied into a bun, albeit a less tight one. Her hips were a little wider, and as she walked towards the counter he wondered where she was from and maybe if she'd be–

"Wandering eyes, eh?"

"Huh?" he asked.

"I said wandering eyes."

"What do you mean?"

"You're so damn obvious."

"No, seriously, what do you mean?" he asked, trying not to sound like a kid who'd gotten caught with his hands in a cookie jar.

"Ogling. Why are guys always so damn obvious about it? I thought small town boys like you would be different, but nay. Second a Chair Force gal walked up you were oggling like a switch was turned." Davies grumbled, poking at her half-empty glass.

"Oh. Well, I'm sorry to disappoint."

"No shame, either? Don't you have a girl back home?"

"Nope."

A twinkling in her eyes that seemed to signal some sorts of warnings he couldn't quite comprehend, she was slow to ask, "Seriously?"

"Yeah." He muttered, taking another sip.

"Sweet boy like you?" she asked, poking at his cheek. "An Army Ranger?" another poke, this time on his ribs, "One who looks like he can't hold his beer worth shit?"

"What's so weird about it?"

"I guess you're a bit of a contradiction, is all. I mean, really? No girlfriend back home? Handsome young man?"

"Are you coming onto me?" he managed to say without stumbling over his vowels, but he was pretty sure some of his consonants got slurred.

"Depends. Is it working?"

He shrugged and faked taking another sip. Something felt off, and he wasn't sure what just yet. Yeah, it was a bar, yeah no one would report them for chatting or even flirting necessarily, but…

Davies suddenly said, "Oh my God, that is adorable."

"Huh?"

"Oh, stop doing that!" she giggled, poking his ribs again.

He stared at her. Very confused.

"You look so lost! Like a lost puppy! A little lost cowboy puppy, ah, so cute!" she squealed and poked at his cheeks with her index fingers as if she were playing some kind of screengame, "You don't know how to respond!" she squeaked.

Now he was extremely confused. She didn't look drunk. At least, not yet. The giggling sounded real. Was she tipsy from one cup?

"It's the head tilt." she said between catching her breath and clearing her throat, "It's adorable."

All he could say was, "Okay."

She smiled a little weakly, as if debating with herself, then, finally…

"Say, when's your flight leave?"

"Two hours."

"Well, that would normally be plenty of time."

"Plenty of time for…?"

"You were trying to shoot your shot, right?"

"What?"

"With all those girls you were ogling? Cause I'll assume Chair Force over there isn't the first."

He didn't say anything.

"Told you, guys are obvious. So… Whaddya say, Cowboy? I may know a spot." She said, taking a sip of beer.

"A spot for what?"

Davies got a mischievous look on her face. Silently, she leaned in. Any buzz from the beer he'd accumulated in the time spent with this girl evaporated as she whispered the words in his ear. His brain short circuited. He literally heard sparks go off behind his eyes.

Davies suddenly said, "Oh, my God. Don't tell me…"

He cleared his throat. His face felt like it was on fire. Whatever short circuitted in there was causing his blood to burn and maybe even run in opposite directions. Maybe his body would pop like a grape.

Suddenly a hand was on the top of his head.

"Sorry. Guess I thought… I'm sorry about that."

"Hey, I didn't say no." he managed to say aloud.

"No, but you're acting like my first boyfriend. After I let him fondle my boobs for the first time, he also kind of short-circuited." she whispered.

He blinked.

"So, you want someone with experience?"

"No, not at all, I don't mind… I… it's more that…" she shrugged, "Time, and how limited it is, and I'd have to take the lead probably–"

Feeling bold he leaned over and whispered directly in her ear, "I'm a fast learner."

She giggled, then said, "Fuck off, puppy cowboy, your breath stinks."

He pulled back, not quite feeling anything beyond numb.

"Hey, uh… It's fine. I mean… I don't mind just chatting. Want another beer?"

He managed to say, "I'm good. You let a guy down easy, huh?"

She turned to him, then said, "Well, yeah. I've had a few boyfriends, so… I know it's a me thing, not you. Don't take it the wrong way?" she asked by offering a hand.

Just like that, he felt himself deflate.

"Bit of a kick to the balls there, Davies."

"Didn't mean to, but we really don't have the time. The spot is too far away unless you want to have your first be in a bathroom stall."

"Fair."

"Hey, tell you what. Next time we're on base? Definitely."

"Next time?"

On the bar's TVs footage of people discussing the war in the Middle East played. Davies eyed it for a second, as if she wanted to say something, but then turned to him and smiled.

"Call it a pessimistic-optimism, I guess. See you around, Cowboy." she said and stood up, reaching into her pocket.

"Oh, fuck off, let me pay." he grumbled.

"Eh?"

"Blue balled me, but promised a date for a mysterious next time that might never happen? Least you can let me do is pay this."

"How old fashioned."

"And in exchange give me your number. He concluded and emphasized the last part of his sentence by grabbing some bills and placing them on the bar's counter while keeping his eyes on her.

She smiled slightly. Wordlessly, she grabbed her cell phone, and showed it to him. Not a minute later, they had exchanged contact information and verified it. He gave her a simple nod.

"Thanks for the beer. See you around, cowpoke!"

He walked away with a tired wave, but not a little triumphant. In fact, as he walked on, the slightest smile formed on his lips. The voice in the back of his head that liked to mock him was quiet for once. The news on the TV screens was optimistic about the regional war in the Middle East coming to a close. He'd made it through his first real deployment unscathed.

He walked on.

June 26, 2024

Training Grounds, Army Group Center, EEIA

1600 Hours

Selvaria watched the men advance properly up the hill. In theory, if someone were shooting at them, they might've lost the first guy leading them, but they had maintained decent spacing. It was…

"Acceptable." she grumbled aloud as she lowered the binoculars.

Johann Oswald looked at her, then got on the radio and said something in the local tongue. There was some celebrating on the hill, she could tell. But she would allow as much.

"Good job, Oswald."

"Thank you, General!"

"No. Thank you for your work. If we intend to best serve our people, then good communication is part of it."

"I, uh…" the young man got back on the radio.

He asked something in the local tongue. He was silent. Listening. There was a childish smile on his face. It was nice to see the timid officer befriend those he'd have to work with. Camaraderie was a vital part of maintaining troop cohesion, after all. Not that she had to be a part of it. She was the general. The white haired witch who led them into battle. That was all.

"General?"

"The men are asking if you'd join them later tonight."

She blinked.

"I appreciate the offer, but–"

"General, before you say no, uh… if I may?"

She could have chastised him for speaking out of turn. She could have.

But just this once…

"You may."

"Several of the men got Vodka mailed from Kaliningrad. Good stuff. And since they have some time off after this, they'd like to celebrate completing the exercises with you. I believe it will help morale and promote unity among the men."

Members of the Empire's military and Russian soldiers holding a "party" sounded like a nightmare.

2100 hours

The blaring "Phonk" music outside her tent actually hurt her ears as she tried to listen to Gregor and Jaeger's reports. Vodka and Imperial officers apparently mixed somewhat well as they were still being disciplined. At the very least, she didn't see any of them setting things on fire or doing anything particularly inappropriate. A blue and yellow ball rolled near her tent and a guy quickly picked it up and hit it back towards the a group playing with it.

She kept her attention on the "Virtual Meeting". She didn't exactly like it, especially as Lord Maximilian would not be present, but knowing its recording would reach him made sure she kept her camera on and her face pointed at it, while only her eyes occasionally shifted to the ongoing "R " going on outside.

Gregor said, "Geld has proven himself capable of leading the newer tank battalions. Despite his flaws, I have recommended his promotion to Major."

Jaeger said, "Didn't he execute a hundred civilians during the last war?"

"Allegedly. I've kept some of Agthe's people near him in case he exhibits any proclivities unbecoming of an officer."

"Oh, that's smart. A rabid dog on a leash."

"Agreed. If a war were to break out, we need officers who can get the job done. I expect Lord Maximilian to approve this request no later than this week."

She made no objections. She didn't like the idea of placing a man who'd likely carried out such an action in charge of anything, but if he could prove himself useful to Lord Maximilian, then that would be for the best. Worst case, she would gladly see to it he was dealt with.

"Speaking of jobs, General Bles?"

"The exercises here have gone very well. The men are capable of executing the maneuvers necessary to take fortified positions as well as clearing them. Combined arms training through these live fire exercises has truly paid off. I believe that, after reshuffling some officers of the old Russian Army, we–"

Jaeger suddenly said, "Could you say that again, you cut off a moment."

Internally, she sighed, externally, she repeated her report. Glad to, as it was entirely positive news.

"...all in all, it seems we have a more than capable force should we ever be attacked or need to assist any nation militarily. That is my assessment." She concluded.

Gregor said, "I concur, General Bles. I believe Lord Maximilian will also agree."

She smiled softly at the praise. The idea that Lord Maximilian would be happy with her was… No. She pushed the thought away. As she watched the men singing some kind of chorus in a shameful display of harmonics, but perhaps an admirable display of attempting it, she only felt worried of using them in combat.

These were her men. This was the job they'd taken. If war were to break out as it had in the lands to their south…

Painful memories of her old home, her first home, long before she'd been saved, blared in her mind. She forced them away as the meeting wrapped up.

As if he'd been waiting outside her tent, Lieutenant Oswald burst in.

"General Bles, I brought you some drinks!"

"Thank you, but not tonight."

"Oh, uh, I also brought you some of these cookies. A Babushka from the far east sent it to one of the captains, uh– Captain Novikov? Third Battallion?"

She smiled again.

"His wife sent him those. I could never–"

"He told me to get rid of them because they're not good for his heart."

She sighed.

"Very well, leave some here. Send him my thanks."

"Yes, Ma'am!" the young man replied and placed the small bag on her desk. He saluted and did an about face to exit her tent.

Life was oddly peaceful despite her readying her men in case war broke out. The men outside were acting more like school boys, the weather felt like she was less in charge of a military force and more like she was an adult watching some high schoolers on a camping trip. This new world did not seem like it was on the brink of another major war. Not with a big one wrapping up farther south. Not with so many threats of destruction seen by the public. Right?

Eyeing the sugar cookies, and the handmade bag they came in, she hoped it never came to that.

November 28, 2024

West Virginia, USA

"Ronnie, guess what?"

"What?" he asked, turning to Officer Clara.

She was wearing a decently fit, if a little tight, red sweater and not her usual police uniform. She turned to him as she bit into the turkey breast before answering, giving him more of a look as to how form-fitting the red sweater was.

She said, "First year that your school had zero drug-related arrests."

"No shit?" he asked, surprised.

"Language." Grandma called.

"Sorry." he said.

"Yeah. No shit." Clara replied over her Grandma's sigh, "Your Principal's crackdowns seemed to have really paid off." Clara replied with a wink, then moved back to the table.

He grabbed another slice of turkey and followed her.

Red looks good on her…

He pushed the thought away.

Clara was practically family at this point. Their small town was relatively quiet as a lot of people would go to the city to be with family, and only those with family either too far away or already in town remained. A few small get-togethers could be held in their homes. Theirs was small even by those standards. Still, as he sat down next to her his eyes wandered.

Remembering Davies' words, he refocused them immediately.

"So, Clara, anywhere to be after this?" Grandma asked.

"Oh, the Gerry Household at a bit past nine? After that, I report for the night shift. You pull one of those yet?"

"Yeah." he replied, focusing on his dinner by poking at it.

"How was it?"

"Boring. Make you stand up all night. Not fun."

"Yeah, see, I get to sleep in the cruiser. Shifts with my partner."

"Who is it tonight?" Grandpa asked.

"Oh, Morrison. Drew the short straw." she replied with a shrug.

"Oh, he's a nice guy."

"Eh, he's alright. So, Ronnie! Any interesting overseas stories I can pass on to make the shift less boring?"

"You want me to dig up war stories from the Sand Box?"

"Hell yeah, you're a Ranger, right?"

Grandma cleared her throat.

"Mister Badass?"

Grandma coughed loudly.

"Oh, sorry, Mrs. Earp. But yeah, Ronnie, c'mon, what'd you got to share?"

"One of my guys is called Coors Light."

"Why?"

"Last name Silver."

"Oof." Grandpa said.

"That's the most interesting thing that's happened to you over there?"

"Nope. Most interesting thing happened in Germany."

"What happened there?" Grandma asked.

"Oh, uh…" he thought fast, "The uh… the new Russians, right? EEIA? Some observers visited one of the training ops. Nothing much."

"Really?"

"Yeah. My time with the Army so far has been pretty boring, to be honest. We do PT, we clean the weapons, it's pretty boring stuff." he replied.

Boring, but he was alive. He'd take that. Still, despite the less than stellar conversation topic, it was a welcome scenery change for him. The turkey was great, the gravy was delicious, the cocoa was hot, the drinks were mostly fine. Generic. Chats were friendly. Weather was nice, with the breeze outside just audible enough that indoors felt cozy, especially now with the knowledge of what not being cozy felt like. He was home.

"I see… you were still in Germany during the election, right?"

And, of course, it really wouldn't be Thanksgiving without the politics.

"All I'm saying is that he'll finally make sure countries like Iran and China don't cause us any more trouble." Grandpa Earp said quickly.

Grandma, unprompted, said, "I just wanted a woman president for once in my lifetime."

Officer Clara huffed, "Politics ain't for me. I was just wondering about how the mail in stuff works. Hot button issue but I also heard about this–"

Grandpa, not letting her change the subject, asked, "Who'd you vote for, Ronnie?"

He said, "I didn't vote."

Grandpa said, "That's a lie."

"You're right, I voted for the rich politician with a quirky VP pick."

Grandma and Grandpa stared at him blankly. Clara giggled slightly.

Grandma mumbled aloud, "Did she have a quirky VP–?"

"Boy doesn't want to tell us, hon." Grandpa huffed.

"But would you call him quirky? Is that a term the kids use now? I thought cooked was in."

"Grandma, stop talking to the high schoolers, please. Not healthy."

"You mean Brain-Rotted!" she mocked, waving a half-empty can of beer around, "Maybe you need to start talking to the high schoolers more. Look at you. You're single. Out in the Army, but you come home to your grandparents. And…" she looked him over. Frowned. "I guess you have a little bit more muscle on you. You look fine and handsome! Should've had six illegitimate grandkids by now!"

"Jesus." Grandpa sighed.

"Christ." Clara mumbled.

"Thanks, Grandma." he said trying not to think about it.

Grandma helpfully added, "So you can pick up the schoolgirls no problem!"
"Alongside a felony charge."

Grandma groaned. Grandpa rolled his eyes.

"I would arrest you on the spot and tase you." Clara said.

"Thank you for your service."

Grandma clapped her hands, "Speaking of! …so? Service? Want to talk about where else you've been?"

"Grandma, I went to Syria where I mostly hung around the base, Germany for the exercises, a few more in Poland, stopped in Italy once, Germany again… then it's back to Fort Moore. Not much of a travel log."

"That's a huge travel log!" Grandma replied.

"Benning." Grandpa corrected.

"I actually like Fort Moore." he said, trying to focus away from Grandma's frightful interests.

"Eugh."

Clara said, "Yeah, I like Benning, too. Don't know why, though. Benning. Ben. Ning. More fun to say, maybe?"

Grandpa said, "It didn't need changing."

"Well, the place is fine, at least. Don't tell anyone, but I kinda like it when I am there."

"Any cuties on base?" Grandma asked.

"I haven't interacted with many girls, grandma. Sorry to disappoint."

Grandma suddenly seemed to get an epiphany, "Many? Many. Ah ha! Keyword! What's the number?"

He blinked.

Davies' face flashed in his mind. The Texan had known what she was doing, but that had gone nowhere. For now at least. Beyond that, there was Wayne's girlfriend who he saw on occasion, a few E-1s he interacted with here and there who ranged from "attractive" to "steer clear", several other women he'd seen but not spoken to on his deployments, and... he recalled the albino woman he saw once.

He said, "I've met a few. But I haven't even kissed any yet, so…"

"You're bluuuuushing." Grandma said.

"You need glasses."

"No, your grandma's eyes are excellent. Your face is turning red." Grandpa huffed.

Officer Clara said, "Yeah, I see you. You're not very subtle for Special Forces."

"Uh…" he waved his hand around trying to look dismissive but probably only looked drunk.

"Prettiest girls you saw? Come on!" Grandma asked.

"Why are you so invested in my love life?"

"I'm in my sixties you little scamp, now spill the tea!"

"Jesus Christ, talk, man, I don't want her throwing around more words she's picked up!" Grandpa said loudly.

"Fine! Uh… Saw this woman from the… uh…" the words he'd mentioned minutes earlier eluded him, "...shit, the place that replaced Russia."

"The Empire?" Grandma asked.

"Eastern European Alliance." His grandpa nodded, "Very traditional folk."

"Right! The EEIA! She was an officer in their army. Uh… maybe a propaganda thing, I don't know. Some observers were there last year."

"You mentioned."

"Well… her, and… Couple of ladies in Ramstein were also easy on the eyes–"

"Ronnie, did you not talk to any of them?"

"Uh, yeah… one was called Gisela, which is German for virgin." he lied through his teeth, "Apparently."

"Uh, no, it's not." Clara said.

"It's what she told me." he lied through his teeth.

"She lied. Gisela means Oath. Had a tabby cat named that. Not a loyal one, though. Mean little thing."

Grandpa said, "Was she nice? Give you a number?"

"Yeah, yeah, uh… I dunno. I asked but I never confirmed it."

"That's it?" Grandma asked in a strange tone, then, a sip of beer later, "Want me to tell you what the Quinton girls learned on TikTok?"

"Sweet Jesus, Ronnie!" Grandpa pleaded.

"No, uh… I… met this Air Defense girl… Davies. She was, um… nice. Chatted a bit, we'd uh… we'd seen each other during, um…" Davies whispering in his ear flashed in his mind and the feeling mixed with Grandma and Grandpa giving him an odd stare and strangely increasing temperature did not bode well for his emotions, "We met at Battallion Reception, but she messed up her enlistment somehow, I don't know, so after basic, she went to Oklahoma. She did give me her number and, well–"

"You're blushing again." Clara said.

"Fuck!"

"Language." Grandma said with a grin that would give the Cheshire Cat a run for its money.

He grabbed another beer from the six-pack.

Grandpa sighed, "Told you not to go after Army girls. I take it she hasn't call you back."

"None have." He said with a shrug.

Clara said, "Army Ranger and still a sweet kid. Sucks at lying."

"That's why I'm a fucking SAW gunner. Don't gotta talk, just…" he muttered, then let the words die out.

Grandma said, "Well, if she comes asking for alimony, you can teach her what SAW gunners do! Not returning my boy's calls. What a girl failure!"

"Oh, Christ."

"That's not what that–"

"I'll get dessert! And tell you all what, I'll take boring stories and the fact you are searching for ladies overseas as a good sign. Wouldn't want a boy failure coming home, now would we?"

"That's–"

"I made brownies!"

He was home, alright.

EEIA testing grounds, Outskirts of Lecca

In war, the first casualty was oftentimes the truth.

Or so some said.

Crymaria Levin smashed the boulder into a multitude of small, ice-covered pieces that flew in every direction. Her blue glow visible to him from far away, but more notable was the fact he felt the ground shake from her demonstration. He smiled slightly. He did not appreciate that Belgar seemed to chuckle excitedly with every destroyed boulder, but he was much more interested in the third man with them today.

The plan sounded simple enough and yet...

The man next to him rubbed his chin and turned to him, speaking in a very accented language.

"Prince Maximilian, are you certain this… that this will be enough?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" he asked calmly.

"Modern weaponry is–"

"Crymaria is a pure descendant of the Valkyrur. A valkyria. She is pure. Perhaps the strongest there is. Do you believe weapons of war can harm her?"

The man shrugged.

Admiral Belgar said, "What is there to object to, Colonel Gubarev? Even if modern weapons could harm her, how long would it take for them to actually strike her given what she can do? And she's just one. We have told you, there are others."

"You have how many like her?"

"Three. More on the way." Maximilian replied.

"How many more?"

On the field, Crymaria screamed and a massive boulder erupted out of the ground, pulled upward by a mass of blue ice that soon enveloped it and shattered it to pieces with such force some of the fragments landed near them.

"Why does the amount matter? Do you not wish to get revenge on the NATO countries? Avenge your people?"

The colonel only crossed his arms.

Maximilian said, "A few men and a few firearms. That is all we require. The Valkyria we have are more than enough."

"How are you so certain?"

Belgar chuckled, "When we had two of them train together the force exerted could have wiped out an entire city. When one goes all out against a target? This is power that your world knows nothing of!"

Maximilian stared at the man. The title of "Colonel" was almost entirely symbolic. He wasn't Russian, after all. He was one of many sympathizers who were once paid by Moscow. Unlike many of those, he'd soon uncovered this man was a true believer in the ideas of a Russian sphere of influence. And now the source of his belief was almost entirely gone. Often, men with nothing to hold onto became dangerous.

In the right hands, they became excellent weapons.

They just needed a little push.

Maximilian said, "Imagine the situation of an attack against Russian civilians by anti-Russian extremists. The old Russia is gone, after all. No more Moscow, no more separatists in Ukraine, no more direct threats to the West as the Eastern Europan Imperial Alliance is purely defensive and even now seeks peace between nations."

He watched as Crymaria lifted and destroyed yet another massive boulder, smiled, and continued.

"And yet an attack? Against a people who are no threat to anyone?"

Belgar added, "Moreover, think of the outrage if it turns out the attackers were from the nations that were always opposing the Russian people."

Maximilian watched as the Colonel got a glimmer in his eyes.

"Do you have any way of ensuring that is the image one can plant? This is an age of surveillance you and your people cannot comprehend."

A little push…

"But we do. We just need your men. Capable ones, of course, but ones you would not mind losing."

The Colonel began to rub at his chin. Crymaria had stopped and remained in the distance. Glowing a bright blue. A symbol of the power that belonged to a race long since vanished. Yet one whose greatness still shone through the rare descendants it had.

The Colonel said, "You'd need at least a few Western–"

"We have ways for that."

"And what might those be?"

"Give us time and you will see, but we need to know you are with us."

The colonel stared at them a moment, then, quietly, after one more glance at Crymaria, he nodded.

Maximilian smiled.

December 1, 2024

Outskirts of Schwatzgrad, EEIA

Selvaria glanced at the cook book once more, then eyed the Italian dish. The Carbonara looked like the one in the image. The Pancetta had been cooked until it became nice and crispy, the egg yolks had been stirred with a liberal helping of parmesan, and she had put it all together alongside some pepper and basil to make for a perfect dinner dish. Almost. She figured she'd have to start over as the mix didn't appear to be fully mixed together like in the recipe book's image, but she heard the sound of a car coming in. It would have to do.

Lord Maximilian entered with no fanfare. By now, most of the mansion's staff had gone home, something she welcomed as they truly had not had much time together since they'd arrived in this new world.

"Lord Maximilian! Welcome!"

"Selvaria." he replied courtly.

"How was your trip?"

"Fine." he said.

"Are you hungry?" she asked, wondering if the aroma from the kitchen was remotely alluring to him.

"Not particularly. Did you cook dinner?"

"I did!" she said happily.

"Very well. I have some reports to write up, so if you could leave it by my room, I shall appreciate it."

"Certainly!" she said, hiding the twinge of pain the words left her with. She'd have to eat alone again?

Her savior put his coat away and appeared to be deep in thought. It had to be the recent Valkyria tests, and although she'd rather not discuss work…

"How were the tests with Crymaria?"

"She's capable. I believe she might make for a decent defensive force if it comes down to it. Your old assessments proved correct."

"That is good to hear, milord."

He began to walk away towards his room, his footsteps echoing throughout the nearly empty mansion. She forced her objections to remain silent. Without a word, Selvaria moved to the kitchen and picked up his dish. With military discipline, she took it up to his room, not spilling or ruining the delicate dish as she walked up the stairs. Once at his door, she inhaled, exhaled, and prepared to speak.

"Lord Maximilian, I made an Italian dish. I believe it turned out alright, but if it is not to your liking, I could try another recipe. These do not take very long to make."

The door was pushed open and Maximiilian stepped out, saying, "That will not be necessary. This looks good, Selvaria."

"Thank you, milord!" she replied, beaming slightly as her savior took her dish.

There was a computer on in his room. A photograph of a man, seemingly a criminal given the wall behind him, stared back at her.

"How was working with the Russians?"

"Oh, the training has gone well! I have a full report on improvements made now that I received proper interpreters! I thank you for your–"

"Do you think you could lead them into battle?"

She winced.

"Of course, Lord Maximilian! I am your sword. I will lead the army you give me wherever you tell me!"

Maximilian nodded. Again, the image of the man in the computer screen caught her eye. Something felt… wrong. She couldn't quite place the feeling, if it could be called that. It was more like an instinctual response after the previous training.

Lord Maximilian, taking some of the Carbonara into the fork, asked, "There are some criminals from farther east, in the remaining Russian Oblasts. They are volunteers for Army service in exchange for reduced if not fully commuted sentences. It was an interesting concept I read about."

"I–"

"You're worried you may have to work with troublesome men from this new world, are you not?"

"Never, milord, I just…" she eyed the image again, "Something about that photograph… bothers me."

Maximilian raised an eyebrow, looked at the computer, then turned back to her.

"That one is a simple thief, Selvaria. At least so I was told. Able-bodied, in his late thirties, and apparently willing to serve if the need arises. I am just looking at options if the need ever arises. After all, this ongoing unpleasantness in the Middle East is a sign that peace is a fragile thing. Could I trust you with such men if war were to come to us?"

"Of course, Lord Maximilian. I am at your service and will work as requested."

Her eyes briefly darted to the computer's screen again. The words were in cyrrilic, and while she was not an expert in reading it yet…

"Вооруженное ограбление, убийство" in her mind translated not to simple theft, but to robbery and murder. It was likely Lord maximilian had a list of men and had only read the first part of this one's charges. Her savior would never lie to her, after all.

"Good night, Selvaria." Lord Maximilan said, taking another helping of her Carbonara. She hoped he enjoyed it. She was happy enough with it being edible, let alone enough her savior would, at least from the looks of it, enjoy it. With her work in training a major part of the Army, and his constant diplomatic missions, they simply did not have the time they used to.

So she really appreciated these little moments.

Still, that man's mug shot… no, she would push away any negative thoughts. She had her dinner and would appreciate the fact Lord Maximilian was still with her and that she could still serve him.

Nothing more mattered to her, really.

April, 29, 2025

Schwatzgrad, EEIA

Albertson Claire sipped his coffee and nodded to a lady in a long skirt who observed their products. From her perspective, he was just a quiet baker alongside the others indoors. It was a friendly Western business that was simply helping a new nation adjust and adapt.

The Imperial Capital was still stuck in the 1920s for the most part. A few TVs and cell phones were visible here and there. A few newer car models, while rare, had been around as well. It was quiet. A bustling city, yes, but not in the way he was used to back home.

The Empire was a strange entity.

With the regional war in the Middle East, the elections back home, and just tensions worldwide, it was oddly relaxing. He sighed as he turned to go back inside the shop. Pretending to be on break when he didn't smoke might look odd.

He felt a chill as he closed the door, and as he turned, two short girls waltzed in.

The first one was pale, her hair almost white, and her dress in perfect order as her more boisterous friend, an equally short girl with an equally nice dress, but darker features, followed after her.

"I said I'll talk to him!" the dark-haired girl loudly said, hand on the other's shoulder.

"Fine." the more composed of the two replied.

"Sir!"

He eyed them with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, you!" she barked, getting closer.

"Ah?"

"You cook?"

"Yes."

"You cook cakes?"

"Can." He replied, pretending not to know English.

"You don't speak good?"

"Oh, stop teasing him, Chia, please. Apologies, my good sir, oh, um…" the pale girl seemed unsure for a moment, then, snappier, "Czy potrafisz upiec tort urodzinowy?"

He reacted quickly, clapping his hands, and saying "Ohhh! Yes! Good-good!"

"Hey, Jan, what's the issue?" Jakub called to him.

"Chcą tortu urodzinowego." he said, motioning towards the girls and playing the part of a clueless cook.

He noticed neither of the girls seemed phased by his actions. He also noticed how they were standing still, as if waiting for him to answer them, but their gazes seemed to dart around. A lot. The doors, the windows, then back to him, then back to the doors and windows.

Jakub said, "Ah, I got it, I got it, go back in there. What kind of cake would you fine ladies be interested in? Forgive my friend, he does not know the local language very well!"

He went to the kitchen, waving at the girls, and nodded to the actual "cooks" on loan from Poland.

"All good?" one of them asked quietly.

"Maybe. Not sure."

Bianca was upstairs, monitoring things on the camera while Gabriel was out on the streets. She was typing something out on a separate window while her eyes darted occasionally out the window. She seemed tired.

"What's up?" she asked, looking at the window again.

"Oh, not sure. Was wondering if we'd ever seen these two before?"

"The kids downstairs?"

"Yeah."

She shook her head, saying, "Not recognized in our little database when I checked earlier, but… I don't know, they haven't given me a great look of their faces. Just this brief image when they came in right behind you."

"Yeah, they're keeping their heads down. But… weird, saw them looking around, too, like…" he shrugged. "I don't know. Got a weird vibe from them is all."

"Think they're from the EEIA's intelligence branch?"

"I don't know, I could be imagining–"

Something popped.

The words died in his mouth as Bianca slumped over. Her eyes were open with mild interest, her mouth hung open as if she had been about to say something, but no words came forward as she fell onto the computer screen like a puppet that had just gotten its strings cut. Her body limp. The top of her head and the laptop's keyboard both now held a smoking, perfectly round hole, with a tiny bit of blood pooling onto the floor.

Albertson managed to get back a half step before something popped again and a burning pain tore through his left foot.

Blood was trickling down from it.

The bakery had been selected for its fairly strong walls, but they had been wooden. If there had been a firefight, there wouldn't be much effective cover. He heard Jakub shout something downstairs before a loud crashing sound followed. He reached into his pocket, grabbing at his cell phone, only for a foot to crash down against his hand.

He glanced up.

The pale girl stood there with a carbine of some kind. The barrel aimed at him. A suppressor attached to it. He was pretty sure his heart had stopped beating and had, instead, run out the nearest window and forgotten its body.

"Lord Belgar will be most pleased." The girl mumbled.

He shut his eyes tightly, waiting for a final flash of light before the unending nothingness of a void took him. His mind was full of questions now, but none seemed to matter because they were too many to form a coherent thought process, meaning that instead he could only hope his family got his remains.

The pale girl said, "Chiara! I got one alive!"

From downstairs, the other girl, the dark-haired one, called back, "Ah, no fair! Mine reached for a gun!"

"Did you make sure the shop sign says closed?"

"Uh, that's your job!"

"No, it's not!"

He shakily grabbed his cell phone within his pocket.

"Put the device away, please." the pale girl stated calmly.

"W-wha–?" he asked.

"Lord Belgar would be displeased. Do as I say, please."

"Belgar… Belgar… uh…" a lone memory flashing in the chaotic whirlwind that was now his mind, he asked, "Admiral Belgar?"

"The very same! How did you know?"

"W-why did he send you?"

"Oh, that's cute." The pale girl lifted the rifle and fired directly into his forearm. The shot went through muscle and bone like butter, and, sickeningly, he saw as his arm almost slide away from the rest of him like a broken toy, loosely held together by string, or in his case, some muscle tissue.

He went to scream, managed to inhale some air, but the scream died in his mouth as the butt of the carbine slammed into his skull and everything went black.

…

Nicola Graff sighed, seeing the pooling blood get on her boots. They had been expensive! Not ideal. Lord Belgar would never appreciate waste. She eyed the dead woman by the device. Strange. Was this their security office? She thought it was their sleeping quarters according to the building plan. Didn't the couple from Poland own this little business? And why did this strange man from the West, the one who apparently did not speak their language very well, speak it so well now?

Moreover, how did he know about Lord Belgar?

She frowned as she looked at the "computer". Damned new world equipment.

Chiara got up the stairs, "I did your job for you!"

"Hey, what kind of gun did the man reach for?"

"Huh? Oh, this black pistol."

She looked at it. It was sleek. Definitely from the new world. The old one didn't really have weapons like this, and she didn't exactly expect a migrant to not be armed, but something was bothering her.

"Were the cooks armed?"

"I didn't check them."

"Check them."

"You do it." Chiaran huffed.

"Fine." She placed her rifle back underneath her skirt and walked back downstairs. The sign on the door did, thankfully, say "closed", and even better, the curtains had been closed as well. Chiara could be somewhat helpful when she put her mind to it. The first body she looked at was slumped up against a wall, an arrow in his head.

The chef's body did have a holster on his waist, very well hidden. She had moved very quickly upon hearing voices upstairs, so for the man to have drawn a gun just as fast? That must have required some training. But that was not conclusive.

She walked towards the kitchen.

Two more bodies. Knives this time, of course. Her two shots, even though suppressed, could easily be confused for a car starting up, or someone dropping something. Crossbows and knives were Chiara's specialty, and did a lot less noise. Silently, she knelt down by the closest one and paused.

She did not have to check them.

There was a rifle hidden underneath the nearby counter. She recognized the magazine.

The door was opened, and several men walked in. She'd have to give them some new orders. Granted, none would genuinely change their mission, but as she eyed the weapon underneath the counter, she smiled.

Lord Belgar will be most pleased.