Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I had discovered about this peculiar book from when we were welcoming the newest batch of refugees.

This book, titled 'The Communist Manifesto,' procured from the fervent Leithanien infected refugees we'd just sheltered after their long march from Leithanien, promised something different.

My upbringing in Lungmen and later studies under Kaschey hadn't left me ignorant of power structures or economic doctrines, I knew the theories nobles used to justify their rule and the platitudes Ursus employed to mask its oppression.

But the urgency in those Leithanien speakers' voices, the way their words resonated with the gaunt faces and calloused hands huddled around makeshift fires in our settlement... that sparked a different kind of curiosity.

For all intents and purposes, it was merely academic interest. At first anyways. I had to do something else in my spare time. I enjoyed learning the perspectives of different people from all walks of life, it helped me to form new ideas of my own.

I retreated to the relative quiet of the shared command post—by then was a little more than a reinforced ice cave, while Alina coordinated the distribution of what meager supplies we had.

The book itself, its cover worn and pages brittle, bore the names of its Leithanien authors, philosophers by the name of Cartlz Marx and Frederik Engels. Its title, The Communist Manifesto, promised a radical blueprint.

Initially, the sheer audacity of the analysis was captivating. The dissection of history as class struggle resonated with brutal familiarity of the grinding poverty of Ursine peasants, the obscene wealth of the nobility, the dehumanization of the Infected, reduced to mere factors of production or inconvenient waste.

The critique of the bourgeoisie, their relentless commodification of everything sacred, mirrored the Empire’s cold calculus regarding our lives. "Workers of the world, unite!" The call felt like thunder in the quiet cave, a potential answer to the fragmented despair I witnessed daily.

Yet, as I moved beyond the fiery rhetoric and historical analysis into the proposed path forward, the cracks began to show. Of course, nothing is perfect not especially this ‘theory’. I was skeptical of this so-called ‘solution’.

The Manifesto envisioned the proletariat seizing state power.

But who constituted this revolutionary class? Was the sickly Infected miner truly united in purpose and consciousness with the sturdy Sarkaz mercenary, the displaced Leithanien caster, the disgraced Kazimierzian knight, or the desperate Ursine peasant?

Our shared oppression was undeniable, but our cultures, origins, Arts, and even the manifestations of our Oripathy were wildly divergent. Could a single, monolithic ‘dictatorship of the proletariat’ truly represent, let alone fairly govern, such a fractured multitude?

Would it not simply replace one set of masters with another, potentially more zealous and less forgiving? History, even Ursus' own brutal history, suggested power consolidated rarely relinquished itself willingly for the common good. The leap from overthrowing oppressors to building a just society seemed vast and perilously undefined.

The core tenet of this book is about workers seizing the means of production, though it felt almost naïve to apply in Ursus.

What did "seizing the mines" mean when those mines pulsed with deadly Originium, and the workers were Infected whose very bodies were degrading? Who would manage the catastrophic risks? How could a collectivized society, stripped of the—admittedly exploitative—efficiency of established, albeit corrupt, supply chains, possibly generate enough surplus to feed, clothe, and protect its people, especially the vulnerable Infected, in the face of Catastrophes, banditry, and imperial reprisal?

The book spoke of industrialized nations, yet Ursus was anything but industrialized. The material conditions felt utterly alien.

The Manifesto's focus on class as the primary identity troubled me. It seemed to diminish the individual spirit, the unique Arts each person might possess, the cultural heritage that sustained communities even in darkness.

Could a system built solely on economic class truly value the healer like Alina, whose Arts brought solace beyond material measure? Or the strategist? Or the artist whose songs kept hope alive? Reducing everything to material relations felt... reductive.

It ignored the intangible forces of faith, loyalty, artistic expression, and personal bonds that actually held our fragile resistance together. Kaschey’s lessons on the power of ideology and individual will, however twisted his application, echoed warnings against such oversimplification.

The text presented revolution as an inevitable historical force, driven by pure material conditions. But it underestimated the sheer inertia of fear, the deep roots of prejudice—especially against the Infected—and the potent allure of nationalism and racial divides exploited by regimes like Ursus.

It assumed a level of class consciousness that simply didn't exist yet, and might never fully form across Terra's fractured peoples. Could a revolution forged in such disparate, suffering groups truly avoid descending into factionalism, paranoia, and ultimately, new forms of terror? The fervor of the Leithanien speakers was admirable, but was it the disciplined unity needed to build, or merely the anger to destroy?

I closed the book, its revolutionary fervor now feeling distant, almost theoretical. The critique was powerful, it was undeniable in its exposure of systemic rot.

But the key it offered felt ill-fitting, forged for a different lock on a different world. Seizing the state, abolishing private property overnight, imposing a monolithic workers' rule... it felt less like liberation and more like trading known miseries for potentially catastrophic unknowns.

It lacked a viable path for our reality—the Infected, the displaced, fighting for survival on the edge of the world. It offered a powerful diagnosis, yes, but the prescribed cure seemed fraught with dangers it blithely dismissed.

Perhaps I should talk to the Leithanien group who seemed to blindly follow this ideology and see for myself.

Dawn bled into disaster.

We were discovered and attacked by Imperial forces, reminding us that safety is always an illusion. Turns out, one of our own, an Infected refugee we’d sheltered, had been their eyes. Unsurprisingly his masters discarded him like waste once his use expired. We heard his screams after we fled, a long screech, cries, sobs, begging, and ultimately, the sword sliced through his neck cleanly. A discarded tool. Just like us, in their eyes.

It reaffirms a bitter truth, some minds remain unfathomable to me. Even now, I grapple with the sheer perversity of choosing to serve those who view you as chattel, as nothing more than slaves to be bought, exploited, and killed. To barter your soul, your comrades, for money… it’s a betrayal that chills deeper than the tundra wind. How easily some shed their convictions when gold glints in the darkness.

We found precarious refuge now, huddled deep within a cavern carved by ancient glaciers. The sudden blizzard that masked our escape now blankets the world outside in a deceptive quiet.

I sought out the Leithanien revolutionaries amidst the wounded and weary, drawn back to the ideology that sparked such fervent hope in them, even as its practical application seemed delusional.

Observing them closely, a pattern emerged, most weren't Infected. Leithanien’s relative leniency towards the infected—though its harshness towards the Sarkaz is notorious—explained that. No, their exile stemmed from a different contamination, ideology.

They identified as members of the Kommunistische Partei Leithanien (KPL), deemed too dangerous for the orderly spell-weaving of their homeland. Political untouchables, essentially. Our policy was simple, desperation and homelessness were our only criteria. This influx of articulate, ideologically driven non-Infected was… unusual. A different kind of refugee that I was not accustomed to.

Conversations with their leaders revealed a landscape far more complex than a single, monolithic doctrine. "Communism," "Socialism"—these weren't rigid, unchanging dogmas, but fractious rivers fed by countless tributaries of thought. Different nations, different histories, different cultures, they all demanded adaptation and reinterpretation. Theory bent to meet circumstance, sometimes fracturing entirely.

The KPL, they insisted, adhered to the core principles. Their primary tenet is "the absolute necessity of a centralized revolutionary vanguard,"

Franz, their spokesman, leaned forward, the firelight etching deep lines of conviction onto his face. His hands, unmarked by Oripathy, gestured as if to emphasize something.

"Discipline," he declared, "is the steel upon which revolution is forged. The masses, they possess raw fury, yes, but they lack the necessary consciousness. They stumble in the fog of oppression. We," and here his gesture swept over his small, intense cadre, "are the vanguard. We possess the theoretical clarity, the strategic vision. It falls to us to guide the proletariat, to direct the revolution with unwavering purpose, and crucially, to hold state power firmly after the overthrow. Only a strong, centralized party structure can prevent counter-revolutionary sabotage and the insidious creep of bourgeois ideology. We are the mind, the masses are the muscle. Without our guidance, their struggle is doomed to chaos or co-option."

Guide. Direct. Hold state power firmly. Each phrase felt like a shackle clicking shut.

This wasn't liberation more so it was a blueprint for a new hierarchy. The very concept of a self-appointed elite claiming the mantle of ‘consciousness’ tasted like ashes. It echoed Ursus’ nobility's claims of inherent superiority.

We know best. You need our enlightened leadership.

The Infected miners, the farmers, the laborers, the soldier—were they all merely raw clay to be pounded and shaped by this intellectual vanguard?

Where was their voice, their lived agony, their desperate hopes, in this grand, sterile design? It felt like paternalism cloaked in revolutionary scarlet, a subtle, insidious recreation of the very chains they swore to shatter. Franz spoke of the ‘fog of oppression’ as if it were a simple mist to be dispelled by his theoretical lantern. He hadn't breathed its suffocating weight day and night.

But the deeper chill, the one that seeped into my bones deeper than the cave's perpetual cold, came from applying this Leithanien blueprint to the frozen, bleeding carcass of Ursus. Could this doctrine, born in the salons and spell-towers of a land obsessed with order and artistry, truly take root and thrive here? In Ursus?

Ursus is not Leithanien.

Franz envisioned disciplined cells, theoretical purity, a vanguard guiding a unified proletariat. Ursus devoured unity. It thrived on fractures.

It pitted province against province, ethnic group against ethnic group, infected against non-infected with ruthless, systematic efficiency. It turned neighbors into informants, families into executioners.

Could Franz's precious ‘vanguard,’ likely drawn from the educated Leithanien exiles untouched by Oripathy, possibly navigate this labyrinth of ingrained hatreds?

Could they understand the specific, bone-deep terror of an infected facing the Emperor's Blades, or the unique despair of an Infected mother watching her child crystalize, knowing the state would grind them both into dust? Their theoretical ‘consciousness’ felt laughably abstract against the visceral, fractured reality of Ursine suffering.

And the Infected. Always, the Infected.

Franz’s vanguard spoke of leading ‘the masses.’ But in Ursus, the Infected were the most brutalized core of any potential mass uprising. Our bodies were the battleground.

How could a party structure, centralized and likely dominated by non-Infected intellectuals who fled ideological persecution, not biological annihilation, possibly center our specific, existential struggle?

Would the needs of the coughing miner, slowly dying from Originium and imperial neglect, ever truly outweigh the theoretical priorities of the vanguard in their strategic calculus? Or would we become, once again, expendable shock troops in their revolution? A tool, like the spy, discarded after use.

Then there was the sheer scale. Franz spoke of seizing state power. But Ursus was a leviathan, a continent-spanning engine of repression fueled by ancient grudges and bottomless cruelty. Its grip was cultural, psychological, enforced by generations of fear and the ever-present shadow of the Emperor's blades.

Could a ‘centralized vanguard,’ no matter how disciplined, truly hope to hold such a monstrous entity? Or would it inevitably fracture under the strain, collapsing into warlordism or replicating the very autocracy it sought to overthrow? Power concentrated, I knew from bitter lessons by Kaschey and screamed by history, invariably corrupted.

Ursus wouldn't bend to a new ideology, it would warp the ideology to fit its own brutal mold. Franz’s ‘firm hold’ felt like a child promising to grip an avalanche.

Franz was still looking at me, perhaps expecting validation, or at least thoughtful consideration. All I felt was a profound, weary skepticism. The critique of the old world in the Manifesto still resonated, sure. The chains were named, the disease diagnosed.

But this Leithanien prescription? This rigid vanguard model promising centralized control? It felt like trying to cure frostbite with a branding iron. For Ursus, a revolution needed roots deep in its own fractured soil, not transplanted theory. It needed to speak the language of the tundra, understand the scars of the Infected, and offer not just a new master, but a way to shatter the very concept of masters.

Franz offered a different cage. Ursus needed something else. Something born not of foreign salons, but of our own frozen, desperate earth. The key, if it existed, had to be forged here, in the darkness, by hands that knew the weight of the chains intimately.

His words, however fervent, rang hollow against the vast, implacable silence of the Ursus night pressing in around us.

Two years.

Two years since Alina and I first set our boots upon the frozen hellscape of Ursus, igniting this desperate long march. What began as a spark, sheltering fleeing Infected, one family, one broken soul at a time, had become a wildfire. We were a river of the damned, carving a path through the Empire’s ice.

Alina… a shadow crossed my thoughts. A cough, persistent and deepening, had taken root in her months ago. She waved it away, a mere ‘seasonal chill,’ her smile still bright but now edged with fragility.

I didn’t believe her. Quietly, ruthlessly, I commandeered every medic, every scrap of medical knowledge among our throng. They watched her now, a silent vigil against an enemy I couldn’t fight with flame or blade.

The KPL revolutionaries were long gone. They’d marched with us for four months, a brittle cadre of theory amidst our sea of suffering. Our conversations were… instructive. They dissected other socialist sects with scornful of deviations from their pure doctrine. Their gratitude upon leaving for Victoria felt like the closing of a heavy, irrelevant book.

Their path wasn’t ours.

Our numbers swelled. Two thousand souls had become twenty thousand. Twenty thousand mouths to feed, bodies to shelter, wounds to tend. The land offered grudging sustenance, but the true crisis pulsed in our dwindling medical stores. The Oripathy suppressants, the precious pills that held the worst agonies at bay… our reserves bled dry day by desperate day. Each empty vial was a silent scream.

Necessity forced our hand. We struck a minor Imperial garrison town near the fringes of Chernobog. The local Ursus populace, ground down by the same boot that crushed us, didn’t weep for their departed overseers. They opened their doors, wary but hopeful.

This town, battered but breathing, became our fragile sanctuary. A temporary harbor, I knew. Ursus wouldn’t forget this insult. The Empire’s retribution was a storm gathering on the horizon.

The ‘Reunion Movement.’ Imperial decrees spat the name like poison, branding us terrorists, monsters. Yet, a strange alchemy was at work. More came. Not just the Infected fleeing persecution, but the unmarked.

Ursus peasants hollowed out by famine and tax, Sarkaz fugitives, Caprinae, Feline, Elafia, Cautus, and much more. Even disillusioned low-ranking soldiers joined our ranks.

They arrived in trickles, then streams, drawn not just by safety, but by the idea. The propaganda meant to vilify us had become a beacon.

How?

While Alina rested and the town organized, while scouts watched for Imperial vengeance and medics rationed pills, I labored. Not with shovel or with pickaxe, but with thought. Night after relentless night, hunched over salvaged paper by guttering lamplight, wrestling with ghosts.

Marx. Engels. Their powerful, piercing diagnosis of a sick world resonated like a tolling bell. But their cure… their blueprint… it was drafted for different lands. Ursus demanded its own answer. My pen scratched, bled ink, tore through flawed drafts.

Perfection was impossible, but survival demanded adaptation. I sought the synthesis, the core truths of their critique, reforged in the crucible of Ursus’ reality.

The Manifesto’s spectre still haunted me, but its Leithanien bones needed Ursus flesh. Could this alien ideology, born of factories and bourgeois parliaments, truly take root in our frozen soil of imperial terror and the ever-present scourge of Oripathy?

Franz’s ‘vanguard’ was out.

An intellectual aristocracy, however red its banner, would shatter against the fractured identities of Ursus. The Infected miner from the mines shared oppression with the peasant, yes, but their chains were forged from different metals, biting in different ways.

Unity couldn’t be dictated by a committee, it had to grow, organically, from shared desperation and a shared enemy. Our strength wasn't theoretical purity, but the raw, diverse power of the dispossessed finding common cause. Leadership, yes, but earned through action, trust, and shared sacrifice, not proclaimed from a pulpit of dogma.

The ‘dictatorship of the proletariat’ tasted of iron and blood, too easily echoing the Tsar’s own tyrannical grip. Ursus knew only dictatorship. To promise another, even in the name of liberation, was to offer a poisoned chalice.

Our aim couldn’t be seizing the monolithic Imperial state apparatus only to replicate it. We had to dismantle its engines of oppression while fostering local councils, self-defense units rooted in communities, Infected and non-Infected finding their own voices in the ruins. It was messy, dangerous… but organic. A state withering as the people empowered themselves, not a new Leviathan rising.

And the Infected… we weren't just a class, we were a biological underclass facing extermination. Any ‘socialism’ for Ursus had to place our liberation, our survival, and our dignity at its absolute core. Not as an afterthought, not as expendable slaves, but as the beating, suffering heart of the revolution.

This meant prioritizing medical autonomy. Scavenging, synthesizing suppressants, training our own healers. It meant confronting the unique terror of Oripathy head-on, making our struggle visible not just as workers, but as people fighting for the very right to exist.

I looked up from my notes, my eyes stinging from lamplight and exhaustion. Outside the makeshift command hut, the sounds of the reclaimed town filtered in, hammering as defenses were strengthened, the low murmur of communal cooking, a child’s cough quickly soothed.

Among them, mingling, were the non-Infected newcomers. They worked alongside us. Why? Because Reunion wasn't just offering refuge from the Empire, it was offering a glimpse of something different. Not just the destruction of the old, but the painful, chaotic, but necessary building of the new.

A community where survival wasn't a solitary struggle, where the Infected weren't pariahs but integral members, where the boot of the noble or the imperial officer was gone.

Was it Communism? Socialism? The labels felt inadequate, foreign garments straining at the seams. It was ours. A desperate, pragmatic fusion of Marx’s searing indictment of exploitation, Engels’ understanding of historical force, the existential threat of Oripathy, and a hard-won understanding that true liberation couldn't be handed down by a self-appointed elite. It had to rise, bloody and determined, from the frozen ground up.

The KPL revolutionaries, before they left, had spat out terms like curses or badges of honor.

Syndicalism, Council Socialism, Anarchism, Libertarianism… the list goes on…

Each was a different recipe, a blend of socialist thought adapted—or warped— for specific soils. Council Socialism spoke of worker assemblies governing locally. Syndicalism dreamed of unions seizing industries directly.

None fit. They were maps drawn for other landscapes.

Council Socialism?

Worker councils governing locally, federating upwards. It had its appeal, a vision of power bubbling from below, not imposed from above. But Ursus had spent centuries shattering communities, seeding suspicion between province and province, Infected and non-Infected, Ursine and everyone else.

Where were the stable communities, the shared identity, to form such councils? The Empire’s divide-and-rule was too effective. A network of councils now would fracture along the very fault lines the Tsar had engineered. Unity couldn't be assumed, it had to be forged anew.

Syndicalism?

The dream of powerful unions seizing factories and running them directly. A potent image, but Ursus had crushed independent labor movements beneath its boots long ago.

 Its industries—however small it is—weren't independent entities, they were cogs in a vast, militarized machine fueled by Originium and slave labor. Seizing a mine meant seizing a death trap guarded by Imperial enforcers, filled with Infected workers dying by the day.

Who would run it? How? The sheer logistics of survival left no room for such idealized worker control. The means of production here were often instruments of death, and control needed to be pragmatic, immediate, and focused on survival first.

The pen in my hand felt heavy, an instrument inadequate for the task. Alina’s faint, persistent cough from the adjacent room was a metronome ticking away the time.

I couldn't copy. I had to synthesize. Ruthlessly. Pragmatically. The core truths remained, the system was rotten, built on the bones of the exploited. But the path to tearing it down, and crucially, what came after, had to be born from Ursus’ frozen earth.

Politically, the structure had to be fluid, decentralized, yet resilient.

The rigid pyramid of the KPL’s vanguard was anathema. Power concentrated inevitably corrupted, and Ursus was a graveyard of corrupted ideals. Instead, she envisioned local Soviets, reclaiming the old Ursus word for 'council'.

Not imposed, but emerging organically wherever Reunion took root or liberated territory. Councils formed by those who lived the immediate struggle such as Infected miners, non-Infected farmers who shared their fields under threat, soldiers defending the perimeter, medics fighting Oripathy. These Soviets would handle the brutal immediacies such as the defense against Imperial raids, distribution of the meager food and vital suppressants, adjudicating local disputes, and organizing medical care.

Leadership wouldn't be proclaimed from a manifesto, rather it would be earned through action, through trust built in the shared foxhole of survival. A network of these autonomous Soviets, linked for coordination against the larger Imperial threat, yes, but fiercely rooted in their local realities.

It was messy, dangerous, vulnerable to fracture, but it was alive. It reflected the fractured ground they stood on, offering a path to unity through shared practice, not imposed dogma.

The ‘dictatorship of the proletariat’ became, in my mind, a networked republic of the dispossessed, perpetually vigilant against both Imperial reprisal and the internal creep of centralized power.

Economically, theory dissolved into pragmatism.

Marx’s analysis of surplus value extraction was undeniable, the Empire grew fat on stolen labor. But seizing the ‘means of production’ in abstract meant little when those means were death traps or barren fields lashed by Catastrophes.

Engels’ historical materialism felt distant when the primary economic driver was survival. My economics became expropriation and collective subsistence. Where Imperial control inevitably was severed, Reunion would seize—not for ideological purity, but for naked need.

Granaries were stormed to feed the starving, Imperial medical convoys ambushed for suppressants, Originium processing units captured not to ‘run them for the workers’ in a syndicalist dream, but to desperately synthesize the drugs that staved off agony and madness.

Factories, if liberated, would be run by whoever could keep them functioning to produce essentials under the rough guidance of the local Soviet, prioritizing community need over profit. Land was tilled collectively by those who needed it, pooling scarce seeds and tools.

This wasn't a planned socialist economy, it was survival collectivism, a term I coined myself. The act of taking together, sharing together, defending together became the forge for the class consciousness Franz had deemed lacking. It built unity through shared action far more effectively than any vanguard’s lecture.

Currency became largely irrelevant within their enclaves, with value being measured in food, medicine, ammunition, and labor contributed to the collective survival. Trade with the outside world, when possible, is to be conducted with ruthless pragmatism, bartering Originium or scavenged Imperial goods for vital supplies they couldn't produce or seize.

And underpinning it all, the absolute centrality of the Infected struggle. This was the bedrock of my theory. Any political structure where non-Infected held disproportionate power risked replicating the Empire’s neglect.

Any economic system that didn't prioritize medical autonomy such as finding, making, distributing suppressants, and training healers versed in Oripathy's ravages was doomed.

The Infected weren't just a class within the struggle, they were the vanguard of biological and social resistance. Their fight for bodily survival was the sharpest expression of the class struggle in Ursus. Non-Infected allies were vital, welcomed, but leadership had to spring from those who bore the black crystal, who understood the visceral terror and unique needs.

Reunion wasn't just fighting for the Infected, it was a movement of the Infected, offering a beacon of dignity and shared struggle that drew others crushed by the same Imperial boot.

And as for what will come after…

The thought was a precipice. Kaschey’s ghost whispered of power seized, then ossified, becoming just another face of the tyranny it replaced. I wouldn’t build that mausoleum. The fall of the Tsar couldn’t mean the rise of a Me-shaped autocrat, or a committee of theorists playing God from some reclaimed palace in Deity Grypherburg.

Our strength, our only hope for a future not drenched in the same old blood, lay in the ground-up resilience we were forging now.

The governance wouldn't be a monolith. It would be a federation of Soviets—reclaiming that old Ursus word felt right—Not imposed from a capital, but bubbling up from the liberated earth itself. Each town, each mine complex, each nomadic band surviving the tundra, they would form their own council.

Not based on party membership or theoretical exams, but on who lived the struggle, who shared the burden. Leaders? They’d emerge. Not by decree, but by proving their worth in the shared trench of survival. The woman who organized the rationing fairly, the man whose tactics saved a foraging party, the healer who worked until collapse. Trust earned, not bestowed.

But Ursus is vast. Coordination against larger threats would demand a broader structure.

A Congress of Soviets.

Delegates sent from the local councils, bound by their mandates, recallable if they strayed. Not a ruling body, but a coordinating one. Its power would be strictly delegated upwards from below, focused on defense, large-scale resource allocation, and facilitating communication.

No decrees from on high that contradicted the core needs of a local Soviet, unless it was a matter of collective survival against an external foe. The Congress would be a tool, a means for the network of Soviets to act as one body when necessary, not a new head to command the limbs.

Economically however… the pragmatism of our survival collectivism couldn't last forever, but the exploitative greed of the old Empire must never return.

The All-Ursus Production Syndicates would emerge. Not state-owned monoliths, but federations of worker councils within industries. The miners who mined Originium from the earth would govern the mines, deciding safety, output, and fair distribution in consultation with the local Soviet that represented the whole community.

Factory workers would run their factories, prioritizing essential goods over luxuries. Land would belong to those who worked it, organized into collectives or individual holdings as the local soil and tradition dictated, but protected from predatory accumulation.

The key was democratic control at the point of production, integrated with the needs of the community Soviet. Profit wouldn't vanish entirely but it would be subordinated to need. The primary goal is to meet the basic requirements of life—food, shelter, medicine, security—for all, while building the infrastructure to finally combat Oripathy not just with suppressants, but with research, care, and dignity. Surplus would be reinvested into the community and the shared struggle, not hoarded by a new elite.

This fragile radical structure needed a name. A banner. Not just for now, but for the daunting task of building after.

The scattered Soviets, the nascent Syndicates, the desperate unity of the dispossessed, they all needed a political expression, a way to organize the ideological struggle beyond pure survival, to debate the path forward peacefully once the clash of blades mostly fall silent.

The All-Ursus Socialist Party – AUSP (Vse-Ursusskaya Sotsialisticheskaya Partiya – VUSP)

It wasn't chosen lightly.

‘All-Ursus’—rejecting the Empire’s divisions, encompassing every exploited people within these frozen borders.

‘Socialist’—claiming the core truth that the means of life should serve the many, not the few, while acknowledging our debt to the critique that started this journey, even as we forged our own path.

‘Party’—not as a vanguard claiming inherent superiority, but as the political vehicle for those who believed in this Soviet vision. Its role? To educate, to organize, to contest elections within the Soviets and the Congress, to provide a framework for ideological debate within the structures of people's power, not above them.

It would be a home for those committed to building this new, fragile thing, bound by shared principles forged in our struggle. Infected liberation, decentralized power, democratic economics, relentless opposition to all forms of chauvinism.

Reunion would be its clenched fist, its shield. The armed wing. The protectors of the revolution while the Empire still snarled at the gates, the defenders of the nascent Soviets against counter-revolution and banditry.

Reunion fighters, would form the core of the Red Army, accountable ultimately to the Congress of Soviets. Their loyalty wouldn't be to the Party alone, but to the revolution embodied by the Soviets. The Party would guide politically, the Army would defend physically. Two arms of the same body, both serving the people organized in their councils.

I placed the pen down on the table. The ink on 'All-Ursus Socialist Party' was still dark, wet. The structure was drafted, the roles defined, the vision—however daunting—was outlined.

Now, only one crucial task remained, feeling suddenly immense and strangely intimate…

Name this new ideology.

Heat prickled at the base of my neck. It felt… presumptuous. Embarrassing, almost. Kaschey had named his doctrines with chilling grandeur. The KPL spat their labels like weapons. But this… What do I call it?

I recalled the "-isms" I’d rejected. Council Socialism? Too neat. Syndicalism? Too focused on industry. National Socialism? A vile poison. Marxism? Tainted by Franz’s vanguard arrogance and utterly foreign soil.

A phrase drifted up from the depths of my memory. Something Buldrokkas'tee had growled during the long march, "Endure like the Ursus. Strike like the blizzard."

The Ursus—the great bear of the northern wastes. Solitary yet fiercely protective. Resilient beyond measure. A creature of the land we fought for.

Ursine Socialism.

Chapter Text

The snows of Ursus burned.

It was a metaphorical kind of burning, though. Not with literal flame—though enough of the tundra now smoldered like festering wounds—but with the incandescent fury of a people unchained. Permafrost empires, frozen for centuries, melted under the heat of a thousand torches held aloft by scarred, triumphant hands.

The Winter Palace, that gilded mausoleum of Tsarism, lay eviscerated, its iron gates twisted into skeletal fingers clawing at a sky choked with smoke and song.

Talulah Artorius stood on the sundered balcony of the Winter Palace, her gloved hand resting on the balustrade. Stone, once polished to a cold, imperial sheen, was pocked by shrapnel and crusted with blood—black as old sin, dark as drying Originium.

Infected blood. Her blood. Their blood. The blood that had paid for every inch of this frozen victory.

Infected.

The word once meant exile. Now, keloid-scarred miners stood arm-in-arm with uninfected conscripts still reeking of trench mud. Peasants in threadbare sarafans clutched swords and crossbows looted from dead Okhrana. Their anthem shook the rubble.

“Земля и воля! Land and Liberty!”

How long has it been? Two, three years?

Time had blurred into a relentless cascade of marches, desperate battles, strategic meetings in ice caves, and the ever-present fear for Alina’s weakening breath. Three years since the spark ignited in the frozen wastes became the wildfire consuming the Ursus Empire. An event that had indeed shaken the world, shattering the illusion of Imperial invincibility.

She remembered the Imperial elite's initial contemptuous dismissal. Just another insurrection. Vermin to be crushed beneath the heel of the Imperial boot. They hadn't understood the nature of the fire they tried to stamp out.

With every liberated village, every exposed act of Imperial cruelty broadcast by Reunion’s nascent networks, thousands more had flocked to their ragged banners. Imperial regiments, hollowed out by desertion and disillusion, had melted away or turned their weapons on their officers. Cities, choked by famine and tyranny, had thrown open their gates, not to invaders, but to liberators.

Decisive battle after bloody, decisive battle, inch by bloody inch, they had done it.

The surprise on the faces of the remaining nobles and generals when her forces, appeared before the very gates of Deity Grypherburg… it had been almost comical. Their utter disbelief when those gates, symbols of impregnable Imperial power, were breached not by siege engines alone, but by the sheer, desperate will of the people surging forward… that disbelief had curdled into terror.

She owed Patriot that final, brutal gambit. His defiant stand in the northern wastes, drawing the elite Emperor’s Blades and the Tsar’s personal guard away from the capital like moths to a flame. A sacrifice paid in blood and fire that bought them the opening.

And she owed the Tsar himself for his cowardice. Fleeing his own capital with the bulk of his remaining loyal forces, abandoning the Winter Palace and its trapped defenders to their fate, thinking only of his own skin. A miscalculation that sealed his dynasty’s end.

He’d been captured, of course. Trying to slip across the border into Victoria disguised as a merchant. Reports had reached her hours ago. His family hadn’t fled. Found huddled in a summer palace cellar. Tried by a hastily convened Soviet of local militia and Reunion fighters.

Sentenced, and ultimately burned at the stake, purging symbols of the old rot. Justice? Revenge? Necessary terror? The report offered no analysis. Only facts.

A figure approached, boots crunching on shattered marble. Yelena, or Frostnova as she liked to be called, her breath misting the frigid air, her pale features etched with the same bone-deep exhaustion Talulah felt, yet alight with a fierce, quiet triumph.

She stopped beside Talulah, gazing out over the seething mass of humanity below. The singing had subsided into a low, powerful hum, punctuated by cheers and the crackle of distant fires.

"It’s done, Talulah," Frostnova said, her voice rough but steady. "The Palace is secured. The last Imperial holdouts in the city surrendered an hour ago. Grypherburg… Ursus… is ours."

Ours. The word resonated. Not hers. Not Reunion’s alone. Ours. The Soviets forming spontaneously in liberated districts, the worker committees taking over factories, the peasant councils distributing land deeds. The nascent structure she’d agonized over in ice caves was being born, messy and vital, in the crucible of victory.

Talulah didn’t turn. Her eyes remained fixed on the horizon, where the smoke of the dying Empire blurred into the perpetual Ursus twilight. The snow still burned with the heat of revolution.

"Done?" Talulah finally spoke, her voice a low rasp, carrying over the din below. She lifted her hand from the blood-crusted stone, flexing stiff fingers within her glove. "The war against the Empire, perhaps. But the battle for Ursus…" She turned then, meeting Frostnova’s gaze. Her golden eyes, reflecting the distant fires, held no jubilation, only a profound, steely resolve. "The battle for Ursus begins now. The battle to build what we bled for. The battle against the winter within us, and the rot we must carve out."

Indeed, there were much to be done.

No, everything had to be done.

The word threatened to swallow her whole. Feeding the cities choked by broken supply lines. Halting the retaliatory pogroms surely erupting in Imperial-loyal provinces. Restoring basic order before anarchy filled the vacuum they’d created. And weaving the fractured threads of rebellion into a coherent nation.

First and foremost was to convene the first ever national Congress of Soviets. She’d sent riders and couriers using salvaged Imperial communication arrays, the summons went out to convene in the ruined winter palace now. Not in some abstract future, but now, amidst the rubble of the old world.

Every regional Soviet, every major workers council from the liberated mines and factories, every peasant commune that had seized the land, every recognized battalion of the Red Army—they were to send delegates. Vital figures, yes, but more importantly, representatives of the groundswell that had shattered the Empire. They would gather here, in the belly of the beast they’d slain, to forge the skeleton of the new Ursus.

The agenda was as follows.

Firstly, the public trial and inevitable execution of the Tsar. This was something that had been long in the making, the ritualistic burial of the old God-Emperor, the final nail in the coffin of divine right. Legitimacy demanded that he die.

Secondly, declaring the sovereignty of the Congress of Soviets. Drafting and ratifying the fundamental principles of the new state. The supremacy of the Soviets, the abolition of the monarchy and noble titles, the enshrinement of Ursine Socialism as the state doctrine. Making the revolution legal in its own eyes, and the world's.

And finally, establish a government. A Council of People’s Commissars elected by and answerable to the Congress. This body will act as the national representative of the federation.

Frostnova shifted. "Patriot's vanguard is securing the northern approaches. They broke the last loyalist division trying to regroup." Her voice was flat, reporting facts, but the strain of relentless campaigning etched deep lines around her eyes.

Talulah placed a hand on her comrade's ice-cold vambrace. The gesture was brief, grounding.

"Tell Patriot…" She paused, the order shifting on her tongue. He would push himself to collapse. "Tell him to secure the perimeter, then stand down. Rotate his troops. Let them breathe. Eat hot food." She met Frostnova's gaze, seeing the mirrored exhaustion. "You too. Rest. I’ll handle what’s next."

Three days later, in the the Great Hall of the Winter Palace.

It was a far cry from the hushed reverence of imperial audiences, now Soviet delegates packed the space. Miners in patched jackets smelling of ozone and earth, peasant women in faded sarafans clutching mandates scrawled on rough paper, factory foremen with grease still under their nails, gaunt-faced medics from the Infected wards, grizzled Red Army commanders with fresh bandages, and sharp-eyed intellectuals who’d documented Imperial crimes.

The air buzzed with a dozen regional dialects, arguments flaring in corners, uneasy alliances forming over shared mugs of weak tea.

Talulah stood not on the vanished Tsar’s dais, but on a simple wooden platform erected before it. She wore no crown, only her worn Reunion coat, now bearing a simple red star pin, the symbol of the All-Ursus Socialist Party. The gazes of the hopeful, suspicious, demanding, and exhausted, pressed upon her.

"Comrades! Delegates of the All-Ursus Congress of Soviets!" Her voice, amplified by a salvaged microphone, cut through the din. "We gather not in triumph's afterglow, but in its demanding dawn. The Winter Palace is ours, the Tsar awaits judgment, but Ursus lies bleeding."

She outlined the agenda briskly, met with nods, murmurs, and the occasional interruption.

The trial of the Tsar was swift, almost anticlimactic. Evidence of imperial decrees ordering pogroms, famine-inducing grain requisitions, and the systematic neglect of Infected was presented. The verdict, passed by a vast majority of vote—except for a few abstentions from those fearing excessive brutality—was death.

It was necessity, ritual, the final exorcism. Talulah signed the order without visible emotion. The deed would be public, tomorrow.

Legitimacy… it was harder. Drafting the Declaration of Sovereign Rights and Founding Principles sparked immediate debate. The core tenets of Ursine Socialism were fiercely championed by Talulah and her core supporters. But factions inevitably emerged.

The Conservatives wanted to push for an Infected dominated government, the Agrarians wanted to redistribute land immediately, and the military disliked the idea of a federated state entirely, advocating for a centralized government instead.

Talulah parried, persuaded, and compromised where she could without breaking the core spine of Ursine Socialism.

Amendments were made, Infected representation quotas on all Soviet levels, not just central ones. Agrarian Soviets granted immediate control over land and planting, subject to audit and surplus sharing. The Defense Commissariat granted broad operational autonomy but bound by Congressional oversight and Soviet-based justice protocols.

Exhaustion hung like a pall as the final vote was called. Hands rose – calloused, scarred, ink-stained, trembling with fatigue – a forest of weary determination. The Declaration of the Federative Soviet Socialist Republics of Ursus, embodying the contested, compromised, yet unmistakable core of Ursine Socialism, was ratified.

Gone was the Ursus Empire, in its place is the Federative Soviet Socialist Republics of Ursus.

The third agenda to establish a government had been deferred. Talulah suppressed a wave of frustration. She’d hoped to crown this brutal day with structure, but the factions, wrung dry yet still grasping, demanded recess. Concessions extracted needed digestion. Leadership, it seemed, demanded not just strength, but an endless reservoir of patience.

Yet, leadership also demanded… sanctuary.

The hospital wing, deep within the repurposed palace’s less-damaged section, was an island of relative quiet. The sharp scent of antiseptic couldn't quite mask the lingering ghosts of imperial luxury.

Alina had been sequestered here since the liberation of Grypherburg, a fragile bird caged by her own failing breath. But the reports were cautiously optimistic. Her breathing became steadier and the terrifying rattle subdued. Recovery was slow, but it was welcomed more than anything.

And she smiled more. That, perhaps, was the truest measure.

Talulah paused outside the familiar door, the weight of the Congress momentarily slipping from her shoulders. In her hand, incongruous against her worn commissar’s coat, was a small bouquet. They were hardy winter flowers, bravely pushing through the thawing earth near the palace walls. Deep purple crocuses and sprigs of white snowdrops, bound with rough twine. A stolen fragment of defiant life.

She pushed the door open softly. "I’m back," she murmured, the roughness of hours of debate smoothing into something softer.

Alina lay propped on pillows, bathed in the weak afternoon light filtering through a high, narrow window. The pallor was still there, a translucence to her skin, but her eyes held a warmth that hadn't been there weeks ago. They brightened further at the sight of Talulah, then flickered to the flowers.

"Got you something…" Talulah held them out, suddenly feeling awkward, like a cadet presenting a rough-carved trinket to a senior officer.

Alina’s smile widened. "They’re beautiful." Her voice was still a whisper, but stronger, now. "Like finding hope in the frost." She reached out, her fingers brushing Talulah’s as she took the bouquet, holding it to her face, inhaling the faint, clean scent. "The Congress?”

Talulah pulled a simple chair close to the bed, sinking into it with a sigh that seemed to come from her bones. "What about it? Shouts, screams, debates…” She ran a hand over her face. "We ratified the Declaration. The FSSRU exists. On paper, at least."

"And the cost?" Alina asked softly, her gaze knowing, tracing the lines of exhaustion etched deeper than ever on Talulah’s face.

"Compromise. Endless compromise. Conservatives snarling for Infected supremacy. Agriculturalists demanding land deeds now. Military baying for a military junta..." Talulah leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her voice dropping. "I defended the core, Alina. The Soviets. The decentralization. The Infected heart of it. But… it feels like building a dam with sand sometimes. Holding back chaos with sheer will."

Alina placed the flowers carefully on the bedside table. Her hand, cool and surprisingly steady, found Talulah’s where it rested on the edge of the bed. The touch was electric, a current of pure, grounding solace in the storm. Talulah didn't pull away, she turned her hand, lacing her fingers through Alina’s. It was an anchor.

"You held it," Alina whispered. "You always do. Even when the ice cracks beneath your feet." Her thumb brushed slowly over Talulah’s knuckles. "What comes next? The government?"

Talulah nodded. "Tomorrow. We appoint the Council of People's Commissars. The leadership." She took a deep breath, drawing strength from the fragile warmth of Alina’s hand. "Alina…"

The name hung in the air, heavy with unspoken weight. Talulah lifted her eyes, meeting Alina’s. The playful light was still there, but beneath it was a deep understanding, a bedrock Talulah had relied on since the first frozen march.

"I…" Talulah hesitated, the enormity of the request catching in her throat. It wasn't just a political appointment, it was asking Alina to step back into the maelstrom when she’d just found fragile peace. "The Party… the All-Ursus Socialist Party… it needs a Chairwoman. Someone to guide its ideology, its cohesion, its spirit. To be the compass." She squeezed Alina’s hand gently. "That has to be me. The revolution… Ursine Socialism… it’s bound to my name, for better or worse. I have to steer its soul."

Alina watched her, silent, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, a small, knowing smile touched her lips. "And the body? The day-to-day… the feeding, the healing, the endless balancing act?"

Talulah leaned closer, her voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial whisper, charged with an intimacy that blurred the lines between camradrie. "That… that requires a different strength. Not the firebrand, but the healer. Not just the wielder of ideology, but the weaver of consensus. Someone who understands the cost in every face, in every struggling village, in every… breath." Her gaze flickered meaningfully to Alina’s chest, rising and falling steadily now. "Someone whose compassion is as fierce as any sword."

She paused, searching Alina’s eyes, the fatigue, but also the profound, resilient strength that had carried them both through darkness.

"I need you, Alina. Not just as my…" she stumbled slightly, the unspoken word anchor, heart, love hanging palpable in the air between them, "...but as Ursus needs you. As Premier. Head of the Council of People's Commissars.”

Alina looked down at their joined hands, then back up at Talulah. The playful glint was gone, replaced by a depth of feeling that took Talulah’s breath away—love, yes, but also a profound sense of duty, and a quiet, terrifying courage.

"Premier?" Alina finally murmured, the title sounding strange on her lips. A soft, almost incredulous laugh escaped her. "Me? The woman who can barely walk the length of this room without getting winded?"

"You’re getting stronger," Talulah insisted. "And strength isn't just in the legs. It’s in here." She touched her own chest, then gently pressed her fingertips over Alina’s heart, feeling its steady, vital beat beneath the thin hospital gown. The contact was electric, intimate, bordering on a caress.

"It’s in your spirit, Alina. Your ability to see the person, not just the problem. To heal divisions, not exploit them. I…" Her voice thickened. "I can fight the battles. But I need you to win the peace. Please."

Slowly, ever so slowly, Alina lifted Talulah’s hand still resting over her heart and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her scarred knuckles. It was a promise, a benediction, and an acceptance, all in one tender gesture. When she looked up, her eyes were clear.

"Then you shall have your Premier, Comrade Chairwoman," she whispered. "But only if you promise to rest here," she tapped Talulah’s temple, "when the weight becomes too much. And here," she placed Talulah’s hand back firmly over her own heart, "when the world grows too cold."

The next day in the what would become he permanent seat of the Congress, delegates gathered once again, not by region or cultures, but by the nascent allegiances of yesterday.

Talulah took the platform, Alina’s quiet strength a phantom presence at her side even in absence.

"Comrades," she began, her voice cutting through the murmur, "Yesterday, we declared what we are. Today, we define who will steer this vessel through the thaw. We appoint the Council of People's Commissars."

The first nominations flowed with deceptive ease, a testament to the unassailable pillars of the revolution.

"Talulah Artorius," announced a delegate from the Chernobog Soviet, "for Chairwoman of the All-Ursus Socialist Party."

A forest of hands rose, near-unanimous. The architect of Ursine Socialism, the Dragon of Reunion, her ideological leadership was beyond question.

"Alina," called a delegate from the far northern city of Mursansk, "for Premier of the Council of People's Commissars, Head of Government." The vote was slower.

Some Pragmatists exchanged glances, was the convalescent strong enough? Some Nationalists frowned, where was the iron fist? But the profound respect for Alina’s quiet wisdom, her role as the revolution’s conscience and healer, carried the day. Hands rose, a strong majority. Talulah released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

"Patriot," boomed a General from the Red Army, a surprising nod from the Nationalist camp, "for People's Commissar for Defense." No one argued.

Patriot’s colossal presence, his unmatched prowess, and his terrifying, apolitical focus on annihilation of the state’s enemies were the ultimate deterrent. The vote was swift and decisive. Patriot, standing like a glacier at the back of the hall, gave a single, slow nod.

Then, the friction began. Talulah nominated her Reunion inner circle, the veterans who had bled with her in the frozen wastes, who understood the visceral reality of Ursine Socialism.

"Frostnova for People's Commissar for State Security."

"Mephisto for People's Commissar for Health.”

"Faust for People's Commissar for Industry and Technology.”

Silence, then a low rumble. The requirement was stark, a two-thirds majority for each appointment.

The Conservatives balked first. "Frostnova? Ice and fury, yes, but State Security? Absolutely not!” Borodin, leader of the Conservatives coughed. "And Mephisto? Brilliant, sure, but he’s twisted! His methods… are they fit for a state? Health should be healing, not experimentation!"

Suspicion clouded their faces. They wanted known quantities, predictable structures, not Reunion's volatile edge.

Then, the Agrarians.

"Faust?” Anja, the leader of the Agrarians, questioned. "He’s a fighter, Comrade Chairwoman. Scavenger, saboteur. Building? Industry? Managing cities? Internal affairs? Does he know the first thing about plumbing or grain quotas?"

Their faction craved administrators, pragmatists, not soldiers thrust into peacetime roles.

Then, as always, the nationalists saw opportunity.

"Security? Internal Affairs? Defense handles threats!" One of the Generals asserted. "These roles should fall under a unified command structure! Patriot needs deputies loyal to the chain of command, not old Reunion loyalties!"

The Pragmatists were alarmed.

"Mephisto… internationally, his reputation…" The middle-aged man adjusted his glasses nervously. "Appointing him sends a signal of… instability.”

Talulah stood firm, arguing fiercely for each comrade. She spoke of Frostnova’s unwavering loyalty and her ability to freeze corruption in its tracks, of Mephisto’s dark genius being channeled solely for cure and containment under strict oversight, of Faust’s ability to make broken things work against impossible odds.

But the two-thirds threshold loomed like a fortress wall.

Frostnova’s nomination scraped through, buoyed by fear of counter-revolution and grudging respect for her power, but only just.

Mephisto’s faced fierce opposition, whispers of a ‘mad doctor’ followed the vote, which failed, leaving a dangerous vacuum at Health.

Faust’s nomination failed resoundingly.

Talulah felt each failure like a physical blow. Her vision of a Reunion dominated Council, tempered by shared sacrifice, was fracturing under the weight of peacetime fears and political maneuvering.

Compromises were forced.

A respected, non-Reunion doctor from the Pragmatists’ ranks was reluctantly agreed upon for Health, promising Borodin’s faction oversight. An experienced, level-headed administrator from a liberated city Soviet, known for fairness, was nominated and accepted for Internal Affairs, and Industry, appeasing the Liberals and Pragmatists.

Exhaustion, deeper than the physical kind, settled over Talulah as the final vote for the amended Council roster passed.

It was a victory, yes. The government was formed. Alina would lead it as Premier. Patriot commanded the sword. Reunion had its foothold with Talulah at the Party helm. But it was a compromised beast, its limbs pulled in different directions by the factions tugging at its reins.

She left the room, the weight of leadership heavier than ever.

She needed the sanctuary of the hospital wing, needed to see Alina, needed to pour out the frustrations and the fragile triumphs. She needed to tell the Premier that the vessel was launched, but its course was contested, its crew still learning to row together.

The real work, the impossible work of building socialism had truly, messily, just begun.

Chapter Text

Although the basic framework of a Soviet state had been laid and its government appointed, there were still much to be done. Especially when much of the country lay in ruins due to the civil war and much of the population expected the new regime to keep its promises.

Talulah sat not at the head, but slightly to the left of Alina’s central seat as Premier. Her own role, Chairwoman of the All-Ursus Socialist Party, granted her no formal power here within the Council of People's Commissars, yet her presence was not to be taken lightly.

As the leader of the largest party within Congress, and with a reputation for being a firebrand and a strong fighter at that, no one wanted to risk their position over some small legal dispute.

Talulah felt the weight of their gazes, the respectful, the wary, and the gazes of those veiled with suspicion. Her inner circle within this chamber felt perilously thin, with only Patriot in Defense and Frostnova in State Security.

Eleven Commissariats. Two truly hers. The rest—Transport, Agriculture, Foreign Affairs, Internal Affairs, Health, Industry, Justice, Education, Finance—held by socialists of varying stripes.

Alina, pale but composed, her Premier’s mantle seeming both too large and utterly fitting, gave Talulah a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. Talulah would break the ice, wield the initial authority her revolutionary stature commanded, allowing Alina the space to navigate the intricate diplomacy of governance.

"Comrades," Talulah's voice cut through the low murmur. "The framework exists. The positions are bestowed. Now, we face the crucial task of reconstruction." Her eyes swept the table, meeting each Commissar's gaze in turn.

What followed was a litany of disaster one after another.

Talulah listened and read report after report flowing in to the nascent government.

Patriot’s dispatch was blunt. Organized resistance was crumbling, but scattered bands of reactionaries still prowled the countryside, torching villages, stealing supplies, and murdering suspected sympathizers. Yet in the same breath, his report spoke of a Red Army swollen to over one and a half million troops, the vast majority being raw conscripts.

Talulah knew what the numbers meant. On paper, it was a formidable shield. In the desolate landscape of peace they now inhabited, it was a different kind of weapon, one aimed squarely at their own survival.

One and a half million mouths, one and a half million bellies demanding rations they don’t have. One and a half million bodies needing shelter, pay, and purpose. A shield against external invasion? Perhaps, though Kazimierz’s recent posturing suggested predators testing the waters. A sword against scattered bandits? Overwhelming, a wasteful overkill, like using a siege cannon to swat flies.

Thus, the only solution was Immediate demobilization.

Retain the hardened core of veterans to be built upon to further professionalize the Red Army. As for the rest of the manpower, they had to be redirected. Idle hands bred dissent, and dissent in such numbers could become a counter-revolutionary tide. But the alternative was a suffocating suicide by the military industrial complex.

The Council had thus agreed on the demobilization of the Red Army.

Which leads to Frostnova’s request for the creation of the CHEKA, an Extraordinary Commission. While the bulk of the army dissolved into the workforce, the CHEKA will be tasked with counterintelligence and rooting out remaining reactionary cells, infiltrating the clergy that had opposed the revolution, and ensuring that the embers of counter-revolution were smothered before they could blaze anew.

But… Frostnova’s request had drew wary glances from the Council. And the first major roadblock Talulah had to sit through had just started.

The Commissar for transport was the first to speak. He was a civil engineer before the revolution, and subsequently joined a local Soviet before elected to be Commissar.

"Counterintelligence is one thing, Comrade Commissar… but creating an organization with such powers risks undermining the Soviets themselves. We fought to end secret arrests, to dismantle the Okhrana—not to replace them with our own."

A derisive snort cut the air. The Commissar for Agriculture crossed her arms.

"Tell that to the villages burned just last month," she shot back. Tell it to the children who watched reactionary filth torch their homes last month! Tell it to the farmers whose entire harvest was stolen at gunpoint by noble remnants playing bandit!" She slammed her hand at the table.

"Your precious Soviets in the villages? They’re defenseless! Local militia are farmers with pitchforks facing veterans with artillery. Without a dedicated, swift, and fearsome shield, Comrade, we are not just leaving the door open for the counter-revolution, we’re laying out a welcome mat! Your fear of shadows within blinds you to the wolves already inside the gate, tearing at our throat!"

The Commissar for Justice cleared her throat. "The Commissar for Transport raises a vital ethical concern. The Commissar for Agriculture presents our reality. The question is not merely if we need such a force, but how it is constrained. Unchecked power, born of fear, becomes its own tyranny. The Okhrana didn't start with mass graves, it started with 'necessary measures.' We require security, yes, but also codified limits, defined crimes, and oversight—perhaps by this Council, or a judicial panel."

It was Frostnova’s turn to defend her request.

She rose slowly, her expression revealed nothing. Talulah knew Frostnova was no orator, or rather… not very good at communicating at all… she could only hope that she’ll be able to convey her thoughts on the matter concisely.

"I am not asking for a new Okhrana," Frostnova began. "I am asking for a shield. The reactionaries do not write petitions. They do not wait for elections. They move at night, they burn our homes, they poison our wells, and they leave our dead in ditches. Oversight is not my enemy. Give me laws, give me boundaries, but give me the means to act before another village burns.”

She sat back down. Silence followed, but opinions were undeniably swayed. Even her opponents found it hard to argue with the logic when spoken in that tone.

But of course… it will be nice if it ended there and the formation was authorised… the respite was brief.

"Boundaries, Comrade Commissar. Define them now. What constitutes 'counter-revolutionary activity'? Sedition? Hoarding? Criticizing a local Soviet?” Questioned the Commissar for Justice. "And oversight? This Council? Weekly reports? Access to detention logs? Judges empowered to review arrests within hours, not days?"

The Commissar for Internal Affairs, responsible for the nascent People's Militia, bristled. "Where does the CHEKA end and my Militia begin? Will your agents supersede local Soviet authority? Arrest Militia commanders? We risk creating competing forces, a state within a state, breeding confusion and resentment at the grassroots!"

The Commissar for Foreign Affairs interjected. "Perception matters. If we create an organ echoing the Okhrana’s methods, even in name, people will paint us as tyrants. Foreign countries could also use this to justify intervention. Can its operations be… discreet? Must we name it CHEKA?"

And so it was. After countless debate, concession, and some opinion swaying, the terms were agreed upon.

A charter drafted jointly with the Justice Commissariat, defining actionable crimes with specificity. A clear jurisdictional divide with CHEKA targeting organized networks and high-level threats, leaving local crime and Soviet order to Internal Affairs. Oversight by a rotating panel from the Central Executive Committee, with mandatory judicial review within 24 hours of detention. A bland, bureaucratic name was chosen, ‘the Committee for State Security (KGB)’.

The concessions were made, but the core demand of swift, secretive power to investigate, detain, and neutralize internal threats with minimal bureaucratic friction, remained non-negotiable.  

Finally, as the weak winter light bled from the high, shattered windows, the revised charter for the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti (KGB) was put to a vote.

It passed. Not unanimously. Not enthusiastically. But passed. Frostnova had her shield, now named KGB instead of CHEKA. To be honest, Talulah liked CHEKA better, its name meant ‘Extraordinary Commission’ instead of bland committee blah blah blah. KGB sounded like an accounting office.

The rest of the meeting went as a blur to Talulah.

Food remained a core issue as the ever-present threat of famine hovers above the ruined nation. Grain convoys moved too slowly, harvests were meager, and too much farmland lay fallow from years of neglect, destruction, or deliberate sabotage by retreating reactionaries.

One matter, at least, saw unanimity.

The Act to Initiate Land Reform and Redistribution passed without a single dissenting hand. The Party had promised it since the first manifesto of Ursine Socialism, and now, at last, the legal machinery was in motion. Noble estates would be broken up, seized land registered under the Soviets, and dispossessed peasants—Infected and uninfected alike—were given fields to work.

But then the question becomes…

"To collectivize, or not?"

Collectivization would mean merging small, individual plots into larger, collectively managed farms under the supervision of local Soviets. Labor, tools, seed, and harvests would be pooled, with production quotas set to ensure both local needs and urban supply.

It promised efficiency, shared burdens, and the ability to coordinate planting and storage on a large scale—but also required uprooting established work patterns and binding farmers to collective decisions.

Choosing not to collectivize would keep land in smaller, individually worked plots, each family or household responsible for its own yield. This preserved autonomy and traditional methods, but risked uneven output, inefficient use of equipment, and difficulty coordinating surplus distribution to famine-threatened areas.

For mainstream Marxists, the answer was obvious. Collectivization was essential to achieving total equality among the people and to erasing the economic disparities born from private landholding.

But in Ursus, ideology bent to the Chairwoman’s word. Talulah, with the final say on all matters of doctrine, favored a non-collectivized model for now, pragmatism over orthodoxy.

The Conservatives seized the opportunity to press for a middle path. A partial collectivization in strategic areas, leaving much of the countryside to work as it always had, under the watchful eye of the Soviets.

In the end, Talulah had her way.

Hours bled into hours as the meeting dragged on, the air in the chamber growing stale with endless debate. One agenda closed only for another to open.

The next flashpoint was wages—the question of equal pay versus pay grades.

Again, for mainstream Marxists, the stance was fixed. Equal pay across all sectors and positions, a complete leveling of economic reward to erase the hierarchies of the old. Skill, status, and seniority would mean nothing—each worker’s labor, in theory, was of equal worth to the revolution.

However, the Commissar for Industry proposed pay grades instead. Championing the position was the Industrial Syndicalist faction, whose argument was blunt—skilled labor could not be treated the same as unskilled without risking the loss of that skill entirely.

Specialists such as engineers, machinists, and chemists, were in short supply after years of war, and without incentives, they might drift into idleness or leave for foreign work where their talents were valued. Pay grades, they insisted, would retain expertise, encourage mastery, and speed reconstruction.

It was a betrayal to socialist principles, however it was not a betrayal to Ursine Socialism. Of which Talulah had tailor made to fit Ursus’ needs.

In the end, pay grades were chosen as the wage method.

The next few agenda items felt exhausting.

In came the question of education reform. Whether to purge the old Imperial curriculum entirely or preserve its technical and scientific content while replacing its political doctrine. The Commissar for Education pushed for an immediate overhaul, while some of his colleagues argued for a phased approach to avoid disrupting the already fragile schooling system.

Then came legal reform. Stripping away the Imperial penal codes and replacing them with Soviet-based law. It was a monumental task, and until the new codes were written, the Congress authorized interim “People’s Courts” to handle disputes and criminal cases under broad revolutionary principles.

Housing was next. The war had left entire districts in ruins, and the question was whether to prioritize temporary shelters for all or permanent housing projects in urban centers first. Resources were scarce, and every plan meant leaving some group dissatisfied.

Economically, the Council debated the reopening of trade routes with neighboring states. Some members urging self-reliance to avoid dependency, others advocating limited trade to secure desperately needed machinery, medicine, and raw materials. The Foreign Commissariat was tasked with drafting terms, but the discussion hinted at larger ideological battles

Politically, a proposal was raised to formalize the relationship between the All-Ursus Socialist Party and the Soviets.

Should the Party be first among equals, guiding policy from within, or remain a political faction subject to the same limits as any other?

Talulah said little, but her silence was its own signal. The Party would lead, whatever the wording on paper.

Legally, the All-Ursus Socialist Party was the largest political force within Congress. Nearly all Soviets were aligned with it, though some had chosen to send delegates from smaller socialist or regionalist parties.

Bourgeois parties were banned outright, with the memory of their complicity with the Empire was still fresh, and their return was unthinkable. Even so, the All-Ursus Socialist Party’s majority was overwhelming, and its ideological direction—Talulah’s direction—shaped the state’s course.

From there, the Council moved deeper into social reform.

Religion was the first matter. The Ursine Church had been an arm of oppression, its clergy often doubling as informants for the Okhrana. The question now was whether to abolish religious institutions entirely or to strip them of political power while allowing personal worship.

A compromise was reached. Religious gatherings could continue privately, but all churches, temples, and cathedrals would be placed under Soviet oversight, their lands and wealth confiscated for the state. Freedom of religion would be guaranteed—as long as it does not conflict with the core tenets of Ursine Socialism.

Next came healthcare.

The Commissar for Health presented a proposal for a state-run, universally accessible medical system, prioritizing Oripathy treatment and prevention. Mobile medical brigades would be dispatched to remote areas, and suppressants would be distributed without charge. Funding such a system would be crippling in the short term, but Talulah pressed the point for survival.

As for where they’ll get the medicine… well she’s sure the Council will figure it out themselves.

Education reform returned to the table, this time focusing on literacy. Imperial neglect and isolation had left millions illiterate. A sweeping literacy campaign was approved, to be carried out by volunteer teachers drawn from urban Soviets, Red Army veterans, and students from universities.

The aim was not only to teach reading and writing, but to instill the history and values of Ursine Socialism from the first lesson.

Finally, social welfare. War orphans, the disabled, and the elderly would be supported directly by local Soviets through community kitchens, clothing depots, and shared housing. These programs would be funded from confiscated noble estates and excess military stockpiles.

It was a stopgap measure, but enough to prevent the most vulnerable from being swept away in the chaos of reconstruction.

The long list continued.

Freedom of speech, freedom to organize, freedom to unionize, freedom to hold religious beliefs, freedom to love and to marry, full emancipation, full suffrage, abolition of penal codes—concepts the Empire had crushed under its heel now stood before the Council to be defined, codified, and limited where deemed necessary.

Freedom of speech was granted, but with an explicit clause banning counter-revolutionary propaganda, monarchist advocacy, or calls to dismantle the Soviets. Freedom to organize and unionize was guaranteed for all workers, though unions would be registered through their respective Soviets to ensure alignment with revolutionary principles.

Marriage laws were rewritten entirely. Marriage became a civil contract under Soviet jurisdiction, dissolvable at will by either party, with equal rights to property and custody. Discrimination based on race, species, Infected status, or gender was outlawed in both marriage and personal relationships.

Same-sex marriage, however, was deferred for another time. It remained a hotly contested topic, drawing sharp divisions even among loyal Party members, despite Talulah championing it as a revolutionary freedom act. For now, the issue was set aside—postponed, but not abandoned.

The agenda shifted again, from rights to responsibilities. The question of compulsory service—whether in the military, public works, or industrial reconstruction—loomed large, and the room grew restless as the next debate began.

On one side, the nationalist-aligned delegates argued for a universal service requirement. Two years mandatory enlistment in the Red Army or People’s Militia for all citizens, followed by assignment to reconstruction projects. They claimed it would instill discipline, unity, and readiness against foreign intervention.

Others pushed for a broader interpretation of service. Allowing citizens to fulfill their obligation through agricultural work, factory labor, teaching, or infrastructure repair. To them, compulsory service was not about militarization, but about binding every citizen to the task of rebuilding Ursus.

The Commissar for Agriculture and the Commissar for Industry opposed any form of mandatory service, warning it could become another chain of state coercion, particularly for the Infected, who already bore the heaviest burdens.

"Must I…?" Talulah thought to herself, eyes flicking toward the papers in front of her. "No… Alina has been doing well, hasn’t she?"

Somewhere during the long, boorish slog of speeches, Alina had quietly taken the reins of the meeting. She leaned forward in her seat now, speaking with the calm authority of someone who had listened, weighed, and decided.

“… We will not impose any sort of conscription on our people,” Alina insisted. “We will ask for service, yes, but it will be given to the Soviets to decide how best their citizens contribute. In some districts, that may mean soldiers. In others, it will mean workers, farmers, or medics. No one will be forced into a role that wastes their skill or burdens their health.”

The chamber quieted. Even the staunchest nationalist could not immediately find a counter, though their disapproval was plain on their faces. The proposal was a compromise, avoiding mass conscription while ensuring every region contributed to the nation’s rebuilding.

The motion passed, and with it, the meeting came to a close.

All the passed measures, excluding the creation of the CHEKA—or KGB, would still require a formal vote in the Congress. It was a tedious formality, but in truth, the likelihood of any motion being rejected was close to zero.

The Party’s majority ensured that what the Council agreed upon here would almost certainly become law, only then would their long day’s debates and decisions take shape in the lives of the people and become law.

"I can’t believe it took that long…" Talulah sighed, the sound swallowed by the vast, shadowed space.

Exhaustion warred with a strange, buzzing awareness of the woman beside her. She stole a glance, the curve of Alina’s cheekbone picked out by a sliver of moonlight from a high, narrow window, the tired line of her mouth, the quiet strength in her posture even now.

"Did you get your bearings?" Talulah asked, her voice lower, rougher than she intended. "For… government?"

Alina hummed softly, a warm vibration in the cold air. Her pace was unhurried, contemplative.

"I think so," she said at last. Her voice was a balm after hours of grating debate. "It’s… not the same as leading a march, or organizing a field hospital under artillery fire." A small, wry smile touched her lips.

Talulah smirked faintly. "You handled yourself well in there. Better than well. Commanded the room." She paused, the truth spilling out before she could cage it. "I didn’t have to step in once."

Alina glanced sideways at her, a teasing glint catching the dim light in her eyes. "You were enjoying watching me work." It wasn’t a question.

Heat, unexpected and unwelcome, prickled the back of Talulah’s neck. "Maybe," she admitted, looking straight ahead at the dark corridor, willing her heartbeat to slow.

"But I was also," she added quickly, grasping for revolutionary pragmatism like a shield, "making sure no one tried to slip a knife between our ribs while we were distracted. Metaphorically. Or otherwise."

Alina’s expression softened. "That’s what you’ve always done, Tal," she murmured. "Guard the revolution. Stand watch." She paused, their footsteps echoing in unison. "Now, I suppose… I guard the state we’ve built from it. Or try to at the very least."

Talulah found herself staring again, caught by the quiet conviction in Alina’s eyes. Something unsteady and potent stirred deep in her chest, a fluttering against her ribs that had nothing to do with strategy or survival.

It was terrifying. She looked away, focusing on a crack in the ancient marble floor. "You make it sound… poetic," she managed, the words awkward, stumbling on her tongue.

"Maybe it is," Alina replied softly, her gaze lingering on Talulah’s averted profile.

They walked on, the silence stretching, filled only by the rhythmic percussion of their boots and the frantic drumming Talulah was sure was audible only inside her own skull.

The corridor’s chill seemed to seep into her bones, sharpening her senses painfully. She could feel the warmth radiating from Alina beside her, smell the faint, clean scent of soap beneath the antiseptic, hear the soft intake of her breath. It was overwhelming.

"You didn’t have to let me take over the meeting," Alina said suddenly.

Talulah reacted too fast, defensiveness flaring. "I didn’t let you," she countered, the words clipped. She forced herself to slow her pace, to breathe. "You took it. You saw the opening, you moved… and I…" She swallowed, the truth scraping her throat. "...didn’t stop you."

Alina’s lips curved into that faint, knowing smirk that always unraveled Talulah’s composure. "So that’s permission, then? For the Premier to… commandeer the Chairwoman’s battlefield?"

"Hah," Talulah managed, a short, awkward bark of laughter. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat, a futile attempt to hide their slight tremor. "Well… technically, I am not the head of government. Merely a humble Chairwoman, Comrade Premier." She shrugged. "A glorified ideologue."

Alina stopped walking, turning fully to face her under the archway leading to the medical wing.

"‘Merely’? ‘Humble’?" she echoed softly, stepping closer. "Quite the humble title for the Dragon who broke an empire, Talulah Artorius." Her gaze held Talulah’s, unflinching, seeing past the titles, past the fatigue, to the flustered core beneath.

Talulah felt pinned. The corridor seemed to shrink, the air thick and difficult to breathe. That unsteady feeling in her chest threatened to crack her ribs. "Humble is… easier to survive with," she rasped, looking down at their boots, so close on the floor. "Titles make you a target."

Alina took another half-step, closing the remaining distance. Not touching, but near enough that Talulah could feel the warmth of her, see the subtle pulse at the base of her throat.

"Well, Comrade Chairwoman," Alina murmured, her breath a soft ghost on Talulah’s cheek, "if you ever grow tired of the Premier doing your work for you… or simply watching you try not to combust during council debates… just say so."

The words, the proximity, the sheer, unbearable tenderness beneath the teasing… it was too much. Talulah’s carefully constructed walls of revolutionary austerity felt paper-thin. Before thought could catch up with instinct, before fear could paralyze her, she moved.

Gently, she took Alina’s hand. Not the formal, comradely grip, but cradling it in both of hers. The skin was cool, the bones delicate beneath her fingers.

Then, driven by a surge of feeling she couldn't name or contain, Talulah sank to one knee on the cold marble. It wasn't subservience, it was something… deeper, like a knight before their sovereign, or a pilgrim at an altar. She bowed her head, pressing her lips to Alina’s knuckles.

"Rest well, Premier.”

For a heartbeat, the world held its breath. Talulah remained kneeling, her face hidden, the heat of her own blush scalding her cheeks. She felt the faint tremor in Alina’s hand, heard the soft, indrawn breath above her.

Then, Alina’s other hand came to rest, feather-light, on the crown of Talulah’s bowed head.

"And you, Chairwoman," Alina whispered. Her fingers lingered for a moment in Talulah’s hair before she gently withdrew her hand. "Guard your dreams as fiercely as you guard the revolution."

Without another word, Alina turned and slipped through the doorway into the medical wing, leaving Talulah alone in the dim corridor.

Chapter Text

The scent of incense couldn’t mask the fear anymore.

Here, in the middle of a ruined city, in the Cathedral of Saint Ignatius the Steadfast, the faithful gathered.

Monsignor Valerius, his Lateran vestments feeling less like raiment and more like a target, stood before the gilded altar, his patron firearm on his free hand.

Below him, huddled in the pews like frightened sheep, were his charges. Twenty Sisters of Penitent Grace, their faces pale ovals above dark habits, forty-seven orphans, and a scattered flock of elderly faithful and lay workers who’d sought sanctuary behind from the chaos outside.

The history of the Lateran Church was long, it had a top-down hierarchy reaching from the Pope in Laterano to the Cardinals, the Bishops, down to the lowliest parish priest in the furthest corner of Terra.

Valerius was a node in that vast, divinely ordered network, a shepherd appointed to this Ursine outpost. But the network has been severed.

Weeks bled into silence.

No directives from the Holy See in Laterano, their comforting platitudes now brittle parchment from a lost world. No word from the Archdiocese in Deity Grypherburg. Only rumors, carried on by terrified whispers that slithered through the cathedral’s bolted doors like poisonous vapors.

Rumors of fire consuming the Bishop of Grypherburg, tied to a stake in the shadow of his own shattered cathedral, obliterated by revolutionary artillery. The new regime held no reverence for the Sankta, no quarter for the Church, only cold contempt for the “opiate of the masses.”

Deity Grypherburg was gone, in spirit at least. Its replacement was a regime that saw Valerius and his flock not as faithful, but as relics of oppression to be smashed.

They had been holed up for weeks, a besieged island in a red sea. The local Soviet militia, emboldened by after the Tsar’s execution, had encircled the cathedral. Their ultimatum, delivered by a sneering commissar through a loudspeaker three days prior.

"Surrender the property and yourselves for People's Justice. Face trial for counter-revolutionary activities and exploitation of the masses."

Even the youngest orphan, little Piotr clutching a threadbare Sankta doll, knew what "trial" meant. It meant the stake. The firing wall. The unmarked ditch. Morale, like the weak winter light filtering through the boarded windows, plummeted day by desperate day.

The cathedral itself mirrored its occupants’ decline. Once luminous with faith and candlelight, it was now a cavern of shadows and creeping chill. The magnificent stained glass depicting the Revelation of the Law was cracked and boarded, a symbol of their shattered world.

Dust coated the pews where the faithful once knelt, now they huddled for warmth, not prayer. Food, meticulously rationed by Sister Hortensia, was running terrifyingly low. The granary in the undercroft, once stocked for pilgrim hospitality, held only scattered kernels of rye and a few sacks of hardening potatoes.

The Sisters had sacrificed their own meager portions days ago, their faces growing gaunt beneath their wimples. The orphans’ eyes, wide with a hunger that went beyond the physical, watched Valerius with a silent, terrifying question.

What now?

The sudden, frantic whisper shattered his spiral into despair.

"Monsignor!" Sister Evgenia, her face pale as parchment beneath her dark hood, materialized from the gloom near the sacristy entrance. "Someone… someone sneaked in."

Valerius whirled, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Sneaked in?" The words were a rasp. The militia? A scout? Had they found a weakness already?

Before Sister Evgenia could stammer further, a figure stepped from the deeper shadows behind her.

He moved with the wary confidence of a soldier, his boots silent on the stone despite the mud caking them. He wore a standard-issue Ursine greatcoat, heavy and grey, but it lacked the defining feature Valerius had come to dread, the bright red star pin on the lapel.

"Monsignor Valerius," the man stated, his voice low and gravelly, cutting through the shocked silence. He offered no Lateran salute, only a curt, military nod. "Captain Slutsky. White Movement."

"The White Movement?" Valerius repeated. "But… reports said you were shattered weeks ago. Annihilated in the north.”

"Shattered, Monsignor? Yes. Annihilated? Not quite." He stepped closer, his gaze sweeping the desperate faces, the boarded windows, the meager bundles of food being prepared. "We are remnants. Ghosts. Loyal soldiers of Holy Ursus, yes, but more importantly right now… we are those helping others flee the Red Terror. Priests. Nuns. Families who refused the Soviet yoke."

He paused, letting the implication sink in. "We have two hundred soldiers, and a convoy of thousands of souls like yours, Monsignor, making their way south towards the Leithanien border. We aim to slip through before the Reds seal them shut."

Valerius looked at Piotr, clutching his Sankta doll, his eyes wide with a confusion that mirrored the Monsignor’s own turmoil. He looked at the Sisters, and to the faithful. Some were too frail to force a march across hostile territory.

"Captain," Valerius began, his voice carefully neutral, betraying none of the storm inside. "Your offer… is unexpected. And considerable. But joining a military convoy… it paints a target on everyone here. We are people of faith, not soldiers."

"Faith won’t stop the reds, Monsignor. Or feed those children when your last potato is gone tomorrow." He gestured towards the orphans.

“Are—”

“Listen, Monsignor. I’ve visited many villages, towns, and cities. I’ve talked to the locals, to the local churches on whether or not they want to come with us. Every time only a small percentage actually listened to us,” he paused. “They thought the Soviets could be reasoned with. But did you know what happened to them?”

Valerius stayed silent.

"Murdered, Monsignor." The word hung heavy, dripping with the blood Slutsky had witnessed. "Killed like stray dogs in the streets they tried to defend. Flayed alive for the amusement of drunken commissars. Women, nuns… raped before the altars they served."

His knuckles whitened where they gripped the edge of a dusty pew. "Burned. Locked inside their own churches, sanctuaries turned into ovens, the screams…" He trailed off, the memory choking him, his hardened soldier’s facade cracking to reveal raw, visceral trauma. "Devils. Not men. Devils wearing red stars."

Valerius felt the blood drain from his face. The rumors from Deity Grypherburg suddenly crystallized into a terrifying truth. It was a systematic desecration, a campaign of terror designed to annihilate not just the Church, but any symbol of the world that came before.

"A beloved Count in Yekaterinoslav," Slutsky continued, his voice regaining its harsh edge, "tried to organize a militia. Civilians, shopkeepers, old veterans. Thought they could hold the district square and reason with the advancing Red brigade." His laugh was dry.

"The Reds rolled in a field gun. Blew the barricade to splinters. Then they dragged the Count, his wife, his three daughters—girls, Monsignor, children—into the street. Made him watch as they…" Slutsky’s jaw clenched, unable or unwilling to voice the specifics. "...before decapitating him."

He took a step closer, his eyes burning into Valerius’s. "Priests. Old Father Yuri in a little village not far from here. Gentle soul, only ever tended his flock. They nailed him to his own church door. Like some grotesque icon. Then they piled straw around the church… lit it. And Burned him alive with the sound of his own parishioners screaming inside." Slutsky’s voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "That is the 'reason' the Reds offer, Monsignor. That is the 'justice' awaiting you and yours when they kick in those doors at dawn."

Valerius felt physically ill. The cold stone floor seemed to lurch beneath him. Slutsky wasn't just offering escape, he was revealing the true, monstrous face of the enemy at the gates. He wasn't appealing to politics or loyalty to a dead Tsar, he was appealing to the most primal instinct.

Survival against an existential evil.

"The convoy," Slutsky pressed, sensing the shift, the shattering of Valerius’s resistance. "We move tonight. Under cover of darkness. We have scouts, we know the patrol rotations. We have fighters who know how to slip through cracks. We get you south, towards Leithanien. Out of Ursus. Out of hell."

He gestured towards the huddled mass of refugees. "Give them a chance, Monsignor. A real one. Not a prayer whispered in the dark before the flames come. A fighting chance on the road, guarded by men who know the cost of surrender."

Valerius looked away from Slutsky’s intense gaze. His eyes swept the cathedral, the shrouded altar, the sacred relics that would be desecrated, the terrified faces of his flock.

Flayed. Raped. Burned. Nailed to the door.

The images seared into his mind, overriding doctrine, overriding fear of the unknown. The White Movement offered violence, yes, but potentially as a shield. The Reds offered only annihilation dressed as justice.

Valerius drew in a shuddering breath, the air cold and tasting of dust and despair. He turned back to Captain Slutsky, his face ashen but his eyes holding a terrible, newfound resolve.

"Captain Slutsky," Valerius said, his voice steady, carrying through the deathly quiet of the cathedral. It was the voice of a man choosing the abyss he could see over the one he couldn't. "Tell your men. We join your convoy. Prepare to move us. Tonight."

He looked at Sister Hortensia, then at the terrified orphans. "Sisters, gather everyone. Leave everything that cannot be carried easily. Only the essentials. We walk with the Captain tonight."

He didn't pray for forgiveness. He prayed, desperately, for the strength to shepherd his flock through the valley of the shadow of death that lay ahead, guarded by wolves both known and unknown.

The sanctuary was abandoned. The only holy ground left was the treacherous path away from the Red Star's rising dawn.

It was cold… impossibly cold… the coldness became a razor-toothed beast that gnawed through layers of wool and leather, stealing breath in visible plumes that hung like ghosts over the endless, shuffling column.

What had begun as a desperate exodus had metastasized into a monstrous, groaning entity, The Convoy.

A hundred thousand souls, maybe more. The numbers were impossible to track, a vast, ragged river of humanity flowing south across the frozen steppe, churning the snow into a slurry of mud, excrement, and despair.

Monsignor Valerius, walking beside the rickety cart carrying the sisters and the youngest orphans, felt dwarfed, insignificant. The grand spire of Saint Ignatius was a memory swallowed by distance and blizzard. Here, faith was measured in weary steps and the shared dread of the horizon.

They had merged, absorbed, been absorbed.

Remnants of shattered White battalions, their uniforms now little more than grim rags, trudged alongside them. Other refugee streams, fleeing different cities, different Soviets, different horrors, had bled into the main column like tributaries into a polluted river. Each brought more hungry mouths, more hollow eyes, and more bodies for the frozen ground to claim when strength finally failed.

Captain Slutsky, his face now a mask of frostbitten skin and exhaustion, moved through the throng like a grim specter. His two hundred soldiers—now nearly two thousand, were stretched impossibly thin.

Discipline, once rigid, was crumbling under the weight of cold, hunger, and the sheer, demoralizing scale of the suffering. Arguments flared over meager rations, fights erupted over space near the sputtering, communal fires lit with scavenged wood and desperation.

Valerius saw a White corporal strike a weeping woman trying to push ahead with her coughing child. The cry was swallowed by the wind.

"Hold the line!" Slutsky's voice, hoarse from shouting orders into the gale, cut through the din near Valerius. He was confronting a cluster of his own men. "Fall behind, and you fall to the Reds! Or the frost! Keep them moving!"

"But Captain, the old man…" one soldier gestured towards a figure slumped in the snow beside the path, ignored by the river of bodies flowing past. "He's done."

Slutsky’s gaze settled on the still form, then back to the soldier. "Then he stays. We can't carry the dead weight. Move!"

There was no cruelty in his voice, only the terrible arithmetic of survival. Every stop risked the entire column. Every straggler was a sacrifice to the relentless pursuit they all felt, even if unseen.

Valerius knelt beside the old man. He wasn't from their cathedral group. His eyes were open, glazed, fixed on the iron-grey sky. No breath stirred the frost gathering on his beard.

He murmured the Last Rites, the Lateran words feeling frail and ancient against the howling wind, stolen before they could even reach the ears of the shuffling masses.

He made the Sign of the Cross on the man's forehead, the oil freezing almost instantly. Then, with a heavy heart, he rose and urged Piotr and the others near him forward. The body was already being covered by the wind-driven snow.

"Captain! How much longer?" Monsignor Valerius shouted over the keening wind.

Slutsky turned, his face a rictus of frost and exhaustion beneath the matted fur of his ushanka. He stabbed a gloved finger at a map pinned open with a rusted cavalry saber against the cart’s side.

"Fifty kilometers! If the blizzard holds and the Reds haven't sealed–"

The word died, strangled by a sound that punched through the wind’s howl. A distant, hollow crump. Then another. Closer.

Valerius knew artillery. Knew the dreadful pause between the distant thunder and the earth’s scream. His blood turned to ice water. "Saints preserve–"

WHUMPH-CRACK!

The world dissolved. Snow, mud, and something wetter erupted thirty paces ahead. A cart vanished in a geyser of splintered wood and crimson mist. Screams ripped through the column, instantly swallowed by the wind’s renewed fury. A severed arm, still clad in peasant wool, landed with a soft thud near Valerius’ boots.

"DOWN!" Slutsky’s bellow was one of pure terror. "GET DOWN, YOU FOOLS!"

Valerius didn’t think, throwing his body to the cold ground below. The Sisters screamed prayers, huddling together around the orphans like terrified birds.

Around them, the vast, groaning river of humanity convulsed. People tripped, fell, were trampled. Panic, sharper than any sword, sliced through the remnants of order.

White soldiers bellowed conflicting orders, scrambling for cover behind carts or simply diving into the churned snow. Crossbows clattered uselessly to the ground.

The next shell landed further back, a muffled crump followed by the horrific, wet crunch of impact. More screams, fainter this time, lost in the gale. Then, silence. Not true silence, the wind still screamed, the children wailed, and the injured moaned.

Valerius lifted his head, snow crusting his eyelashes. Through the swirling white, figures moved on the ridgline to the east. Dark shapes against the grey, indistinct but purposeful.

Artillery spotters. Red Army.

"Sister Evgenia!" Valerius rasped, pushing himself up. "Get the children under the cart! Now!" The nun, face bloodless but eyes fierce, scrambled to obey, herding the sobbing orphans into the dubious shelter of the wagon’s lee.

Slutsky was already moving, crouched low, barking orders at a cluster of his men. Most carried only swords, axes, or the ubiquitous Ursine crossbows. Slow but powerful, and utterly useless at this range.

Only a handful of veterans looked towards the ridge with any semblance of readiness.

And Valerius stood ready with his patron firearm.

"Militia! Probably a screening force falling back from the Leithanien front!" Slutsky snarled, spitting blood-tinged phlegm onto the snow. "They see meat, and they’re hungry! We’re blocking their retreat path!" He turned, his eyes locking onto Valerius’. There was no plea there, only brutal assessment. "Priest. That toy of yours. Can it reach?"

Valerius gripped the ornate handle of his firearm, its Law-derived power humming faintly against his palm. It wasn’t artillery. But it was range. "If they come closer," he stated, his voice steadier than he felt. "Or if their spotters get bold."

"Make them bold," Slutsky grunted. He pointed to a knot of his best crossbowmen taking shaky cover behind an overturned sleigh. "Cover them. Let them pick off a few Reds. Draw the spotters’ eyes. Make them think twice about advancing."

As if summoned, another shell screamed overhead. This one landed long, exploding harmlessly—for them—in the empty steppe beyond the rear of the column.

The White crossbowmen fired. Valerius couldn’t see if they hit anything on the distant ridge. But the return fire was immediate. An bolt cracked the wood near where he stood

Valerius moved. Not towards the sleigh, but sideways, towards a hummock of frozen earth thrusting from the snow. He dropped behind it, the Sankta firearm held ready.

Saints forgive me. Valerius exhaled slowly, the prayer automatic. The Law demanded protection of the innocent. These men were targeting children. He focused, the Sankta Arts within him resonating with the firearm. A faint, golden light limned the ornate barrel. His halo flared, a sudden, fierce corona of golden light piercing the blizzard's gloom, marking him like a beacon.

He squeezed the trigger.

BRRRRAAAAAPPP!

Sustained indefinite fire, tearing shriek that drowned the wind. His patron firearm unleashed its divine fury. Six hundred rounds per minute became a torrent of searing, golden energy. It wasn't bullets in the mundane sense, like all Sankta firearm, they shot condensed Arts as bullets. Projectiles of pure, radiant judgment.

The effect on the exposed Red spotters and the nearby infantry scrambling down the slope was apocalyptic. Where the golden stream touched, quilted jackets vaporized.

For three terrifying seconds, Valerius swept the lower slope. The golden tracers stitched a line of annihilation, decimating the forward scouts and observers. The relentless rifle fire from the ridge stuttered, replaced by shouts of pure terror. The advancing line recoiled, men throwing themselves flat or scrambling backwards into the teeth of the blizzard.

The deafening roar stopped as abruptly as it began. Valerius released the trigger, the barrel glowing cherry-red beneath the frost, tendrils of golden smoke writhing in the icy air.

The silence that followed was almost physical, broken only by the moaning wind and the panicked cries from the refugee column. The slope below was a charnel field of steaming craters, scattered limbs, and dark stains rapidly being covered by snow. His halo pulsed erratically, the strain of channeling such power momentarily overwhelming.

"MOVE, DAMN YOU ALL! NOW!" Slutsky's voice shattered the stunned silence. The momentary terror inflicted by the Sankta light was their only chance. "SOUTH! INTO THE RAVINE! FOLLOW THE MARKERS! GO! GO! GO!"

The column surged forward, no longer a shuffle but a terrified stampede. People abandoned possessions, pushed past the fallen, driven by primal fear. Slutsky grabbed Valerius's arm, his grip like iron.

“Monsignor! With me! That light show bought us a heartbeat, not a day!" He pointed frantically south, towards a deeper fold in the land barely visible through the snow – the mouth of the promised ravine. "They'll regroup! They'll call heavier arms!”

As they stumbled after the fleeing tail of the column, pushing through the press of bodies, the ridge came alive again. Not with infantry charges, but with disciplined, probing fire. Heavy Originium bolts thwacked into the snow around them, fired from greater range and cover. A guttural roar, amplified by crude bullhorns or Arts, echoed down the slope, distorted by the wind but chillingly clear in intent.

"...SANKTA DOG! TRAITORS! BURN FOR THE TSAR!"

"Ignore them! Run!" Slutsky yelled, shoving a stumbling woman forward. His few crossbowmen returned sporadic fire, their shots puny against the renewed onslaught from the ridge.

Valerius glanced back. Darker shapes were moving again, not charging, but advancing methodically under covering fire. He saw the hulking outlines of armored figures, perhaps Infected troopers, or Ursus heavies in salvaged plate. They were learning. They wouldn't present easy targets again.

It felt like hours running through the snow. Hours still Valerius felt his legs might give up.

But then…

“Halt!”

The sight of the Leithanien soldiers materializing through the swirling snow was less relief and more dislocation.

Valerius stumbled, legs burning like lead, breath sawing in his throat. The Caprinae troopers stood rigid, crossbows held at port arms, their dark, heavy uniforms and polished brass insignia was a stark contrast to the ragged, frost-caked horror of the refugee column. They blocked the narrowest point of the ravine.

“Spricht jemand Leithanisch?” He demanded, the deman cut through the gasps and whimpers of the exhausted refugees.

Does anyone speak Leithanien?    

Chaos rippled through the front of the column. Confused murmurs in Ursine dialects rose. Slutsky shoved his way forward, his face a mask of fury and exhaustion.

"Who commands here?" he barked in rough Ursine, hand resting on his saber hilt. "We are refugees fleeing the Red Terror! Let us pass!"

The Caprinae soldier who had spoken, likely a junior officer given the subtle braid on his collar, didn't react to Slutsky's Ursine.

His eyes scanned the desperate mass—the weeping children clutched by Sisters, the hollow-eyed elderly, the wounded being half-carried, the grim-faced White soldiers with their scavenged weapons. His gaze lingered for a fraction longer on Valerius, taking in the distinct Laterano vestments, the faint, residual glow of his halo, and his patron firearm.

He raised his voice slightly, repeating the question. “Spricht jemand Leithanisch? Oder Lateran? Jetzt!”

Does anyone speak Leithanien? Or Lateran? Now!

Valerius pushed forward, past Slutsky's protective bulk. His Lateran seminary education included fluent Leithanien, being the language of philosophy, complex Arts, and diplomacy.

“Ich spreche Leithanisch, Herr Hauptmann,” I speak Leithanien, captain. Valerius declared, his Laterano cadence cutting through the blizzard like a clarion call. He straightened, the golden nimbus of his halo flaring weakly against the oppressive grey.

  “Monsignore Valerius, Apostolischer Vikar des Heiligen Stuhls für Nord-Ursus.”

Monsignor Valerius, Apostolic Vicar of the Holy See for North Ursus.

The formal title was a shield, a claim to authority beyond borders. “Diese Seelen sind keine Soldaten. Sie sind Flüchtlinge, gejagt vom roten Terror! Ordensschwestern, Waisen, Greise. Die Rote Armee schlachtet sie wie Vieh. Wir ersuchen um Asyl nach dem Gesetz der Zivilisierten Völker!”

These souls are not soldiers. They are refugees, hunted by the red terror! Nuns, orphans, the aged. The Red Army slaughters them like cattle. We seek asylum under the law of civilized nations!

“Schon wieder?” The officer sighed.

Again?

“Reste der Weißen Armee, ja? Auf Befehl Ihrer Majestäten, der Doppelkaiserinnen, Willkommen in Leithanien.”

Remnants of the White Army, yes? By order of Their Majesties, the Twin Empresses, welcome to Leithanien.

Chapter Text

How does a country become a country?

A country has to have a permanent population.

A country has to have a defined territory.

A country has to have a government.

A country has to have the capacity to enter relations with other countries.

Although the revolution had vowed to destroy any semblance of the old Ursus, it also inherited Ursus’ borders, its debts, its rivalries, and its place, however despised, in the eyes of the world.

From the ashes of the old empire, the Federative Soviet Socialist Republics of Ursus could declare itself a state. It could print stamps bearing Talulah's stern profile instead of the Tsar's. It could pass decrees in the name of the Soviets. But without recognition, it remained a pariah.

To the world, it was still ‘Ursus,’ but an Ursus that had gone mad. An Ursus that was no longer predictable, an Ursus that was now ‘revolutionary’.

Where had their beloved predictable Ursus had gone to?

In the eyes of foreign governments, the FSSRU was not yet a peer, instead it was a question mark.

Was it a legitimate state, or merely the largest, most dangerous bandit gang Terra had ever seen? Was Talulah Artorius a head of state, or a merely a warlord who’ve usurped the throne?

These were exactly the questions the Commissar for Foreign Affairs brought to her in a private meeting—a meeting she hadn’t wanted, especially when she was meant to be on her way to Alina.

Settling in the chair opposite was a well-groomed, middle-aged man named Aleksandr Korolev. Frostnova’s KGB dossiers described him plainly enough—a collaborator of the Tsarist regime. Once an Assistant Minister in the Imperial Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Korolev had committed the ultimate class betrayal by joining the revolution.

Well—‘joining’ wasn’t quite right.

Talulah had read the reports in full. Korolev had survived not through conviction, but through calculation, with perhaps a bit of luck. He had offered just enough cooperation to the Soviets during the civil war to be useful, and just enough discretion to avoid an execution from either side.

By the time the Tsarist government collapsed, he was already indispensable as the man who knew every embassy in the capital, every backchannel to foreign press, and every treaty the Empire had ever signed. The only high-ranking Tsarist functionary to walk away alive, and the only veteran bureaucrat while the others are dead.

Now, sitting across from her, his neatly trimmed beard and polished manners seemed almost out of place in the austere office of the Chairwoman. His suit, though plain, was expertly tailored. No doubt a remnant from his Tsarist days.

How the delegates had ever voted him into the position of Commissar remained unfathomable. Yet here he was.

“I hope I haven’t interrupted anything, Chairwoman?” Korolev began smoothly.

“No. Not at all.” The lie was flat, irritation still tugged at her voice. “You wanted to speak about foreign policy?”

“That I do.” Korolev leaned forward, clearing his throat. “I imagine the question of recognition weighs on you as much as it does on me.”

“It does,” Talulah admitted. “Though protocol dictates these matters route through the Premier.”

A ghost of a smirk touched Korolev’s lips.

“Respectfully, Chairwoman, we both understand the fiction inherent in such formalities.” He paused. Alina was her heart, her conscience, but the revolutionary fist, the ideological compass, was Talulah. “The policy, the realpolitik required to navigate the vipers’ nest out there,” he gestured vaguely towards the frosted window, “originates here. With the source. If I seek understanding, I come to the font.”

Talulah let the silence stretch, partly to unnerve him, partly because she was deciding whether to have him burned out of principle.

“Go on,” she said finally.

Korolev leaned back.

“Ursus, Chairwoman, was not some minor principality. It was a Great Power. Its shadow stretched across Terra, its influence, however brutal, was a geopolitical constant. This legacy is a double-edged sword. Prestige lingers, opening doors that might otherwise remain bolted… but it also sharpens the knives aimed at our back. The world remembers Ursus for its strength. Strength some feared, some coveted, and many now desperately wish to see extinguished forever.”

He met her eyes. “Our borders are immutable geographic facts. Our government, however experimental, functions. Our people—they exist. The paramount question is not our existence, but how to compel the cynical lords of Terra to acknowledge it. To translate our revolutionary reality into their brittle language of legitimacy. This requires forging alliances from expediency and ensuring that those who oppose us find the cost of denying our existence… prohibitively high.”

Talulah studied him, her gaze was flat and unreadable. “And how do you propose we do that without prostrating ourselves to the highest bidder?”

“Because, Chairwoman, beneath the bluster and the condemnations, they need us. More acutely, perhaps, than we currently need them.” Korolev smirked. “What does Ursus provide? Timber, metals, grain, originum—basic unprocessed resources in quantities that kept foreign markets afloat. There are nations—hungry nations—that cannot afford to see Ursus sealed behind its own borders.”

“Resources are nothing without nothing to move them.” Talulah countered.

Korolev inclined his head in acknowledgment. “True. But resources aren’t all we hold. Victoria’s banks still sit on mountains of Imperial debt. Repudiate it entirely, as some hotheads in the Soviets demand, and you’ll send financial tremors from Londinium to Lungmen. Offer renegotiations—structured around resource concessions or controlled port access—and suddenly, you’re no longer a pariah. You’re a problematic partner. And problematic partners get recognized, if only to keep them at the bargaining table.”

Much to her own irritation, Talulah found herself almost impressed by how thorough his strategy was. Dangerously so. Although… what grates her nerves was the fact his speech pattern is very… posh. Like how Kashey talks, which makes her blood boil even more.

In essence, Korolev’s proposal was simple.

They would hold the world hostage.

And he was right to do so.

Ursus commanded resources others could not match. Columbian and Lungmenite corporations had long purchased Ursine ores for pennies, Victorian banks had fed the old Empire with loans, and every bordering nation depended on Ursine grain or timber at some point in the year. The world could condemn the revolution all it wanted, but it could not do without what lay beneath Ursus’ soil.

Still, she remembered well of how most of the Commissars in the Council had argued for cutting the world off entirely. An autarky immune to the whims of foreign markets. Foreign markets, they reminded everyone, that were wholly bourgeois.

Perhaps that was why Korolev had come to her first, rather than presenting this in yesterday’s Council meeting. He knew it would be strangled in the cradle.

When Korolev finally finished his long-winded speech, Talulah exhaled slowly. “And who do you propose we convince first?”

Korolev’s eyes glinted. “Columbia.”

Ah. Right. The KGB dossier had mentioned something she’d almost forgotten—Aleksandr Korolev was a Columbiaphile.

She tilted her head slightly. “Out of every possible target, you choose the farthest, most capitalist state on Terra.”

“Precisely,” Korolev replied, as if she’d just agreed with him. “Their economy thrives on trade, their corporations hunger for resources, and their political stage is a battlefield of influence. Recognition from Columbia would send a signal to every market and every capital that Ursus is not an isolated fortress, but a player in the game. They will not like us, Chairwoman—but they will need us.”

Talulah tapped her fingers against the armrest. “And what will they ask in return?”

Korolev’s smile was faint, knowing. “They will demand access, of course. But access is a weapon, and a weapon can be pointed either way.”

“Let’s shelve the economics part.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “What else? Why Columbia?”

“Because, Chairwoman,” he said smoothly, “we can appeal to our common ideology. Columbia began as a breakaway colony of Victoria, as you know. We are like sister republics in a world full of autocracies.”

Talulah tilted her head. “Sister republics?” Her tone was flat, almost mocking. “They’re a capitalist federation. We’re a socialist federation. The resemblance ends at the word ‘federation.’”

Korolev held his ground, the polished diplomat weathering the revolutionary storm. "The narrative, Chairwoman," he pressed, undeterred. "The symbolism. It resonates in their political discourse, however corrupted. They see themselves as the vanguard against old-world tyranny. We are the vanguard against it. The parallel, however imperfect, is a lever we can pull. It opens doors closed to monarchies like Victoria or Leithanien."

"Symbolism?" Talulah leaned forward slightly, the movement predatory. "Columbia’s ‘vanguard’ builds Originium refineries on the backs of under-paid and overworked laborers. Their ‘freedom’ is measured in stock dividends and private security forces crushing union halls. Their senators debate trade tariffs while their corporations sell siege weapons to anyone with the LMD—including, I suspect, remnants of the Tsar’s guard if the price is right."

Her knuckles whitened on the armrest. "Appealing to their revolutionary spirit is like offering water to a drowning man and calling it solidarity. It’s obscene."

Korolev’s composure finally showed a hairline crack, a tightening around his eyes. "Obscene, perhaps. But effective? Undeniably. Columbia is the key. Precisely because they are the farthest, the most capitalist, the most… pragmatically amoral nation on Terra."

He ticked off points on his fingers, mirroring his earlier resource list, but now listing intangibles.

"One, their economy is a ravenous beast. They need our raw materials. Originium for their industry, tungsten for their armored cores, timber for their endless expansion. They will calculate profit before piety more than anything else.”

“Two, their political landscape is fractured. Senators fight for corporate favor and regional influence. We can exploit those fractures. Offer preferential deals to Columbian Midwest mining consortiums, and suddenly senators from Trimounts become our unwitting advocates. Offer port access to our farthest cities from them to Columbian shipping magnates, and watch the senators from New Columbus sing a different tune.”

“Three, their media. It’s a beast, yes, often rabid, but it’s influential, across Terra I dare say. A well-placed narrative, such as the ‘misunderstood revolutionary state,’ the ‘potential vast market,’ the ‘dangers of Victorian/Leithanien encirclement’ can shift public perception, which pressures politicians. Recognition from Columbia wouldn’t just be a stamp, Chairwoman, it would be a seismic event broadcasted across Terra."

He paused before continuing. "Why not Victoria? Because Victoria is shackled by tradition, debt, and fear. They see us as barbarians at the gate, a direct threat to their aristocratic order. Leithanien? They see us as ideological poison. Kazimierz? Too close, too volatile, too invested in seeing us fail. But Columbia… Columbia sees opportunity. They see a vast, untapped market, a source of cheap resources, and a potential thorn in the side of their Victorian rivals. They are the player most likely to break ranks for tangible gain. They are the weak link in the chain of condemnation."

Talulah stared at him, the dragon within warring with the stateswoman forced into existence. She saw the point of his ruthless logic. She saw the path to the oxygen Korolev spoke of.

But she also saw the faces of Columbian corporate envoys she’d likely have to endure, men who viewed Oripathy as a manageable workplace hazard, who would haggle over mineral rights while Infected children coughed blood in the streets of mining cities.

The bile rose in her throat.

"Access is a weapon," she repeated his earlier words. "And you propose handing that weapon to them? Letting Columbian corporations sink their teeth into our mines, our forests? Letting their 'advisors' roam our rebuilding cities? How long before they demand 'stability' for their investments? Stability that looks suspiciously like crushing Soviet autonomy or curbing worker councils?"

"Control the terms, Chairwoman," Korolev countered swiftly. "Access is not ownership. Licenses, not deeds. Strict oversight by the relevant People's Commissariats. Time limits. We can demand their latest filtration tech as part of the deal. We dictate the scope. We use their greed to rebuild our infrastructure, acquire their technology, on our terms. They get their profit, we get the tools and capital to build the society we envision. It is… transactional, deeply transactional. But it is survival."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping. “Think about it. Recognition from Columbia shatters the illusion of our isolation. It forces Victoria to recalculate, cling to old debts and risk Columbia dominating the Ursine market? It turns Leithanien’s harboring of fleeing terrorists into a liability. It shows Kazimierz they can’t trample us without consequence. It buys us the time and the space we desperately need.”

Talulah closed her eyes for a moment.

She saw the gaunt faces of children in bread lines. She saw the Infected collapse in the snow, lungs ruined by crystal growths. She saw the purists in the Council, willing to starve in the name of ideological purity. And she saw Korolev’s serpentine path—slick with compromise—leading toward a future dimmer than he cared to admit.

When she opened her eyes, her voice was flat. “Draft your proposal. It goes through Congress.”

Korolev inclined his head with the faintest trace of a smile—neither victory nor gratitude, but satisfaction.

“I’m here…” When Talulah entered Alina’s medical room, she found her Premier silhouetted against the weak afternoon light pouring through the tall window. Alina wasn't reclined in her bed, she sat, leaning slightly against a sturdy wooden table commandeered as a makeshift desk.

Spread across it wasn't medical equipment, but a chaotic sprawl of reports, maps, and hastily scribbled notes.

The sight stole Talulah’s breath for a moment. Relief warred with a sharp pang of concern. “Alina…” Her voice, roughened by the meeting, softened. “You’re… up?”

Alina turned, a tired but genuine smile touching her lips. The pallor was less pronounced, the shadows under her eyes receding, replaced by a determined focus Talulah hadn't seen in weeks.

“Since yesterday,” she confirmed, her voice stronger. “The medics finally stopped fussing enough for me to escape the bed. And since I’m apparently the head of this government…” She gestured wryly at the paperwork. “The work doesn’t wait for full recovery.”

Talulah crossed the room, the tension from Korolev momentarily forgotten. “You should still take it slow,” she insisted, pulling out the chair opposite Alina’s perch. “Pushing yourself too soon…”

Alina waved a dismissive hand, though the gesture held less fragility than it might have a week ago. “Slow is a luxury we don’t have, Tal. And I can’t let you shoulder everything.” Her gaze sharpened, shifting from Talulah’s face to the lingering tension in her posture. “You look like you wrestled a bear. Korolev?”

Talulah grimaced. “He’s… proposing ‘a’ path...” Before she could elaborate further, Alina reached for a specific file.

“Speaking of…” Alina said. “He delivered this personally. Just about before you came. Said it was ‘urgent context’ for your discussions.” She slid the file across the table towards Talulah.

Talulah frowned, taking the file. The crisp paper felt cold. “He didn’t mention this to me.” She flipped it open. Inside weren’t economic projections or diplomatic strategies, but military dispatches and annotated maps. Red arrows stabbed aggressively across the western and southern borders, marking territory. Kilometers of territory.

Kazimierzian forward elements have established fortified positions 15km east of the pre-conflict demarcation line...

Leithanien border patrols have extended their operational radius, effectively annexing the disputed 'Kholm Pocket'... Local Soviet militias report harassment and denial of access...

The words blurred for a second, replaced by a white-hot spike of fury.

The carefully constructed arguments, the cold logic of leverage Korolev had spun, it suddenly felt like smoke obscuring a knife in the dark. This was the urgency. This was the unspoken pressure point he’d strategically withheld during their meeting, only to deliver it silently to Alina. A calculated move to heighten the sense of crisis, to make his bitter medicine seem the only antidote.

“Their carving us up.” Talulah hissed, her knuckles whitening on the file’s edge. The maps swam before her eyes, the red arrows like wounds on the body of their nascent republic.

Alina, however, didn’t mirror her fury. A different kind of intensity burned in her eyes.

“The Second Congress,” she asked, her voice calm. “When is it convened?”

Talulah blinked, momentarily thrown. “Tomorrow. Why?”

A small, determined smile touched Alina’s lips, devoid of warmth but full of purpose. She gestured towards the stack of reports beside the invasion dossier.

“I’ve already scheduled an emergency session of the Council of Commissars for this evening. This border crisis,” she tapped the file, “along with several other critical issues we couldn’t resolve yesterday.”

Talulah stared at her. The image of Alina, pale but resolute, facing down the fractious Council sent a fresh wave of protective fury through her. “What? You’re going in alone? Alina, you just got out of bed! The doctors—”

“The doctors cleared me for light duty,” Alina interrupted, her voice firm, brooking no argument. She pushed herself slightly straighter, a subtle act of will that spoke volumes.

“And ‘light duty’ doesn’t mean hiding under blankets while our borders bleed.” She met Talulah’s gaze steadily. “I’m Premier, Tal. Not fragile glass. I can chair a meeting. I must chair this meeting.” Her gaze softened fractionally. “You don’t have to stand guard over me every moment. The revolution needs its Chairwoman focused on the larger battlefield, not babysitting the head of government.”

Talulah leaned back slightly, her eyes narrowing, not in anger, but in something closer to unease. “…You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”

“Doing what?”

“Taking the lead,” Talulah said after a pause. “I’m not sure if it’s because you want to… or because you think I’ll break if I keep carrying everything.”

Alina tilted her head, studying her. “Maybe it’s both.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The faint hum of the city below filled the silence, punctuated by the distant whistle of a train.

“You don’t have to prove yourself to me,” Talulah murmured.

Alina’s smile returned, softer this time. “And you don’t have to shield me from everything.”

Talulah looked away first. She wasn’t ready to admit which part of that scared her more.

The Second National Congress of the All-Ursus Soviets convened beneath the ornate chandeliers of the Bolshoi Theatre. Its grand velvet curtains and gilded balconies had once framed operas for the Tsar’s court had now held rows upon rows of elected delegates in thick coats and Party armbands.

The Winter Palace was far too small to host over a thousand representatives, and the state still had no formal legislative hall. So, for now, the Bolshoi would serve as the beating heart of the fledgling republic’s politics.

Nearly 1,300 delegates had come from Soviets across the breadth of Ursus. Factory committees from the cities, frontier militias from the borderlands, trade unionists, farmers, and provincial councils from territories still recovering from the war.

At the long table on the stage, beneath the imposing proscenium arch, sat the Council of People's Commissars.

Alina occupied the central seat as Premier. To her right sat Talulah, Chairwoman of the Party, a stern, watchful dragon beside the stateswoman. Frostnova, Patriot, Korolev, and the others flanked them, a tableau of revolutionary power etched in stark contrast to the theatre's baroque excess.

An elderly delegate stepped to the simple wooden podium that replaced the conductor's stand. His voice, amplified by the microphone, echoed through throughout the room.

"Delegates of the Second All-Ursus Congress of Soviets! Please rise for the state anthem of our Federation, and the anthem of the workers' international struggle!"

A rustle like a great beast stirring swept through the theatre. Boots scraped on marble, chairs creaked, bodies stiffened—these were common people. Farmers, factory laborers, miners, soldiers, intellectuals. They rose, a thousand points of light and shadow under the chandeliers' glare.

Talulah stood with them, her gaze sweeping the hall. This was the revolution made flesh. Not a theoretical vanguard, but the battered, diverse multitude who had shattered the chains and now sought to build.

Then, it began. Not from an orchestra pit, but from a hundred throats, then a thousand. A deep, rolling wave of raw powerful sound, surging up from the floor of the theatre, climbing the tiers of balconies, filling the gilded void with a force that shook the crystal teardrops above.

(Note: This is the English translation for the Internationale in Russian.)

Stand up, ones who are branded by the curse,

All the world’s starving and enslaved!     

The Leithanien song, translated into Ursine, carried the weight of generations. it was a declaration.

A miner's baritone, thick with the dust of the pits, locked into harmony with a young woman's clear, fierce alto. A veteran's rasp, scarred by battlefield smoke, blended with the resonant bass of a farmer.

The melody was simple, almost a march, but the collective force behind it transformed it into something sacred. It was defiance given voice, hope forged in struggle, a promise shouted into the face of a hostile world.

Our outraged minds are boiling,

Ready to lead us into a deadly fight!

Talulah felt the vibrations resonate in her bones. She saw faces contorted with fervor, tears tracing paths through grime on weathered cheeks, fists clenched unconsciously.

Alina beside her stood straight, her eyes closed for a moment, absorbing the tidal wave of sound, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in her lips as she silently formed the words.

We will destroy this world of violence,

Down with the foundations, and then,

We will build our new world.

He who was nothing will become everything!

The final, thunderous lines crashed against the theatre's ornate walls.

This is our final

and decisive battle;

With the Internationale,

humanity will rise up!

The last note hung in the air, a physical presence, vibrating the very dust motes dancing in the chandelier light. No applause followed, but a collective exhalation.

A moment of shared breath, shared purpose, shared exhaustion, and shared hope. Slowly, the delegates settled back into their seats.

Alina rose. The spotlight found her as she moved to the podium. The weight of the Premier's office seemed both immense and strangely fitting on her slender frame. The theatre held its breath again. This was the voice that would translate the roar of the Internationale into the hard language of governance.

"Comrades. Delegates of the All-Ursus Congress of Soviets," Alina began, her voice clear, amplified, carrying effortlessly to the farthest balcony. It lacked Talulah’s fire, but it possessed a far calmer tone. "We gather not in triumph, but in the urgent dawn of reconstruction. The chains are broken, yes. The Winter Palace lies in ruins. But the walls of the new world are built brick by brick, law by law, harvest by harvest.”

She paused, letting the gravity of the task settle. "The Council of People's Commissars therefore presents the following decrees for ratification by this Congress.”

"The estates of the nobility, the Church, and the Tsar are hereby irrevocably confiscated, without compensation," Alina declared. A wave of approval rippled through the delegates.

"This land belongs to those who work it. It will be distributed not to individuals, but to the local Agricultural Soviets—peasant communes, collective farms—for equitable allocation and management based on local conditions and need.” She met the eyes of the Agrarian delegates. "Surplus produce, after local needs are met, will be pooled under the People's Commissariat for Agriculture to ensure no Soviet starves while another has plenty."

"Factories, mines, workshops seized from Imperial and bourgeois owners," Alina continued, shifting her gaze to the industrial delegates, "are placed under the direct control of the workers who operate them." A murmur of approval rose.

"But control demands responsibility. Workers' Councils within each enterprise, elected by the workforce, will manage daily operations, set production goals aligned with state plans, ensure safety, and distribute wages." She paused, her tone hardening slightly. "However, strategic resources such as Originum extraction, major steelworks, and armaments fall under the oversight of the People's Commissariat for Industry and the relevant Regional Soviets. The revolution requires coordination, comrades. We cannot have each mine or factory acting as an isolated fiefdom while the nation starves or faces invasion." It was a compromise, a leash on pure syndicalism born of necessity, met with some grumbling but general acceptance.

Alina turned towards Patriot, a silent acknowledgment. "The Red Army is the shield of the revolution. But a shield must be strong, disciplined, and loyal only to the Soviets." Her voice gained an edge. "Conscription is to be abolished. Service in the Red Army is henceforth voluntary. However," she held up a hand, forestalling premature cheers, "all able-bodied citizens between 18 and 40 will register for mandatory People's Militia training under Soviet oversight. They will be the bedrock of local defense and national reserves."

She then delivered the harder news. "The Army will be reduced to a core professional force of 500,000. The rest—the heroes of the Long March and the civil war—will be demobilized with honors and priority placement in reconstruction, industry, and land collectives.”

Alina’s tone shifted. "The FSSRU guarantees the following. Freedom of speech and assembly, except for calls to counter-revolution, monarchy, or ethnic hatred. Freedom of religion, provided it does not contravene Soviet law or incite violence— all religious property is now state property. Full emancipation and suffrage for all citizens over 18, regardless of race, species, gender, or Infected status." A significant pause.

"Marriage is a civil contract, dissolvable by either party. Discrimination based on race, species, gender, or Infected status is illegal in all spheres." She took a breath. "In return, all citizens share the duties to work according to their ability, to defend the Soviet state, and to uphold its laws."

Alina’s gaze swept the hall, landing briefly on Korolev, then moving on. "We seek peaceful coexistence with all nations. We repudiate the predatory debts of the Tsar, incurred to oppress our people and wage wars of conquest. However," she cleared her throat, "we are prepared to negotiate these debts, and open trade, with nations willing to recognize the sovereignty of the FSSRU and engage as equals." She paused, letting the implication hang.

"The levers of capital, wielded by Imperial banks and foreign financiers to strangle our people, are seized." A ripple of focused attention went through the hall, especially from urban delegates.

"All private banks, credit institutions, and major financial holdings are nationalized. Their assets become the property of the Federative Republics, administered by the People's Commissariat for Finance. A single State Bank of the FSSRU will be established to centralize credit in the service of the national economy—for rebuilding, for industry, and for the Soviets—not for private profit. The Imperial Chevronet is abolished. A new Soviet currency called the ‘Ruble’ will be introduced." She met the eyes of the Industry and Agriculture Commissars. "This severs the arteries of the old exploitative system and places the lifeblood of finance under workers' control."

Alina paused and drank a glass of water before continuing.

"The revolution promises not just liberation from chains, but liberation from want." Alina's voice softened slightly, embodying the healer's promise. "Therefore, the FSSRU establishes the right to; Free medical care for all citizens, administered through local Soviet clinics and regional hospitals under the People's Commissariat for Health. Special priority and resources will be directed towards the research, treatment, and suppression of Oripathy." A murmur of relief, particularly from delegates representing Infected-heavy Soviets, swept through the hall.

"Free and compulsory education for all children up to the age of sixteen, eradicating the illiteracy fostered by the Tsar. The curriculum will be reformed by the People's Commissariat for Education to serve the needs of the workers' state and instill socialist consciousness. Furthermore, the state assumes responsibility for the care of orphans, the elderly without support, and those disabled by labor or war." This was the promise of the new world made tangible, met with nods and quiet, hopeful murmurs.

"The palaces of the nobility stand empty while workers huddle in slums. This ends today." Alina stated firmly.

"All large urban dwellings, former aristocratic mansions, and unused religious properties suitable for habitation are confiscated. Local Housing Soviets, comprised of residents and delegates, will oversee the equitable distribution of this housing based on family size and need, prioritizing the homeless, veterans, and families of fallen comrades. Rent, where applicable, will be set at a minimal, flat rate. New construction projects, focusing on clean, functional housing for workers, will be a priority of the Reconstruction Committee."

"Imperial courts served the Tsar and the nobility. Soviet courts serve the people." Alina's tone became solemn.

"The old judicial system is abolished. In its place, a system of People's Courts is established at local and regional levels. Judges will be elected directly by the respective Soviets or by the working population, subject to recall. The basis of law will be the revolutionary conscience of the working people and the decrees of the Soviet state." She paused, her gaze sweeping the delegates.

"Special Revolutionary Tribunals, accountable to the Central Executive Committee of the Congress of Soviets, will be empowered to try cases of grave counter-revolutionary activity, sabotage, and high treason. The death penalty is retained for such crimes." A heavy silence followed this. "All prisoners held under Imperial laws for political offenses or crimes of poverty are to be reviewed immediately, with many will be released. Prisons will focus on rehabilitation through socially useful labor."

"Ursus was a prison house of nations. The FSSRU is a federation, as proclaimed in the first Congress of the All-Ursus Soviets." Alina emphasized. "All peoples inhabiting our territory—Ursine, Feline, Sarkaz, Elafia, Cautus, Caprinae, and others—possess the right to cultural autonomy. Regional Soviets in areas with distinct national majorities have the right to conduct local administration and education in their native languages, within the framework of the Soviet Constitution and federal law. Discrimination based on nationality or ethnicity is a punishable offense. The unity of the working class across all national lines is paramount in the defense and construction of our socialist homeland."

Again, Alina took a longer pause this time. To breath, and to drink from the glass of water again. Which was then filled again by an aide.

When she spoke again, she spoke clearer. "Comrades, we inherit ruins and empty granaries. To survive this winter and the next, strict, equitable rationing of essential goods—bread, fuel, medicine—is implemented immediately under the authority of the Committee for Reconstruction. Production quotas for essential industries—food, fuel, clothing, Oripathy suppressants—are set and enforced. All resources are mobilized for survival and reconstruction.”

She took a deep breath, the sheer scope of the task outlined hanging in the air. "These decrees, comrades, are the blueprint laid upon the foundation of our victory. They are presented for your debate, your amendment, and ultimately, your ratification. This Congress is the supreme expression of Soviet power. Through your will, these words become the law of our new land."

Then, with a swiftness that cut through the gravitas, she added. "And finally, The Council of People’s Commissars, in consultation with the Presidium of the Central Executive Committee, wishes to propose the renaming of the Tsarist capital of Deity Grypherburg. Henceforth, should this Congress approve, it shall be known as Artoriagrad, to honor our esteemed Chairwoman, Talulah Artorius, whose vision and resolve forged this revolution and this republic."

Silence. Not the charged silence of anticipation, but a stunned, momentary vacuum.

Talulah, who had been leaning back in her chair, eyes heavy-lidded from the relentless pressure and the sheer emotional toll of the anthem and the preceding hours, visibly jolted.

Her spine straightened like a steel rod rammed into her seat. Her eyes opened wide and utterly shocked, snapped towards Alina.

"Huh? Wha—"

Heat flooded her neck and face, clashing violently with the icy shock. Artoriagrad? Named after her?

Alina didn’t flinch. She met the ripple of surprise spreading through the delegates with composure.

"Therefore," she continued smoothly, as if Talulah’s strangled protest hadn’t occurred, her voice regaining its amplified projection, "we shall commence voting on the items immediately. Delegates will signify approval by raising their mandate cards."

The procedural machinery of the Congress, momentarily derailed, clanked back into motion. The Presidium delegate, recovering his wits, stepped forward. "The voting will proceed item by item. Delegate cards raised signify 'Za'—For. Lowered signify 'Protiv'—Against. Abstentions remain unmoved. We begin with Decree One, The Land Decree."

A forest of cardboard squares, each bearing a delegate's name and soviet. The vote was near-unanimous, a roaring wave of affirmation for the soil finally returned to those who tilled it. Talulah mechanically raised her own card.

Decree Two, Workers' Control. A strong majority again, though the Industrial Syndicalist faction hesitated visibly before raising their cards at the clause granting state oversight over strategic industries.

Decree Three, Military Reorganization. Patriot's massive hand lifted his card without hesitation. A sea of cards followed, though Talulah saw some semblance of disappointment on some young officers' faces at the demobilization news.

The Rights and Duties decree passed with overwhelming support, the guarantee of freedoms and condemnation of discrimination resonating deeply. A few conservative delegates abstained on the marriage clauses, their cards remaining stubbornly flat on the table.

The Foreign Policy Directive saw Korolev raise his card with a slight, satisfied incline of his head. Approval was strong, the exposure of Kazimierz and Leithanien's aggression fueling a desire for a firm response, whatever that may be.

Decree by decree, the Socialization of Banking, Universal Social Provision, Housing Reform, People's Justice, Nationalities Autonomy, each met with varying degrees of fervent or pragmatic approval, building the legal skeleton of the new state.

Finally, the Presidium delegate cleared his throat. "Item Thirteen, The proposal to rename the capital city, Deity Grypherburg, to Artoriagrad, in honor of the Chairwoman, Talulah Artorius."

The air tightened again. Talulah braced herself, forcing her expression into neutrality. She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, refusing to look at Alina or the delegates.

"Delegates," the Presidium delegate intoned, "signify your vote."

A heartbeat. Then, like a dam bursting, it happened.

It wasn't a measured raising of cards. Delegates surged to their feet, not just raising their cards, but thrusting them high overhead, shaking them like battle trophies. A roar, not of individual voices, but a single, deafening tidal wave of sound, crashed through the Bolshoi.

"ZA! ARTORIAGRAD! ZA! ARTORIAGRAD!"

The chant swallowed the formal vote. It was acclamation, pure and fervent. their voices merged into a thunderous paean, not just for the name, but for the woman they saw as the revolution incarnate. Cards became mere extensions of their upraised fists.

The Presidium delegate, overwhelmed, didn't bother counting. He raised his arms, trying to quell the tumult enough to be heard. "The proposal... by overwhelming acclamation... is CARRIED!" he bellowed into the microphone, his voice almost lost. "Henceforth! The capital is named ARTORIAGRAD!"

The roar redoubled, shaking the crystal chandeliers until they tinkled like nervous bells. It was victory, adoration, a catharsis.

Talulah felt the sound physically vibrate through her chair. She had no choice. Slowly, stiffly, she rose to her feet. The roar intensified, focusing on her like a physical force. She offered a shallow, formal bow, her face a mask of rigid composure, the heat of embarrassment threatened to show it in her cheeks.

The chants of "Artoriagrad!" continued to echo long after the Presidium formally declared all decrees ratified. Talulah remained standing, accepting the deafening tribute, feeling the foundations of the new world settle beneath her feet—foundations that are now branded with her name. Whether for bad or for worse.

Thus, with the final remnants of the Tsarist days, the Second Congress had ended.

Chapter Text

The old Empire had been called an economic powerhouse, and on paper, perhaps it was. Endless statistics, GDP tallies, and the usual sleight-of-hand tricks economists performed made the colossus look invincible. But beneath the façade, Ursus remained what it had always been. An agrarian state.

Most of its people were peasants, tied to the soil, trapped in a system of labor that was serfdom in all but name. The nobility, whose wealth came from this backward arrangement, resisted any attempt at modernization. Factories were unwanted blights on their estates, industrial projects dismissed as threats to their privileges.

So while the world marched ahead, Ursus lagged behind. Its economy vast in size, yet brittle in substance.

Agriculture could feed millions, yes. Expanded, it could even buy time. But it could never secure the future. Not as long as the Federation remained at the mercy of weather, yields, and archaic landholding.

Talulah knew this.

Which was why she had resolved to modernize and industrialize Ursus rapidly and without hesitation.

In the weeks since the Revolution’s victory, reconstruction had surged forward. Deity Grypherburg—renamed Artoriagrad—was cleared of rubble, the broken husk of the capital giving way to work crews and scaffolding. Teams moved to restore buildings still structurally sound, while new housing for the displaced began to rise block by block.

To direct this effort, the Reconstruction Committee was formed—tasked with restoring cities, counting the dead, allocating resources, and surveying the land for industrial potential. Naturally, its chair was Talulah herself.

And the surveys had already borne fruit. Across Ursus, inspectors uncovered seams of untouched iron, veins of coal long ignored, rivers with the potential to drive turbines, and entire regions where railways had been mapped under the Empire but never built. What the old regime had neglected, the Federation could now claim.

The surveys were only the beginning. What emerged from them were the bones of Talulah’s first great initiative, one of many.

The Five-Year Plan.

It was the centerpiece of her vision, an economic program meant to wrench Ursus from its feudal past and drag it, kicking and screaming if need be, into the modern world.

Steel, originum, coal, and machine production were to be prioritized above all else. New foundries and mills would rise in in several historically industrial cities. Entire towns would be built around coal and originium mines and ore deposits.

The logic was simple. Without iron and steel, there could be no trains, no tractors, no turbines, no machine parts—and without those, there could be no future.

The Reconstruction Committee had also mapped three major rail lines to bind the Federation together. East to west—improving the pan-Ursus railway from the Kazimierz border to the Higashi border, north to south—from the northernmost city near the Infy Icefield to the Leithanien border, and a corridor linking the industrial heartlands to agricultural zones.

These would be designated sedentary train depot, where the nearest moving city can easily access supplies without hassle. This will also improve people’s transit throughout the country.

Alongside Originium processing plants, other energy sources would be constructed such as hydroelectric dams and wind turbines. Moving past a volatile energy source would be significant to reduce Oripathy exposure.

Although the main focus was heavy industry, the agricultural sector should not be left behind. Though collectivization had been shelved, mechanization was not. Tractors, mechanical threshers, and fertilizer plants were to be developed and distributed, breaking centuries of dependence on peasant drudgery. The goal was to feed the people with fewer hands, in turn, those hands could be moved to the factories.

A new Polytechnic Institute was to be founded in Artoriagrad, dedicated to engineers, chemists, and machinists. Incentives—yes, even higher pay grades—would be given to lure what few specialists Ursus had left into teaching, training, and research.

But underpinning it all was a single obstacle.

Money.

Capital, to be precise.

Reconstruction required capital, and Ursus had none. The banks were nationalized, and the vaults of the old Empire still held gold reserves, yes. Yet the Chevronet, the imperial currency, had been declared void. Though currently, people still use them to purchase anything, while she’d read reports that the villages had resorted to bartering.

Talulah often found herself staring out the window in the dead of night, mind restless with the question of how they will get the money to do anything?

The answer came, or so she hoped, with the sound of her office door creaking open.

“Pardon me, Chairwoman. I hope I am not interrupting something?”

A short feline figure entered with a folder pressed to her chest. Commissar Lev Yanayeva of Finance bowed her head slightly before stepping forward.

“You’re just in time,” Talulah said. “I trust you’ve brought something that doesn’t begin and end with ‘we are broke’?”

Yanayeva allowed herself the faintest smirk. “On the contrary, Chairwoman. I have come to introduce the future of Ursine economics.” She placed the folder on Talulah’s desk and opened it with a flick.

Inside was a design. Clean lines, the hammer and sickle within a gear, the words Государственный Банк ФССРУ (State Bank of the FSSRU) bold and unadorned.

Simple, but bold.

“The Soviet Ruble,” Yanayeva announced. “A new currency for a new Federation. Backed by the state, issued through the People’s Bank, and tied not only to our gold reserves, but to our production quotas. Its value will reflect the labor and output of the Federation itself.”

Talulah leaned forward, studying the neat sketches of banknotes and coins. “A labor-backed currency?”

"Precisely," Yanayeva confirmed, her feline ears giving the barest twitch of focus. "The Chevronet was chained to gold, Imperial debt, and foreign vaults. The Ruble is chained to our output and our quotas. Premier Alina reviewed the mechanics and approved the structure." She paused, a fractional hesitation. "The practicalities are sound, given the constraints."

Talulah’s fingers began a slow rhythmic drumming on the worn oak beside the folder. Her eyes remained fixed, not on the symbols of state, but on the faces subtly rendered in the corner of the high-denomination drafts.

Her own stern profile, etched in fine lines, and Alina’s, captured in a moment of calm resolve. Heat pricked at the base of Talulah’s neck.

"…Bold," she conceded, the word tight. "But…" Her drumming stopped. She lifted her gaze, her eyes locking onto Yanayeva’s. "Is it necessary… to put our faces on the high-value notes?"

Yanayeva’s ears twitched. “You object?”

Talulah held up the sketch of the hundred-ruble note, where her own likeness had been rendered in unforgiving lines that made her look less like a stateswoman and more like a vengeful spirit.

"I look," she stated flatly, "like I’m about to immolate someone." She flipped to the fifty-ruble design. Alina’s profile, softer, gazed serenely over stylized wheat fields, bathed in an almost ethereal light. "...And she looks like a stained-glass saint dispensing benedictions to the unworthy peasantry. Which," she added dryly, "I assure you, the Premier would find interesting at how you get these designs."

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Yanayeva’s lips. “Propaganda is half the value of currency, Chairwoman. The people must trust what they hold in their hands. A familiar face on a note is a reminder of who built the Federation, and who safeguards it.”

Talulah scowled faintly, but didn’t push further. She knew Alina would be amused at the idea of their portraits gracing banknotes.

“…Fine,” she muttered at last.

“On more pressing matters, Chairwoman,” Yanayeva cleared her throat, flipping to a new page of the folder, “we must consider three immediate problems, that being printing, inflation, and the replacement of the Chevronet.”

Talulah leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. “Go on.”

“First—printing. The Imperial Mint is pretty much destryoed, and its presses are useless. We’ve identified three smaller, salvageable printing facilities. One here in Artoriagrad, one in Strovaburg, one in Shiraziberg. We can refit them, increase their capacity. But," she emphasized, "they will be regional printers, not issuers. All production will be under the Commissariat’s direct oversight."

Talulah’s brow furrowed. "And what stops every ambitious Soviet chairman with access to ink and paper from running off their own 'People's Rubles'? Enthusiasm for local solutions tends to… overflow."

Yanayeva’s thin smile returned, colder this time. "Which is why these plates," she pointed to intricate schematics of engraved metal, "will be designed, secured, and controlled solely by the People’s Bank in Artoriagrad. Each note, from the lowliest kopek to the highest hundred, will bear a unique, layered watermark. Such as a pattern as complex as a snowflake, embedded during printing. Counterfeiting will be treated as counterrevolutionary.”

Yanayeva flipped to the next page. “Second is inflation. The danger is obvious. If we flood the market with rubles to fund reconstruction, prices will spiral. Workers will see their pay devoured before it leaves their hands. To control this, the ruble will be pegged not just to gold but to production quotas. One ruble equals a standardized unit of labor output. The state will set prices on essential goods while allowing non-essentials to float within limits.”

“And the Chevronet?” Talulah asked.

“The old currency must be withdrawn entirely. People may exchange Chevronets for rubles at fixed rates, but only for a limited window. After that, holding or trading in Chevronets will be a crime. This both stabilizes the new ruble and ensures no black-market reliance on Imperial notes.” Yanayeva explained.

“Which means,” Talulah said slowly, “we’ll anger anyone still hoarding them.”

“Indeed. But it will flush out hidden wealth, Chairwoman. Nobles and speculators who stashed fortunes will be forced to surface. They can trade them in for rubles… or lose everything.”

Talulah smirked faintly. That part, at least, she didn’t mind.

Yanayeva tapped the last page. “Finally, foreign trade. We cannot expect outsiders to accept a labor-pegged ruble. They will demand gold. Thus, I propose a dual system. Domestic transactions in rubles, foreign trade in gold-backed certificates issued by the People’s Bank. Over time, as our industries stabilize, the ruble may gain credibility abroad—but for now, gold is our bridge.”

“Perfect,” Talulah nodded. “Go ahead with that. Anything else?”

“None, I shall excuse myself.”

Talulah often times wondered how Kaschey could chair a meeting without falling asleep.

How did Kaschey endure hours of this without visibly falling asleep?

She wondered not for the first time. Even a psychopath’s patience seemed superhuman compared to the soul-crushing minutiae of civil engineering reports.

She kept her expression impassive, though, while her eyes skimmed the dense blueprints and population density charts spread before her. Having near-zero knowledge about civil engineering, she’d stayed silent most of the time.

The focus was the capital’s reconstruction.

The Chief Architect, a wiry man whose glasses perpetually slid down his nose, gestured emphatically at a large map of the city center, scarred with red ink denoting ruin zones.

"The immediate priority," he declared, tapping a cluster of blocks in the city’s north, "is housing. These districts were levelled by artillery during the final assault. We propose clearing the rubble and constructing a series of U-shaped residential complexes here, here, and here." His pointer moved automatically like a robot. "Five stories, with reinforced concrete frames, standardized apartments. It is Efficient and durable while also maximizes sunlight exposure within the courtyard spaces."

Talulah pictured it in her mind. Sure, they weren’t the most… aesthetically pleasing to look at, but it was functional housing.

Capacity?" she asked, her voice cutting through the technical jargon.

"Each complex will house approximately one thousand citizens, Comrade Chairwoman," the architect replied promptly. "We can have the first phase foundations laid before the deep freeze sets in, using penal battalions and volunteer brigades."

Nods rippled around the table. Shelter was non-negotiable. Talulah’s gaze drifted to the next section of the map, it was the grand, corpse-like artery of Nevsky Prospekt. Once the Tsarist capital’s glittering spine, lined with opulent shops, theatres, and ministries, it was now a canyon of blackened facades and gaping windows.

"And the Prospekt?" Talulah prompted flatly.

A different committee member, a woman with the same bureaucratic dead look, took over. "Repurposing, Comrade Chairwoman. Utilitarian transformation guided by revolutionary necessity." She pointed to specific, less-damaged edifices.

"This former banking palace is ideal for the Central Distribution Hub for rationed goods. The old Ginzburg Department Store? Its upper floors can house the nascent Polytechnical Institute’s administrative offices and initial laboratories. Ground floor becomes a People’s Cultural Centre with daily readings, lectures, and basic literacy classes."

She moved her finger down the ravaged boulevard. "The Mariinsky Theater is structurally compromised. The site will be cleared for a new Public Square to act as a gathering space for rallies and celebrations. Flanking it…" she indicated two imposing, fire-damaged structures, "...these former ministerial buildings. Their classical facades are largely intact. We’ll strip the imperial insignia and repair the stonework. One becomes the headquarters for the People’s Commissariat for Education. The other…" she paused for emphasis, "...will house the All-Ursus Trade Union Congress."

Talulah nodded.

"Most significant, however," the woman continued, her voice dropping slightly as she pointed to a relatively open space near the end of the Prospekt, currently occupied by the skeletal remains of the Tsar’s Winter Palace stables and barracks, "is this site. Cleared by the fighting, strategically located. Here, we propose raising the new seat of Soviet power."

She unrolled a separate, crisper blueprint. A bold, imposing structure dominated the page with severe lines, monumental scale, a central tower flanked by sweeping wings. It lacked imperial frippery but radiated solid authority. "The State Duma."

Duma, it was the name for the old toothless imperial parliament, a symbol of aristocratic concession and futility. Repurposing the term for the supreme Soviet legislature was a deliberate act of revolutionary reclamation, turning a symbol of mockery into one of genuine power.

"Designed for function and symbolism," the architect from before chimed back in, eager to explain his vision. "The central chamber will accommodate the full Congress of Soviets. The wings house committee rooms, archives, offices for the Presidium and the Central Executive Committee. Modern plumbing, ventilation, and even provisions for electricity throughout.”

Talulah’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Wasn’t this site occupied by the main cathedral?”

“Yes,” the man admitted, adjusting his glasses. “But the cathedral is irreparably damaged. We judged its demolition necessary.”

Talulah shrugged. Centuries of piety reduced to rubble, centuries more might rise elsewhere. “Rebuild it somewhere else if you must. What matters is that this—” she tapped the blueprint. “—stands.”

The Chief Architect cleared his throat. “There is also the question of the rebuilding the other cities. Once the capital is stabilized, we must address secondary cities. Industrial hubs require standardized worker housing, transport corridors, and power grids. The Five-Year Plan cannot succeed without parallel planning of living space.”

Nothing of note came from the meeting afterwards. Most of the time it was discussions—or simply declaration of intent—by the Reconstruction Committee architects to erase or redesign entire city blocks.

Talulah’s eyelids grew heavier by the minute. Every time another bespectacled architect cleared their throat, her focus frayed. She’d snap back to attention only when a fresh schematic slid across the table towards her, forcing a curt nod, a murmured "Proceed," before the grey tide of minutiae threatened to pull her under again.

By the time the final plan was formally noted, the weak winter light filtering through the high windows had long faded into the indigo gloom of an Artoriagrad evening.

Talulah pushed back her chair and stood. She offered no concluding remarks, just a weary nod to the assembled committee, and strode out. The transition from the overheated, paper-choked office to the biting cold of the street was jarring, a slap of reality.

She stood for a moment on the steps, breathing in cold frosty air. The building behind her, ‘The Crystal Spoon’ according to a barely legible ghost-sign beneath layers of new paint and revolutionary slogans, was a repurposed high-end restaurant to house the Reconstruction Committee.

Artoriagrad.

The name echoed in her mind as she descended the steps, her boots crunching on gritted snow. It still felt alien, a heavy mantle draped over the familiar bones of Deity Grypherburg.

A flush of embarrassment prickled her neck beneath her coat collar. Had the Congress truly roared its approval? Or had it been a wave of manufactured fervor she’d been powerless to stop?

Day by relentless day, the evidence mounted. Her face stared back from posters plastered on buildings, her stern profile dominated billboards urging increased production, her name headed decrees in Pravda Ursus, the newspaper. Was she building socialism, or merely the scaffolding for her own suffocating personality cult? The thought tasted like ash.

Her protective detail materialized. She was ushered towards the waiting armored car, a ZIS modified with riveted steel plates. A necessity, she was told, to prevent unwanted interference.

Such as?

Such as assassinations, of course.

As the engine roared to life, Talulah pressed her forehead against the cold glass of the window. The car moved through streets caught in the awkward throes of rebirth. Rubble piles stood sentinel beside newly cleared lots.

Makeshift stalls selling pirozhki and weak tea huddled against walls still bearing the faded grandeur of Tsarist architecture, now punctuated by bright, brash revolutionary murals.

And the people… they moved through it all with a weary pragmatism, she’d observe. Workers in patched jackets trudged home. Better-dressed figures—former functionaries, perhaps, or small businessmen navigating the new, uncertain economy—hurried along the sidewalks, collars turned up against the cold.

Did they care? Did the woman shoveling snow from her doorstep feel the weight of the new era? Or was Talulah Artorius just the latest name on the edifice of power, replacing the Tsar’s portrait with her own on the walls of the same indifferent state?

To them, was the Federation just another master, demanding different slogans but the same daily struggle for bread and warmth? She couldn’t blame them if that was all they saw. Survival was its own ideology, even if she built an ideology around it.

And her face, plastered everywhere, was becoming the unavoidable wallpaper of their lives. A constant, omnipresent reminder of a revolution that promised liberation but felt, in moments like this, like a new kind of enclosure.

The car turned onto Nevsky Prospekt, or what was becoming of it.

Ahead, illuminated by harsh construction lights, rose the skeletal beginnings of scaffolding around the designated site of the State Duma. Nearby, dwarfed but stubbornly present, a team was carefully stabilizing a single, soot-blackened archway, a preserved fragment of the old cathedral.

Talulah watched the workers move in the glare of the lights, small figures against the vast, ambitious, terrifying blueprint of the future. Her future. Her face, soon to be carved or cast, would likely overlook that archway too.

The weight of it, the sheer, inescapable visibility, pressed down on her chest, a different kind of suffocation than the committee room’s stale air.

She closed her eyes, not to sleep, but to shut out, for… just a moment, the city bearing her name, the posters shouting her face, the crushing expectation that she was the singular axis upon which the revolution turned.

"Look at what you have wrought, Dragon."

The voice slithered into the silence behind her eyelids, bypassing her ears to resonate directly within the hollows of her skull.

Kaschey.

Talulah’s eyes snapped open.

The armored car’s interior seemed to constrict, the hum of the engine fading beneath the sudden, oppressive presence coiling within her own mind. She stared unseeing at the passing streetlights painting streaks on the window.

"You get it now, don't you?" The voice was a velvet-wrapped razor, dripping with perverse pride.

"The sheer, intoxicating power of it. Not the crude power of flame or fang you wielded in the wastes, but this... this submission. They don't just follow you, Talulah. They consume you. They remake you in their desperate need for a savior, an icon, a... Tsarina in red."

A phantom sensation traced the contours of her thoughts. "Every poster is a brick in your monument. Every chant of 'Artoriagrad' is a hymn sung to your glory, however much it chafes your misplaced humility. You wanted to shatter the concept of masters? Oh, the irony is delicious. You've merely become the most potent master Ursus has ever known. Not the master that were forced upon them, no… but the master they choose, the master they demand."

Revulsion rose in her throat. "It's not... it's not about me," she hissed under her breath, her knuckles white where they gripped the seat. "It's the idea. The Soviets. The Federation. The liberation."

Kaschey’s laugh was a dry rattle, echoing in the bone-deep silence only she could hear. "Is it? Then why does your face eclipse the hammer and sickle on half those posters? Why does your name grace the capital? Why does every decree, every plan, every breath of this nascent state pass through your hands for approval? Your 'Soviets' clamor for your guidance. Your 'Commissars' measure their worth by your nod. You built a state in the image of your ideology, yes... but the scaffolding is your own indomitable will. And the people, my dear, confused Dragon, they see the scaffold far clearer than the blueprint."

The car slowed, turning onto the quieter street leading to the residence. The gas lamps cast long, dancing shadows that seemed to twist and coil like serpents on the snow-dusted pavement.

"You feel the weight? Good. That's the mantle of true rulership. The burden you so foolishly rallied against. The Tsar hid behind gold and divinity. While you hide behind 'The People's Will' and 'Ursine Socialism', but the effect is all the same. Ultimate authority rests here." The cold presence pressed against the core of her consciousness, a chilling point of contact. "Within you."

"Stop," Talulah whispered, the word was a desperate fury directed inward. "It's a tool. A necessary focus amidst the chaos. It will fade as the institutions strength—"

"Will it?" Kaschey’s voice dripped with mocking skepticism. "Or will it calcify? Will the image of the Dragon, the Liberator, the Chairwoman, become the only symbol the masses understand? You fear a personality cult? You are already building one from the very beginning. What’s more, you are doing it with the purest of revolutionary intentions. Your martyrdom to the cause is your greatest propaganda."

The car stopped. The mundane clunk of the door handle being released from the outside was jarringly loud in the sudden silence after the engine cut.

"Embrace it, Talulah," Kaschey murmured, his voice receding like oil draining into a crack, leaving only a cold, smoldering ember deep within the labyrinth of her mind.

"Cease this futile struggle against the inevitable. This visibility... this adulation laced with primal terror... this is power. Far rawer, far more potent than any flame you conjure. It is the power to warp reality itself. To bend millions to your vision, not through sheer force, but because they believe you are that vision. You shattered one empire. Now, consciously or not, you forge its successor... with your own beating heart as its core. I have tasted every form of power across the eons. And this…" The ember pulsed with perverse admiration. "...this is magnificent. It is power given to you on a silver plate."

The door swung open.

Biting, crystalline air rushed in. It stole her breath. Talulah didn't move immediately. She stared out at the modest townhouse, Alina's residence.

"The question isn't whether you want this crown, Dragon," Kaschey’s final whisper slithered, colder than the winter night, echoing from that deep, occupied place. "You will learn its true weight. You will, in time, understand what power is. And I…" The presence didn't vanish; it settled, a dormant frost in her marrow. "...will be here. Always."

Only then did she register the anomaly.

She hadn’t realized the increased temperature in an otherwise cold environment. She hadn't noticed the subtle steam rising from her coat sleeves, nor the way the packed snow beneath her boots had softened into slush.

Chapter Text

“Premier, the latest agricultural yield projections from…”

“Premier, a priority communiqué from Commissar Frostnova…”

“Premier, the Red Army is demanding to know if…”

“Premier!”

The title was like a bell that never stopped ringing, a magnet that drew every crisis, large and small, directly to her desk. A magnet for responsibilities, so to speak.

Alina did not have the… most conventional background for being the Head of Government of any country. She had never imagined it, not in her wildest dreams or deepest fears. Not especially in Ursus, of all places.

She had no qualifications, no degrees in statecraft from any university. She was, at her core, a simple village girl from the frozen periphery of Ursus.

Well, that was until she met Talulah.

She could remember the day clearly. It looked like she was chased by a beast, she looked terrified, ragged, and bloodied. Though the Imperial army could technically be called ‘beasts’ in their own right.

She was then taken in by her foster grandparents—and after a series of unfortunate events—had been the first snowflake in an avalanche that would become the Reunion Movement, then the Long March, and now… this.

It was absurd. It was miraculous. It was cruel. Sometimes, it made her want to laugh until her chest ached. Other times, she wanted only to sleep for a month.

She’d often lain awake in the long, frozen nights of the march, watching Talulah’s silhouette against the fire, and wondered why.

Why her?

Her Arts wasn’t as powerful as Talulah, Frostnova, or even Mephisto and Faust—much less being on equal footing with the likes of Patriot. Useful, yes. Vital even. But not powerful, not in the way that could help directly in a fight.

It was a practical, humble healing magic.

But then again…

Reunion had survived calamity after calamity, betrayals, fractures, and slaughter. Through it all, she’d had been there. Quiet, steady, binding them together when fire, ice, and fury alone might have torn them apart.

She had soothed Talulah when the dragon’s fire burned too fiercely. She had given words when silence threatened to consume. Even the children of the Long March had looked to her for comfort—Mephisto, Faust—children then, brittle and broken, but who had steadied, in their way, under her care.

And now, paperwork is no different than tending to the wounds and reassuring the kids, right?

Alright! Let’s do this.

First paper, the—

“Alina.”

The voice drew her from her thoughts. She looked up to see Talulah leaning against the doorframe, half-shadowed by the dim corridor outside. Her tone was steady, as it always was in public, but Alina could read the subtle tension in her shoulders.

“I’m going to meet with the ambassador of Higashi,” Talulah said. “Can you manage alone?”

Alina set down her pen. “I’ve been managing alone all morning, Tal. I believe the state will remain standing for another few hours.”

Talulah stepped inside, closing the door behind her. Her hand lingered on the handle longer than it needed to. “This is… my first formal reception as Head of State. Korolev insists on etiquette. Bowing angles. The specific porcelain for the tea. A two-hour lecture on the political subtext of Higashinese floral arrangements and proverbs.”

Alina chuckled softly. “And did any of it stick?”

Talulah gave a short huff of laughter, shaking her head. “I tried. I think I remember half of it. Maybe.” She paused, gaze flicking briefly to Alina’s papers before returning to her face. “I’d rather fight another battle than stumble through small talk with a diplomat.”

Alina leaned back in her chair, studying her. “And yet, you’ll do it anyway. Because that’s what leaders do.”

Something vulnerable flashed across Talulah’s face, a ghost of the girl who trusted only her own fury. Then it was gone, banked behind a mask of weary resolve. “It sounds less impossible when you say it.”

Alina didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached out, lightly brushing the back of Talulah’s hand as it rested on the desk between them.

“You’ll be magnificent,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Talulah froze. For the briefest instant, her mask cracked—uncertainty, longing, and perhaps something more complicated all tangled beneath her eyes. Then she straightened, withdrawing her hand before the silence grew too heavy.

“…I should go,” she said, the words a little too quick.

The door shut with a muted click, and the silence that followed was heavier than it had any right to be. Alina sat there for a long moment, staring at the grain of the desk where Talulah’s hand had rested, before exhaling slowly and pulling her papers back into order.

Focus.

Paper one. The relocation of—

“Um… Miss Alina?”

Her head snapped up. Standing awkwardly in the doorway were Mephisto and Faust.

Mephisto fidgeted with the edge of his coat, eyes darting to the floor as if unsure whether he was allowed to even be here. Faust, taller now, stood a half-step behind him.

Alina softened immediately. “You don’t have to knock like you’re intruding. This is your home too. Come in.”

The boys exchanged a glance before shuffling inside. Mephisto spoke first, his voice smaller than she remembered. “We… we just wanted to see you. We heard you were busy, but…” He trailed off, biting his lip.

Faust added quietly, “It’s strange, being here. We don’t know what to do with ourselves when there’s no enemy to fight.”

Alina’s heart ached at the honesty of it. They were soldiers without a war, children who had never known peace.

The earlier days of the Long March had seen many people killed by the imperial army. Before Frostnova’s Yeti squadron and Patriot defected, the only ting keeping them safe was Talulah, and some brave souls with rusted swords and a plethora of farming equipments.

Mephisto and Faust insisted they’d help, being boys and all, but she knew it took a toll on them both. Mephisto in particular resorted to using his Arts to keep people fighting even in the verge of death, often times without their consent. Earning his now infamous reputation.

She gestured to the chairs across from her desk. “Then sit. You don’t need a reason to be here.”

Mephisto hesitated, then all but collapsed into the seat, his shoulders sagging. Faust followed more carefully, lowering himself with the same preternatural calm that had always defined him.

Alina leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “So, tell me what’s on your minds.”

“We…” Mephisto started, words tumbling out too fast before he forced himself to slow down. “We want to study. At a university. In Columbia.” He took a breath, steadying himself. “I want to study medicine. To be a real doctor. Faust wants… what did you want?”

“…Engineering.”

Alina blinked, truly taken off guard.

For a moment, she could only stare at the two young men sitting across from her. Their voices were earnest, almost timid. The image superimposed itself over her memories of them covered in soot and blood, their faces lit by firelight on nights where tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed, fighting against people twice, sometimes triole, their age.

“You…” her voice faltered, the word barely a whisper. “You want to leave Ursus?”

“Not forever,” Mephisto said quickly, shaking his head hard enough that his white hair fell into his eyes. “Just… to learn. We don’t know anything except fighting. Except marching. We don’t want to be…” He trailed off, voice breaking. “…just that. Not anymore.”

Faust nodded. “We want to come back. To help, to build…”

Alina’s chest tightened. For a long time, she said nothing, only watching them. These weren't just the broken children she’d comforted or the feared instruments of Reunion’s wrath.

They were finally trying to become something more.

But a sliver of suspicion pierced her heart.

Columbia.

The nation of corporate giants and cutthroat realpolitik that Korolev was so keen to court. To send these two there was a risk of monumental proportions.

Mephisto’s next words confirmed her deepest unease.

“Well, Commissar Korolev said he knew someone at Trimounts Institute of Technology… one of the top universities there,” Mephisto explained, a hint of Korolev’s polished cadence unconsciously creeping into his own rushed speech. “He told us he could get us in easily with no tuition. He said it would be an investment in the Federation’s future intellectual capital.”

There it was.

The missing piece slid neatly into place, and with it came a wash of cold clarity. It served multiple purposes, it removed two volatile, unpredictable elements from his political chessboard, potentially gaining Ursus valuable technical knowledge, and it placed two assets—ones with a deep, personal loyalty to Talulah and, by extension, to her—in a foreign nation.

If she rejected the idea outright, Korolev would weaponize their disappointment, painting himself as their visionary benefactor and her as the overprotective, backward-looking obstacle.

If she accepted blindly, she handed him the reins and sent two of her most vulnerable into a viper’s nest with potentially a target on their backs.

What are you getting at, Korolev? she thought, the question a blade turning in her mind. What favor does this ‘someone’ at Trimounts owe you? And what will they demand in return?

“…I see.” Her tone was measured, a masterclass in feigned calm. Inside, her thoughts were already racing, mapping contingencies, allies, and threats. She needed time. Time to dissect this ‘generous’ offer, to find the strings attached, to build a counter-strategy that protected them without crushing their hope.

Alina folded her hands atop the desk. “If you’re both truly serious about this path—and it is a serious one—then I will need to speak with Talulah. Such a decision cannot be made lightly. It affects the security of the state as much as it affects your futures.”

She paused, letting the gravity of that statement settle. Then she shifted the focus back to them, to their desires, away from Korolev’s manipulation.

“But that is a matter for later. For now… tell me about it. What kind of doctor do you want to be, Mephisto? And what kind of things do you want to build, Faust?”

“Goodbye, Miss Alina!”

The two boys waved as they left, the heavy oak door sighing shut behind them, muffling the sound of their retreating footsteps.

The past hour had been spent not as the Premier with two of her most problematic operatives, but as Alina with Mephisto and Faust. She had listened as Mephisto had sketched out a future where his understanding of life’s fragility was used to mend it, not exploit it.

She had watched Faust, whose vocabulary was usually measured in a few nods here and there, struggle to find words to describe engines that didn't fail and structures that wouldn't fall.

For a precious span of time, the office had not been a command center for a fractured nation, but a sanctuary for two shattered boys daring to imagine themselves as whole men.

With a sigh, her gaze fell upon the mountain of paperwork.

Paper one. The relocation of the—

“Premier.”

Of course… The universe, it seemed, was determined to keep her from it.

Alina looked up, the familiar fatigue a weight behind her eyes. In the doorway stood Frostnova, her posture as rigid and cool as her namesake.

In her hand was not a single report, but a thick sheaf of documents. Her expression was its usual unreadable mask, but the slight tension in her jaw and the directness of her gaze signalled this was no routine update.

“I’ve something to report,” Frostnova stated. “It’s about Korolev.”

A dry, humorless sound escaped Alina’s lips. “Of course it is,” she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose.

The man was like a weed, his influence spreading into every crack of the new government. She gestured to the chair opposite her desk, her earlier weariness momentarily overshadowed by sharpening focus.

“Please, take a seat, Yelena. You don’t have to be formal around me.” The use of her real name was a deliberate choice, a reminder that this was a conversation between comrades, not just between Premier and Commissar.

Frostnova inclined her head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment rather than agreement, and sat with her characteristic stiff-backed grace. She placed the documents on the desk with a soft thump.

“He moves quickly,” Frostnova began. “He has hosted three dinners in his private residence this week alone. The guest lists are… curated. A select few, such as the ambitious and the insecure delegates and functionaries.”

She paused, her pale eyes fixed on Alina, cataloging her reaction. “He’s been cultivating them, Alina. Offering small and seemingly insignificant favors, such as travel papers for their relatives, priority access to foreign journals, and promises of posts in consulates that don’t even exist yet.”

Alina’s brows knit. “Consulates that don’t exist… yet.”

“Exactly.” Frostnova’s gloved fingers tapped the top page of the dossier. “He is creating expectations. Debt. These people will feel bound to him when the time comes, and by then he will have a bloc loyal to Korolev, not the Party, not the Council, and certainly not to you or Talulah.”

“Who has he approached high in the ladder so far?” Alina asked.

“No one on the Central Executive Committee, not yet. He is too clever for that. He is building his foundation from the ground up, not the top down.” Frostnova flipped a page in the dossier.

“He has made overtures to a colonel in the Red Army’s logistics branch, a man frustrated by bureaucratic delays. He has dined with a senior secretary in the All-Ursus Trade Unions Congress who feels her influence is waning. He has ‘consulted’ with Soviet delegates from the industrial regions, listening to their grievances and offering connections. And he spends a great deal of time with the intellectual class consisting of historians, economists, and engineers who fled the old regime. They are flattered by his attention and share his disdain for what they see as ‘revolutionary amateurism.’”

She looked up. “He is not seeking to overthrow the government in a coup. He is seeking to become its indispensable, unearthed nervous system. He wants to be the man who knows everyone, who can get anything done, who operates in the spaces between our decrees. And he is alarmingly good at it.”

Alina seemed to want to speak up, but was interrupted by a severe, wracking cough that seized her chest. She held up a finger, asking for a moment, her body trembling slightly until the fit passed.

Taking a steadying breath, she finally found her voice, hoarse yet clear. “That’s just it. He is good at it. Which is why my question isn’t just about his methods now. It’s about how he got here at all.”

She fixed Frostnova with an intense look. “How on earth did a man like that get two-thirds of the vote to become Commissar during the first Congress? We were electing revolutionaries, trade unionists, not… people like him.”

Frostnova’s expression didn’t change, but she gave a slow, acknowledging nod. “The question has a simple and a complex answer. The simple answer is that when the votes were cast for Foreign Affairs, he was the only candidate left who wasn’t a complete fool—or more simply, he is the only candidate left.”

“And the complex answer?”

“The complex answer is that Aleksandr Korolev is a master of survival—a cockroach in less polite terms.” Frostnova stated, her voice devoid of admiration, merely stating a fact.

“He was Assistant Minister for a decade. Not a minister, never someone powerful enough to be a primary target for the purges, but senior enough to have immense practical knowledge. He was educated in Columbia, hence his admiration for the country. He understands the outside world in a way most of our comrades simply do not. His politics have always been… rather fluid. Under the Tsar, he was a liberal reformist, advocating for a constitutional monarchy and economic modernization. Not a revolutionary, but not a hardline reactionary either. It made him palatable to the moderates.”

She leaned forward slightly. “When the purges began, he didn’t hide. He cooperated just enough. He provided names, connections, logistical information about the old regime’s foreign contacts. He offered his ‘expertise’ to the nascent Soviet committees springing up, helping them navigate the impossible tangle of Imperial treaties and debt. He made himself seem like a useful, apolitical technocrat and as the only adult in a room full of children playing at statecraft.”

“He sold out his own colleagues to save his skin,” Alina concluded, disgust lacing her words.

“Precisely. And he did it so quietly, so reasonably, that it looked like pragmatism, not betrayal. By the time of the Congress, the other potential candidates had either been discredited or removed. Korolev as the experienced, knowledgeable, and seemingly contrite person, stood alone. The delegates, overwhelmed and terrified of making a catastrophic error in front of the entire world, voted for the only man who sounded like he knew what he was doing.”

A heavy silence filled the room. Alina stared at the dossier, seeing the pattern now not as a new threat, but as the continuation of a long, meticulously executed campaign.

“He was never on our side,” Alina muttered. “He was just waiting for his turn to rule.”

Frostnova’s silence was confirmation enough.

“Where is he now?”

Aleksandr Korolev had attained many reputations in his long and meticulously curated lifetime.

Socialist? Liberal? Conservative?

He found such labels to be the crude, simplistic tools of the ideologically constipated. Why choose one set of chains when you could pick the lock with whichever key best fit the moment? Principles were for martyrs and short-sighted fools.

The new Ursus was a glorious, chaotic mess, a game of revolutionary chess being played by enthusiasts who knew only the basic moves. They thought in terms of knights and rooks—direct attacks and obvious power. They did not understand the game was won in the subtle positioning of pawns.

He had spent yesterday afternoon with a minor functionary from the Commissariat of Agriculture, a man terrified that the first bad harvest would see him branded a saboteur and burned.

A man with access to projected yield reports for an entire area. A man who was now personally grateful for Korolev’s reassuring counsel and his offhand mention of a cousin in Leithanien who could discreetly help should the man’s family needed to travel.

A pawn, moved.

Yesterday, it had been a flattery-soaked meeting with a historian from the newly renamed University of Artoriagrad, a man desperate to have his esoteric work on pre-Imperial trade routes published.

Korolev had lamented the ‘anti-intellectual’ currents in the new government and promised to use his influence to find a press—perhaps in Columbia—that would appreciate such fine scholarship. The historian had left glowing with vindication, his loyalty shifting imperceptibly from the state to the man who understood him.

Another pawn.

He was building a network not of co-conspirators, but of indebted souls. A web of small, unspoken favors, of solved inconveniences, of soothed egos. None of it was treasonous, depending on who you asked. It was all merely… practical.

It was Human.

People are simple creatures, no? The fervent slogans echoing in the new Soviet chambers? They were merely banners waved by men driven by far baser hungers. They wanted family safeguarded, prestige earned, and vengeance exacted. People were easy to understand when one stripped them down to their basest hungers.

“Thinking about something, Comrade?”

Korolev glanced beside him. The Captain of the battalion tasked with guarding this miserable stretch of border against Kazimierzian incursion was a rather slim man, though he made up for it with a rigid, towering height that seemed to defy the biting wind. A simple soldier, his face raw from the cold, his concerns likely extending no further than his men’s morale and the clarity of his orders.

“Thinking of our neighbors, Captain,” Korolev exhaled, a plume of thick smoke joining the frigid air, the scent of fine Victorian tobacco was a stark contrast to the smell of frozen earth. He gestured with the cigarette towards the invisible line in the dark, where Kazimierzian patrols would be mirroring their own. “And their rather remarkable lack of perspective I dare say.”

Right.

He was here under orders—orders—to negotiate a restoration of the status-quo borders.

A farce.

What the Kazimierzian delegation had presented across the table wasn't a negotiation, it was a victor’s dictate draped in diplomatic language. Recognition of their occupied territories as annexed lands? Reparations for wars waged decades, even centuries ago? Unfair trade deals that would have made a Victorian colonialist blush?

It was frankly, an insult.

Korolev may hold an intellectual disdain for the chaotic, bleeding-heart experiment of socialism now festering in his homeland. He found its rhetoric crude, its economics naive, its leadership a fascinating mix of the dangerously idealistic and the brutally extremist.

But he was an Ursine, through and through. A son of the Empire that had, for better or worse, carved a civilization out of the ruins of an ancient empire and created a world-spanning empire. A civilization these upstart knights—not even knights, but glorified tournament champions—sought to plunder while it was vulnerable.

Hold your head up, boy. For no one else can take your pride away from you.

His father’s voice, a gravelly echo from a world that was ash now, whispered through the cold. The old man, a minor functionary in the Tsarist bureaucracy, had been a staunch believer in Ursine stoicism, in the unyielding fortitude that defined their people.

That pride wasn't about the Tsar or the nobility. It was about the land, the history, and the sheer, stubborn will to endure. It was the one thing the revolution hadn't managed to burn away.

He took another slow drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing brightly in the twilight. "They mistake our current... internal preoccupations for permanent weakness, Captain," Korolev said. "They see a government focused on rebuilding and believe the national spine has softened along with it. A dangerous miscalculation."

…And Kazimierz was correct in that regard.

No one in Artoriagrad wanted war. The revolution had shattered the army, the treasury, and what little infrastructure the old empire hadn't already left to rot. The Red Army was a shadow of its former self, demobilized and disillusioned. The people's enthusiasm for any conflict was at an all-time low. They were exhausted, hungry, and yearning for peace.

Yet what was one to do when vultures circled, pecking at the corpse of a wounded animal? You didn't reason with them. You reminded them why they should fear you.

“I have to go, Captain.” Patting the shoulder of the soldier, Korolev excused himself with the air of a man late for a tedious appointment. He slid into the back of a waiting sedan, its engine already purring.

The driver, a former sergeant who had lost an eye, met his gaze in the rearview mirror. The man’s single eye held no question, only a flat, unquestioning readiness. The injury hadn't dulled him, it only had honed him into a perfect instrument.

“Sir, it’s ready,” the driver stated, not as a question, but as a confirmed fact. The car pulled away from the bleak outpost, its tires crunching on the frozen road.

Korolev didn't answer immediately. He reached into the inner pocket of his heavy wool coat and withdrew a thick stack of crisp, newly printed rubles and placed it on the passenger seat beside the driver. The face of Talulah Artorius, paragon of the revolution, stared blankly from the notes.

A lesson in practical diplomacy.

Always be ready to hide a rock in your hand when offering a handshake. Or, if the situation demanded, to frame an incident so your opponent looks guilty. So they are guilty, by the immutable fact of the consequence.

He did not look back.

A few seconds later, the night behind them tore apart.

The sound was not loud from this distance, but it was impossible not to notice. A deep, percussive crump that vibrated through the car's chassis. In the rearview mirror, the horizon briefly bloomed with a hellish orange flower, its petals unfolding against the black sky.

The Ursine military installation was now the source of a raging fire, a pillar of thick, oily smoke already clawing its way into the sky.

The driver’s single eye flicked to the mirror, then back to the road. His grip on the wheel tightened, but he said nothing. He was a good soldier. He understood that some orders were given in silence.

Korolev allowed himself a small, cold smile, invisible in the dark of the back seat. The vultures would now have something else to think about. The narrative was already writing itself. A brazen, unprovoked Kazimierzian sabotage attack on sovereign Ursine soil killing dozens of innocent Ursine soldiers and workers.

An act of war.

  The car sped on, putting distance between them and the blossoming inferno. He could already see the headlines in Pravda Ursus, hear the furious speeches in the Congress of Soviets. The charred ruins and the body count would be all the evidence anyone needed.

He would make sure the people knew of this atrocity, every grim detail fed to them through the right channels, stoking the embers of old hatreds into a roaring flame of righteous revenge. The pacifists in the Council would be drowned out by the cries for retribution.

He leaned forward slightly, his voice calm and clear in the quiet car. "When we reach the communications post, I will need to draft a statement for the press. Begin with this..."

He paused, composing the words in his mind.

"Citizens of the Federative Republics. Comrades. Early this evening, our peaceful efforts to rebuild our great nation were met with an act of unparalleled cowardice and aggression."

He could feel the rhythm of it, the building fury.

"For decades, even centuries, the knights of Kazimierz have looked upon our strength with jealousy, and upon our recent hardships, with predatory greed. Tonight, they have shown their true face—not of chivalrous warriors, but of back-alley assassins, striking at the heart of our recovery."

The driver remained silent, his single eye fixed on the road, but his posture was that of a man listening to a sermon.

Korolev continued, his tone shifting from factual to incendiary. "Should we, as a people who have just freed ourselves from the yoke of tyranny, allow foreign powers to dictate their rules to us upon our own land?"

He let the question hang in the air of the car, a rehearsal for the millions who would soon hear it.

"Should we, as free citizens of this Soviet republic, be intimidated by the ferocious autocrats on the other side of the border, who think our revolution is an invitation to carve up our homeland?"

He leaned back, satisfied. The message was simple, powerful, and perfectly tailored. It bypassed the brain and aimed straight for the gut.

It wasn't about complex foreign policy, no peasant would understand such intricacies. But they would understand pride, violation, and the primal need to hit back.

"The answer," Korolev murmured, more to himself than to the driver, "will be a unanimous and thunderous no."

Chapter Text

Good news for once for Ursus, Higashi has agreed to recognize the new government.

The reception for the Higashinese diplomat had been an exercise in controlled tension that had, surprisingly, yielded results. Talulah had expected the meeting to be rather ‘tense’ given the recent history of the two countries. Instead, she found the diplomat to be quiet and understanding.

His understanding was, however, not born out of altruism. Higashi wanted something. Ursus, desperately, needed something in return.

In the end, an agreement was reached. The old trade deals would be resumed, albeit with terms slightly more favorable to the fledgling Federation. The embassies in Deity Gryph—Artoriagrad, she corrected herself with an internal wince—and the Higashinese capital would be reopened, allowing Korolev’s fledgling diplomatic corps to finally have a real outpost to manage.

The final point, the one the envoy had presented with firm insistence, was a mutual non-aggression pact.

Officially, it was a promise of peace between two neighbors. Unofficially, as the diplomat had implied over a cup of green tea, it was a strategic move to counter the growing, encroaching influence of the Yan Empire in the region.

Ursus would serve as a stable western flank for Higashi so they could focus on one front, and in return, Higashi would lend the legitimacy of its recognition and the concrete benefit of its trade.

Talulah had agreed. It was, as she saw it, an obvious decision. Let Yan and Higashi play their games of cultural and economic influence. Ursus had no energy for foreign entanglements as of now.

“No big deal,” she muttered to herself, shrugging out of the formal, stiff jacket Korolev had insisted upon and tossing it over a chair in her private office. It was a necessary transaction, a few strokes of a pen to secure a measure of stability.

The door opened without a knock, and only one person did that.

Alina entered, a familiar folder tucked under her arm, but her usual calm demeanor was edged with an unusual tense focus for the Elafia. She took in the discarded jacket, the tired set of Talulah’s shoulders, and the slight relaxation that always came after a successfully navigated ordeal.

“I heard it went well.” Alina said.

“It was… surprisingly painless. The envoy was reasonable.” Talulah replied, sinking into her chair and massaging her temples.

“Reasonable people often want reasonable things,” Alina said, moving to the desk. She didn’t sit. Instead, she placed the folder she was carrying squarely in front of Talulah. “Which is why we need to talk about the unreasonable thing that just happened on the Kazimierz border.”

Talulah’s hand stilled. “What now?”

“A forward supply depot was hit an hour ago. A significant explosion. Casualties are still being counted, but they won’t be light.” Alina’s voice was clipped. “The initial report from the border commandant cites evidence of a sabotage.”

Talulah’s fatigue vanished. “Kazimierz.” The word was a curse.

“An emergency session of the Congress of Soviets is being called for tonight,” Alina stated, her gaze locked on Talulah’s. “So you’d better prepare.”

“Tonight? It’s 11pm!”

Alina chuckled. “Well,” she amended. “Probably in an hour or so.”

She sighed and crossed her arms. “The news is already leaking. Frostnova’s agents report that certain… factions… are already coordinating their messaging. They’re calling it the ‘Kazimierzian Butchery’.”

Korolev…

Talulah hated that that name was the first thing she thought of when an incident of this magnitude happened. She looked at the formal jacket slung over the chair, a symbol of the diplomatic peace she had just secured. It seemed like a relic from another age already.

“An hour,” Talulah repeated, the words flat.

She turned from Alina and walked to the window, staring out at the sleeping—or soon to be waking—city of Artoriagrad. The lights were few and far between. In an hour, the capital would be awake, buzzing with fear and anger, a dry field waiting for a single match.

“Let’s go.” The command was quiet, but it cut through the tense silence of the room. She turned, crossed the space in three swift strides, and took Alina by the hand.

Without another word, she led Alina from the office, not toward the grand halls of the repurposed Winter Palace, but out into the cold night. Their destination was the half-completed shell of the State Duma. It was the perfect stage for what was to come—a symbol of their unfinished future, now under threat.

“Settle down! The Special Session of the All-Ursus Congress of Soviets is now in session!” an elderly Presidium member shouted, his voice straining to be heard over the din. The gavel in his hand struck the makeshift podium with a sharp crack that did little to quiet the room.

The chaos did not subside until Talulah stood.

She did not rush. She rose from her seat with a deliberate, weary gravity that was more commanding than any gavel.

All eyes were on her. The frantic whispers, the angry mutters, the sounds of shifting bodies—all of it ceased. The only sound was the howl of the wind outside the unfinished structure and the low hum of the generators.

She placed her hands on the cold wood of the podium, leaning into it slightly, as if drawing strength from the solidity of it. She did not speak immediately, but let her gaze sweep over the assembled delegates, meeting the fear and fury in their eyes with a look of acknowledgment.

“Comrades,” she began, her voice low but carrying effortlessly through the frozen hall. It was not the firebrand’s roar they were used to, but it was the hard tone of a commander reporting facts.

“I have been informed that at approximately 22:12 hours, a forward logistics depot near the Kazimierz border was destroyed in a massive explosion. The attack was precise. The damage is… severe. Casualty reports are still coming in, but we know that many of our comrades, soldiers and civilian workers alike, have been lost.”

A collective, horrified breath was drawn in the hall. The reality, stated so bluntly, was a bucket of ice water on the flames of their rage.

“The initial assessment from local command suggests sabotage.” She paused, letting the word hang in the air. “The obvious conclusion, the easy conclusion, is to point across the border. To lay the blame at the feet of Kazimierz.”

“Coward!”

That single word interrupted the speech. All eyes, including Talulah’s, snapped toward its source.

A young man, his face flushed with a mixture of fear and fervor, stood amidst the delegates. He was nobody—a mere minor functionary from a provincial Soviet, the kind of man who normally wouldn’t dare speak without a prepared mandate.

“What this is,” he yelled, his voice cracking with emotion, “is clearly an act of war against Ursus and the Ursine people! Comrades, have we forgotten? Have we already become so soft that we forget Kazimierz and Leithanien currently occupy our sovereign territory at this very moment? They steal our land by the kilometer while we sit in meetings and form committees!”

Talulah’s regained her composure. “Comrade, this is not a matter of forgetting,” she responded, strangely, her voice was straining to maintain its calm, authoritative tone. “It is a matter of strategy. We must—”

“Strategy?” another voice, this time from someone in the Trade Unionist bloc, interjected. “What strategy? The strategy of turning the other cheek until we have no cheeks left? They spit on our peace with Higashi before the ink was dry! This was their answer!”

A rumble of agreement spread through the hall, louder and more aggressive this time.

“Comrades, I implore you—” Talulah tried again, her hands gripping the podium.

“We have the Red Army for a reason!” a grizzled delegate from a frontier Soviet bellowed, rising to his feet, his face a mask of fury. “Patriot’s fist was meant to smash threats, not hold paperwork! The Red Army was demobilized before we even sorted our border problem! You’ve tied our hands behind our backs and now you’re surprised we got punched in the face!”

Talulah opened her mouth, but another voice, younger, fiercer, cut her off. “He’s right! How many more depots have to burn? How many more comrades have to die for your strategy?”

The dam broke. What was a rumble became a roar. Shouts came from all sides, no longer isolated outbursts but a chorus of condemnation.

“The Congress would like to motion for a motion of no confidence in the Chairwoman!!”

“Coward! Coward! Coward!”

“Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!”

“ENOUGH!”

Talulah’s carefully constructed calm finally shattered. The frustration of the long night, the weight of duty and impossible decisions to rebuild an entire country equally, it all coalesced into a white-hot point of rage.

The word was ripped from her throat, a guttural roar that silenced the hall through sheer, shocking volume. A faint, dangerous heat shimmered in the air around her, the dragon’s fire threatening to break its leash.

Her eyes swept over the stunned delegates. “You want fire? You want fury? I gave you fury! I gave you a revolution that drowned an empire in blood! And what did it get us?” She slammed her fist on the podium, the crack echoing like a gunshot.

“A mountain of corpses and a country in ruins! Is that what you want again? Another war we cannot afford? To starve our children to feed our artillery? To become the very monsters we swore to destroy?”

Her chest heaved. The room was dead silent, every delegate staring at the raw, furious, and terrifyingly vulnerable woman before them.

“I am trying to build something that lasts!” she cried, her voice cracking with a desperation she never showed. “Something more than just ash and vengeance! And you… you would burn it all down for the sake of a… a symbolic blow?”

In the ringing silence that followed her outburst, her heavy breathing was the only sound.

She had not cowed them, she had not intimidated them, she had stunned them. And in doing so, she had revealed the one thing a leader in a crisis never should, that she was not in control. Least of all of herself.

It was the opening Korolev had been waiting for.

He did not stand immediately. He let the silence stretch, let the image of the unhinged Chairwoman solidify in the delegates' minds. Then, with a sigh that conveyed immense, weary responsibility, he rose from his seat in the Commissars' row.

“No one questions your passion, Chairwoman. Or the terrible burdens you carry.” His voice was a soft, respectful balm after Talulah's searing fire.

He walked toward the podium not as a challenger, but as a concerned colleague. He did not look at her, but faced the hall, his expression one of pained solidarity.

“Ladies and gentlemen, fellow Ursine… Comrades…” he began, his voice swelling slightly to fill the vast space. “I share your grief. I share the weight of the burden our Chairwoman so eloquently described. She is right in the sense that we should not make rash decisions.”

He paused, letting the apparent concession hang in the air. Then his tone shifted, hardening almost imperceptibly.

“Except,” he continued, “we have not been given the luxury of deliberation. We have been run into a corner. The knife is not at our throat, comrades, it is in our back—already stabbing, already slashing its way into our organs.”

He turned slightly, his gaze sweeping over the hundreds of faces, capturing each one.

“The Chairwoman speaks of building something that lasts. A noble goal! A goal we all share undoubtedly! But what is the foundation of any building? Is it not security?!” His voice rose.

“Can we build schools while saboteurs burn our depots? Can we plan harvests while invaders occupy our land? Can we debate the nuances of social policy while our citizens are murdered in their bunks?”

The delegates were his now, leaning forward, hanging on every word. He was giving voice to their fear, validating their rage, and dressing it all in the clothes of reason.

“This is not about a ‘symbolic blow’. This is about the most fundamental duty of any state, to protect its people. To exist! Kazimierz has not attacked a policy. It has attacked our right to exist. It has looked upon our revolution, our struggle, our hope—and it has answered with vile contempt and violence!”

He finally turned to look at Talulah. “Comrade Chairwoman,” he acknowledged, before sweeping his eyes back over to the congress. “Comrades… ask yourselves why they are so desperate. Why do they strike now, with such cowardice and hate?”

He paused, letting the question hang.

“They attack us because they are afraid!” he declared, his voice dropping into a damning tone. “They are afraid because their entire rotten structure is built on a lie! They are not a nation of chivalrous knights; they are an autocratic, hyper-capitalist slaver state where everything is commodified! Where the very air a common man breathes is taxed, and the right to live is sold to the highest bidder!”

A murmur of disgust rippled through the hall. Korolev fed it, his voice rising in pitch and power.

“Even free men! Women! Children! Are sold into bondage to fight and die for sport in their glittering arenas—gladiator tournaments for the amusement of the indolent wealthy! They are not warriors, they are human cattle traded on the open market while their so-called nobility sips wine and places bets on their life expectancy!”

He was painting a picture now, vivid and horrifying, and the delegates, many of whom had only heard tales of Kazimierz's infamous knightly corporations, were absorbing it as gospel.

“Is this the society we are to fear? Is this the ‘civilization’ we are to negotiate with?!” he roared, his voice cracking with apparent moral outrage. “Or is it our revolutionary duty—not just to avenge our dead, but to liberate THEIR oppressed? To shatter THEIR chains as we shattered OUR own? To show them that a people united, do not have to live as property!”

The roar that followed was deafening. It was no longer just about defense or vengeance. Korolev had masterfully reframed it into a righteous crusade. He had given their anger a noble purpose, a higher calling that resonated with the very core of their socialist ideals.

In the ringing aftermath, he turned. His gaze fell upon Talulah, who stood rigid at the side of the podium, her knuckles white where she gripped the wooden stand as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. Her face was a pale, stony mask, but her eyes burned with a helpless, volcanic rage.

“Thus,” he declared, his voice lowering but somehow cutting through the residual noise, becoming the only thing worth listening to, “I implore my colleagues. Comrade Chairwoman. Comrade delegates.”

He let his gaze sweep across every face, making each delegate feel seen, complicit in this historic moment.

“I move that this Congress formally recognize a state of war now exists between the Federative Soviet Socialist Republics of Ursus and the corporate oligarchy of Kazimierz. Not because we seek conquest, but because we will no longer tolerate the existence of a slaver state on our border. Not because we crave violence, but because we have a duty to answer its call with overwhelming, revolutionary finality!”

Silence.

Then, single voice from the floor, one of Korolev’s pre-planted allies, shouted “AYE!”

It was the spark to the tinderbox.

The vote did not happen as a roll call. It erupted as a thunderous, roaring acclamation. “AYE!” “AYE!” “FOR THE FEDERATION!” “FOR OUR COMRADES!” Delegates were on their feet, fists pounding the air, their voices merging into a single, terrifying chorus of assent.

He stood at the podium, head bowed slightly as if under the weight of the moment, the humble servant of the people’s will.

The motion was carried.

The roar of the Congress was a physical thing, a pressure against her skull that refused to fade even in the silence of her office.

Talulah leaned heavily against the door as it clicked shut, the world tilting precariously. The dizziness wasn't new, but tonight it came crashing down like an avalanche, finally cresting after months of being held back by sheer will.

She realized, with a distant sort of horror, that she had not had a single night of proper, unmedicated rest since the Winter Palace fell. The empire's collapse had not been an end to tyranny, not yet. It was the beginning of a more exhausting, more insidious war of governance, and tonight she had lost a crucial battle.

The cheers of the delegates still rang in her head, a distorted echo of the same voices that had once chanted her name. Now they chanted for war, never mind the fact that the Red Army isn’t in the state to do anything and was in the middle of restructuring.

"They see a conflicted girl now, a pity you had to break to show them."

Kaschey’s voice was a silken rustle in the base of her skull, a cold finger tracing the curve of her spine. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block it out.

“You don’t look too good.” The voice that cut through the static was warm and laced with a concern so deep it felt like an ache.

Alina was there, having followed her silently. She’d probably seen the unsteadiness in her step, the pallor beneath her usual composure.

“I just—” Talulah began, the automatic denial dying on her lips. There was no point. Alina always knew.

“Well, come here, then.” Alina’s voice was soft, leaving no room for argument. She sat on the worn velvet couch against the far wall, a relic from some Tsarist functionary’s office, and gently patted her lap. “Just for a minute.”

The simplicity of the offer was a lifeline.

Talulah didn’t have the strength to resist. She crossed the room, her steps feeling miles long, and sank onto the couch, letting her body curl sideways until her head rested in Alina’s lap.

She turned her face inward, pressing her forehead against the soft wool of Alina’s skirt, inhaling the faint, clean scents of soap that always clung to her.

A soft, cool hand came to rest on her temple, fingers gently smoothing back the hair stuck to her damp skin. The other hand settled on her shoulder, a steady, grounding weight.

"How quaint," Kaschey whispered, his amusement a venomous drip in her mind. "What purpose is there to deny your rage any longer? You feel it, don’t you? A fire that could burn this entire corrupt structure to the ground. That insolent man preens on your podium, orchestrating your war. Show him the true face of the dragon he pretends to command."

Talulah flinched involuntarily. Alina’s hand stilled for a moment before resuming its gentle motion. “Shhh,” she murmured. “It’s just us now.”

But it wasn’t. It was never just them.

"She pities you. They all do," the snake hissed, coiling around her thoughts. "The Dragon of Reunion, the paragon of the revolution, the mighty Chairwoman… reduced to a trembling child, hiding in the dark. This is the weakness that will get you both killed. Or worse, replaced—a far more ignoble end than a martyr's pyre."

“Make it stop,” Talulah whispered, the words muffled against Alina’s legs, a plea meant for no one but the darkness behind her eyelids.

Alina didn’t ask what she meant. She never did.

“I’m here,” she said instead, her voice was gentle against the poisonous whisper in Talulah’s head. Her thumb stroked slow circles at Talulah’s temple. “It’s just the fatigue. The weight. It feels like it will crush you, but it won’t. I won’t let it.”

"Lies. Comforting, beautiful lies," Kaschey crooned. "She cannot protect you from what you have unleashed. You built this revolutionary cage, and now you are locked inside it with the very maniacs you empowered. You gave the keys to the wolves and are surprised they hunger for blood."

Talulah pressed harder against Alina, seeking the physical reality of her—the solidity of her thighs, the beat of her heart she could feel through the fabric—to drown out the specter in her mind. She focused on the sensation of Alina’s fingers, on the slow, even sound of her breathing.

“They voted for war,” Talulah breathed, the words a confession of failure.

“I know,” Alina said, her hand moving to cradle the back of Talulah’s head. “But the war hasn’t started yet. We’re still here. We’ll find a way.”

"‘We,’" Kaschey mocked, his voice dripping with scorn. "How touching. A truly revolutionary concept. And what will your precious ‘we’ do against the army you just unleashed? Can your ‘we’ control the rage of a million soldiers who believe they have your blessing? Can you guarantee they will only strike at knights and nobles? Or will they torch villages? Execute civilians? Become the very monsters you claimed to slay?"

A single, hot tear escaped Talulah’s tightly shut eyes, tracing a path down her nose to soak into Alina’s skirt.

It was a tear of fury, of helplessness, of a love that felt like the only solid thing in a world spiraling into madness.

Alina felt it, and her own breath hitched. She didn’t speak. She simply bent her head, her lips gently pressing against Talulah’s hair in a kiss that was a promise, a prayer, and a shield against the whispering dark.

For this moment, it was the only answer they had.

"People crave power not for itself, but for the order it imposes," Kaschey’s voice slithered back in, colder now, a lecturer disappointed in his pupil. "They want to be controlled—They need to be controlled. It is the natural state of things. I am merely stating facts… as your most devoted personal advisor."

The title was a vile caress.

Talulah shuddered, and Alina felt it. A full-body tremor of revulsion and despair. Without a word, Alina shifted. Gently, she coaxed Talulah to turn her head, to lift her face from its hiding place.

In the dim light, Talulah’s features were ravaged. Pale, tear-streaked, her brilliant eyes glistening with a pain so profound it stole the air from the room.

Alina didn’t hesitate. She cupped Talulah’s cheek, her thumb wiping away the track of the tear. And then she leaned down and kissed her.

For a long moment, the world contracted to that single point of contact, the softness of the kiss, the salt of tears, the familiar scent of Alina’s skin.

The echoing cheers of the Congress, Korolev’s smug triumph, Kaschey’s whispering—all of it receded.

When Alina finally pulled back, just far enough to rest her forehead against Talulah’s, the world rushed back in, but its edges were softer. The cage was still there, the war was still coming, but they were still inside it together.

"…How… tedious," Kaschey muttered, his voice fading into a disgruntled echo, momentarily displaced by a reality even he could not poison.

A shaky, ragged breath escaped Talulah’s lips, warm against Alina’s mouth. Her heart was a wild drum against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with politics or war.

“Why…” Talulah began, her voice hoarse. She swallowed, trying to find the words in the wreckage. “Why… did you do that?”

“Because you were getting lost in the noise,” Alina said, her voice low and filled with an emotion that was far more than comfort. “Because I needed you to remember what is real. What is us.”

Her other hand, which had been resting on Talulah’s shoulder, slid down, her fingers splaying over the frantic beat of Talulah’s heart. The touch was possessive. “And because I wanted to. For once, I just… wanted to.”

The confession was simple yet devastating.

Talulah’s hand, which had been lying limp at her side, came up to cover Alina’s where it rested over her heart. Her fingers tightened, not pushing away, but holding on, anchoring herself to that touch.

“They’re going to tear it all apart, Alina,” she whispered, the fear finally laid bare between them, stripped of titles and duty.

“Let them try,” Alina murmured, her lips brushing against Talulah’s forehead as she spoke. “You’ve been micromanaging everything, carrying every burden yourself. If they are so confident in their path to hell, why not let them shoulder the consequences for once?”

“But—” Talulah started, the leader in her rising to argue, to list the countless reasons why that was an impossible abdication of responsibility.

Alina silenced her not with words, but by capturing her mouth again.

This kiss was a conquest. It was slower, deeper, and infinitely far more deliberate. It was a silent vow that amidst the crumbling of empires and the scheming of snakes, this—the heat of their shared breath, the solidity of their intertwined bodies, the fierce, protecting fire that burned between them—was a front line she would never, ever surrender.

A low sound, half-growl, half-sob, vibrated in Talulah’s throat. The dizziness that had plagued her was gone, burned away by a surge of something far more potent.

With a sudden, fluid strength that surprised them both, her hands found their grip on Alina’s shoulders. In one powerful motion, she reversed their positions, rolling so that Alina was beneath her on the couch, caged by her arms, her silver hair fanned out against the dark velvet.

The air left Alina’s lungs in a soft gasp, her eyes widening for a fraction of a second before darkening with a new understanding.

A defiant smirk touched Talulah’s lips.

“If you insist on recklessness, Premier,” Talulah breathed, her voice a husky whisper that was nothing like her chairwoman’s tone. It was intimate, dangerous, and solely for Alina. “Then let’s be reckless.”

“…”

Silence.

“…”

Then more silence.

“…”

Then more heavier silence.

Three figures stood frozen outside the heavy oak door of the Chairwoman’s office. It was an unusual grouping, the air between them was thick with a mutual, simmering suspicion, two of them directing it primarily at the third.

The faint unmistakable sound of a muffled gasp and the creak of furniture from within the office finally broke the stalemate.

Korolev cleared his throat, the sound absurdly loud in the tense corridor. He adjusted his cuffs with meticulous care, refusing to look at the door.

“… So… I believe the agenda for this impromptu meeting has been… postponed. Indefinitely.”

“You’re right.” The agreement came from Frostnova. She stood rigid, her arms crossed, her gaze fixed on a point on the far wall as if she could freeze the entire embarrassing situation into oblivion.

The man was a scheming bastard, but fortunately—or unfortunately, she had yet to decide—he wasn't a voyeuristic scheming bastard.

“I must acknowledge it,” Patriot spoke, his voice shook like a small earthquake from within his colossal armor. He stood like a granite monument, his halberd grounded beside him. “An extraordinary performance in there today, Commissar Korolev. You played the chamber like a master musician plays his instrument.”

Korolev offered a thin, wry smile that didn't reach his eyes. “It’s merely… good politics is all… Understanding the tempo of the room.” He gestured vaguely down the hall, desperate to be anywhere else.

“Well, since our business is concluded… and although we are quite… ahem… philosophically divergent… care to join me for a late dinner? The commissary should still have some passable stew.” The offer was blurted out, a piece of automatic, diplomatic politeness he instantly regretted.

“No.” Frostnova’s refusal was immediate.

“Sure,” Patriot said, his single visible eye blinking slowly. “What is the harm in it? A soldier eats when he can.”

Korolev’s smile tightened. He wished their answers had been switched.

A long, suffering sigh escaped Frostnova. She couldn't let Patriot go alone with this viper. “Fine,” she bit out, every syllable dripping with reluctance. “I’ll go too.”

And now, Korolev wished with every fiber of his being that neither had agreed.

His damned diplomatic autopilot had royally fucked him over. An evening of strained small talk with an ancient, apolitical killing machine and a woman who looked at him like she was deciding which limb to frostbite first. A delightful prospect.

He cast one last glance at the Chairwoman’s door.

Well, he thought with a profound sense of injustice, at least someone in this damned building is having a good night.

"Shall we?" he said, his voice strained, turning to lead his utterly unwilling and mismatched dinner companions down the hall.

… oh right, he should tell his family in Columbia he hadn’t been executed yet.

Chapter Text

Buldrokkas'tee had seen many things in his long lifetime. Though, he had definitely not expected the Ursus empire to collapse so rapidly, even if he did take part on its demise.

His namesake of Patriot relates to his love for his new homeland. Ursus. Though much disaster had happened far and few between, and though he did turn traitor at some point, redefining his patriotism for Ursus to be patriotism for liberation of the infected, his love for the country never waned.

Now, as the Commissar for defense—an equivalent of Minister for defense in the old days, he’d seen less frontline combat and more administration. This is a mixed bag for the Wendigo, to be honest.

And, more importantly, as his status as the most senior and veteran officer of the entire Red Army, and as a personal friend of the Chairwoman, he naturally had many leeway into managing the Army.

Particularly, in leadership. Understanding that wars are not won by ideology alone but by experienced command, he had made a controversial, yet pragmatic decision.

He had personally vetted dozens of his old comrades—and even respected rivals—from the Imperial Army. Men and women who knew how to move divisions, manage supply lines, and hold a line. After a stringent, often humiliating process of ‘political rehabilitation’, he had ushered them back into service, placing them in key officer roles within the new Red Army.

He knew it made little difference in their hearts. You could force a man to memorize the tenets of Ursine Socialism, but you could not easily erase decades of loyalty to a dead Tsar or the ingrained prejudices of the old officer corps.

Their ideologies varied wildly.

Some were cynical opportunists, clinging to the new regime for survival. Others were true believers in a strong, centralized Ursus, indifferent to the color of the banner. Some were ultranationalists, and a handful, perhaps, were genuinely attempting to adapt.

The result was a disconnect between the General Staff and officer corps with the common soldier.

The Red Army’s leadership was now dominated by the very same minds that had once commanded the armies sent to crush the infected. They were efficient, professional, and utterly disconnected from the revolutionary spirit that fuelled the rank and file. They saw soldiers as resources to be deployed, not comrades to be liberated.

These officers, keenly aware of their precarious position in the new order, naturally flocked to the one figure whose authority was unquestionable and whose martial prowess transcended politics, Patriot.

In doing so, and without any conscious design on his part, the Wendigo had become the nucleus of his own formidable power bloc. It was an apolitical faction in name only, for in a socialist state, the control of the gun is the ultimate politics.

The Military answered to him, and through him, to the state.

From his unique vantage point, Patriot observed the other factions that vied for control of the Party’s soul since the start of the first Congress. They had more or less coalesced into three distinct blocks—with the exception of his military.

The Hardliners. Anchoring the furthest left of the political spectrum, they were a turbulent sea of radical theory.

They rallied under the banner of the Internationalist cause, advocating for permanent, armed revolution to spread Socialism across Terra. Their ideology was a volatile cocktail of attempting to mix the unique pragmatism of Ursine Socialism with more universal, often contradictory, socialist doctrines.

This philosophical dissonance left them perpetually paralyzed by internal ideological infighting within their own faction.

The Residency. The dominant faction within the Party, their name derived from their perceived proximity to the very heart of power.

They were the Chairwoman’s steadfast defenders, the keepers of the revolution’s original flame. Comprised largely of veterans from the Long March and Reunion, their loyalty was to Talulah Artorius herself and the specific vision of Ursine Socialism she embodied.

They were the backbone of the regime, but their strength was also their limitation—their influence was intrinsically tied to the Chairwoman’s own power and popularity.

The Ursus Reconstruction Committee. Sitting furthest from the left, they occupy the most moderate wing of the political spectrum, though many of their members privately view themselves not as socialists.

Officially, they styled themselves as Social Liberals. Their public platform advocates for moderated policies, a measured pace of change, and economic stability above all else.

In truth, the URC is the haven for the revolution's liberals and democrats. While they pay lip service to Soviet power, many within its ranks are fundamentally opposed to its centralized, single-party structure. Their ideal endgame is not the consolidation of Ursine Socialism, but a stable transition toward a liberal democracy modelled on nations like Columbia.

They see the current Soviet structure not as a permanent fixture, but as a necessary, transitional authoritarian phase to restore order before eventually liberalizing.

Naturally, this faction is led by Aleksandr Korolev.

Yesterday’s late dinner with Korolev, however, had been an unexpected exercise in recalibration. The man was every bit the polished, duplicitous snake Frostnova claimed. Yet, over the shared meal, Patriot had found a sliver of something resembling respect.

It was not respect for the man’s character, which Patriot judged to be as reliable as smoke, but for his craft. Korolev possessed a brilliant, diamond-sharp understanding of power—not as an ideological abstraction, but as a system of levers, pressures, and counterweights.

Hence, when Frostnova had later confirmed that the ‘Kazimierzian sabotage’ bore signs of internal sabotage, Patriot had merely grunted. It was not amusement he felt, but a professional acknowledgment of a flawless false-flag operation.

The man had manufactured a casus belli and had boxed the entire Congress into a corner. A despicable act, but an undeniably effective one.

“Sir,” a young lieutenant saluted crisply as Patriot’s colossal frame filled the doorway to the planning room.

Inside, the room smelled of cheap tobacco. A large topographic map of the western borderlands was spread across the central table, weighted down with empty mugs. Around it was a mix of grizzled Reunion veterans and the freshly rehabilitated officers from the Imperial General Staff that Patriot had personally vetted.

All conversation ceased as he entered. The Reunion commanders offered nods of fierce loyalty. The ex-Imperial officers stood straighter, their salutes perfectly formal. Their allegiances were to efficiency and survival, not the revolution, but they all answered to the Wendigo.

“Report,” Patriot’s voice rumbled, bypassing pleasantries. He moved to the head of the table, his shadow falling over the map like a mountain obscuring the sun.

A Colonel named Vlasov, a careerist from the old army with a neatly trimmed beard and eyes that missed nothing, stepped forward. “Comrade Commissar. We have compiled initial assessments of our operational capabilities and preliminary attack proposals.”

“Begin.”

“The strategic picture is… challenging,” Vlasov started, tapping a pointer on the map. “The Army is in the midst of a catastrophic demobilization. Our paper strength is just over 500,000. In reality, perhaps 200,000 are combat-ready, organized into under-strength divisions. The rest are administrative personnel, recruits in training, or garrison troops guarding supply dumps we don’t have the trucks to move.”

He gestured to symbols on the map. “Our materiel state is dire. We have artillery, but shell production is at 15% of pre-revolution levels. We have tanks, but most are in need of repairs we cannot perform. Fuel reserves are critically low. The Kazimierzians, by contrast, may not have a large standing army, but their knights are elite and mobile. They can also mobilize their reserve tournament circuits and private security forces far quicker than we can reorganize.”

Patriot absorbed the assessment and nodded, he then swept his gaze across the assembled officers, finally settling on one of the ex-Imperial generals, a man named Zakharov.

“I trust a general plan has been prepared,” Patriot stated. It was not a question.

General Zakharov sighed, a heavy, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of the entire failing state. “We have… a consensus, after vigorous debate.” His eyes flashed over toward the Reunion officers, whose expressions ranged from skeptical to openly hostile. “It is a single viable option. High-risk, and catastrophic if even one element fails.”

At his gesture, two junior officers carefully unrolled a large operations map over the existing topography.

“Operation VOSKHOD (Sunrise),” Zakharov announced, tapping the plan. “It acknowledges our weaknesses and seeks to turn them into a weapon of surprise. We cannot win a protracted war of attrition. Therefore, we must seek a decisive political victory immediately.”

The plan was audacious.

“We feign weakness,” Zakharov explained, his pointer tracing a line along the border. “We allow their reconnaissance to see our disarray—the under-strength units, the logistical chaos. We want them confident, arrogant. They will expect a disjointed defense or a feeble, broad-front assault.”

He then moved his pointer to a single, narrow point on the map, a region where the terrain slightly favored the attacker.

“While their attention is dispersed, we will concentrate every functional tank, every piece of artillery that has ammunition, and our most reliable infantry—Patriot’s own guard division and the Yeti Squadron—into a single, overwhelming fist. We do not tell the units their true objective until the last possible moment to prevent leaks.”

The pointer slammed down on a key city just across the border. “Lvov. A major logistical and symbolic hub. The plan is not to invade, but to decapitate. We punch through their border screen before they can react, bypassing strongpoints. We drive straight for the city and lay siege to it. The goal is to capture the city or isolate the headquarters of the major Knight Corporations based there within 96 hours.”

A murmur rippled through the room. It was a desperate gambit.

“The political calculation is everything,” Zakharov continued, his voice growing tense. “The Knight Corporations are businesses. If we can demonstrate that their assets—their famous knights and their expensive equipment—are not just at risk but facing annihilation far from home, their shareholders will panic. They will pressure the Kazimierzian government to sue for peace to protect their investments.”

He looked around the room, meeting the eyes of the skeptics. “The risks are immense. If our spearhead is delayed or bogged down, it will be cut off and destroyed. If the Kazimierzians realize our intent and reinforce Lvov faster than we can advance, it becomes a slaughter. We are betting the entire Red Army on the hope that our enemy is as greedy and short-sighted as we believe them to be.”

Silence descended upon the planning room. The audacity of the plan was either brilliant or insane. All eyes turned to the colossal figure at the head of the table, waiting for the verdict that would either launch them into a desperate thunderclap or condemn them to a slow, grinding defeat.

It was then that Patriot spoke again. “I will lead the spearhead.”

The silence shattered into a thousand pieces of stunned disbelief. Shock would be an understatement. Junior officers froze mid-breath. General Zakharov’s hand, holding a cigarette, halted halfway to his lips.

Even the hardened Reunion veterans stared, their fierce confidence momentarily replaced by sheer incredulity. The Commissar for Defense does not lead frontline assaults. Not anymore.

“Sir, that’s—!” a young staff officer finally blurted out. “The strategic command structure… your value here, at headquarters…”

Patriot did not roar. He did not need to. A single, slow turn of his helmeted gaze toward the officer was enough. The faint, ethereal glow from within his visor seemed to intensify, and the protest died in the man’s throat.

“It is overkill,” Patriot stated. He stated it as a simple, tactical fact, like noting the caliber of a shell. “But the calculation is unchanged. My presence on the field increases the probability of success by an exponential margin.”

He let the truth of it settle upon them.

“This operation hinges on speed, shock, and the absolute breaking of the enemy’s will. Who among our forces can achieve this more certainly?” His gauntleted fist gently tapped the table. “They will have entrenched positions. Heavy armor. Perhaps even their champion knights. They will believe themselves secure.”

He leaned forward, and the shadow he cast seemed to swallow the light from the operational map.

“Then they will see me coming.”

“Hyaaaah…! Ursus is cold as ever… brrr…!” A cheerful voice, utterly at odds with the utilitarian atmosphere of the capital, cut through the chill air.

Exusiai, the Sankta, hugged herself, her usual grin replaced by a dramatic shiver. Her light Pioneer uniform was no match for the northern freeze.

Walking beside her, unbothered and impeccably cool, Texas didn’t even glance over. “It’s not that cold.”

“Well, that’s because you’re wearing a proper coat!” Exusiai accused, pointing a trembling finger at Texas’s black overcoat.

“Why didn’t you buy one before we came here?” Texas asked, her voice flat, though a faint hint of long-suffering amusement touched her eyes. She expertly sidestepped a group of burly Ursine workers who stared, first at Exusiai’s halo, then quickly away.

“I was optimistic!” Exusiai chirped, her breath forming a cloud in the air. “And the Penguin Logistics expense account said ‘weather-appropriate gear’, but I thought my optimism would be enough! It’s a powerful insulator, you know!”

Texas sighed, a soft, white plume in the cold. She stopped and gestured with a gloved hand toward a small clothing store, its window displaying thick, grey woolen coats and fur-lined ushanka hats.

“You can buy one there. We still have five thousand rubles from the advance. Try not to buy the most obnoxiously red one you see.”

“Alright! My hero!” Exusiai beamed, already skipping toward the door, her previous shivers forgotten at the prospect of shopping.

The bell above the door jingled. The inside of the shop was warm, smelling of wool and mothballs. A stout Ursine woman with a severe bun looked up from behind the counter, her eyes narrowing first at Texas’s Lupo features, then widening almost imperceptibly at the sight of Exusiai’s glowing halo and wings.

A Sankta in Artoriagrad.

It was a sight that still made people stop, a living relic of a past that the new regime was still trying to bury and forget. Given the fact that many were murdered en masse during the revolution for being ‘inherently reactionary’. The shopkeeper’s expression flickered between suspicion and a desperate practiced neutrality.

Exusiai, blissfully unaware or choosing to ignore the tension, was already rifling through a rack of coats. “Ooh, this one’s fluffy! Look, Texas! It’s got ear flaps! Can I get the one with ear flaps?”

“Get whatever will stop your complaining,” Texas murmured, her own eyes casually scanning the street outside through the frost-tinged window.

Exusiai held up a long, heavy coat in a surprisingly practical dark blue. “This one! It’s perfect! It says ‘serious businesswoman on a top-secret mission’ but also ‘prepared for a surprise snowball fight,’ don’t you think?”

“Just try it on,” Texas said.

As Exusiai slipped the coat on, drowning her smaller frame in thick wool, the shopkeeper finally found her voice. “That… is one of our best. Good wool. It will last.”

“We’ll take it,” Texas said, already pulling the wad of new Soviet rubles from her pocket. The transaction was swift and silent.

Back on the street, now bundled up, Exusiai was ecstatic. “I’m invincible! Bring it on, Ursus! Your cold is nothing to me now!” She struck a triumphant pose.

Texas allowed herself a small, almost invisible smile. “Good. Now you can stop being a distraction and start helping me find the address. The client said to look for the bakery with the green door on Proletariat Street. Emperor is expecting his ‘special package’ to be delivered by tonight.”

“Right, right, the mysterious delivery!” Exusiai said, falling into step beside Texas, her newfound warmth making her bounce with every step. “Any idea what’s in the box?”

“Our business is to deliver, not to ask,” Texas recited, the company motto rolling off her tongue. “But given the destination, the fee, and the fact Emperor sent us personally…” she trailed off, her red eyes glancing at a propaganda poster pasted to a wall.

It depicted a stern Talulah Artorius pointing toward a factory, with the words ‘PRODUCTION IS A BATTLEFRONT!’ stamped beneath.

“…It’s not birthday cakes,” Texas finished dryly.

Exusiai followed her gaze, her usual irrepressible cheer softening into something more thoughtful and observant. The halo above her head seemed to glow a little softer.

“This city feels… tense. Like the air right before a thunderstorm. When’s the last time we were here? Back when it was still called Deity Grypherburg?”

“Six years ago. Just before the country blew into all-out civil war.” Her voice was low. “And it’s Artoriagrad now. They renamed it after her.” A slight nod toward the poster.

They walked in silence for a moment, the sounds of the city filling the space between them—not the bustling commerce of Lungmen or the chaotic energy of a Columbian metropolis, but a different kind of atmosphere.

“It’s… different,” Exusiai murmured, her eyes taking in the scene. The grand, ornate architecture of the old Empire was still there, but now it was overshadowed.

Hammer-and-sickle banners hung from classical columns. Places where there were once priceless statues of Tsarist heroes were now empty. The opulent shopfronts they remembered were now state-run distributors or communal kitchens with long, quiet queues.

“It’s like the whole city is holding its breath. Kinda makes you miss the old, corrupt, gaudy Ursus, huh?” Exusiai joked, but the laugh didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Texas didn’t smile. Her steps slowing as a thought seemed to strike her. “That woman on the poster… Talulah. Didn’t Chief Inspector Ch’en mention her once? A Draco half-sister. One who was supposedly kidnapped to Ursus as a child.”

Exusiai’s eyes widened. “Oh, wow. Yeah, she did. You think that’s her? The Dragon of Ursus is Chief Executive Wei’s lost niece?”

Texas gave a minimal, noncommittal shrug, the gesture speaking volumes. It was a plausible theory, and in their line of work, the most plausible theories were often the true ones.

“Hey,” Exusiai said, the grim speculation replaced by her innate, irrepressible curiosity. She nudged Texas with an elbow. “You think we can take a couple pictures after this? For the scrapbook! ‘Our Delivery to the Revolutionary Capital!’ It’s not every day you get to see history being… well, being done!”

Texas let out a soft sigh, a puff of steam in the cold air. “Sure. But after we deliver the package.” Her gaze lifted from her companion to a building across the street. “There. That’s the place.”

She nodded toward a narrow, two-story structure squeezed between larger, more imposing Soviet ministries. It was, as promised, a bakery. A faded sign, its pre-revolutionary cursive almost scrubbed away.

The smell of baking rye bread, hearty and warm, spilled from its slightly ajar door, a starkly wholesome scent amidst the city’s industrial odor.

But the green door mentioned in the instructions was there, pristine and freshly painted, standing out against the worn brickwork. It looked less like a bakery entrance and more like a portal to somewhere else entirely.

“A bakery, huh?” Exusiai mused, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Seems a little… normal for all this cloak-and-dagger stuff.”

“The best places to hide are in plain sight,” Texas murmured, her eyes already scanning the perimeter. The windows of adjacent buildings, the patterns of foot traffic, the single bored-looking old man shoveling snow a few doors down who might have been there for years, or might have started ten minutes ago. “Remember the rules. In and out.”

They crossed the street, the ambient noise of the city seeming to fade as they approached the green door. Texas pushed it open, the bell above it issuing a soft, incongruously cheerful ding.

A man sitting at a small table near the window, nursing a cup of black tea, looked up from a newspaper. He was impeccably dressed in a well-cut but subdued suit, a stark contrast to the flour-dusted apron of the actual baker who was nervously shuffling loaves in the background.

His eyes swept over them, pausing for a microsecond on Exusiai’s halo with a flicker of interest before settling on Texas with an air of expected recognition.

“Ah. Penguin Logistics, yes?” he said, his voice smooth and cultured, carrying the faint, polished accent of the old Ursine aristocracy that had learned to survive.

Texas gave a single curt nod. “Are you Korolev?”

A thin, practiced smile touched his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Commissar Aleksandr Korolev, at your service. I suppose you have Emperor’s… package?

Without ceremony, Texas slid the compact, reinforced metal box from her shoulder and dropped it on the table between them. It landed with a heavy, definitive thud that spoke of dense, valuable contents.

“Here.”

Korolev didn’t immediately reach for it. He first took a slow sip of his tea, his eyes never leaving Texas. “Efficient. I appreciate that. Please, send Emperor my sincerest thanks. His… specialized procurement services remain invaluable.”

He finally picked up the box, weighing it in his hand for a moment as if confirming its contents through touch alone before setting it aside.

“This will greatly aid in smoothing certain… bureaucratic friction with our Columbian friends. I’ll see what I can do to expedite the reopening of Penguin Logistics’ operational branch here. The Federation values mutually beneficial relationships.”

He leaned back, his demeanor shifting casually. “Speaking of the Federation… first time in Ursus? Enjoying your stay in Artoriagrad?”

Exusiai, unable to contain herself, chimed in before Texas could offer a non-answer. “It’s very organized! And the posters are really motivational!”

Korolev’s smile widened, becoming genuinely amused. “‘Organized.’ Yes. That is one word for it. We are building a new world, Miss…?”

“Exusiai!”

“Miss Exusiai. And building requires a firm hand and a clear vision. No more of the old Empire’s decadent chaos.” His gaze drifted back to Texas, seeking the Lupo’s more measured assessment. “It must be quite a change from Lungmen.”

Texas met his gaze evenly. “Cities change. We just deliver the mail.”

Korolev chuckled, a dry, soundless laugh. “A pragmatic philosophy. I can see why Emperor values you.” He rose from his seat, the meeting clearly concluded. “The funds have been transferred to your account. You should find the exchange rate more than favorable. Do try the bread before you leave. It’s bland, but nutritious.”

He gave them a final, dismissive nod, his attention already returning to the package on the table. Their part in his plans was over. As they turned to leave, the cheerful bell ringing again, they could feel his gaze on their backs—not hostile, but proprietary. They were just another resource that had been successfully acquired and deployed.

Once outside in the biting cold, Exusiai let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “Wow. That guy… his smile felt like getting scanned by a security camera.”

Texas didn’t reply immediately. She was already checking her encrypted datapad, confirming the transfer. “He’s the kind of man who survives any regime,” she said finally, her voice low. “The money’s good. Let’s go. This city has too many eyes.”

“Wait!” Exusiai’s hand shot out, catching Texas’s wrist with a grip that was surprisingly firm. “We haven’t taken any pictures yet! You promised! Come on, looks like there’s a parade over there!” She pointed down a broad, flag-lined avenue where a steady rumble was growing louder.

Before Texas could protest or point out that parades in police states are rarely for fun, Exusiai was already pulling her towards the commotion.

It was a parade, alright. But not really. There were no cheering crowds, no floats, no music—not like in Siracusa. It was a military convoy being moved through the city center in broad daylight. Row upon row of conscripts, their uniforms still crisp and ill-fitting, marched in lockstep.

They were followed by the grating whine of artillery tractors and the ominous rumble of main battle tanks, their long barrels seeming to suck the light from the air.

“Aaaannndd… Snap!” Exusiai chirped, utterly undeterred by the solemnity of the event. She held up her phone, framing a perfectly incongruous shot, herself beaming a peace sign in the foreground, with a column of stoic, marching soldiers and hulking war machines blurring into the background.

A few of the soldiers, their eyes fixed ahead on a horizon of imagined battlefields, flickered their gaze towards the unexpected burst of color and sound. Their stern expressions cracked for a nanosecond, revealing a flicker of pure, uncomprehending bewilderment.

They did this several times at many points across the city. Exusiai would strike a playful pose in front of a towering statue of Talulah, mock-saluting a stern-faced Party official on a propaganda mural, or attempting to get a selfie with a stony-faced member of the People’s Militia who was very much on duty.

Much to Texas’s quiet astonishment, the reactions from the locals were not suspicion or hostility, but a sort of stunned, bemused confusion. A rare, genuine smile would sometimes break through on a passerby’s face.

For a moment, the gray, relentless pressure of revolutionary life would lift, replaced by the sheer bizarre spectacle of these two outsiders, especially the radiant, haloed Sankta, treating their austere capital like a tourist destination.

Their improvised tour eventually wound down, and they found themselves near a kiosk clinging to the side of a soot-stained building. A small, flickering electric heater fought a losing battle against the cold.

"Oh! Excuse me, can we get one of the latest editions?" Exusiai chirped, pointing to a stack of newspapers under a glass weight.

The elderly vendor looked them up and down with a practiced, weary eye. "Eh, you new here?" he grunted, his voice like grinding gravel. Without waiting for an answer, he slid a copy of Pravda Ursus from the pile.

"Tourists pay two rubles."

Exusiai didn't mind the markup and handed over the coins. The vendor took them with a nod, his attention already drifting back to the empty street.

"Look, Texas!" Exusiai said, unfolding the broadsheet. The front page was dominated by a severe, heroically lit photograph of Talulah Artorius inspecting a factory floor. The headline blared: PRODUCTION QUOTAS EXCEEDED IN TVERDZA SECTOR: WORKERS DEDICATE SURPLUS TO THE DEFENSE OF THE REVOLUTION!

"Wow, they're really cranking out the... whatever it is they make here," Exusiai mused, her finger tracing a smaller column. "Ooh, and look, a crossword! 'Seven across: The revolutionary spirit of the Ursine people (9 letters).' Huh. That's a tough one…"

Texas plucked the paper from her hands, her eyes scanning the columns with a predator's efficiency, skipping the triumphalist prose and looking for the gaps in the narrative.

"It's not about what it says," she murmured. "It's about what it doesn't."

She pointed to a small, almost hidden notice at the bottom of the second page. "See this? 'Minor Incident at Western Border Outpost. Vigilance Urged Against Kazimierzian Provocateurs.'" Her eyes flicked up to meet Exusiai's. "The 'incident' we saw was a full military convoy moving to the front. This makes it sound like a bar fight."

“Aw… you know I’m not a kid!” Exusiai protested, though her usual effervescence was muted. She hugged herself a little tighter inside her new coat. “I know full well what’s happening. The posters, the trucks, the way everyone talks… it’s all pointing one way. Still… another war, huh?”

She kicked at a chunk of frozen slush on the pavement, sending it skittering into the gutter. “Makes you think that we’re kind of lucky, you know? To just be passing through. To not have to live in an active warzone.”

Her voice had lost its performative cheer, replaced by a rare sober thoughtfulness. The halo above her head seemed to dim slightly.

For all the chaos of their deliveries—skirmishes, chases, corporate espionage—it was always a contained chaos. It had rules, an end point, a paycheck.

This felt different.

Texas watched her, the newspaper still held in her gloved hand. The wind picked up, whipping a strand of hair across her face. She didn’t brush it away.

“Lucky is a relative term,” Texas said, her voice quieter than before, almost lost in the gust. “We don’t live in one. We just work in them. There’s a difference.”

It was the closest she would come to acknowledging the privilege of their relatively carefree existence. They could always leave. The people shuffling past them in the cold, could not.

She crumpled the newspaper in her fist and dropped it into a nearby public bin. The state’s narrative was now just so much trash.

“Come on,” Texas said, her tone shifting back to its familiar flatness. “The transport depot is this way. The sooner we’re out of here, the sooner we can attend Sora’s concert.”

Korolev remained at the small table long after the two couriers had departed, the cheerful jingle of the doorbell fading into silence. He took a slow contemplative sip of his now-lukewarm tea.

Their visit had been a tad refreshing. He somewhat appreciated their brazen optimism, a commodity rarer and more valuable than Originium in the midst of recent events these days.

The bakery door jingled again. But this time, it was not the two young women. The man who entered was of a similar age and stature to Korolev himself—that is to say, neither particularly young nor pretty nor optimistic.

He wore a heavy, practical Columbian-made parka over a rumpled suit.

Korolev did not stand, but he straightened his posture. “Ambassador Johnson. Welcome back to Ursus.”

Edwin Johnson, Columbia’s ambassador to Ursus for over twenty-five years—and Korolev’s most valuable backchannel to the outside world—grunted in acknowledgment.

He shrugged off his parka and dropped into the chair opposite Korolev with the weary familiarity of a man who had sat across from him in far worse circumstances.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t sweat the formalities. This place has changed more in a year than in the previous twenty. I can’t count the number of new surveillance cameras on two hands anymore.” He gestured vaguely at the ceiling with a thumb.

“Still, ‘Commissar,’ huh?” Johnson asked, crossing his arms. The title sounded foreign and vaguely ridiculous in his flat Midwestern accent. “Ain’t that the same as a ‘Minister’?”

“Indeed, it is. A new world requires new titles for old functions, I just nod along.” Korolev replied, a thin, diplomatic smile gracing his lips. “Where did they reassign you when we were busy killing each other?”

“Some backwards, frozen mountain principality called Kjerag. Full of traditionalists who think a telephone is black magic. The coffee was terrible. It ain’t the same, though.” Johnson huffed.

“Well then,” Korolev began, his voice dropping into a more serious. He slid the untouched cup of tea towards the Ambassador. “I trust you’ve heard the news?”

Johnson snorted, ignoring the tea. “The ‘news’? You mean the war you just voted yourselves into? Yeah, I’ve heard ‘em. D.C. has heard ‘em. The whole world’s heard it. My question is what in the hell does Columbia have to do with it?”

Korolev’s smile didn’t falter. He leaned forward, his elbows on the small table, his voice a low, compelling murmur that the baker’s clattering pans could not hope to drown out.

“Everything, my friend. Everything,” he said softly. “Kazimierz is a slaver state, a corporate oligarchy that grinds its people into dust for profit. We are liberating them. It is a noble cause, is it not? One that should resonate with Columbia’s own revolutionary origins.”

Johnson stared at him, his expression utterly deadpan. “Don’t try that ideological nonsense on me, Alex. I buy my coffee from a slaver state every Tuesday. Get to the point.”

“The point,” Korolev continued, unfazed, “is that a stable, grateful Ursus on Kazimierz’s border is a far better trading partner than a chaotic, failed state. We win this war, and a humbled Kazimierz will be desperate. That is the moment for Columbia to sweep in, broker a peace deal, and position itself as the arbiter in this corner of Terra.”

He let the image hang in the air before continuing. “And I’m sure the corporate boards in Kawalerielki will be… tremendously receptive to any outside help they can find. Perhaps even willing to grant Columbian companies exclusive, preferential rights to operate within a newly… restructured… Kazimierz. Your mining conglomerates, your agricultural firms—they’d have a blank slate.”

Johnson huffed, a short, sharp sound of understanding. “I get your point. You’re not just fighting a war. You’re running a racket. You’re planning to use us to box Kazimierz in a vise between two great powers. Ursus as the hammer, and Columbia as the anvil.”

Korolev gave a slow, approving nod. “A crude but accurate metaphor. Of course, for this elegant arrangement to function, Ursus requires some… initial exchange. We cannot hope to march into their capital and occupy the entire country with hope and ideology alone. We need to land a decisive, shocking blow. Hence, we require certain… specialized materials to achieve a swift political victory. Columbia provides the tools for the first act. Then, you sweep in for the final act, force them to the table, dictate terms that include the dissolution of their feudal labor practices—freeing a vast new workforce—and voila.”

He spread his hands, as if presenting a finished masterpiece. “Ursus gains security and a moral victory. Columbia gains unprecedented market access and a pliable partner state. The people of Kazimierz gain their ‘freedom’—and you, Mister Ambassador, gain the gratitude of two nations and the key executives in every boardroom from Trimounts to New Columbus to D.C. Everyone profits.”

Johnson was silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on Korolev. He finally picked up the cold cup of tea and drained it in one gulp, wincing slightly at the bitterness.

“You’re asking me to sell my government on bankrolling a war on a promise of a payday that might not come,” he stated flatly.

“I am asking you to help them see a unique investment opportunity,” Korolev corrected. “The initial capital outlay is for military and financial aid. The return on investment is an entire country. A stabilized, resource-rich region under Columbia's economic influence. It is the deal of the century, Edwin.”

Johnson placed the empty cup down with a definitive click. “I’ll make some calls. But D.C. is skittish. A recent dip in ‘ol Wall Street has every senator and CEO clutching their pearls. They’re nervous about volatility.”

“Of course. Uncertainty is the enemy of commerce,” Korolev nodded sympathetically

Then, as if an afterthought, he casually slid the reinforced metal box from Penguin Logistics across the table. Its weight scraped against the wood.

“This, however, should expedite the process. A token of good faith, and a… preview of coming attractions.”

Johnson’s eyes, previously weary and cynical, sharpened with interest. He pulled the box closer, his fingers pausing on the latches for a moment before flipping them open.

He opened the lid just enough to peek inside, his face illuminated by a faint, cold blue light from within. His eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch—the equivalent of a shout of surprise from another man. He snapped the lid shut, the sound echoing in the small bakery.

A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, one that spoke of insider trading and closed-door deals. The tension in his shoulders eased. The war, the ideology, the risk—it all suddenly became quantifiable.

“Now you’re speaking my language, Alex,” Johnson said, his voice losing its guarded edge, replaced by the warm tone of a man who has just seen the bottom line and liked what he saw.

He patted the box. “My contacts in the Military Industrial Complex will salivate over this.”

Korolev’s smile was thin. “I thought it might clarify our proposition. Consider it a down payment on our future partnership. A guarantee that your ‘investment’ is backing a horse with proven pedigree.”

Johnson stood, tucking the box securely under his arm as if it were a briefcase full of stock certificates. “I’ll be on the secure line within the hour. This’ll cut through the skittishness. You might just get your ‘initial capital outlay’ faster than you think.”

He paused at the door, looking back at Korolev with a newfound respect that was purely professional. “You know, for a commie, you’ve got a hell of an understanding of how to motivate a capitalist.”

“Politics and finance are merely two sides of the same coin, Ambassador,” Korolev replied, raising his teacup in a toast. “We both deal in the art of the possible.”

With a final nod, Johnson slipped out into the cold Artoriagrad street, the box of secrets held tight against his side.

In the sudden quiet of the bakery, Korolev did not move. He took a slow sip of his tea, now stone cold. He placed the cup down with a soft clink that seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness.

“…You can come out now, ladies. The performance is over.”

From behind the flour-dusted counter, the baker—a KGB asset whose nervous demeanor was now completely gone—stepped aside. Two figures emerged from the back room, their presence sucking the residual warmth from the air.

The first was Frostnova, the Commissar for State Security. She moved silently, her pale eyes fixed on Korolev, reflecting no light.

At her shoulder was Crownslayer, one hand resting casually on the hilt of a blade at her hip.

“An awful lot of preparation for a secret negotiation with a capitalist state, Commissar,” Frostnova spoke first. She stopped on the opposite side of the small table, not taking a seat. “A performance staged for my benefit, perhaps?”

“All in good time, Comrade Commissar,” Korolev replied, his demeanor unruffled. He gestured to the now-empty chairs. “Every move on the board serves a purpose.”

“The purpose had better be not betrayal,” she countered, her gaze dropping to the space on the table where the box had been. “You just handed a classified Ursine asset to the ambassador of a hostile power. You will tell us what was in that box. Immediately. Otherwise, Crownslayer can demonstrate why her codename is so fitting, right about now.”

Korolev sighed, as if dealing with children who failed to grasp a simple lesson. He leaned back, steepling his fingers.

“Easy, Commissar. There is no need for such… dramatics.” His eyes flicked between the two women. “Tell me, are you familiar with the concept of a ‘demonstrator’?”

No answer.

“In Columbian corporate parlance,” Korolev continued smoothly, “it is a prototype. A proof-of-concept, essentially, something too expensive or unstable for full production, but functionally invaluable in proving that a technology works. It is used to secure investment, to win contracts, and to convince skeptics.”

He paused, letting the definition hang in the air.

“What I just gave Ambassador Johnson was an Ursine military demonstrator. A single, non-replicable artillery shell casing, built around a core of hyper-refined Originium whose production process would bankrupt three of our economic sectors. The old Empire was researching new toys of war, codenamed Project Oculus. It was intended to be the foundation for a new generation of siege-breaking artillery and armor-piercing naval rounds.”

“And you just handed the one prototype we apparently possess to a foreign power on a silver platter. You have five seconds to explain why that isn't the highest form of treason.”

“If you are accusing me of being a spy who leaked critical military technology,” Korolev replied, his voice hardening, “then I assure you, my actions were taken solely for the war effort I—as I know you are aware—orchestrated.”

He leaned forward.

“Think. Even if Columbia’s best engineers take it apart, they will find nothing they can replicate. The shell’s potency relies on a particular catalytic agent—a rare-earth chemical developed in the labs of Deity Grypherburg and known only to a handful of scientists, most of whom are now… unfortunately out of this world. The formula died with the old regime. Without it, that shell is little more than a very expensive, very heavy paperweight.”

He looked from Frostnova’s face to Crownslayer’s twitching blade.

“Do you actually want me to go into the specifics? I have the reports. They are an exceptionally dull reading. The summary is this, we gave them a key to a lock we alone can pick, and in return, they will fund the entire war machine that will make that key obsolete. We have traded a museum piece for an army.”

Frostnova opened her mouth.

“Ah, ah, I had to utilize a third-party logistics company to actually acquire the last prototype. It’s a long story but it’s insignificant. They found it in the home of a White Army Colonel in Lungmen.”

Frostnova stared at him for a long moment, dissecting his every word, every subtle shift in expression. She was looking for a lie, a crack, a trace of self-interest.

She found nothing.

“Your report on this ‘demonstrator’, its complete technical history and the incontrovertible proof of its non-replicability, will be on my desk by dawn,” she stated, her tone leaving no room for negotiation.

“Not a summary. The full, unredacted archives from the Old Empire’s military research directorate. If a single page is missing, I will reconsider Crownslayer’s proposed solution to this problem.”

Without waiting for his agreement, she turned. “Crownslayer. We’re done here.”

The Infected assassin looked almost disappointed, her hand relaxing on her blade. She shot Korolev a look that promised this conversation was merely paused, not over, before following her Commissar out into the cold.

Left alone in the sudden quiet, Korolev slowly released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He looked at the frost melting on the table into tiny, glistening beads.

“Oh, Patriot… you better win this war…”

The gambit was in play.

Chapter Text

The Golden Knight is what they call him.

Sir Mikael Karowic, currently in command of Kazimierz’s "peacekeeping" occupation of the seized Ursus borderlands, felt an imperceptible coolness in the air. It was more than the usual bitter Ursine chill, perhaps it was his skin becoming numb.

He dismissed it. This entire frozen hellscape was a drain on the senses.

Staying in this cold, desolate outpost was a bore, a punishment for knights who lacked the political connections for more glamorous postings. Thankfully, his retainers had turned the commandeered Ursine manor house into a passable fortress of comfort. They still managed to procure the essentials and prepared a feast for him every night.

He sipped a rich, dark wine, internally scoffing at the directives from the Adeptus Sprawiedliwi Kazimierz, the governing chivalric body back in Kawalerielki. Wait. Be patient. Hold the line. Await their formal surrender. It was the counsel of old men and cowards.

Surrender?

Those reds had shattered their own country. Their army was a demoralized rabble and their economy was dust. They were dead already, they just hadn't stopped twitching. The thought of waiting for a corpse to capitulate was an insult to his knightly honor.

Vehemently Ursinephobic—a sentiment forged in childhood stories of border raids and solidified by years of military doctrine—he viewed the occupation and the inevitable, full annexation of these lands as a necessary act of national hygiene.

It was about securing a buffer, of course, a strategic necessity. But it was also about purification. Pushing back the Ursine brutes that had festered for centuries. They were a race of brutes and slaves, unfit to rule the very land they inhabited.

Proof? Look at them now.

A retainer approached, bowing slightly. “Sir Karowic, the patrols from sectors seven and nine have reported in. All is quiet.”

“Quiet,” Karowic repeated, swirling the wine in his glass. “Of course it’s quiet, they’re broken. They’re hiding in their hovels, licking their wounds.” He took a long drink. “Double the patrols tomorrow. I want them to see our strength. I want them to remember their place.”

“At once, Sir Knight.”

As the retainer withdrew, Karowic’s gaze fell on the large map of the region spread across a secondary table. His fingers, adorned with heavy signet rings, tapped on the symbol representing the main Ursine defensive position kilometers away.

Patience, the Adeptus told him. But patience was a virtue for the weak. True knights shaped history, they did not wait for it to happen.

He would send a message tomorrow.

A ‘reconnaissance in force’. A few companies of his light cavalry to probe their lines, burn a few outposts, and take a handful of slaves. Nothing the Adeptus could formally fault him for. Just a little push to see if the rotting structure would finally collapse.

He smiled, a cold, handsome expression that never reached his eyes. Let the politicians in Kawalerielki chatter. He was the one on the ground, the one with the sword. He would give them their surrender, even if he had to drag it kicking and screaming from the frozen throat of Ursus itself.

The Ursus night could keep its silence. Tomorrow, he would fill it with the sounds they deserved to hear. The scream of charging steeds, the roar of fire, and the glorious silence that follows a decisive victory.

He was awoken in the middle of the night not by an orderly alert, but by pure, undiluted chaos.

The world outside was a cacophony of screams, explosions, and chaos. One of his retainers, a young knight whose face was pale with a terror Karowic had never seen, burst into his chambers, his armor half-buckled.

“Sir! They’re attacking!”

“What?!” Karowic roared, surging upright, the fine sheets tangling around him. His mind, fogged with sleep and wine, rejected the idea utterly. “Who?! It can’t be Ursus! They’re decapitated! A rabble!”

“It is Ursus! We’re—!”

The rest of the man’s sentence was obliterated as an artillery shell tore through the upper floor of the manor with a deafening crump-WHUMP.

The world shook. Plaster and wood rained down from the ceiling. A large timber beam smashed onto the floor just beside his bed, sending a cloud of dust and splinters into the air.

“What in the hell is this?!” Karowic bellowed, scrambling from the bed. This was not the pinprick attack of partisans! This was a coordinated bombardment! He grabbed his ornate saber from its stand, his mind racing. “Report, damn you! A proper report!”

As they stumbled into the chaotic hallway and towards the courtyard, a second retainer, his face streaked with blood and soot, skidded to a halt before them.

“Sir! We were hit with a coordinated artillery strike first—our munitions depot and artillery encampments are gone! Then they targeted the barracks! Scrambled drone recon confirms a massive Ursine offensive, they’re punching right through our outer—”

Thwump.

A crossbow bolt, fired from the darkness beyond the courtyard wall, buried itself in the wooden doorframe inches from the retainer’s head. Both Karowic and the man stood frozen for a heartbeat, staring at the fletching still vibrating from the impact, then turned as one to the source.

“My God…” Karowic’s mouth fell agape.

The scene in his courtyard was a vision from a madman’s hell. His proud Kazimierzian knights, disoriented and shivering in the biting cold, were locked in a desperate melee against Ursine soldiers.

But these were not the demoralized conscripts he’d been promised. They fought ferociously, they were disciplined. They used the freezing fog as cover, their uniforms making them near ghosts in the gloom.

What the hell was this?! Had the Adeptus’ intelligence missed an entire army?!

His tactical mind began turning its gears through the haze of panic. He was at a severe disadvantage. Through the swirling mist, he could see the hulking outlines of Ursine heavy tanks methodically pinning his own lighter tanks against the burning wrecks of the motor pool.

Their artillery, far from being silenced, was now walking a deadly curtain of fire through the heart of his camp.

But do not fret! Kazimierz had its champion. They had him.

Rattling his ornate saber from its sheath, the blade began to glow with a warm, golden light—a manifestation of his Arts, a beacon of chivalric power. He turned to the retainer, his fear sublimating into a furious pride.

“Tonight, we charge! Rally the knights! We will show these lowlife insurgents the price of striking a Champion of Kazimierz!”

Inwardly, Karowic smirked.

These were not the unshakable Imperial Army. They were peasants and infected, playing at soldier. They would break, they always break. He just had to kill enough of them to remind them of their place.

With a battle cry that cut through the din, Karowic launched himself into the fray. His golden blade became a whirlwind of death. He moved with the preternatural speed and grace that had made him a tournament legend.

An Ursine soldier lunged at him, intending to strike him with his blade. Karowic sidestepped, his glowing saber shearing through the sword and the man’s arm in a single motion.

He kicked the screaming soldier aside and parried a blade swing from another, his riposte piercing clean through the man’s quilted jacket and out his back.

He cut through a two-man heavy weapons team before they could set up their tripod, his form a blur of gilded motion. He ducked under a wild swing from a roaring Ursine soldier and drove his point through the man’s neck.

For a glorious, bloody moment, he was the Golden Knight of the stories. His knights, seeing his banner of light, rallied around him, forming a pocket of resistance.

“See?!” he shouted to his men, his voice triumphant over the clash of steel and the crack of bolts. “They bleed! They fear! Now push! For Kazimierz!”

He led a counter-charge, his glowing saber leading the way, cutting down a path through the Ursine lines. He felt invincible. Each fallen enemy was a data point proving his superiority.

This was what he was born for.

But… the Ursine line did not break.

For every soldier he cut down, two more seemed to take its place. Their faces were not fearful, rather they were determined, and utterly devoid of the panic he expected.

And then he felt it.

An immense pressure. A presence so ancient it seemed to still the very air around him. The temperature, already freezing, dropped further. The golden light of his Arts seemed to dim.

At the far end of the courtyard, the main gates shuddered. Then, without a sound, they corroded into a fine, black dust, as if eons of decay happened in a single second.

And through the newly made opening, a figure stepped into the firelight.

Patriot had arrived.

The Wendigo’s colossal form dwarfed the fighting men around him. His ancient armor was scarred and pitted, a testament to wars far longer than Karowic’s entire life. In his hands, he held a halberd that seemed to drink the light from the air.

His glowing eyes swept over the battle, the chaos, the golden knight standing amidst a circle of the dead.

Those eyes settled on Karowic.

All of Karowic’s momentum, his golden fury, his triumphant charge—it all evaporated.

The smirk died on his lips.

“Ch—charge!” he screamed, his voice cracking as he tried to rally the knights still clinging to him. But they too were hesitant, their weapons shaking, their courage freezing solid in their veins.

Patriot moved first.

He lifted his halberd and lunged at their lines with a speed that defied physics and his colossal size. The ground itself seemed to tremble with his passing.

“Stop him!” Karowic shrieked, the order sounding pathetic even to his own ears.

A brave—or foolish—knight in full plate armor charged to intercept, his lance aimed at Patriot's center mass.

Patriot didn't sidestep nor did he parry, he simply kept moving. The lance tip shattered against his chest plate like glass against a mountainside. In the same motion, the backswing of Patriot's halberd didn't so much strike the knight as it passed through him. Utterly decimating the man.

There was no scream, just a wet, tearing sound and a cloud of crimson mist where a man used to be.

Damnit! Karowic’s mind raced, his tactical understanding collapsing into sheer primal terror.

He’d only heard the stories, dismissed them as peasant superstition, propaganda to explain Imperial invincibility. It was just… impossible for something like this to exist! What was the cursed Ursus Empire doing, creating monsters like him?!

Ursus…. Ursus… URSUS…

The name became a curse, a mantra of his rising, panicked fury. Karowic gritted his teeth so hard he feared they would crack.

Of course Ursus would resort to this! They had no honor, no chivalry. They couldn't even win a fair fight, so they unleashed a demon like him to fight on their behalf!

A red haze descended over Karowic's vision. This abomination was the source of it all. The humiliation, the cold, the death of his men…

Kill it, and the battle would turn. The legend of the Golden Knight would be cemented forever as the man who slew the Wendigo.

With a raw, incoherent scream of rage, he threw aside all strategy. He channeled every ounce of his Arts into his glowing saber, the golden light flaring so brightly it hurt to look at.

He saw an opening—a fraction of a second as Patriot's halberd swept through two more of his knights.

This was it.

He launched himself forward, a gilded bolt of pure fury. He put all his strength, all his speed, all his being into a single, perfect thrust aimed at the seam between Patriot's chest plate and shoulder guard.

A killing blow.

SHNNNNG-CRACKKK!

The sound was deafening.

The impact jarred Karowic's entire skeleton, vibrating up his arms and into his teeth.

His perfectly honed blade, the symbol of his championship, did not pierce. It did not even scratch the ancient armor.

It stopped. Dead.

The tip of his glowing saber was pressed against the dark metal, the golden Arts flickering and sputtering like a dying candle. A single, hair-thin crack appeared in the exquisite blade.

Karowic stared, his mind refusing to process what had happened. His ultimate attack had not even been acknowledged.

Slowly, Patriot turned his head.

Those glowing eyes looked down at the saber tip against his armor, then at the stunned knight attached to it. There was no anger in that gaze, neither were there malice for the man who tried to kill him. Only indifference to the pathetic man who attempted to kill him.

It was in that moment that Karowic understood the horrifying truth.

Patriot hadn't been fighting them. The knights he had obliterated were not opponents, they were obstructions, quietly removed from his path. Karowic’s glorious charge, his perfect thrust… it was all nothing more than a gnat buzzing at a titan's heel.

It was Patriot’s turn.

He swung his halberd.       

The golden knight, Mikael Karowic, his expression frozen in a rictus of shock and disbelief, simply ceased to exist.

There was no body to hit the ground, only a thick, expanding red mist that hung in the frigid air for a moment before settling on the frost-covered cobblestones, painting them a dull, ugly crimson.

The glow of his arts snuffed out instantly, the silence after the thwump of impact more deafening than any scream.

One obstruction cleared.

It was going rather well, Patriot thought to himself.

His force had shattered the initial defensive cordon, the enemy's command structure was decapitated, and the spearhead was now driving deep into occupied territory along the pre-selected axis of advance. All parameters were within acceptable projections.

The Kazimierzian resistance was crumbling not just from the front, but from within. The death of their champion had sent a psychic shockwave through their ranks.

Without central command, their responses were fragmented. They fought in isolated pockets, easy to surround and annihilate. Some companies, hearing the Wendigo was coming, simply abandoned their posts and melted into the frozen forests, preferring the mercy of the winter to facing him.

Patriot saw it all.

He adjusted. A slight shift in the halberd pointed a battalion towards a weakened flank. A grunted order over the radio redirected artillery fire onto a forming counter-attack, scattering it before it could begin.

The land blurred past. Burning outposts. Frozen battlefields littered with the wreckage of knightly siege weapons and motor. Roads choked with the debris of a retreating army.

Ahead, on the horizon, the lights of Lvov began to gleam through the industrial haze and the lingering night.

It was by no means a metropolis, but a significant regional hub important enough that its capture would be more than a tactical victory, it would be a psychological earthquake that would force Kawalerielki to reconsider the cost of war.

“General Zakharov.” Patriot called to the man beside him.

The man, who had been monitoring a field radio, snapped to attention. “Sir?”

“Prepare the artillery. Target military, industrial, and commercial zones.”

The General nodded and barked the orders into his handset. Moments later, the deep-throated crump of heavy guns erupted behind them. Distant flashes bloomed across Lvov’s skyline, followed seconds later by the dull, rolling thunder of impacts.

The city shuddered. It was no use for it to attempt to move now, the artillery would systematically dismantle the delicate infrastructure required for mobilization long before its engines could power up.

Patriot entered the command tent where his general staff snapped to attention.

“Sir,” Zakharov began, saluting crisply. “This is… an unexpected level of success. We have completely annihilated the Kazimierzian field army in the region. Their command structure is in ashes. The path is open.” He paused. “Should we desire it… we can capture Lvov.”

The tent fell silent.

Capturing a mobile city was not a mere battle, it was a siege against a fortress that could, in theory, simply run away. It was a complex, bloody, and resource-intensive endeavor.

There was a reason why most armies chose to simply destroy a city rather than risk manpower and resources to try and capture it. It was, and is, never viable.

Patriot thought for a moment. Destroying Lvov was the obvious and safe choice. It would deny the enemy the asset and demonstrate utter defeat.

Finally, the Wendigo spoke. “A city destroyed is a resource lost. A city captured is a resource gained. It is a symbol broken and a message sent.”

He turned his immense head towards Zakharov, the implication clear. The question was not if, but how.

“I trust you have a strategy in mind for its capture?” Patriot’s tone made it clear that he expected nothing less.

Zakharov, to his credit, did not flinch. He stepped to the main tactical table, pointing to a detailed schematic of a mobile city’s undercarriage.

“We do, sir. We do not fight the city. We cripple it. The artillery barrages have a secondary purpose, that is to mask the movement of our specialized teams. As we speak, sappers and combat engineers are infiltrating the outskirts. Their objective is the thermal exhaust ports, the hydraulic transfer conduits, and the primary inter-columnar piston housings here… and here.”

He tapped two critical points on the schematic. “We do not need to destroy them. We only need to introduce specialized Originium-charged disruptors into the systems. The resulting cascade of failure will seize the city’s locomotion systems. It will be trapped, dead in the water, its mighty engines nothing more than frozen, useless metal. It becomes a fixed fortress. And then…”

Zakharov looked up. “Then, we let their fear do the rest. We offer them our terms. Surrender, or we systematically dismantle the city around them, level by level. Or by just shelling them to submission. Either works for us.”

“See that it is done.” Patriot commanded.

Talulah received the war report from her office in Artoriagrad. The messy room from the night before had been thoroughly cleaned—though it didn’t help the headache in her head and the soreness in her body. She didn’t expect Alina to be so energetic in all honesty…

Though thanks to her, she did sleep for a whole day… potentially destabilizing some aspects of the government since she nearly always oversaw it personally, but just a day off wouldn’t lead to outright total collapse, right?

Rubbing her temples, she refocused on the recent dispatch sent by the general staff.

Lvov had been successfully demobilized and captured.

It was an astonishing piece of news, given the fact that she never got to see the actual war plan—blame Alina for that. But from the tidbits she got, their understrength and under-equipped military managed to deliver a decisive blow against Kazimierzian defenses and captured a major regional city in just under 30 hours.

Oh right… Patriot led the attack personally… that explains it…

Talulah shrugged as she read that piece of information, grabbing the mug of coffee and took a slow sip, hoping the bitter coffee can energize her somehow. Instead she winced, not used to the bitter coffee she forced herself to drink.

Another interesting point, according to Patriot, they could theoretically move forward deeper into Kazimierzian territory.

A brilliant idea, if you only had a fraction of a brain cell and are immensely retarded. Need she say more?

Instead, she should wait for… ugh… for Korolev’s part in the war. That is to say, the diplomatic front of the war. He’d given her the outline of the terms and she mostly agreed to it.

He wrote the terms like a victor's dictate, delivered from a position of strength so absolute it bordered on arrogance. He had drafted them as if Ursus had already marched its armies through the streets of Kawalerielki and planted its flag on their sky scrapers and not merely captured a single regional hub.

The terms included a full and immediate withdrawal of all Kazimierzian forces to pre-conflict borders; war reparations to be paid in gold, critical medical supplies—especially Oripathy suppressants—and heavy industrial machinery; formal recognition of the Federative Soviet Socialist Republics of Ursus by the Kazimierzian government; and lastly, the most audacious clause of all, was the immediate manumission and release of all indentured servants and slaves held under Kazimierzian corporate contracts, with safe passage granted to Ursus for those who wished to emigrate.

He had drawn up these terms like a conquering emperor. And to be perfectly honest, Talulah doubted, deeply, that even a miracle worker like Korolev could force Kazimierz to agree to them. The reparations and recognition were one thing, but the demand to dismantle the core of their exploitative labor economy?

It was like demanding a lion become a vegetarian. It simply isn’t going to happen.

But then again, she mused, sipping the bitter dregs of her coffee, there was a silver lining. If he failed spectacularly, and if he returned empty-handed and humiliated, she would have the perfect, publicly justifiable reason to remove him from his position once and for all.

And if he somehow succeeded… well, then she would have won a peace that secured the revolution for a generation, even if it meant keeping a snake in her inner circle. It was a win-win, so long as she could stomach the process.

A soft knock came at the door. Speak of the devil.

“Ent—” she began, her voice hoarse. She cleared her throat, preparing her best diplomatic mask for Korolev’s inevitable preening. The door opened. “—oh. You’re not the devil…” Talulah choked, the mask slipping into genuine surprise.

It was Alina, but she rarely knocked so formally. So why now?!

“Disappointed?” the Elafia asked, her voice a gentle tease. “Were you expecting someone else to bother you at this hour?”

“I… no. It’s fine. I was just… reviewing Korolev’s terms.” Talulah gestured vaguely at the dispatch and the accompanying documents, a flush of heat creeping up her neck that had nothing to do with the coffee.

“Ah, him.” Alina’s smile didn’t waver. “You can stop mentally preparing for a fight. He’s already on a transport to the front. He’s going to parley with the Kazimierzians under a flag of truce, remember? ‘To negotiate a peace or something…’”

“Right. Yeah.” Talulah leaned back, running a hand through her hair.

Alina pushed off from the doorframe and walked into the room, her movements light and quiet. She stopped behind Talulah’s chair, her hands coming to rest on the tense muscles of the Chairwoman’s shoulders.

“Now, come on. Cheer up. You look like you’re trying to single-handedly bend the world over your knee. What’s really on your mind? Or are you just embarrassed about last night?”

Her thumbs pressed into a particularly stubborn knot of tension, and Talulah couldn’t suppress a slight gasp, followed by a weary, defeated sigh. The combination of the touch and the blunt question unraveled her completely.

“Is it that obvious?” Talulah muttered, her voice barely a whisper, her eyes closing.

Alina leaned down, her lips close to Talulah’s ear. “Only to me,” she whispered, making the Draco shudder slightly. “Now, I’m here because I’ve received a peculiar request from the diplomatic corps... one I thought you should hear about immediately.”

“Request?”

“Mhm…” Alina hummed, her thumbs finding another tight coil of stress and pressing into it. “It’s a formal communiqué. A request by the leadership of the Third Internationale to host their next Congress of Workers and Socialists here in Artoriagrad.”

“Eh?” Talulah slowly turned her head to look at Alina, the motion causing a stray strand of silver hair to fall across her face. “Here? They want to come here?”

Chapter Text

In what people across Terra were already calling the military and political disaster of the century, Kazimierz had been utterly humiliated.

Not by a peer power, not by a rival empire, but by the rump Soviet Ursine state—a nation that, in the global consciousness, was still reeling on its knees from the catastrophic bloodletting of its own civil war.

Perhaps it was the Kazimierzian National Council for its neglect, treating the border conflict as a slight distraction from the far more pressing matter of the upcoming Kazimierz Major tournament season. Others pointed out that Ursus had sent out the equivalent of a walking major catastrophe to fend off Kazimierz.

Whatever the reason is, Kazimierz, a modern, technologically advanced country, with its prided knights, had been shattered in under four days.

A regional capital had been captured. A celebrated Champion Knight was now a red stain on the frozen earth. And it had been done by an enemy they had dismissed as terminally weak.

And for the three ruling bodies of Kazimierz, it was an existential crisis.

Hours after the first reports came in, an emergency meeting was held between the three ruling bodies of Kazimierz. The General Chamber of Commerce (K.G.C.C.), the Knights’ Association, and the Adeptus Sprawiedliwi.

The meeting, as one would expect, was a torrent of pointing fingers at one another hoping a solution would somehow come.

“This is a direct result of your profiteering!” a red-faced Adeptus personnel shouted, jabbing a finger at the head of the K.G.C.C. “You stripped the border garrisons to fund your absurd tournaments! If we postponed the season, we can easily send more knights and resources to the front!”

“Excuse me?! You wanted to delay the Major is that it?! And lose out on money that directly benefits this country?!” The head of the K.G.C.C. shot back. “Where was the Adeptus’ famed intelligence? Your reports said the Ursine army was a disorganized mob! You told us it was a low-risk operation!”

The accusations flew, each faction desperate to offload the blame onto another. The very structure of Kazimierz’s power, so effective for internal competition and commercial glory, was now paralyzing it in the face of a real external threat.

They were trapped.

Sending more knights to reclaim Lvov was unthinkable, it would be feeding more assets into the Ursine meat grinder. Doing nothing was equally impossible, the humiliation would continue, and because of the apparent defeat, no one would come and visit Kazimierz for the Major. This was a huge problem.

All eyes were on the Chancellor.

The role was a constitutional relic, a figurehead position created to give a single face to the triumvirate of power. He was the nation's smile for the cameras, the ribbon-cutter, and the man who gave soothing speeches written by the three bodies.

In reality, he held less power than a mid-level tournament commissioner. His true function was to absorb blame, a lightning rod for public discontent so the real powers could operate unscathed.

Unfortunately, the current occupant of the office was a living testament to its irrelevance.

The Chancellor was a ninety-year-old man who had received the position decades ago as a reward for political loyalty and promptly been forgotten. Now, he was a husk of his former self—though many even doubt the man has a ‘former self’ to begin with.

His head nodded perpetual tremor, his eyes stared blankly at the tabletop, seemingly unaware of the catastrophe unfolding around him, and a string of drool escaped the corner of his mouth, and he made no move to wipe it away.

It was a CEO from the K.G.C.C. who broke the silence. "This is untenable. We cannot be led by a ghost while we are in crisis."

A Knight-Captain saw an opportunity to offload responsibility. "The Chancellor is clearly… unfit for duty. The stress of this crisis has overwhelmed him. For the good of the nation, we must invoke Article Seven."

Article Seven was a clause allowing for the immediate ‘temporary relief’ of the Chancellor for reasons of health or competence. It had never been used, though, because they thought it never will.

The motion passed in seconds. There were no dissenting votes.

Two aides were summoned, and with a shocking lack of ceremony, they gently but firmly guided the confused old man from his chair and out of the chamber. He went without protest, mumbling something about the weather. The door clicked shut, and the seat of the Chancellor was empty.

For a moment, there was only the heavy silence of what they had just done. They had sacrificed their scapegoat. Now, there was no one left to blame but themselves.

The head of the Adeptus Sprawiedliwi cleared his throat. "The… situation remains. We must—”

“Gentlemen!” The voice of the head of the K.G.C.C. cut through the gloom like a clarion call. He stood, holding up his personal data terminal, a triumphant smile plastered on his face. “A moment! I have just been informed! Columbia wishes to help us!”

The effect was electric. The grim atmosphere was instantly replaced with a wave of palpable relief and renewed arrogance swept through the chamber. Cheers and excited chatter broke out. Shoulders that had been slumped with defeat now squared.

This changed everything.

Columbia! The industrial titan, the financial heart of the world! With Columbian backing and their money—especially their money—their weapons—especially their weapons—and especially their political influence, those red barbarians would be forced to reconsider.

They wouldn't dare face the combined might of Kazimierz and Columbia. The Ursine advance would halt, the negotiations would reset, and they would be back in a position of strength.

The fantasy was a lifeline, and every man and woman in the room grabbed onto it with both hands.

Korolev had always considered Kazimierz to be the odd one out in Terran politics.

A bizarre anachronism. Sure, Ursus had its serfdom, but it was a relic they were at least attempting to dismantle with hammers and sickles.

Kazimierz, however, remained the only so-called 'civilized' nation to not only practice institutionalized chattel slavery but to proudly market it as ‘indentured sponsorship’ during its tournaments.

That, combined with a national identity that revolved around televised duels and corporate-sponsored chivalry, made the entire country feel like a dystopian theme park.

Oh wait, it is.

He was never proud of the Old Empire's sins, but at least they had the decency to be hypocrites about them, hiding their exploitation behind layers of bureaucracy and divine right.

They didn't brag… publicly at least…

The Roundtable Conference, as the Columbian media was breathlessly calling it, is to be hosted in a skyscraper in New Columbus, with Columbia acting as the ‘neutral arbitrator’, it was designed to project an image of peaceful conflict resolution.

In truth, if Ambassador Johnson had pulled his strings correctly, the entire process would be a carefully staged play. Columbia would posture publicly, offering Kazimierz just enough lifelines to make their concessions palatable, while secretly ensuring the final terms favored Ursus.

Ursus got its victory, and Columbia gained immense economic leverage over a weakened, grateful Kazimierz, disguising its own ‘aid’ as benevolence while setting the stage for a soft colonial—ahem—friendly economic assistance.

The sound of a familiar heavy footsteps turned Korolev’s attention from the impressive skyline view.

“Ah, Edwin—” he began, turning with a practiced diplomatic smile.

Ambassador Johnson closed the gap in swift strides, not with a handshake, but by getting uncomfortably close. His face was unreadable, but it was obvious from his tone alone. His voice was a low, venomous whisper meant only for Korolev’s ears.

“You lied to me.”

Ah…

So the analysts at the Military Industrial Complex had finished their preliminary report on the ‘demonstrator’.

Korolev’s kept his smile. He gently but firmly placed a hand on Johnson's shoulder, steering him away from a group of approaching journalists.

“Lied is such a strong word, my friend. It implies a malicious intent,” Korolev murmured. “I provided you with a catalyst, you see? And look at the magnificent reaction it catalyzed?” He gestured around the opulent arbitration hall.

“Your government, which was ‘skittish’, is now hosting peace talks. Your corporations are salivating at the thought of the markets about to open. You are not here because you were tricked. You are here because you saw an opportunity and seized it.”

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping even further. “But look where that got you? A potential client state that can be neatly folded into your economic sphere of influence, all without firing a single shot from your own guns. You have the moral high ground and the lucrative contract. My ‘lie’ as you call it, didn’t harm your interests. It handed you the keys to the entire region on a silver platter.”

Johnson’s eyes narrowed, the genial mask of the diplomat completely gone, and was replaced by the cold-eyed calculation of a corporate enforcer who had been outmaneuvered and was now demanding his cut.

“I was in a lot of heat because of you. My credibility took a hit. The analysts tore that ‘demonstrator’ apart. They want something real in return for this performance.”

It was a demand. Columbia’s help has a new, higher price tag.

With that, he turned on his heel, the anger smoothing from his features into a statesman’s neutral mask before he had taken two steps. He greeted the cluster of journalists with a practiced, weary smile, the picture of a dedicated public servant burdened by the weight of peace.

“Ambassador Johnson! Any comments on the prospects for the talks?” a reporter called out.

“We remain hopeful that all parties will come to the table in good faith,” he said, his voice projecting calm assurance. “The goal is a stable and prosperous future for the region.” He then gestured gracefully toward Korolev. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe Commissar Korolev and I have a peace to negotiate.”

Get to your seat. The show is starting.

Korolev gave the press a slight, formal nod, his own expression a perfect blend of revolutionary seriousness and open-minded diplomacy. He smoothed his suit jacket and walked toward the massive circular negotiation table, where the stunned and sullen Kazimierz delegation was already seated, looking like patients awaiting a dreaded diagnosis.

As he took his seat opposite them, he met the eyes of the Kazimierzian diplomat. A man who, just days ago, had been cheering the prospect of Columbian intervention. His nameplate read J. Wójcik.

Ambassador Johnson, playing his role to perfection, cleared his throat from the head of the table. "Gentlemen, representatives of the Sovereign State of Kazimierz and the Federative Soviet Socialist Republics of Ursus," he began.

"We are gathered under the auspices of the Columbian Federation to facilitate a peaceful and mutually agreeable resolution to the present conflict. To begin, let us establish a framework. His Excellency Aleksandr Korolev, the floor is yours. Let's hear the terms from the Ursine delegation first."

All eyes turned to Korolev. He didn't stand, he simply laced his fingers together on the table, a pedagogue about to deliver a lesson that was already long overdue.

"Thank you, Your Excellency," Korolev began, his voice calm and devoid of triumphalism, which made it all the more intimidating. "The terms are not an opening position. They are the necessary conditions for peace, born from the undeniable reality on the ground. They are fourfold."

He cleared his throat as he began reading from the papers.

"First, A full and immediate military withdrawal. All Kazimierzian armed forces and military assets will vacate all territories recognized as sovereign Ursus soil under pre-war borders.”

"Second, War reparations. To be paid in gold bars, industrial machinery—specifically, pharmaceutical manufacturing equipment and precision tooling—and a monthly shipment of Oripathy suppressants for a period of no less than three years. The total value is quantified in the dossier before you."

"Third, Diplomatic recognition. Kazimierz will extend full, formal, and unequivocal diplomatic recognition to the Federative Soviet Socialist Republics of Ursus, and will not oppose its membership in any international body."

He paused, letting the first three points, severe as they were, settle in. Naturally, to let the tense situation stretch even longer, he took a sip from the provided water bottle.

"Fourth, the immediate release and abolition of slavery of all forms. Kazimierz will immediately annul all corporate and state indentured servitude contracts, granting full citizenship and freedom to every individual currently held under such agreements. Furthermore, you will provide safe passage and logistical support for any of these new citizens who wish to emigrate to the FSSRU."

The silence in the room was absolute. The first three terms were brutal, but they were the traditional language of defeat. The fourth was revolutionary. It was not a demand for territory or treasure, but for the very soul of their economic system.

Wójcik, the Kazimierzian diplomat, found his voice, sputtering. "This—this fourth point is not a term of peace! It is an outrageous demand for us to dismantle our entire—!"

"Your entire what, Your Excellency?" Korolev interrupted. "Your entire system of institutionalized slavery? A practice every other so-called 'civilized' nation on Terra has abandoned? You came to our soil unprovoked—let me remind you that. You lost, and the victor dictates the peace. And we have decided that our peace includes the liberation of those you have enslaved."

He leaned forward slightly.

"These are not terms to be debated. They are the consequences of your actions. You may, of course, refuse." He leaned back, a cold, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. "But I would remind you that the alternative to this table is not a return to the status quo. The alternative is the continued advance of the Red Army. And its commander, I assure you, is far less… diplomatic… than I am."

He finished and steepled his fingers again, turning his eyes to Johnson. The ball was now in the court of the ‘arbitrator’, who had to somehow convince Kazimierz to sign its own economic death warrant while making it look like a Columbian-brokered compromise.

For a long moment, Johnson was silent, letting the severity of the Ursine terms hang over the table like a guillotine. Then, he tapped his fingers idly on the table in a thoughtful, almost dismissive gesture.

"These are... exceptionally harsh terms, Your Excellency," Johnson began, his voice losing its neutral tone and adopting a harder, more critical edge.

He straightened up. "Let me be blunt. You have won a battle, not the war. You occupy a single regional hub, not the capital. To present demands fit for the total conquest of an entire nation is not a show of strength. It is a show of inexperience."

He didn't wait for Korolev's rebuttal. He turned his gaze to Wójcik offering them a lifeline.

"Therefore, Columbia will present an alternative framework. One that acknowledges the new reality on the ground without demanding national suicide." He paused, letting the Kazimierz delegate lean in, his eyes wide with desperate hope.

"Columbia is prepared to underwrite the financial reparations to Ursus." Johnson declared. A wave of palpable relief washed over Wójcik’s face.

But then he continued, his words lacing that lifeline with Columbia's own chains. "...In exchange, Columbian corporations will receive exclusive, ninety-nine-year leasing rights to all mining and mineral extraction operations within the former Kazimierz-occupied territories of Ursus, now recognized as sovereign Ursus soil. We will handle the cleanup, the development, and the profits."

He then turned his cool gaze back to Korolev.

"Furthermore," Johnson said, his tone leaving no room for debate, "to ensure regional stability and to prevent future... miscalculations... Columbia proposes a neutral buffer zone, twenty kilometers wide, along the entire Ursus-Kazimierz border. This zone will be patrolled by a joint force, but its command and control will fall under a Columbian-led security consortium. All military assets from both sides must withdraw from this zone."

Korolev winced.

"And finally, regarding the status of Kazimierzian slavery…" He said the name with clear disdain. "While Columbia applauds the sentiment, we cannot endorse the unilateral dismantling of a sovereign nation's economic structure. The proposed manumission is off the table. Instead, Kazimierz will pay a one-time, lump-sum fee to Ursus—which Columbia will, again, generously finance—to be used for refugee resettlement of those who voluntarily flee here. The internal practices of Kazimierz are its own affair."

He leaned back, his proposal was complete.

Columbia would ‘save’ Kazimierz from financial ruin and social upheaval, indebting it for generations. In return, Columbia would seize control of Ursus' reclaimed mineral wealth and place its own military on Ursus's new border, effectively containing the revolution.

Kazimierz kept its slaves, and Ursus was left with a hollow victory with its land reclaimed, but now leased to foreign corporations and locked behind a Columbian-controlled fence.

The message, at least to Korolev, was clear as day. You may have beaten Kazimierz, but you are not yet a peer to Columbia. You will accept our terms, or we will unmake your victory.

And to Korolev, who was, at heart, still an Ursine patriot, it was a humiliation he would not let his homeland stomach. No matter who was in charge.

The Kazimierzian diplomat and his problems suddenly seemed irrelevant, the true enemy had finally revealed itself.

To hell with Kazimierz! This was now a duel between him and Johnson.

Korolev took a slow sip from his water bottle, using the moment to master his fury and reassemble his diplomatic mask. He placed the bottle down with a soft click.

“A… fascinating counter-proposal, Your Execllency,” Korolev began, his voice dangerously smooth, all traces of revolutionary fervor replaced by the cold, analytical tone of a fellow master of realpolitik. “Columbia’s generosity in underwriting its ally’s reparations is… noted. As is its keen interest in Ursus’ mineral wealth.”

He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Johnson’s.

“However, let us speak plainly, as peers. Your framework contains certain logical inconsistencies.” He held up a finger. “First, the buffer zone. You propose to ‘ensure our security’ by placing our border under the control of a Columbian military consortium. This is not stability. This is a military occupation by another name. The Federative Republics did not shed oceans of blood to expel one occupier only to invite another. The border will be patrolled by Ursine forces, Alone.”

A second finger joined the first. “Second, the leasing rights. You ask us to hand you the keys to the very resources we just bled to reclaim. We will gladly sell our resources to Columbia—at market rates, and through our state-owned corporations.”

Then came the third point. “And finally, the ‘lump-sum fee’. You propose we accept a pittance of blood money in exchange for ignoring the continued enslavement of thousands on our doorstep. You ask us to become collaborators in that system. This is not negotiable. The manumission is not a sentimental point, it is a fundamental matter of our national security and moral principle. A slaver state on our border is a permanent threat and a permanent insult. It will end.”

He leaned back, steepling his fingers again, mirroring Johnson’s earlier posture.

“So, let me propose a refinement,” Korolev said, his tone making it clear he was now setting the terms of the negotiation. “Kazimierz pays its own reparations. They will beggar themselves to do it, but that is the consequence of their aggression. Columbia may loan them the money, if you wish to indebt them to you—that is your affair.”

“The manumission proceeds as I outlined. In return,” he conceded, “Ursus will guarantee the security of Columbian commercial assets within our own borders and grant Columbia the most-favored-nation trading status for a period of… five years. This gives your corporations a privileged, but not exclusive, position in our markets.”

The ball was now back in Johnson’s court. Korolev had called his bluff, raised the stakes, and reframed the entire negotiation not as a plea for peace, but as a choice between two futures for Columbia itself.

It could be Columbia as a passive spectator to a regional war, or Columbia as the master architect of a new economic order, with Ursus as its powerful, grateful—and indebted—partner. The Kazimierzians, Korolev made clear, were no longer the primary actors. They were the prize, the territory over which two empires would now negotiate.

Korolev knew he was dancing on a razor's edge. The promise of unfettered Columbian access to Ursus itself was a grenade he had tossed into the room without Talulah’s explicit authorization.

He was certain of the strategic necessity, confident in his ability to manage the fallout and sell it to her as the only viable path. First, secure the deal, he thought. Then, iron out the doctrinal wrinkles with the Chairwoman.

He smirked. Yeah that’ll do.

The ensuing hours was strangely stressing for the Commissar. Offers and counter-offers were advanced, parsed, and withdrawn. Wójcik interjected with increasingly desperate attempts to assert his nation’s sovereignty, his voice often drowned out by the two larger powers circling his homeland.

Finally, Johnson slammed his hand on the table, not in anger, but in exhaustion. “This is a circular firing squad. We’re just going in circles. These negotiations are adjourned until tomorrow.” He stood, his chair scraping harshly against the stone floor.

Korolev watched Johnson leave, the man’s posture was stiff with frustration. He was merely a messenger boy, running back to his masters in D.C. for a new script.

Just like me, Korolev mused. We are all conduits for greater wills.

“I see…” Talulah’s voice came through the speaker.

As soon as he got back in his hotel room, he contacted Talulah and relayed the day’s events in summaries, omitting nothing of strategic importance, though carefully glossing over the most provocative language he’d used with Johnson.

Her approval of his strategy was tacit, her silence on the specific point of internal Columbian operations was a calculated gamble she was willing to let play out.

The contentious point, they agreed, was no longer the terms for Kazimierz. It was the secret, parallel negotiation with Columbia itself. The real prize wasn’t a peace treaty with Kazimierz—though it remained a top priority—it was the thing that would prevent Victoria or Leithanien from ever daring to intervene.

Formal diplomatic recognition from the Columbian Federation.

That single act would shatter the FSSRU’s pariah status overnight, transforming it from a dangerous revolutionary experiment into a legitimate state actor.

“Let me get this straight, you’re presenting them with an outrageous demand—one that will voluntarily make them dismantle their entire economic system, mind you—and then you plan to backpedal and generously offer to settle for mere concessions on their treatment of slaves?” Talulah’s unamused voice spoke through the speaker.

“Well, yes, essentially. One establishes the outer limits of one’s ideological position to make the subsequent, more pragmatic proposal appear reasonable by comparison.” Korolev casually explained.

The silence stretched longer than Korolev anticipated, and more uncomfortable than it should be. “…Righttt… and you’re saying this after you fired up Congress that this is a war of liberation as you so generously put. And now you want to rollback on that and leave me out to dry and face Congress? Is that it?”

“With all due respect, Chairwoman—”

A loud exasperated sigh cut him off. He could picture her pinching the bridge of her nose. "Forget it. The authority is yours. You've maneuvered us into this, now maneuver us out. Just… walk me through it. How do you intend to spin this for Columbia? How does this end with them recognizing us and not just carving up Kazimierz for themselves?"

"Of course." Korolev's voice smoothed into its diplomatic cadence. "The foundation is historical precedent. Ursus has for centuries served as Terra's shield against the northern demons. That is an incontrovertible fact, one that even our enemies acknowledge. I will position the FSSRU as the legitimate continuator government of that sacred duty. Columbia understands the value of a stable bulwark, after all. We offer to be that bulwark, in exchange for recognition and the capital to rebuild our military—specifically to maintain that northern shield."

"Fine. What are the specific points you'll put forward?" Talulah asked, her voice all business now.

"Point one, formal diplomatic recognition of the FSSRU as the sole legal successor state to the Ursus Empire."

"Non-negotiable. The starting point. Go on."

"Point two, a mutual defense pact specifically pertaining to threats originating from the Infy Icefield—”

"A mutual defense pact implies we would be obligated to come to their aid if a horde of Collapsals bypassed us and made their way to Columbia. Change it to a non-aggression and consultation pact. We share intelligence on northern threats, but we do not pledge our troops to die for D.C." Talulah interjected.

"Noted, Chairwoman. A consultation pact it is." Korolev conceded.

"Point three," he continued. "Columbian aid package to help with the reconstruction—”

“…”

“… No interjections?”

“Hm? No.”

“Really? I thought you’d asked for… never mind.” Korolev coughed. “"Point four, giving the most favored fation trading status for Columbian corporations within Ursus, granting them preferential access to our raw materials and markets."

"Absolutely not." The refusal was immediate and absolute. "You will open the door to let them strip-mine this country under the guise of 'trade'. Preferential access becomes a monopoly in six months. We will grant them equal access, the same as any other nation that recognizes us. No more."

Korolev inhaled slightly. This was a key point of leverage he'd hoped to use. "Chairwoman, without a significant economic incentive—"

"The incentive is a stable border and a new market. If that is not enough for them, then their recognition is conditional on looting us, and is therefore worthless. The answer is no."

There was a tense pause. Korolev could hear the faint scratch of a pen on paper. He had lost that point.

"Very well. Point five, then… A joint statement condemning the Kazimierzian practice of hereditary indentured servitude and calling for its abolition under the new peace terms."

This time, Talulah's silence was thoughtful.

"No," she said finally. "A joint statement is too weak. It allows them to virtue-signal without commitment. If we are going to use this, we use it properly. The abolition of the gladiator slave-trade will be a precondition for any peace treaty with Kazimierz, and Columbia will be required to add its signature as a guarantor of that condition. It becomes their responsibility too and it becomes an international standard they are bound to uphold."

Korolev smirked imperceptibly. "A brilliant adjustment, Chairwoman. It ties their hands beautifully."

"Don't flatter me, Korolev. I'm just ensuring that if we are forced to be pragmatic, everyone else gets their hands just as dirty. Is that all?"

"For now, yes. I will draft the formal proposal along these lines."

“Mhm…” A non-committal hum was his only reply before the secure line clicked into dead air.

Korolev leaned back in his chair, the leather sighing in protest.

The conversation had been a negotiation in microcosm, and Talulah had proven a far shrewder negotiator than he’d anticipated. It was irksome, but he couldn't help a sliver of admiration. She was learning to wield power, not just ideology.

Even so, now he had his orders. He just had to sell it.

His hand moved automatically to the humidor on his desk, extracting a dark, tightly-rolled Victorian cigar. He brought it to his nose, inhaling the rich, earthy aroma, but stopped short of lighting it.

A glance at his wristwatch. Johnson would be waiting.

To be honest, he had mixed feelings about the Columbian. The man was a professional, charming in a blunt, Midwestern way, and undeniably effective with the ladies.

Which was precisely the problem for him. He was a mirror, reflecting Korolev’s own cynicism and ruthless pragmatism back at him. Negotiating with him was like playing chess against himself, it was mentally exhausting and offered few surprises—even if it sometimes played to his advantage.

With a heavy sigh, he stood and shrugged on his overcoat. The face in the mirror was that of a tired bureaucrat, but the eyes were those of a man ready for the fray.

But suddenly, a knock on his door.

Too early for Johnson, he thought, his mind racing through possibilities. Room service?

He opened the door, his expression of mild annoyance was immediately replaced with that of genuine shock. Something he rarely did.

Standing in front of him was a figure he never expected to see at his private lodgings.

“Ursine,” the man said in a low voice. “My superiors have handed me… new considerations. I hoped we might reach a conclusion privately away from the theater of the conference room.”

It was Wójcik. The Kazimierzian diplomat.

“Sir Wójcik?” Korolev said, the name a stall tactic as his mind whirred.

What is this? A desperate gambit? An attempt to circumvent Johnson?

Now that he thought of it, how does one spell his name? Is it Woyjik? Or is it—

“It’s pronounced ‘Voo-eh-chick’,” the man said, a faint smile in his lips as he correctly interpreted Korolev’s hesitation. “But tonight, you may call me Jan.”

Korolev recovered his composure swiftly, the diplomat’s mask sliding back into place. He stepped aside, a grand, inviting gesture.

“Jan. Of course. Please, come in. The hour is late, but diplomacy never sleeps, does it?”

Wójcik entered, his eyes scanning the room with the practiced quickness of a man assessing for threats or opportunities. He looked older than he did under the conference room lights, maybe ten, twenty years older than himself.

Korolev closed the door. “Can I offer you a drink? Victorian whiskey? Ursine vodka? It’s a night for strong spirits, I think.”

“Vodka. Thank you.” Wójcik remained standing.

Korolev poured two generous glasses. He handed one to his unexpected guest and gestured to the sitting area.

“So… ‘New considerations’. This is a fascinating, and frankly, irregular, development. Does Johnson know you’re paying me a social call?”

Wójcik took a swift, bracing swallow of vodka, the ice clinking sharply against the glass. “Johnson serves his masters, I serve Kazimierz. Tonight, our interests may not be perfectly aligned.”

He met Korolev’s gaze, the desperation of a drowning man replaced by the focus of a gambler pushing his entire stack to the center of the table. “We have a proposal for you.”

Korolev swirled his own drink, the liquid catching the light. He gestured with his glass, a silent, imperious command to proceed.

“Kazimierz is… ready to concede,” Wójcik began, the words clearly costing him. “But we will not become a Columbian protectorate or a Soviet puppet. There is a third way.”

Korolev’s eyebrow arched slightly. “And what way is that?”

“A way where Ursus gets its victory and its secure border. Where Kazimierz retains its sovereignty. And where both our nations tell Columbia… ‘thank you for your concern, but you are no longer needed.’”

The next day, back in the conference hall. Korolev idly tapped a finger on the conference table. Across from him, Johnson sat with practiced ease, and beside him, Wójcik calmly took a seat.

Korolev locked eyes with Johnson, who is supposedly confused as to why he didn’t come to him that night.

“Alright, gentlemen.” Johnson began, steepling his fingers on the table. “Let’s continue from yesterday. Columbia’s offer stands. We are prepared to act as the guarantor of a new, stable order. The terms are, as discussed, non-negotiable for our participation.” He looked between them, expecting the usual posturing, the slow grind of concessions.

Korolev and Wójcik exchanged a glance.

Korolev broke the silence. “Thank you, Your Excellency, for that… generous framework. However, after further consideration, the Federative Republics find the scope of external involvement… overly broad.”

Johnson’s smile tightened. “The scope is necessary to ensure—”

“What is necessary.” Wójcik interrupted, his voice stronger than it had been in days. “Is a sustainable peace between neighbors, not a treaty dictated by a third party.”

He pushed a single sheet of paper across the table towards Johnson. It was not the voluminous dossier of Columbian terms, but a concise, one-page memorandum.

“This,” Wójcik declared, “is the agreement reached between the sovereign states of Kazimierz and the FSSRU.”

Johnson’s eyes scanned the document, his expression shifting from condescension to confusion, then to cold, dawning fury.

Article 1: The immediate abolition of hereditary indentured servitude in Kazimierz.

Article 2: The return of all territories occupied by Kazimierz since the start of the civil war.

Article 3: A mutual non-aggression pact and the establishment of a demilitarized zone along the border.

Article 4: Preferential trade status for Ursus in Kazimierzian industrial and agricultural markets.

Article 5: Full Recognition of the Federative Soviet Socialist Republics of Ursus

Korolev smiled. “As you can see, the core issues have been resolved, and the war is over. The liberation of the oppressed is secured. All that remains is for Columbia to… acknowledge this new reality. And to formally extend diplomatic recognition to the FSSRU, of course. In the spirit of fostering stability.”

Johnson looked from one man to the other, his face was a mask of betrayed astonishment.

They had cut him out entirely.

They had used his presence not as a bridge, but as a threat to force each other to a deal, and then they had pulled the table out from under him.

“You can’t be serious,” Johnson hissed, the folksy charm utterly vanished. “This… this separate peace is an affront to every—”

“To every what, Your Excellency?” Korolev inquired mildly, cutting him off. He watched with immense satisfaction as Johnson’s mouth opened and closed, the words dying in his throat.

An affront to democracy? To free markets? To imperialist ambition? None of them could be said aloud.

Korolev allowed a thin smirk to play on his lips. Last night’s discussion with Wójcik had been more than productive than he’d like to admit. While the single-page memorandum presented to Johnson made it seem like Kazimierz had been thoroughly defeated, it was merely the public façade.

Regarding the slavery clause, Ursus would pay greatly substantial compensation for manumission, but in long-term installments that would not cripple its reconstruction. In return, Kazimierz would formally annul the crushing debts incurred by the old empire.

Following this—and framed as reparations, Kazimierz would send urgently needed medical supplies and industrial machinery, effectively jumpstarting stalled Soviet factories without a single Columbian loan or attached consultant.

And of course, Kazimierzian recognition.

While it was symbolically important, it was also secondary.

The true victory would be forcing Columbia’s hand. They had already legitimized the FSSRU by sitting at this table. To now deny recognition after a peace had been brokered would make them look petulant and irrelevant, potentially costing them influence and damage their international standing.

There were more niches in the so-called ‘Urso-Kazimierz friendship treaty’ but what was more important was Johnson’s funny face that he made.

Johnson’s face cycled through shades of purple before settling on a pallid, controlled rage. He slowly leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning in protest. The folksy ambassador was gone, replaced by calculating representative of a humiliated great power.

“A fascinating document,” Johnson said, his voice dangerously quiet. He tapped the memorandum with a single finger. “You’ve been busy. I assume this is final? No further… adjustments to be considered?”

“The terms are agreed upon between our two sovereign nations,” Wójcik stated, his voice firm. “We are prepared to sign, pending the formal cessation of hostilities.”

“I see,” Johnson said. He looked from Wójcik’s defiant pride to Korolev’s smug satisfaction.

He had two choices. Storm out in a futile protest that would only marginalize Columbia further, or salvage a shred of dignity and influence from the wreckage.

He chose the latter.

“Then it appears my role as a mediator is concluded.” He said, the words tasted bitter in his mouth. He forced a thin humorless smile. “On behalf of the Columbian Federation, we acknowledge the agreement between the Federative Soviet Socialist Republics of Ursus and the State of Kazimierz. We will, of course, be watching the implementation of these terms with great interest.”

He stood, gathering his briefcase. “I will convey this development to my government. I expect they will wish to open bilateral talks with both parties in the very near future to discuss future relations.”

It was evident to everyone that Columbia would not be shut out. If they couldn’t control the peace, they would work to influence the players individually.

Without another word, he turned and walked out of the conference room.

For Wójcik, he had just secured a tactical victory in the diplomatic front. Preserving his nation’s dignity and pride.

For Korolev… he just had to explain to the Chairwoman who may or may not been informed regarding this secret pact.

Whatever the case for the two diplomats, the die has been cast.

It would not take long for Leithanien to begin formal talks and withdraw its soldiers from Ursine soil. As does Victoria, Yan, Iberia, and any important world power to begin formal talks to finally recognize the FSSRU.

Laterano however, those intransigent fools, remains out of reach.

Chapter Text

“It is an administrative requirement, not a personal one. I trust you understand the distinction.” Kal’tsit stated, her voice a monotone drone that seemed to absorb the room’s energy.

She didn’t look up from her terminal, one hand scrolling through a file, the other bringing a coffee mug to her lips.

“I understand the nature of bureaucracy.” Hellagur replied. He was seated on the visitor's chair, its small frame groaning subtly under his formidable stature.

“While Rhodes Island is a non-national entity, we are not above the laws of the nations we operate within.” She continued, finally turning her cool gaze toward him.

She took a slow sip. “Strict adherence to employment and immigration standards is what allows us to maintain our neutrality and our operational viability. A lapsed passport transforms you from a valued operator into a legal complication.”

Hellagur leaned forward, the old leather of his uniform creaking. The motion did little to make his large frame seem smaller. “Is there a time limit on when I need to renew my passport?”

“Standard procedure allows for a one-month grace period after expiration before HR must file a formal suspension of active-duty status.” She replied, her tone implying she had recited this regulation countless times. “Yours lapses in thirty-six days.”

Thirty-six days.

For any other operator, it would be a simple task. A mere errand that would only take maybe a few hours. Visit the embassy, do some paperwork, and take a new photograph. Done.

For Hellagur, it was a special case.

“Renewing a passport… it is not merely getting a new stamp…” He said, more to himself than to Kal’tsit. “It is an act of recognition. It is stating to that government, ‘I am your citizen. I am under your authority.’”

His one good eye fixed on a point on the wall, seeing not the organizational chart pinned there, but the frozen plains of his homeland.

Kal’tsit watched him with an unreadable expression, but her silence was his permission to continue. She understood the personal histories that most operators in Rhodes Island had perhaps more than anyone else.

At least that’s what she liked to think.

“The Ursus I swore oaths to is gone,” he continued. “The Double Eagle flag I fought under is no more. The men I served with are dead, or exiled, or… worse. To walk into their new embassy, to hand my papers to some bureaucrat who likely spits on the memory of everything I was… to have them grant me legitimacy…” He trailed off, the words tasting bitter each sentence.

He had fought the Empire’s corruption and it’s decay, from within until he could fight no more. He had chosen exile over complicity, chose peace before violence. But now, the revolution that had burned it all down was asking him to affirm its existence.

Kal’tsit placed her mug down.

“I am not asking you to swear a new oath to their leader, General,” she said, her voice retaining its clinical tone. “I am asking you to obtain a piece of laminated paper that allows me to keep a highly effective combat personnel on the active roster.”

“… Very well… I will go and… renew my passport…”

Hellagur had been through a lot recently.

Though the general had fought for Ursus in many of its wars and was a respected veteran, like many, he grew disillusioned with the way Ursus was heading.

He wasn’t blind nor was he ignorant to the fact that the empire had always crushed those it considered subhuman and second-class undesirables with an iron boot. He hoped the empire would soon see reason. He had fought its wars hoping each victory might, somehow, carve a path toward a more honorable nation.

That ended when he contracted Oripathy and was subsequently forced to retire after the empire’s crushing defeat during the blood peak campaign.

He opened an underground clinic for the infected, but even Ursus’ long shadow stretched even there. Betrayal by a trusted comrade, and the terrifying, indiscriminate violence of the Chernobog pogroms that had hounded him from his own homeland, forcing a retreat to the precarious safety of Lungmen and, eventually, Rhodes Island.

He had watched the Reunion Movement emerge with a flicker of that old, foolish hope. Perhaps this was the reckoning he had once wished for. But that hope curdled as he saw their righteous fury twist into the very mirror image of the oppression they fought. A different banner, yes, but the same cruel methods and the same blind hatred.

And then, against all odds, the unthinkable had happened.

The immortal Empire, the thousand-year-old colossus, had fallen. He had followed the civil war from afar, tracking the fronts not on maps of strategy, but on the map of his own memory. Of the cities where he’d been garrisoned, the forests where he’d marched, and the rivers he’d crossed.

Now, the war was over.

The new Ursus that emerged from the smoke was… unrecognizable.

In the weeks that followed, Hellagur had scoured every international news source, buying newspapers whose languages he barely knew just to parse their foreign sections.

Nine times out of ten, the headlines were about Ursus. They spoke a language of upheaval that was both thrilling and terrifying. Depending on who you ask anyways.

Land reforms. The abolition of serfdom. The dissolution of the monarchy. The eradication of noble titles. The public execution of the Tsar and his entire line—no… the Tsar’s family was burned before the Tsar was killed. And… the eradication of noble titles was followed by mass execution of nobles themselves.

Following Ursus’ victory over Kazimierz, suddenly, every country in Terra rushed to recognize the new Ursine government. Which was what led to Kal’tsit asking him to renew his passport since his homeland is no longer burning.

He felt unmoored.

A part of him, the part that had treated the empire's forgotten and infected, felt a fierce, vindictive pride. He saw the faces of patients he’d lost to state-sanctioned neglect, and for them, the news felt like a long-delayed obituary.

But another part, the old general, the man of order and chain of command, watched with deep unease.

Revolutionaries made poor governors. What followed after the gallows and the firing squads? Who would plant the crops, run the factories, and hold the border against the real enemies—the demons of the north—when the fervor died down?

His military mind saw the chaos, the power vacuum, and the inevitable brutality of a new secret police continuing its predecessor’s work.

And then there was the personal cost.

His pension, his veteran's status, his entire history—all of it was tied to an entity that no longer existed. He was a man without a country, and the new country rising from the ashes was asking him to swear allegiance to its existence.

His mind thought of the young Ursine operators on Rhodes Island, their conversations were now laced with a new, tentative hope—and a new fear. They spoke of family members writing letters about life in the new Ursus, their voices a mixture of confusion and desperate optimism.

With a slow breath, Hellagur began to gather the newspapers, stacking them into a neat pile. The analysis was over. The time for watching from afar had passed.

He would go to the embassy of the Federative Soviet Socialist Republics of Ursus located in downtown Lungmen and see the face of the revolution for himself.

The general was going to report for duty one last time. Not to a commanding officer, but to a clerk.

The Soviet embassy was nestled between the sleek glass and steel of Lungmen's skyscrapers. It was a building of heavy, dark timber and stout stone, constructed in a traditional Imperial Ursine style, as if a part of Deity Grypherburg was transplanted into the city itself.

But the symbols had changed. Where the gilded double-headed eagle of the Empire had once presided over the entrance, a new emblem was mounted. A hammer and sickle, encircled by a wreath split between industrial cog teeth and wheat stalks.

As Hellagur approached, he saw that the scene was not one of orderly diplomacy. A modest but vocal protest was clustered on the pavement opposite the embassy's heavy doors.

A mix of elderly Ursine expatriates and well-dressed Lungmenite businesspeople held signs decrying ‘Soviet Aggression’. Their shouts were a discordant counterpoint to the embassy's imposing silence.

Hellagur moved past the protesters. He pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside. The transition was immediate. The humid, bustling air of Lungmen was replaced by the dry, static silence of a government office.

The interior was a study in utilitarian austerity. The opulent carpets and gold-leafed portraits of the old imperial embassies were gone. In their place, linoleum floors and posters printed with bold, blocky text extolling production quotas and the glory of the worker.

A large, stern portrait of Talulah Artorius hung behind the main reception counter, her eyes seeming to track him across the room.

Hellagur approached the counter, his documents in hand, and the clerk behind the reinforced glass looked up from his terminal. The man was… familiar.

“Yegor?” Hellagur’s voice was a low rumble of disbelief. “They didn’t… sack you?”

The clerk, Yegor, peered over the rim of his glasses. He had been a fixture of the old Imperial embassy, a man who had processed visas for decadent nobles and deportation orders for dissidents with the same weary efficiency.

Yegor offered a shallow shrug that seemed to dismiss the entire revolution as a minor administrative inconvenience.

“Why should they? I am a but humble clerk. I process forms. The letterhead changes, the stamps are different, but the paperwork…” He gestured to the piles on his desk. “The paperwork is eternal, as you could see. You are here to renew your passport, General?”

The use of his old title, delivered without a hint of irony or fear, was a small earthquake in the sterile room. Yet Yegor said it as simply as noting the weather.

“I am.” Hellagur confirmed, sliding his application and his old, Imperial-era passport through the slot beneath the glass.

Yegor took them, his movements economical and precise. He flicked through the old passport, its pages filled with stamps from a world that no longer existed. He gave a soft, noncommittal grunt.

“A lifetime of service…” Yegor murmured, not looking up from the faded Imperial eagle on the old passport’s cover. “And now, a new chapter. Or perhaps just a new stamp.”

He began entering data into his terminal, the mechanical click-clack of the keys was unnaturally loud in the silence. “The questions are more ideological now. But the answers are still just data. They go into the same kind of file, in the same kind of cabinet. Digital or not, it is all the same in the end.”

He finished typing and slid a thick, multi-page form back through the slot beneath the glass. “Fill this out completely. Do not omit any section. Then bring it to me.”

Hellagur took the form. He moved away from the counter to find a pen. Along the far wall was a ‘Public Writing Station’, a long, scarred wooden bench bolted to the floor.

It was crowded with a silent, anxious queue of people. They were Ursine expatriates, all here to perform the same uneasy ritual of legitimizing themselves to the new power.

He joined the end of the line, his stature making him an island of stillness in the nervous fidgeting. He waited with a soldier's patience, watching the others. A young woman’s hand trembled as she wrote. An old man sighed, scratching out a mistake with a frustrated grunt.

When it was finally his turn, he took a seat on the hard bench, the wood creaking under his weight. He selected a pen from the chained cup and smoothed the form on the bench and began to read.

The document was titled APPLICATION FOR SOVIET CITIZENSHIP & TRAVEL DOCUMENT.

The first sections were mundane. Name, Date of Birth, Place of Birth, the usual trio that always appears in every form in virtually everywhere. He filled them in easily.

Then the questions changed.

Section 4: Pre-Revolutionary Status.

4a: Did you hold a title of nobility? ( ) Yes ( ) No

4b: Did you own land in excess of 10 hectares? ( ) Yes ( ) No

4c: Were you an officer in the Imperial Military or Gendarmerie? ( ) Yes ( ) No

If yes to 4c, state your final rank and unit: _________________________

His jaw tightened. He marked Yes for 4c. The pen felt like a lead weight as he wrote. General. 4th Guards Army, Ursine Imperial Expeditionary Force.

Section 5: Current Affiliations.

5a: Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of any organization dedicated to the restoration of the Monarchy or the Old Order? ( ) Yes ( ) No

5b: Do you currently reside in Infected-only enclaves or districts? ( ) Yes ( ) No

If yes to 5b, state the nature of your residence (e.g., medical facility, voluntary commune): _________________________

He marked No for 5a. For 5b, he paused. Rhodes Island was, by any definition, an Infected enclave was it not? But was it voluntary? He wrote Medical and humanitarian facility.

The final section made the previous ones feel like a pleasantry.

Section 7: Affirmation of Allegiance.

The Federative Soviet Socialist Republics of Ursus is the sole legitimate government of the Ursine people, born from the righteous struggle of the masses against centuries of feudal and capitalist oppression. By signing below, you affirm the following:

- You renounce any and all allegiance to the former Tsarist regime.

- You acknowledge the supremacy of the Congress of Soviets and the guiding principles of Ursine Socialism.

- You pledge to uphold the laws of the FSSRU and to defend it against all enemies, foreign and domestic.

Signature:_________________________ Date:________________

Hellagur could feel the eyes of Talulah’s portrait on the back of his neck.

He thought of the friends he’d lost to the Empire’s paranoia. He thought of the Infected he’d failed to save under its neglect. He thought of the young, hopeful faces at Rhodes Island who saw this new state as a promise.

His hand hovered over the signature line. A lifetime of command had taught him the irrevocable finality of putting ink to an official document. Unconsciously, he began tapping the pen against the bench, a hint of his unease.

Before you commit, soldier, an old, ingrained voice in his head commanded, check your bearings.

He withdrew his hand.

The signature would wait. With the methodical patience of a man who had reviewed countless field reports and casualty lists, General Hellagur began a second, more thorough pass through the form, line by line, clause by clause.

Section 4c: Final rank and unit

 He had written General, 4th Guards Army. Was that precise enough? The bureaucracy of the old regime would have demanded his full formal title, General of the Infantry of the Imperial Army, 4th Guards Division, Imperial Expeditionary Forces Command.

Would an omission be seen as evasion, or a simple oversight?

He left it as is.

Section 5b: Nature of residence.

He had written Medical and humanitarian facility.

Was that sufficient? The form likely expected a street address, a district, or something physical. Rhodes Island was a landship, its location could be anywhere between Lungmen and Rim Billiton to anywhere between Sargon and Minos. To list it might invite questions he couldn't answer. His answer was factually true, so it would have to suffice.

But then he saw it, the fine print. He found it at the bottom of the first page, in a block of densely packed text smaller than the rest.

By submitting this application, the undersigned consents to a full background verification by the Committee for State Security (KGB) and acknowledges that providing false or misleading information is a criminal offense under Statute 12.7 of the Penal Code, punishable by revocation of citizenship, forfeiture of property, and/or penal servitude.

And…. that’s the secret police. He was wondering when they would show up.

He turned the page. Another box, tucked away below the allegiance oath he nearly missed.

I hereby authorize the People's Commissariat for State Security to solicit and receive any and all medical records pertaining to my person for the purposes of verifying fitness for citizenship and travel, including but not limited to Oripathy status reports and treatment histories.

…Right. Of course. Privacy was a bourgeois concept apparently. A luxury of the decadent old world.

With a final, weary sigh, he conducted a third and final review of the form. Every ‘I’ was dotted, every ‘t’ crossed, every potentially incriminating fact laid bare for the state's inspection. There was nothing left to do but surrender.

When he was finished, he was met with the irritated glare of the man next in line, who had been tapping his foot impatiently.

Hellagur quickly gathered his things and excused himself, moving back towards Yegor's counter, only to find another five people had joined the queue.

The Soviet state might have revolutionized society, but it had done nothing to streamline the waiting.

After another interminable stretch of time measured in sighs and the tapping of foot, he finally stood before the reinforced glass once more. He slid the completed, soul-baring form through the slot.

"Here."

Yegor took the thick sheaf of papers without a second glance, his eyes already scanning the first page for any obvious errors. He gave a noncommittal grunt. Then, with a practiced motion of a man who deals in perpetual disappointment, he reached for a fresh stack of papers from a different tray and slid them back through the slot.

Hellagur stared at the new documents. They were shorter, yes, but their existence was an affront.

"...What is this?" Hellagur asked, his voice a low rumble of confusion and frustration.

Yegor didn't even look up from his terminal, already processing the next person in line. "Don't worry about it. Those are two short forms. Come back to me after you fill them up."

Hellagur retook his place at the public writing station (after another time of waiting of course) and he looked down at the new short forms.

FORM 7-Α/1: DECLARATION OF NON-ASSOCIATION (SUPPLEMENTAL)

It demanded a comprehensive list of every known relative, living or deceased, to the third degree, and required him to affirm under penalty of perjury that none had ever held a position in the Tsarist secret police (Okhrana).

FORM 7-Α/2: ASSET AND HISTORICAL MOVEMENT DISCLOSURE (FOR PRE-REVOLUTIONARY STATE AFFILIATES)

This one required him to list every address he had lived at for more than three months since the age of sixteen, the source of all income over that period, and to declare any and all bank accounts, safe deposit boxes, or ‘other repositories of value’ held within the former borders of the Empire, whether he still had access to them or not.

A final clause noted that this information would be cross-referenced with confiscated Imperial financial records for verification.

Suddenly, the pen felt heavier than his sword. He was a soldier and a self-taught doctor, not an accountant.

He couldn't remember the address of his first garrison posting decades ago. He had no idea what had happened to the modest pension account he’d been forced to abandon a lifetime prior. The very act of trying to recall felt like exhuming ghosts for the sake of a filing cabinet.

Which is what he is precisely forced to do.

But he was a soldier. He followed orders, even when they were irrational. He gathered the scattered fragments of his memory, filled the blanks with his best approximations, and signed the documents with a hand that was beginning to cramp.

He then took his place once more in the endless, shuffling line like a ghost in a purgatory of his own making.

When he finally reached the counter, the cumulative weight of the day’s absurdities settled upon him. He didn't slide the forms through the slot, he placed them down with a definitive thump.

This time, Yegor’s response was not a single sheet. It was a fresh stack of papers, at least twice as thick as the last, bound with a coarse string that seemed to mock him.

Hellagur’s patience finally cracked. A low growl rumbled in his chest. He leaned forward, his massive body casting a shadow over Yegor’s booth, his voice dropping to a tone that had once made junior officers flinch.

“Okay. That’s enough. Do not joke with me, Yegor. What in the name of the fallen Emperor is all this?”

Yegor remained unmoved. He peered over his glasses, his expression one of pure, unadulterated bureaucratic ennui.

“It is not a joke… Comrade,” Yegor stated, his voice flat. “The initial application triggers a secondary review process for individuals with a complex pre-revolutionary status. It’s standard procedure.”

He tapped the top form of the new stack with a bony finger. Hellagur’s eyes dropped to the title.

DECLARATION OF CONTINUED NON-ASSOCIATION (QUARTERLY, FOR A PERIOD OF FIVE YEARS)

“This one,” Yegor explained, “you will need to complete and file every three months. It is an affidavit stating you have not, in the previous quarter, made contact with or provided material support to any person on the List of Unreconstructed Elements.” He slid a separate, densely typed pamphlet through the slot.

It was easily fifty pages long.

“And this,” Yegor continued, moving to the next form, APPLICATION FOR HISTORICAL PENSION CONVERSION, “is for your abandoned imperial pension. By filling this out, you authorize the People’s Commissariat of Finance to assess its value and convert it, minus a state reclamation fee, into Soviet Rubles to be deposited into a state-owned savings bank account, which you can apply to open using FORM 902-C, which is behind this one.”

Hellagur stared, his mind reeling.

“And finally,” Yegor continued, “WAIVER OF RIGHT TO LEGAL RECOURSE IN THE EVENT OF ADMINISTRATIVE ERROR. This simply states that you understand the state apparatus is a complex machine and cannot be held liable for any… let’s say oversights… in the processing of your applications.”

The silence that followed was profound, and he could feel the portrait of Talulah seemingly smirking at his despair.

Hellagur, veteran of Blood Peak campaign, renowned Ursus general, defender of the infected, and as the man who had faced down imperial assassins… he felt a soul-crushing fatigue.

The enemy was no longer a thing he could fight with a blade. The enemy was an inexhaustible supply of paper, and it was winning.

He slowly reached out and took the new stack of forms. He did not look at Yegor. He simply turned and walked back to the writing bench, a general finally and utterly defeated by the most powerful force on Terra.

Paperwork.

Hours later, after a final, excruciating round of forms, a queueline for a photograph that made him look like a condemned man, and a wait that stretched into the realm of the surreal…

It was finally over.

Thank fucking God.

“Your documentation is processed.” Yegor’s voice was the same flat monotone, as if Hellagur had been gone for five minutes and not half a fucking day. He slid a small pile of items through the slot.

“Here is your passport. Your internal identification card will be mailed to your registered address. This is a booklet on the fundamentals of Ursine Socialism. And this is a copy of the Chairwoman’s collected speeches.”

Hellagur took the items. The passport though dominated his attention. Unlike the dignified, dark blue, gold-embossed booklet of the Empire, this was a bright revolutionary red.

Where the old passport featured elegant watermarks of imperial eagles, this one was emblazoned with a ham-fisted propaganda image.

A map of the entire world, over which was stamped a large, bold hammer and sickle. It was a piece of ideological bravado, a declaration not of citizenship, but of intent—as if the entire world was already Soviet, and this document was merely a formality.

Which would make him a citizen of the world. He was sure this was in some tenet of socialism but couldn’t remember which.

Without a word to Yegor, he turned and walked out of the embassy. The Lungmen night air, thick with humidity and the smell of street food, was a shock to his system after the dry static chill of the Soviet embassy.

He stood on the pavement for a moment, the bright red passport burning a hole in his palm. The protestors were gone, and the city buzzed on indifferently as if they never existed.

General Hellagur, a citizen of a nation that no longer existed, now also a citizen of the FSSRU, slowly tucked the passport and its accompanying ideological pamphlets into an inner pocket.

They rested against his chest, over his heart, not as a comfort or a prize, but as an unignorable fact of his new existence—a fact he had spent hours and pieces of his soul to acquire.

“Ah, General Hellagur?”

The voice was familiar, cutting through his reverie. Hellagur turned his head.

Standing a few paces away was Ch’en, the Chief Inspector of the L.G.D. Her posture was as rigid as ever, but her usual intensity was tempered by a flicker of surprise.

“Chief Inspector Ch’en.” He nodded in acknowledgement.

“I… didn't expect to see you here.” She said, her eyes flicking toward the embassy’s emblematic facade before returning to him. “Were you renewing your citizenship?”

“The process is concluded, yes.” Hellagur replied, the understatement of the century hanging between them.

A nod. “I see… Well, I’m here to apply for a visa. There’s… someone I need to meet in Ursus.” She left the name unspoken, but the tension around her eyes suggested it was a personal matter, not state business.

Hellagur couldn't help it. A full-body wince passed through him, a visceral reaction to the innocent horror of her statement.

"Yeah…" He murmured, the sheer, devastating magnitude of the task before her settling in his bones. "Good luck."

Chapter Text

What is the common idea for any ideology claiming to be some form of socialism?

At their heart, they all begin with the same promise. That no man or woman is born to kneel before another, that none shall suffer hunger while others feast, that no laboring hand should toil only to enrich a master, and that dignity belongs not to a chosen few, but to all.

Yet, for all its moral clarity, this is where the agreement ends and the great, bloody schism begins.  For this spark must be fed the tinder of reality, and it is in this feeding that the original flame is so often distorted, sometimes beyond recognition.

Marx forgot to account for Human nature, it seems.

The first question is how?

How does one dismantle an ancient structure of power and privilege without wielding power oneself? How does one force the greedy to relinquish their hoarded wealth without forming a fist to prise it from them?

Every revolution gives birth to a vanguard, a party—a state apparatus to wield this power. And power, by its nature, seeks to perpetuate itself.

The committee formed to distribute bread fairly soon becomes more concerned with protecting its right to distribute the bread than with the bread itself. The revolutionary guard, tasked with crushing the counter-revolution, soon sees counter-revolution in every dissenting opinion.

The second question is, what exactly is equality?

Is it equality of opportunity? Or equality of outcome? Does it mean everyone earns the same, regardless of their labor? Or does it mean that the fruits of everyone's labor are pooled to ensure no one starves, even if some live in greater comfort? This debate has fractured movements into a thousand sects, each accusing the others of heresy.

Quite ironic, given most socialist’s stance on religion.

And finally, what happens to those who disagree?

What of the farmer who does not wish to join the collective? The artist who will not paint propaganda? The philosopher who questions the official dogma? To build a utopia for all, must you first crush the individual? Is the promise of a future without suffering worth the infliction of present suffering upon those deemed obstacles to that future?

Talulah, of course, had been forced to answer these questions herself. Her answer was Ursine Socialism—more colloquially known to outsiders as Talulah Thought.

Her answer to the question of how was decentralization.

Power would not be concentrated in a single, all-knowing Vanguard Party in the capital, but distributed to the local Soviets. Such the councils of workers, soldiers, peasants, industrial unions, etcetera. These Soviets would be the engines of daily life, handling distribution, justice, and local defense.

The central government in Artoriagrad would act as a coordinator, a facilitator for large-scale projects and national defense, but its ultimate authority was meant to be derived from the Soviets below, not imposed from the top down.

It was a fragile, messy system designed to prevent the rise of a new bureaucratic aristocracy. She knew it was vulnerable to fracture and local corruption, but she believed that danger was preferable to the certain tyranny of over-centralization.

Her answer to what is equality was rooted in pragmatism of her time during the Long March.

It was not the equality of universal sameness, rather it was the equality of guaranteed survival. Her state would not promise that everyone would live equally well, but that no one would be allowed to starve, freeze, or die of a treatable illness—especially oripathy.

The ‘surplus’ from the collective labor would be pooled to maintain this floor of human dignity. This was her ‘Survival Collectivism’. Pay grades might exist to incentivize vital skills, but the basic necessities of life were to be de-commodified, rendered inaccessible to the whims of the market. Equality, in her view, was the abolition of the desperation that made one person another's slave.

And finally, happens to those who disagree?

There was no tolerance for those seeking to restore the old regime, period. Most of the problematic troublemakers had been dealt with.

But for the artist, the dissenter, and the skeptic within the socialist framework? Here, her ideology was at its most experimental. The Soviets themselves were meant to be the arena for this disagreement.

‘Soviet Democracy’ was the term.

Let the conservative farmer debate the industrial syndicalist in the council hall. Let them vote. Her hope was that a plurality of voices within the structure of people's power would be a release valve for the pressure.

It was a gamble, sure, a belief that a certain amount of chaos was healthier than absolute control. But she also had Frostnova's KGB to ensure that disagreement did not spiral into armed secession or counter-revolution.

Ursine Socialism was therefore not a perfect answer.

It was a set of answers for a specific time for a specific place, made by a leader who had seen the abyss and was trying to build a guardrail against it.

This was why, for nearly every program and policy of the nascent Socialist state, Talulah found herself micromanaging the details. The weight was immense, as one could imagine. It was a grinding pressure that had not ceased since the Winter Palace fell.

Even Alina had grown visibly worried, moving beyond gentle suggestions to explicit orders. “You will get at least five hours of sleep. That is a directive from your Premier.”

The end of the war with Kazimierz and the hard-won recognition from foreign states had not brought respite, but it had multiplied the demands exponentially. Her office was now located within the repurposed Kremlin complex, a place whose opulent, imperial halls she loathed.

But Alina, had insisted, arguing that when half the city is rubble and the other half is housing other government agencies, and that the Kremlin is perfectly secure. Naturally, an argument from Alina was the one thing Talulah would never counter, mostly. Which often left the rest of the Party leadership mystified.

Amidst the sea of endless reports, her thoughts drifted to the second Congress. The heated, often vicious debates over the new legal code. Among the articles on land reform and workers' rights, one proposal had been fiercely contested before being deferred.

The legalization of same-sex marriage.

With the Internationale congress coming up, and then the Fourth Congress… I should bring it back up, she thought, the idea a spark of personal conviction amidst the management of state.

With things stabilizing… somewhat… it’s time.

The thought was immediately followed by another. And I should really make it official with Alina.

But… that will have to wait.

Instead, she returned her gaze toward the table.

One of the core tenets of Ursine Socialism—or any socialism worth the name—was the guarantee of a fundamental dignity that no person would go homeless, no child would go hungry, and no mind would be denied an education.

This being the bedrock of her ideology, she trusted the planning to no one else. The Reconstruction Committee could lay bricks and string power lines, but the architecture of a welfare state had to be hers to ensure fairness, transparency, and needs of the people.

To right all wrong…

For her, it was more than a motto.

Ever since that day, she had vowed to make it a reality, and to personally bear its responsibilities and failures. It meant scrutinizing every line of every budget, anticipating every loophole a corrupt official might exploit, and ensuring the system helped the vulnerable rather than creating a new class of dependent bureaucrats.

So far, the results were visible. The Reconstruction Committee, under her relentless driving, had erected dozens of functional, if austere, housing complexes. They were U-shaped blocks of concrete that had, thus far, absorbed the most visible layer of the homeless population.

Free of rent, she might add.

But putting a roof over someone’s head was the simplest part. The true test was what happened next.

The far greater challenge lay in the systems that would make those apartments into homes for the people. Which meant planning the distribution of food, fuel, and medicine.

The basics first.

For days now, her desk had been covered by logistical charts of various proportions. That’s not all, there were more in the office floor, walls, and couch.

Her finger traced a line on a map of the southern farmlands, her brow furrowed. The first harvest under the new land reforms was coming in, but it was uneven. Some regions had surplus, while others, ravaged by the civil war’s final battles, faced a deficit.

A centralized ration… she muttered to herself. It is efficient, and it is equitable in theory… And it creates a single, catastrophic point of failure

She imagined the queues, the paperwork, and the potential for a regional official to hoard grain for their own district, creating a new kind of feudal lord based on control of breadlines.

She had initially rejected it outright on ideological lines. The Soviet model had to be decentralized. The local councils, the soviets themselves, had to be the beating heart of distribution.

They knew their people and their specific needs. But that required a bedrock of trust and a web of infrastructure that simply did not exist across the war-shattered expanse of Ursus. In many regions, the local soviet was the corrupt official, or it was hopelessly fractured, or it didn't exist at all.

…But that doesn’t necessarily mean people will willingly comply, do they? she thought, her fingers steepled.

In this foundational phase, the distribution of survival itself could not be left to chance or fragile local structures. The welfare of the people had to be managed with consistency from the center, from Artoriagrad. To do otherwise, to cling to a purist ideal while children shivered and starved, was the greatest betrayal of all. It was to let them die in the name of ideological purity.

The system would be universal and simple by design.

Every citizen, upon registration with their local soviet—however nascent—would be issued a standardized ration book, its pages of unforgeable paper divided into coupons for bread, grains, fuel, and a medical allowance for basic care and oripathy suppressants for those who require it.

The coupons would be color-coded and numbered, valid from the northern ice fields to the southern plains, a real promise from the state that no Ursine would be left to starve. The calculations for the allocations would be made here, in this office, based on population data and harvest projections, a monstrous equation of need versus scarcity that she would solve herself.

But a system was only as strong as its spine. The distribution would not be entrusted to politicians or ideologues. She would form a new department under her direct control to manage the distribution of welfare.

And for the corruption she knew would fester in such a system, she had just the perfect treatment. The secret police.

The KGB would be imbedded to the new department, and their operatives, answerable only to Frostnova and, ultimately, to her, would pose as clerks, train conductors, and warehouse foremen.

Their sole mandate would be to hunt for the black-marketeer, the official skimming from the top, and the local boss creating his own private stash, among other things. The punishment for diverting state provisions would be public and severe, tried not as theft but as treason against the people and counter-revolutionary.

Well, the distribution of food, fuel, and medicine was done…

She allowed herself exactly one deep breath before she turned her gaze to the next hydra. The beast of welfare had many heads, and survival was only the first.

Next was the construction of a society, which meant tackling on education, healthcare—especially the monumental task of Oripathy treatment—and the creation of a social security net for those the relentless engine of the state would inevitably leave behind.

The education files were a map of a different kind of battlefield. The old Imperial curriculum was a poison steeped in monarchist dogma, racial hierarchy, and a wilful ignorance of the suffering it enabled.

Reforming the curriculum would be out of the question, during the first Congress, it was decided to entirely overhaul the system. But what to replace it with? A blank slate was as dangerous as a poisoned one.

The first priority, the important priority upon which everything else depended, was a total crusade against mass illiteracy.

Before a single child could learn the tenets of Ursine Socialism, before a single farmer could read an agricultural manual, they first had to decipher the very symbols on the page.

For the first few years, the entire purpose of the Commissariat for Education would be to teach an entire nation how to read and how to perform basic arithmetic.

She would enlist anyone who could read and count. Every idealistic university student whose degrees were now useless, party cadres who could spell, literate factory workers offered extra rations for their service, and any retired academic who hadn't fled the revolution.

Then, they would be dispatched not to schools—most of which were rubble or repurposed as barracks—but to wherever people gathered.

Factory floors during shift changes would host reading circles. Village squares would become open-air classrooms with chalkboards propped against piles of debris.

The lessons should be practical, stripped of all but the most essential theory. The first textbook, already in draft, was a slim, pulpy pamphlet titled The Worker's Primer. Its first lesson was the Cyrillic alphabet.

The arithmetic was equally as basic. Addition and subtraction to calculate rations and work quotas and basic geometry for construction and land division.

Simultaneously, a more insidious project began in a locked office in a building not too far from hers, and that is the drafting of the real curriculum.

History was be rewritten on the basis of class struggle. The great famine wasn't a tragedy of nature but a result of feudal grain requisitions. The Infected weren't a blight but a brutalized underclass created by industrial exploitation.

The sciences were to be taught with a focus on practical application. Soil chemistry for farms, physics for rebuilding bridges, biology that demystified Oripathy and framed it as a medical condition, not a curse.

Even literature was being curated. Epic poems of old glorifying nobility? Banned and possession would be a counter-revolutionary crime. They are to be replaced with essays of revolutionary philosophers and the powerful novels of social realism that depicted the suffering of the common Ursine under the boot of the old world.

It was a… bold act of social engineering. Talulah knew it. She was not just teaching people to read, she was teaching them what to read and, by extension, how to think.

The wrongs of imperial ignorance was being righted, but the method felt disquietingly like replacing one dogma with another. She pushed that thought away and comforted herself with the thought that this new dogma, at least, was built on a foundation of material truth and a desire for liberation.

Naturally, she had written into the foundational laws of the new republic that all schools, universities, and any form of educational program were to be, and would remain, free in perpetuity.

The hydra of ignorance had one head severed, for now.

She turned her weary gaze to the next head of the beast, healthcare.

The principle was just as important. Naturally, healthcare should be free. A person’s right to treatment could not be contingent on the weight of their purses. It was the most basic covenant of a state that claimed to value its people.

The peace with Kazimierz and the hard-won diplomatic recognition that followed had provided a temporary lifeline. Precious foreign currency, earned from the sale of raw resources, was being funneled into buying desperately needed medicines from abroad, such as antibiotics, analgesics, and, above all else, Oripathy suppressants.

The acquisition of suppressants was not merely a medical priority, it was the revolution’s most tangible promise to its most vulnerable citizens. It remained paramount.

But reliance on foreign imports was a strategic vulnerability, a leash held by potential adversaries. It was also financially unsustainable. The solution had to be domestic, and it had to be built with wartime urgency.

Her plan for healthcare was a three-front war, each more daunting than the last.

The first front was infrastructure. The new state would build a network of polyclinics in every major settlement. They would be austere, functional buildings that would serve as the first point of contact for everything from a child’s fever to a miner’s broken limb.

In the countryside, where most Ursines lived, she commissioned the design of mobile medical brigades. They were modified trucks and armored trains staffed with teams of nurses and physician’s assistants, becoming traveling lifelines for remote villages.

The second front was personnel. The old class of doctors was utterly decimated—many had fled, others had been purged for their affiliations with the nobility.

She had signed decrees establishing accelerated medical training programs. Bright-eyed young communists and pragmatic former army medics would be put through a grueling, condensed curriculum focused on trauma, epidemic disease, and the grim realities of Oripathy management.

The third front, and the one that kept her awake at night, was Oripathy itself.

The purchase of suppressants was a stopgap measure, true liberation would require self-sufficiency from foreign powers.

She ordered the confiscation of every noble’s private laboratory and the nationalization of every Imperial pharmaceutical workshop. These were to be consolidated into a new State Institute of Originum-Pharmaceutical Research.

Its sole mandate is to reverse-engineer the suppressant formulas and begin domestic production, no matter the cost. Failure is never an option. The Institute’s budget was classified at the highest level, and its funding drawn from the military's coffers.

Yet, reality likes to set in at their most vulnerable.

With resources stretched thinner than ice on a puddle, impossible choices had to be encoded into policy. A protocol was drafted for the mobile medical brigades and the polyclinics.

In a crisis, priority for care would be given to those whose survival offered the greatest utility to the state. Such skilled workers, teachers, engineers, and soldiers. The elderly and the terminally Infected in the final stages, and those with non-critical ailments would be categorized for palliative care only.

It was a necessary evil, a sin written into the foundation of their salvation, a betrayal of the very ideal that everyone was equal. She was building a system to heal a nation, and the first thing she had to break was the principle of absolute equality.

Pragmatism. The bedrock of Ursine Socialism. There’s nothing wrong to that.

And the last hydra… Social Security…

Groaning, she forced herself to grab a piece of document she had written.

Pension eligibility… disability quotas… orphanage funding allocations…

The words blurred before her eyes. Each line was a battle between the utopian promise they had made in the ice caves and the crushing arithmetic of a treasury bled dry by war and inherited debt.

They had promised a cradle-to-grave safety net. The Empire had offered nothing but neglect and the grave. The revolution had to be better. It had to.

Heavy industry, the backbone of the Five-Year Plan, demanded massive investment. And the people… the people needed bread, housing, and medicine today.

…

…

…

You know what? Maybe I should… take a break.

The thought was a rebellion against the relentless tide of duty. It was an indulgence, a moment of selfishness she could ill afford, yet desperately needed.

Yes, that will have to do.

Rubbing her eyes, she then pushed herself up from the desk, her joints protesting, she let out a sigh that seemed to carry the exhaustion of the entire nascent nation.

She grabbed her heavy, winter-worn coat from its stand. Without a word to the night-duty guards, whose silent nods she acknowledged with a slight tilt of her head, she headed out of her office, through the labyrinthine corridors of the Kremlin complex, and into the biting embrace of the Ursine night.

Artoriagrad at night was a painting half-finished.

The grand, imperial architecture of Deity Grypherburg remained, but now it served as a canvas for the new regime. Tsarist double-headed eagles had been chiseled away, leaving scarified patches of stone. In their place, bold, red banners hung from classical columns, their hammer-and-sickle insignia stark against the pale marble, illuminated by the harsh, efficient glare of newly installed electric lamps.

She walked without a clear destination.

The silence was profound, broken only by the distant, rhythmic clang of a hammer on steel from the all-night shift at the construction sites—a sound that was the beating heart of her Five-Year Plan.

Yet, for every sign of furious progress, there was a reminder of the cost.

She passed a once-opulent townhouse, now a kommunalka communal apartment. Through a single uncurtained window, she saw an elderly man reading by a dim light, his face was evidence of a life that had spanned two utterly different worlds.

Did he feel liberated, or merely bewildered? She couldn't tell.

A patrol of the People's Militia passed her, their movements crisp, their red armbands bright against their grey greatcoats.

They recognized her instantly, snapping to attention. She offered a faint, weary wave, urging them to carry on. Their youthful, fervent faces were a world away from the world of governance.

Her aimless footsteps, guided by a subconscious pull, eventually led her to a vast, open square. And there it was. The State Duma, nearly completed. It rose from the earth not with the delicate spires of the old world, but with the brutal, imposing geometry of the new.

Brutalist, oh so brutalist.

Where the Winter Palace had been a confection of gilt and azure, the Duma was an assertion of concrete, steel, and ambition. Giant bas-reliefs of muscular workers, steadfast farmers, and determined soldiers marched across its formidable facade, their stone faces set in expressions of heroic resolve. Scaffolding still clung to one section like a skeletal embrace, but the central structure was complete, a mountain carved by human will.

It was meant to inspire awe, to symbolize the unwavering power of the Soviets.

And it did.

But standing before it in the deep silence of the night, Talulah felt a different emotion. It was… immense.

Overwhelming, even.

A physical manifestation of the Leviathan she was trying to steer. The individual, like the old man in his kommunalka, seemed infinitesimally small before its scale.

No, in fact…

She turned her head, her critical eye scanning the newly laid plaza.

The architecture here was deliberate. It wasn't just large, no, it was imposing. It was designed to make the person feel ‘small’, and the institution feel ‘big’—a stone-and-mortar sermon on the supremacy of the collective, the Party, and the State.

The message was amplified and made inescapable, by the fact that her own face was plastered everywhere. From the giant banners hanging between columns to the smaller posters on kiosks, her stern, idealized profile looked out, a secular icon sharing the same symbolic space as the hammer and sickle.

Ahh… that thought returned again, huh…

The familiar, gnawing discomfort settled in her gut. This wasn't the organic growth of a people's movement she had fought for. This was the architecture of deification.

Is this what we bled for?

The question was a ghost in her mind, too treacherous to voice aloud, even in this emptiness.

To replace the Tsar’s gilded portraits with my own, larger and more numerous? To trade one personality cult for another, just with a redder palette?

Kaschey’s voice, a phantom echo from the depths of her psyche, slithered into the silence. “You see it now, don’t you? The inevitable geometry of power. They don’t want a committee. They want a face. A symbol. A throne, even if you call it a ‘podium’. And you… you make such a magnificent symbol.”

She shut her eyes, trying to block out the taunting, to retreat into the quiet dark behind her eyelids.

But then, a strange calm descended. The defiance she usually wielded against him felt brittle and useless. Instead, a weary, genuine curiosity took its place.

She opened her eyes and—much to the ancient presence's surprise—replied. Her voice was quiet, not a challenge, but a question thrown into the abyss of her own soul.

“Deathless Black Snake,” she began, the formal address feeling strange on her tongue. “Tell me, does it ever get easier?”

The presence, so often quick with a barbed retort, seemed to recoil, startled by the directness and the lack of fire. It was not the question he expected.

“...‘Easier’?” The voice finally replied. “An interesting choice of word. It implies a struggle that one grows accustomed to. No, Talulah. It does not get ‘easier’. The weight of a crown does not lighten, you simply develop a stronger neck.”

She continued walking, her footsteps the only sound in the vast plaza. She was a woman having a conversation with the demon in her head, under a sky full of blank stars.

“This wasn’t the plan,” she said, her breath a plume of steam. Gesturing with a nod towards the Duma, and everywhere else. “The posters, the banners… this… mausoleum. It feels like a betrayal to every one of my ideals.”

“Ideals are for the weak, my dear Talulah,” Kaschey purred, his voice an intimate whisper in her mind’s ear. “Governing requires something else entirely. Such as a story. And stories, for them to truly capture the primitive human heart, require a protagonist. A hero. A god, if you will. You can either provide that figure, or your enemies will provide one for you.”

“So it’s all just a performance?” she asked, the bitterness returning. “A necessary lie?”

“Is it a lie?” he countered. “You did break the empire. You are the architect of this new world. The facts support the myth. The myth, in turn, secures the facts. It is a symbiotic relationship. Your ‘betrayal’ is merely the understanding that you cannot feed a nation on the abstract concept of ‘the collective’. They need to see its face. And that face is yours.”

He paused, letting the logic settle.

“You ask if it gets easier? No. But it does become clearer. You are not building a utopia. You are building a state. And a state is not an idea, it is a mechanism of power. Your sentimentality, your guilt… these are luxuries that will get you, Alina, and everyone who depends on you, killed. Embrace the role, wield the symbol, or be destroyed by it.”

Talulah stopped, looking up at a banner where her own face, fifty feet tall, stared back with unwavering revolutionary fervor.

For the first time, they weren't fighting. They were… conversing, after a long time. And that was far more dangerous.

“And what happens to me?” she whispered, the question meant only for the thing that shared her soul. “The person I was? The woman who followed a spark of hope?”

The presence within her grew still, and when it spoke again, there was a faint, almost imperceptible note of something that might have been pity.

“She becomes part of the story.” Kaschey said. “A cherished, tragic, and ultimately sacrificed footnote in the legend of history.”

She returned to the Kremlin not long after.

It may have been past midnight, but the work remained. The kinks about social security had to be ironed out before she could grant herself the mercy of sleep.

And perhaps, she would spend the entirety of the next day with Alina and the others. It had been too long since the original Reunion leadership had met together, just as comrades. Hadn't it?

A sliver of normalcy. A reminder of who they were before they became institutions.

However… she had not expected her attempt to find that connection to manifest like this.

As she was walking to her office. She passed Alina’s office.

The door to her office was ajar, a sliver of warm light cutting into the dark corridor. Pushing it open, she found Alina exactly where she’d feared she would be. At her desk, head bowed over a mountain of her own paperwork.

The sight was a trigger. All the night’s frustrations had coalesced into a single, impulsive surge.

“Ahh… Chairwoman? What are you—?”

In a few swift strides, Talulah was around the desk. Before Alina could rise, Talulah’s hands came down on the wood on either side of her, effectively pinning her in the chair.

She leaned in, caging the Premier between her arms, her silver hair falling like a curtain to block out the rest of the room.

How did it come to this?

Alina’s initial shock softened into something else. She didn’t try to push her away. She simply waited, her hands resting motionless on the papers she had been reviewing.

“Tal?” Alina’s voice was a whisper, so quiet it was almost lost in the space between them.

“I am so tired, Alina.” Talulah breathed, the words spilling out in a desperate, hushed confession. “I walk through a city that bears my name and see a stranger staring back at me from every wall. I have conversations with ghosts in my own head. I sign papers that decide who gets to eat and who gets to grow old, and it feels like I am playing God with a blunt instrument.”

Her arms, braced on the desk, trembled slightly with the strain of holding herself up, of holding everything up.

She was close enough now to feel the warmth of Alina’s skin, to see the faint pulse at the base of her throat. The social security laws, the Five-Year Plan—it all receded into a distant, meaningless hum.

“I don’t know how to do this without you.” Talulah admitted, the admission costing her more than any battle ever had. “I don’t know how to be ‘The Chairwoman’ without forgetting myself. And I am… terrified… that I already have.”

Alina slowly lifted a hand. She didn’t push Talulah away. Instead, her cool fingers came to rest against Talulah’s cheek gently.

“You haven’t forgotten.” Alina whispered, her thumb stroking a slow, soothing arc. “The Talulah I know is right here. She’s just buried under a continent of duty.” She offered a small smile. “And she’s currently leaning on my procurement reports for the northern grain shipments.”

A choked, half-sob, half-laugh escaped Talulah. The absurdity of it all—the world-shattering pressure and the mundane reality of paperwork—collided in that moment.

“Let the grain wait.” Talulah murmured, leaning into the touch, her forehead coming to rest against Alina’s. “Just for tonight.”

Alina’s other hand came up, her fingers threading gently through the silver strands of hair at the nape of Talulah’s neck. “Energetic, are you?” she whispered, her breath a soft ghost against Talulah’s lips.

“No,” Talulah confessed, the word a raw exhale. “Not energetic. Empty. And the only thing that ever fills that space… is you.”

Alina’s smile softened. “Then stop leaning on the reports,” she murmured. “And lean on me.”

She shifted, a subtle movement that brought their bodies into full alignment. The hard edge of the desk pressed into Talulah’s hip, a sharp contrast to the softness of Alina beneath her.

The world narrowed to this single point of contact. The meeting of their foreheads, the whisper of their breath mingling, the thrilling pressure of Alina’s body against her own.

Talulah’s arms, which had been rigidly caging Alina in, now slid from the desk. One hand came to rest at the delicate curve of Alina’s waist, pulling her closer. The other cupped the side of her face, her thumb mirroring Alina’s earlier caress, stroking the soft skin just below her eye.

Then, with a slowness that was pure agonizing reverence, Talulah’s seeking hands slipped beneath the hem of Alina’s tailored tunic. Her palms met the silent heat of the bare skin at the small of Alina’s back.

Alina gasped, a sharp, involuntary intake of air that hitched into a moan as Talulah’s fingers traced the delicate knobs of her spine.

The cool air of the office, the rustle of starched fabric being disturbed, it was drowned out by the roaring in their ears.

Talulah dipped her head, her lips brushing the shell of Alina’s ear, her voice low. "I hope you are prepared," she whispered. "Because I have spent all my restraint on governing. I have none left for you."

Her mouth found the frantic pulse at the base of Alina’s throat, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling the wild rhythm of her heart against her lips. Her hands moved, learning the geography of her. The subtle dip of her waist, the gentle flare of her hips, the warm, smooth plane of her stomach, mapping a territory more precious and fiercely defended than any on the earth.

She couldn’t wait any longer.

Talulah’s hands slid up Alina’s back, beneath her clothes, finding the clasp of her bra. Her fingers, usually so precise and steady when signing documents of state, fumbled with the simple mechanism, trembling with an urgency that bordered on desperation.

“Tal…” Alina breathed, her own hands coming up to clutch at Talulah’s shoulders.

  The clasp gave way.

Talulah drew back just enough to look into Alina’s eyes. The lamplight caught the sheen of sweat on her brow and the raw unguarded want on her face. This was not a symbol of the state.

This was a woman, laid bare.

“I need to see you.” Talulah whispered, her voice ragged, hoarse with an emotion too vast to name.

Slowly, she pushed the fabric from Alina’s shoulders, baring her to the waist. The air in the office, once cold, now felt charged and warm. Alina shuddered, not from the chill, but from the intensity of that gaze, from the worship in Talulah’s touch as her eyes drank her in.

And then Talulah’s mouth was on her again, not on her throat, but lower. Her lips traced the line of a collarbone, the swell of a breast, her tongue tasting skin that had never felt the sun until this moment.

Alina’s head fell back against the desk with a soft thud, a broken cry escaping her lips as her fingers tangled in Talulah’s hair, holding her close, urging her on.

Papers rustled beneath them, official stamps and urgent memos crumpling under their weight. The state they had built was literally being pushed aside, rendered irrelevant by a more fundamental truth.

“I forget,” Talulah murmured against her skin, her breath hot, “I forget everything when I’m with you. It all just… stops.”

She lifted her head, her eyes meeting Alina’s, both of them breathless and trembling.

“Make it stop, Alina,” she pleaded, the most powerful woman in Ursus brought to her knees by a need only one person could fulfill. “Please.”

Alina’s answer was cry not one of protest, but of liberation.

Her back arched off the desk as Talulah’s mouth found her breast, her tongue circling a peak that tightened into a desperate point under its attention. The sweet sensation shot through her, a lightning bolt of pure feeling that obliterated thought.

Her fingers, tangled in silver hair, tightened, pressing Talulah closer, a silent plea for more.

Talulah obeyed the unspoken command.

Her hands, which had mapped the gentle slopes of Alina’s stomach, moved lower, slipping past the waistband of her trousers. The fabric was an intolerable barrier. Counter-revolutionary, even.

With a growl of impatience that was utterly feral, Talulah’s grip tightened, and with a precise tear, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room, the cloth gave way.

Alina gasped, a shudder wracking her entire body.

The violence of the act, so contrary to Talulah’s usual controlled personality, was more arousing than any gentle caress could have been. It was raw. It was real. It was the Dragon shedding the skin of the Chairwoman and claiming what was hers.

Talulah’s gaze burned into hers, a question and a promise held in the dark fire of her eyes. Alina answered by hooking a leg around Talulah’s waist, pulling her flush, erasing the last fraction of space between them.

It was all the permission she needed.

Talulah’s touch, when it came, was not hesitant.

She knew this territory.

Her fingers found the heart of her, wet and aching and desperately ready. Alina cried out a broken sound as Talulah’s touch filled her, a perfect, devastating fit.

Her hips rose off the desk to meet the rhythm Talulah began to set, a slow, deep, claiming stroke that made her see stars behind her clenched eyelids.

“Look at me.” Talulah commanded, her voice a ragged whisper against her lips. “I need to see you.”

Alina forced her eyes open, her vision blurry with unshed tears of pleasure. Talulah’s face was above her, stripped bare of all its masks.

In her eyes, Alina saw the same desperate hunger that had driven them across the tundra, the same fierce protectiveness that had defied an empire, now focused, laser-sharp, on this single, shattering point of connection.

Talulah bent her head, capturing Alina’s mouth in a searing kiss as her fingers delved deeper, curling in a way that made Alina’s entire world contract to that single, white-hot point of sensation.

The kiss was a messy, breathless tangle of tongues and teeth, a shared gasp for air in a drowning sea of feeling.

The pressure built, coiling deep within Alina’s core, tight and unbearable. She was murmuring nonsense, Talulah’s name, a prayer, a curse, her nails digging into the corded muscle of her shoulders.

Talulah drank every sound, every shudder, focused solely on driving Alina over the edge.

“I’m here.” Talulah rasped against her mouth, her rhythm becoming relentless, perfectly brutal. “I’m with you. Let go. Let go for me.”

It was the “for me” that shattered her.

The command, layered with a lifetime of love and shared sacrifice, broke the last of her control. A wave of pure, incandescent pleasure crashed over her, so intense it was almost painful. Her body bowed, a silent scream on her lips as the convulsions wracked her, shaking her apart in Talulah’s arms.

But this was only the beginning.

Talulah wasn’t going to stop. Not yet.

Chapter Text

The 11^th Congress of the Workers’ and Socialists’ of the Third Internationale was to be held in Artoriagrad the following week.

Already, the city which had been rubble and ashes mere months before, had performed a miraculous rebound to its pre-revolution normalcy.

Though the opulent, Tsarist excess had been scoured from the facades, leaving behind rough stone patches like freshly healed scars. In their place, the bold, geometric iconography of Socialist Realism now dominated.

Gigantic banners of red, yellow, and white hung from every cornice, depicting muscled proletarians straining together against an unseen force, their faces set in expressions of heroic, collective determination.

Who hadn’t heard of the Third Internationale?

It was more than an organization, it was a specter whose long shadow fell across the entire world. It was a promise, and a threat that haunted the chancelleries of every reactionary force on Terra. A ghost of the future of what can become and refused to stay dead.

To its adherents, it was of a brilliant, inevitable future. A global alliance of the oppressed, finally stepping onto the stage of history.

To its enemies, it was a contagion of sedition, a weaponized ideology aimed at the heart of the old world order more feared than any army for its power to turn a nation’s own people against it.

From the reformist social democratic parties of Victoria and Leithanien, to the more radical syndicalists in Columbia and Siracusa, and to the more militant and nationalist in Laterano and Yan.

Wherever a class was oppressed, a worker exploited, or a mind yearned for a different world, the red flag found a place to flutter.

Thus, the selection of Ursus for the 11^th Congress was a declaration in of itself.

The old Ursus Empire had been the reactionary bulwark of Terra, the gendarme of the world, ruthlessly thorough in crushing any spark of dissent. It had genocided the Infected, enslaved the non-Ursine races, and exiled or executed ideologues of every stripe with impartial brutality.

Now, it was the revolution’s capital. As the first nation to see socialism not just rise, but triumph over an empire of such monumental scale and cruelty, Ursus—and Talulah Artorius by extension—commanded immense, hard-won prestige within the Internationale.

It was proof that the Leviathan could be slain.

Of course, as stated before… the Internationale is anything but a monolith.

The Social Democrats from Columbia and Victoria, with their preference for gradual reform through the parliamentary process, had nothing in common to the nationalists from Yan, for whom socialism was a tool for national rejuvenation against what they view as a foreign class of rulers.

They, in turn, looked upon the representatives from the exploited colonies of Sargon with a mixture of paternalistic concern and strategic interest, seeing them less as brothers and more as potential assets in a global struggle.

Different interpretations of the entire idea of socialism—while flexible and necessary to fit the unique needs of each country or people—proved dangerously disjointed when forced into the same room. The theoretical arguments that seemed so clear in a book became muddy and explosive in practice.

“—and so, as the leading figure in the socialist world, it falls to me to steer the Internationale towards one coherent, revolutionary goal.” Talulah leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers as she watched Alina review the draft of the opening address she had written.

After a long moment of silence broken only by the rustle of paper, Alina looked up. “The rhetoric is… powerfully direct. But shouldn’t this go through Korolev’s office first? For a diplomatic review.”

“Korolev?” Talulah scoffed. “There is a fundamental difference between a diplomat and an ideologue. He navigates the currents of the old world. My task is to chart the course for the new one. I am the architect of Ursine Socialism, and by the victory of our revolution, the de-facto leader of the socialist world. The voice of the Internationale must be mine. It must be unequivocal.”

Alina hummed softly, a noncommittal sound that Talulah had long learned meant her Premier was choosing her words with extreme care. She flipped to another page of the document, her finger tracing a particularly fiery passage.

“A unified goal is one thing. Defining the path to it is another. The delegates will demand specifics. What are the agenda up for debate you’ve outlined for the Congress?”

Talulah leaned forward. “The agenda is the revolution itself. First, a formal condemnation of social democracy as a bourgeois diversion, a pacifier for the masses that ultimately upholds the capitalist system. The Victorians and their ilk must be forced to choose a side, there can be no more riding the fence.”

Alina’s eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly. “You would begin the Congress by alienating its largest voting bloc?”

“I would begin by drawing a line in the sand.” Talulah countered. “Second, we must formally endorse and support armed revolutionary movements in the colonial territories of Sargon and everywhere else. Not with just words, but with material aid. Their struggles are the front lines of our war against imperialism.”

“And how…” Alina asked, her tone deceptively mild, “do you propose we fund and arm a global revolution while we are still rationing bread and rebuilding our own cities?”

“All in due time.” Talulah said, though a cough betrayed a sliver of doubt. She pressed on. “Third, is to establish—or more likely, to formalize—the progressive social reforms that all socialists should have adhered to in the first place. A universal charter. Full rights for the Infected, the abolition of racial and species-based discrimination, the absolute emancipation of women, state-secularism… etcetera.”

“Alright, that’s… a foundational start. Less immediately explosive than funding foreign wars.” Alina conceded, making a note on a separate sheet. “These are your proposed topics for debate, no? The ones you want to force onto the floor. What about the preliminary agenda already laid out by the Congress planning committee itself?”

She pulled another document from a stack on the corner of the desk. This one was thicker, densely typed, and marked with notes from a dozen different hands. “Korolev’s office compiled this.”

“Let me see.” Alina handed Talulah the document and she began reading.

“…”

“…”

“… I see…”

Talulah had, in fact, not seen.

The sheer volume and complexity of the agenda items was staggering. Most of which were not mere administrative formalities, but ideological minefields, each capable of tearing the entire organization apart.

Which is why there had been three Internationales already.

For instance, here. The Path to Global Revolution: Vanguardism vs. Mass Democratic Action.

This was the fundamental schism.

The Leithanien delegation and its allies would arrive armed with the works of their theorists, arguing for the absolute necessity of a disciplined, centralized revolutionary vanguard—a party of professional revolutionaries to guide the proletariat, who they saw as mired in ‘false consciousness’.

This was the model she remembered that Franz had preached.

Conversely, the Victorian social democrats and Columbian syndicalists would champion mass democratic action such as broad popular fronts, general strikes, and participation in bourgeois parliaments to achieve power through electoral means

They saw the vanguard model as a blueprint for a dictatorship. Talulah’s own Ursine Socialism, with its emphasis on grassroots Soviets but firm central control, sat uncomfortably between these two poles, pleasing neither purist.

Another one. The Colonial Question.

This was more than just a question of support. The delegates from Sargon and other exploited regions would demand immediate, unequivocal support for armed decolonization struggles, framing them as the primary front in the war against imperialism.

The more established, often wealthier parties from developed nations like Yan or parts of Leithanien would likely argue for a more ‘strategic’ approach, prioritizing revolutions in industrialized nations first.

They would caution that premature uprisings in the colonies could be crushed without the material support of an already-socialist industrial base, effectively treating the liberation of the developing world as a secondary objective.

The potential for accusations of socialist imperialism was high.

Another point was economic coordination and the ‘Socialist World Market’.

How would socialist states interact economically?

This was a nest of vipers. Would there be a common, cleared currency for trade, or would they resort to barter and gold? Would Ursus, as the most industrialized member, be expected to provide heavy machinery and technology to agrarian socialist allies at cost, or even for free? Or would that create a relationship of dependency, a new core-periphery dynamic within the socialist bloc?

The Yan delegation, fiercely protective of its own economic autonomy, would vehemently resist any structure that resembled the old imperial trade networks, even under a red banner.

The Definition of Socialist Construction: Rapid Industrialization vs. Agricultural Development.

Should the focus of new socialist states be on the rapid, forced industrialization of the nation, building the material base for socialism as quickly as possible?

This was the Ursus model, the path of the Five-Year Plan.

Or should resources be funneled into agricultural development and light industry first, ensuring stability and winning the support of the peasantry before embarking on grandiose industrial projects?

his debate would pit the urban industrialists against the agrarian socialists, with the fate of millions hanging in the balance.

The Role of the Arts and Culture: Socialist Realism vs. Revolutionary Experimentalism.

Even culture was a battlefield.

The Leithanien bloc would push for a doctrine of Socialist Realism. Art must be optimistic, heroic, easily understandable to the masses, and serve the state’s pedagogical goals.

Others, particularly from Columbia and urban intellectual circles, would argue for a ‘revolutionary experimentalism’—that art must be free to critique, to challenge, and to innovate, arguing that true revolutionary spirit was inherently disruptive and could not be shackled to state-approved formats.

There were other items on the agenda—debates on the standardization of workers' councils, the intricacies of cultural exchange programs, the establishment of an Internationale-wide disaster response corps for Catastrophes—but Talulah chose to shelf them for the actual Congress, which was expected to be a grueling marathon of a week, if not two.

She looked up to Alina, who was already quietly reviewing another paper from the ever-growing stack. “Has Korolev’s office compiled a list of the specific parties and delegations who will be attending?”

“Yes,” Alina said, seamlessly swapping one document for another. This one was a dossier, complete with briefs and—where possible—small photographs. “It makes for… a fascinating reading.”

“From Victoria, we won’t see a unified front. The ruling Social Democratic and Labour Party is sending its left wing, the ‘Glasgow Circle’. They believe in nationalizing key industries but through parliamentary process. They’ll be arguing for moderation and ‘socialism at a sensible pace’.”

Her tone was neutral, but the slight curl of her lip betrayed her opinion. “They’ll be sharing a table, but not much else, with the Communist Party of Victoria, who want to dismantle the monarchy and aristocracy and place all power directly in the hands of federated trade unions. They despise the Glasgow Circle almost as much as they despise the Tories.”

“Leithanien’s delegation will be a house divided,” Alina continued, her finger tracing the brief. “It will be led by the hardline remnants of Franz’s old party, the K.P.L.—the Kommunistische Partei Leithaniens. They are purists, dogmatic to the bone. They’ll arrive with their theoretical frameworks perfectly polished and a deep-seated belief that our ‘Ursine Socialism’ is a barbaric deviation from the true path. They will demand the Vanguard model be adopted as universal doctrine, and they will see any compromise as a moral failure.”

She paused, her expression turning wry. “And they will be sharing their delegation, though not their views, with representatives from the S.P.L.—Sozialistischedemokratische Partei Leithaniens. The S.P.L. are reformists. They believe in achieving socialism through the ballot box and existing parliamentary structures, not violent upheaval. They’ll be pushing for resolutions on workers’ rights and social welfare, not global armed revolution.”

“The K.P.L. considers them useful idiots for the bourgeoisie. The S.P.L. considers the K.P.L. dangerous delusional fanatics. They can barely stand to be in the same country, let alone the same negotiating room.”

Talulah let out a soft, humorless breath. “So Leithanien and Victoria will be fighting itself. That tracks. And Columbia?”

“Columbia’s delegation will be led by the Socialist Party of Columbia,” Alina said, flipping a page. “Which is itself a fractured mess, a coalition of convenience that could fly apart at any moment. You have the Urban Caucuse, the Marxists, the Communists, the anarchists—take your pick.”

Talulah massaged her temples, but before she could ask a question, Alina continued.

“Now, Yan,” Alina said, her voice shifting to denote a particularly complex and volatile case. She tapped the dossier. “They are, officially, sending a single, unified delegation from the Yan Guo Min Tang.”

Talulah’s head snapped up, her fatigue momentarily forgotten. “A unified front? From the YMT? In Yan?”

The notion was almost unbelievable. The Yan National People's Party was a… to put it lightly, a fractured mess. More so than any of the previously mentioned parties by Alina.

They are opposed to the ruling Lung class of Yan and wished to oust what they perceive as ‘foreign rulers’ and establish a republic. That is pretty much where their united front ends.

“On paper, yes,” Alina confirmed, a hint of dryness in her tone. “The party platform is broad, driven by the goal of ousting foreign Lung overlordship and establishing true Yanese sovereignty. But as you know… the specifics of how to achieve that, and what comes after, would fracture a diamond.”

The headache returned, and Talulah held up a hand. “Enough. Let’s… let’s discuss this another time.” The words came out strained.

Alina fell silent immediately.

Talulah took a slow, steadying breath, her gaze drifting from the dossiers to Alina, and then to the heavy door of the office. A strange, almost furtive thought seemed to cross her mind.

“You know what,” she said, her voice dropping to a low tone. “Did you lock the door?”

Alina raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Lock the do…or? Tal, it’s the middle of the afternoon. The entire apparatus of state is running on the other side of that door.”

“Exactly…” Talulah said, her voice barely a whisper. She pushed herself away from the desk and walked straight toward the door. The heavy bolt slid home with a soft, but definitive, thunk.

The sound seemed to change the very atmosphere in the room. The distant, muffled sounds of the Kremlin faded into insignificance. They were sealed in a bubble of sudden quiet.

She turned back to face Alina, who was still sitting behind the desk, her expression a mix of confusion, concern, and dawning understanding.

“For fifteen minutes, the Chairwoman is stepping out…” Talulah murmured, her voice a low, velvet plea. The distance between them felt both immense and infinitesimal. “Just… let her be gone.”

But before she could take a single step to close the gap, Alina sighed. It was not a sigh of irritation, but of weariness, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of all the unsent reports and unmet quotas in the world.

She stood up, not with rejection, but with a gentle, firm resolve that was somehow far worse.

“Tal.” she said, her voice soft. “We could do this at another time. But ever since that day… you’ve been more… demanding, lately. The hours are longer, the expectations are higher—not just for you, but for all of us. I still have the weekly production reports from the industrial sector to reconcile. The figures won’t wait, even if I wish they would. I hope you understand.”

The words were like a bucket of ice water. They were reasonable. They were responsible. They were the words of the Premier. And they were a wall, gently but immovably erected where a moment ago there had been an open door.

Before Talulah could form a retort with a plea or a command, something to shatter the unbearable practicality of it all—Alina was already moving.

She didn’t slam the door. She simply unlocked it, pulled it open, and stepped through, the hem of her skirt whisking out of sight into the bureaucratic hum of the corridor.

The click of the latch settling back into place was deafening.

Talulah was left alone in the sudden, expansive silence of the office. The warmth that had begun to bloom in her chest curdled into a cold, hard knot of frustration and loneliness.

’Demanding.’ The word stung. Was it demanding to want a sliver of connection? To need an anchor oneself in the relentless storm she was steering?

With a sound that was half-growl, half-sigh of defeat, Talulah walked back to her desk. The Chairwoman had not stepped out. She had been summoned back to duty, her brief mutiny quashed before it could even begin.

She sank into her chair and pulled the first report toward her.

There was a peculiar, deep-seated satisfaction in seeing the two boys you’d practically raised through the frozen hell of the Long March now standing stiffly in unfamiliar formal coats, ready to embark on the next stage of their lives. Even if that stage was far away from home.

Eno and Sasha—now Mephisto and Faust, were officially enrolled at the prestigious Trimounts Institute of Technology. Medicine for Mephisto, a path to mend the brokenness he’d been forced to inflict. Engineering for Faust, a channel for his quiet brilliance.

Like any guardian would, Alina was performing a final inspection of their belongings, her fingers smoothing the folds of a woolen sweater, ensuring the small, hidden pouch of emergency funds was securely stitched into a coat lining. It was a ritual of care, a way to pour her unspoken fears and hopes into practical actions.

The moment was supposed to be intimate, a quiet farewell in the spartan room they shared. However, the space was also occupied by other, significantly less welcome, people.

“Why is he here?”

Frostnova’s voice cut through the quiet. Her pale eyes were fixed not on the boys or their luggage, but on the man standing placidly beside Patriot’s immense, armored form near the doorway.

It was Korolev.

He stood with an infuriatingly casual air, hands clasped behind his back as if admiring a piece of art rather than intruding on a private moment. He offered Frostnova a thin, diplomatic smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Comrade Frostnova." He began. "I am here in my capacity as Commissar for Foreign Affairs, ensuring our first official scholarly delegation to Columbia is properly seen off. Their success is a matter of state interest."

Patriot remained a silent, but his single visible eye shifted from Korolev to Alina, a silent acknowledgment of the disrupted peace. He understood the sanctity of this space better than the politician ever could.

Alina straightened up, her own maternal concerns momentarily shelved under a wave of protective ire. She placed herself between Korolev and the boys, her voice calm but firm.

"The state's interest has been noted, Commissar. The paperwork is in order, the arrangements are made. The farewell, however, is a private matter." She met his gaze without blinking. "The delegation will depart on schedule. You have my word."

It was a dismissal, but Korolev merely dismissed the dismissal.

"Premier, please, do not misunderstand. I've gone to considerable lengths to secure their enrollment. A last look at our investments before they depart is only prudent, is it not?"

He casually leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, claiming the space as his own. "Besides, I speak from experience. I have two sons and a daughter studying in Columbia.”

Alina’s eyes narrowed. "Your children are in Columbia? Why not here?"

At that, Korolev didn't even bother with a verbal reply.

His eyes did the talking. They performed a slow sweep of the room, or the entire nation in general, taking in the instability of the new regime, and his eyes settled on Frostnova.

Why would I leave my children in this when I can give them that?

Alina just sighed. "Patriot," she said, her voice softening. "What do you think?"

The Wendigo shifted, his armor creaking. The single eye visible behind his visor regarded the two boys.

"Think about what?"

"Of this." Alina gestured to Mephisto and Faust. "As far as I know, only the two of you in this room had children. And while I have cared for them and countless others during the Long March, I am afraid what they have always lacked is a father's counsel. Now they go to a world that will test more than their minds."

Patriot and Korolev exchanged a long glance at each other.

Korolev broke the silence first, his voice uncharacteristically devoid of its usual sliminess, but still somewhat irritating to hear.

"A father's counsel is to ensure his children are stronger than he was, and to give them the tools he never had. To make sure they survive." He shrugged.

Patriot looked from Korolev back to the boys. "A father's duty is not just to make them strong. It is to give them something worth being strong for. Strength without a cause is just a weapon. And the world has enough of those."

Korolev inclined his head. “Well, if we are speaking about sending them to Columbia, here’s some tips for you two.” He pushed his body from the door frame.

He held up a finger. “First, find the campus copy shop. Befriend the operator. A few extra dollars and some alcohol can get you access to the ‘archives’. That is, every test, solution set, and paper from the last decade for your course. Memorize the patterns, not just the answers. Professors are lazy, they like to recycle.”

Alina blinked. “Commissar, are you advising them to cheat?”

“I am advising them to be efficient.” Korolev corrected, moving to a second finger. “Second, your dormitory. The walls are thin. Your neighbors will be rich Columbian children who have never known a day of hardship. They will complain about their allowances and play loud music. You will need sleep. Therefore, on your first night, find the circuit breaker for the hall. When the music becomes intolerable, plunge them into darkness. Do this repeatedly. They will learn to associate their noise with inconvenience.”

Frostnova, for the first time, looked genuinely flustered. “You want them to sabotage university property?”

Korolev ignored her, but Patriot’s low rumble cut through the room. “A poor strategy, it has a chance of predictable retaliation. Better to find the source of the noise and… negotiate.” He made a slight motion with his massive gauntlet, the meaning chillingly clear. “A single, direct conversation. It is more efficient.”

“We are not sending them to conduct interrogations, Patriot!” Alina interjected, aghast.

“Third,” Korolev pressed on, “the library. Do not just study there. Live there. The best carrels are in the back, near the plumbing vents. They are warm. Claim one. But to hold it, you must employ the ‘territorial spread method’. Leave a seemingly random assortment of books and papers there at all times—a half-eaten sandwich, if you're bold. It signals permanent occupation. No one will challenge it.”

This time, it was Alina who spoke up. Much to the boys’ surprise.

“A sandwich will attract pests…” Alina countered, her maternal instincts overriding her shock. “It’s unhygienic. If you must mark territory, use something less organic. A worn blanket. A spare coat on the chair. It serves the same purpose without inviting vermin.”

Korolev gave a slight, conceding shrug. “A fair point. Premier.”

“Fourth,” he continued, “parties. You will be invited. Do not go to socialize. Go to acquire. A single party is a networking opportunity and a free source of sustenance for the week. Locate the host’s pantry. High-quality non-perishables are often stored there. Tins of fish, crackers, nuts. A good haul can supplement your rations nicely. Fill your pockets discreetly.”

“Pockets are insufficient and risk detection,” Frostnova smirked, folding her arms as she leaned back on the wall. “A satchel is too obvious. Use the inner lining of a winter coat. It is capacious and rarely checked.”

“A winter… coat? Inside of a potentially warm house? Won’t they look ridiculous?” Alina interjected.

Korolev shrugged. “Don’t listen to her, she’s always wrong.”

“Hey!—”

“And finally…” Korolev said, ignoring the fact that his lesson had been thoroughly co-opted, “if you are ever caught in a… compromising academic situation… never admit guilt. Instead, look the professor in the eye and say, ‘With all due respect, Professor, I believe this reflects a failure of the teaching methodology to adequately convey the core concepts.’ Then, request a meeting to discuss ‘pedagogical improvements’. Nine times out of ten, they will likely drop the matter. Just pray you don’t get an actually good professor who is serious at his job.”

“An unreliable strategy.” Patriot grumbled. “If confronted with failure, you must accept the consequences with honor. Discipline is the foundation of strength.”

“Discipline is avoiding getting caught in the first place.” Korolev retorted.

“Enough!” Alina finally said, throwing her hands up. “Do not… do any of that. Just… be good. Study hard. Be kind. Write letters. And if you absolutely feel the need to hoard non-perishables, for heaven’s sake, at least use airtight containers.”

Silence fell into a heavy silence. The only sound was Korolev’s coughs and the potential lung cancer that is catching up to him. Or so the Premier hopes.

Mephisto, breaking the suffocating tension, slowly nodded, his face a mask of grave seriousness. Then, a snort escaped him. It was followed by a choked chuckle that shook his body.

“We’ll be sure to keep it all in mind,” he said, his voice trembling with barely contained mirth. “Cheat efficiently, negotiate with… prejudice, secure a territorial foothold, acquire supplies… and be kind.”

Then he burst into full, genuine laughter an unguarded sound that was so rare it seemed to startle even him. It echoed in the room, joined by no one except himself.

Faust watched him, the ghost of a smile touching his own usually impassive features, a silent acknowledgment of the quite absurd situation. Frostnova’s lips twitched, the barest flicker of amusement breaking through her icy demeanor before she schooled her features back to neutrality.

The laughter died down, leaving a softer, more manageable quiet in its wake.

The final farewells were simpler after that. There were no speeches, just a firm handshake from Patriot, a surprisingly gentle touch on the shoulder from Frostnova, and a long, tight hug from Alina that communicated more than words ever could.

Then, they were gone. The door clicked shut behind Mephisto and Faust, and the four most powerful people in the Federation after Talulah were left standing in a room that suddenly felt too large and too empty.

“Just wondering, Korolev.” Alina suddenly spoke to the Commissar. “Were you speaking from experience, or was that all just a particularly vivid imagination?”

“Experience, obviously.” He shrugged, leaning back against the wall. “I wouldn’t have suggested all of that if I didn’t do it myself, eh?” He nudged Patriot’s armored elbow with his own.

The colossal Wendigo looked down at the point of contact, then back at Korolev’s face. “The sandwich was a mistake. It attracts insects.”

“Well, you get the idea.” Korolev insisted. “The execution, perhaps, could be refined. I concede to the Premier’s point on airtight containers.”

Frostnova, who had been watching the exchange, let out an inaudible sigh. “The circuit breaker is still the most efficient solution. A sustained, low-grade environmental annoyance is more effective than a direct confrontation. It teaches a lesson without creating a martyr.”

Alina couldn't help but smile. “We are a terrible influence…”

“We’ve given them tools,” Korolev corrected. “What they build with them is up to them. Besides, a little controlled chaos is good for the Columbian education system. Keeps them on their toes.”

“Well…” Alina said, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “I suppose I should get back to the mountain of paperwork this little send-off has undoubtedly created.”

“And I…” Korolev said, pushing himself off the wall, “have to draft a painfully dull memo to the Columbian embassy, formally notifying them of our ‘cultural exchange students’. I shall omit the part about the circuit breakers.”

Patriot gave a slow nod. “I will check the shipment of new artillery shells that is due today.” It was his version of needing a moment to process.

“I’ll come with you,” Frostnova said, pushing herself from the wall she’d been leaning against and fell into step beside the colossal Wendigo

As they began to file out into the corridor, Korolev suddenly paused, a thought began to form. He turned back to Alina, who was still gathering her thoughts in the center of the room.

“Oh, that’s right.” he began, his tone deceptively casual. “Where is the Chairwoman? I thought this would be a rather special moment for her. Letting her two fledglings fly the nest, and all that. It’s not like her to miss the drama.”

Alina winced, a subtle tightening around her eyes that she couldn't quite hide. She busied herself with straightening a stack of files, avoiding his perceptive gaze.

“Well…” She started, her voice carefully neutral, “she intended to be here. She truly did. But a last-minute dispatch needed her immediate authorization for a response.”

Korolev’s eyebrow arched slightly.

“Ah,” he said simply, the single syllable laden with understanding. He didn't press. “Of course. The revolution’s work is never done. Best not to disturb her with… sentimental distractions.”

Talulah opened her eyes.

The world swam into focus slowly, painfully. A dull, throbbing ache pulsed behind her temples, a rhythmic drumbeat of regret. Her eyes momentarily lingered at the door where Alina left hours before.

She was slumped over her desk, her cheek pressed against the cool wood. Her spine protested as she pushed herself upright, a series of pops and aches mapping the hours of poor posture.

The room was dark, lit only by the faint, blue pre-dawn light seeping through the tall windows, illuminating swirling motes of dust.

Her gaze then fell upon the culprit. It was an empty glass bottle standing like a solemn sentinel amidst a sea of scattered papers.

Right…

She squinted at the clock on the far wall. Its hands pointed firmly past midnight, deep into the small hours where reason slept and desperation thrived.

Then her eyes drifted down to the desk, and here she remembered.

Oh… right.

She had carefully, painstakingly, considered Alina’s words. And she had produced… this.

Her fingers, slightly unsteady, traced the topmost page. The ink was dark and bold, her handwriting—usually so neat and clean—uncharacteristically possessed a frantic energy here, and a tired scrawl there. At the top of the first page, a title was underlined twice.

The Twenty-Two Conditions for Admission to the Communist Internationale

A manifesto.

A gauntlet thrown.

But not one dipped solely in the purity of ideological iron. This was a gauntlet lined with pragmatism, its grip adjusted to fit more hands. Ursus, as the first nation to break the chains, would lead the world into a better future, but it could not march alone. It needed an army of the willing, not a handful of the perfect.

She leafed through them, her headache receding behind the sheer, daunting weight of what she had written. Each condition was a brick in a wall, yes, but the mortar was different. It was designed to fortify the revolutionaries, to expose the opportunists, but also to leave a gate open for those who were merely lost, not malicious.

She had taken Alina’s suggestion to not be very purist.

The first condition set the tone. Daily propaganda must explain the principles of the Internationale and the Soviet system of democracy to the broadest masses. It was a call to education, not just proclamation.

The second demanded the removal of any reformists from positions of influence, but the language specified consistent reformists, those who actively opposed the revolutionary path, leaving a sliver of room for those who could be persuaded.

The third insisted on the creation of a clandestine apparatus parallel to the legal party organization, a necessary evil for survival in many nations, but it was framed as a defensive measure, not an inherently aggressive one.

The fourth condition mandated systematic agitation within the armed forces, a non-negotiable point to erode the power of the bourgeois state from within.

The fifth required the combination of legal and illegal work, acknowledging the complex realities of political struggle beyond mere pamphleteering.

The sixth condition she had to think about for longer and produce a compromise for. It demanded unwavering support for colonial liberation movements, a radical stance, but it coupled it with a call for exposing the imperialist policies of one’s own country, a slightly softer approach than demanding immediate, open sedition.

The seventh insisted on persistent work within trade unions to win them over to the cause, recognizing them as fields of battle, not enemy territory.

The eighth condition was the duty to expose social-patriotism and social-pacifism, drawing a clear line in the sand.

The ninth demanded work in the countryside to gain the support of the rural proletariat, expanding the revolution beyond the urban centers.

The tenth condition was another crucial compromise. It required parties to support the FSSRU in its struggle against counter-revolution, but the wording emphasized solidarity against external threats, a formulation that reformists in other nations could theoretically support without immediately being forced to advocate for their own country’s overthrow.

The eleventh mandated a Soviety-style party structure.

The twelfth demanded periodic membership purges to ensure purity and discipline.

The thirteenth required unconditional obedience to the decisions of the Communist Internationale.

The fourteenth condition addressed the press, demanding party control over all publications. However, Independent leftist-aligned newspapers would be allowed to operate.

The fifteenth was a major point of contention she had softened. It called for a break with the reformist Second Internationale, but framed it as a necessary organizational separation to pursue the true path, not a blanket condemnation of every individual within it.

The sixteenth required parties to adopt a new, Communist program in line with Internationale decisions.

The seventeenth condition demanded the defense of the home of the revolution—the FSSRU with actions, not just words.

The eighteenth required all parties to rally their supporters to prevent the shipment of munitions to the enemies of the revolution—enemies of the FSSRU.

The nineteenth mandated the establishment of Communist cells within trade unions and other mass organizations.

The twentieth condition set a timeframe for post-Congress reporting to ensure compliance.

The twenty-first made membership conditional on the acceptance of these conditions, the final lock on the gate.

And the twenty-second condition stipulated the expulsion of any members who rejected these conditions in principle, the ultimate sanction.

It was a monumental task. It was a document that would infuriate the purists for its concessions and terrify the moderates for its demands. But it was a foundation. It was a standard around which a global movement could, perhaps, coalesce.

… wait, wasn’t Mephisto and Faust going to Columbia yesterday?

Chapter Text

The preparations for the incoming Congress of the Third Internationale had kicked the Ministry of State Security into a state of perpetual, high-alert motion.

For Yelena, sleep had become a luxury. Her world these past few days had been narrowed to a flood of encrypted dispatches, threat assessments from a dozen different intelligence streams, and constant argument with the different heads of government departments.

Securing Artoriagrad for a handful of foreign dignitaries was one thing. Securing it for the entire spectrum of Terra's revolutionary and socialist movements—each with their own entourages, ideological baggage, and legions of enemies—was a logistical and security nightmare of apocalyptic proportions.

Maps of the city were plastered over every wall, annotated with color-coded routes for different delegations, sniper perimeters, and emergency evacuation zones.

Schematics of the newly completed State Duma, the Congress' main venue, lay spread across her desk, with every ventilation shaft and service tunnel scrutinized for potential vulnerabilities.

Her gloved finger traced a path along a service tunnel that ran directly beneath the main auditorium. A single, well-placed charge there would collapse the floor, burying the entire leadership of the world's socialist movements under tons of concrete and steel.

The Cautus tapped her fingers on the desk impatiently, and with a final, fluid stroke, Yelena signed the bottom of the operational order. It was one of hundreds she had signed, and to be signed, that day.

At present, her KGB had over eight thousand active agents, each assigned as specialists on specific tasks. Counter-intelligence, surveillance, assassination, protection—these are mostly the KGB’s job. They would be embedded in every delegation, perched on every strategic rooftop, and listening on every secure line.

But even that couldn’t fill in the gaps. For the brute, sprawling work of crowd control, checkpoints, and visible presence, she needed a blunter instrument.

She needed the People's Militia.

Militsiya… A fancy name for a glorified police force. And it answered not to her, but to the Commissariat of Internal Affairs. To him.

Aleksei Dmitriev.

She huffed at the name.

The man was a force of nature all by himself, a bull of a man whose sheer physical presence seemed to warp the space around him. It was said he could rival Patriot in stature without the need for an armor, yes, the man was almost all muscle.

He was a hero of a particularly bloody siege during the revolution, a brawler who had led soldiers with sheer charisma and a terrifying capacity for violence. And he viewed her secretive KGB with open contempt.

A low, quiet sigh escaped Yelena’s lips, frosting momentarily in the chilled air of her office.

This was the part of her new role she despised more often than not. The revolution had been fought with clear lines, that is Imperialist and Revolutionary, Oppressor and Liberated.

Now, the battle was fought in paper-strewn offices, a grinding war of inter-departmental jurisdiction, fragile egos, and bureaucratic stubbornness. It was a conflict for which her Arts—the power to literally flash-freeze a man’s blood in his veins—were useless.

Unless she wanted to get dismissed so easily, that is.

She keyed the intercom. "Get me Commissar Dmitriev." She said, her voice devoid of inflection.

The wait was brief.

The door to her office didn't so much open as it was displaced, swinging inward to accommodate the man who filled the frame. Aleksei Dmitriev’s presence immediately filled the room.

His Militia uniform was immaculate but looked perpetually too tight across his broad chest and shoulders. He had a broken nose and a thick beard that did little to soften his jaw. His eyes scanned her sterile office with undisguised derision before landing on her.

"Frostnova." He grunted, the codename sounding like an insult on his tongue. He never used her title. "I assume this is about the circus. My men are peacekeepers, not parade guards for a pack of arguing intellectuals."

Yelena remained seated, a deliberate power play. She let the silence stretch, forcing him to stand in her domain.

"The 'circus', Commissar, is the Third Internationale. Its security is the paramount concern of the state. Your Militia will provide perimeter security, crowd control, and auxiliary support as detailed in the operational plan your office received twelve hours ago."

Dmitriev took a step further into the room, his presence making the space feel claustrophobic.

"Your plan has my units playing nursemaid. You want my best squadrons directing traffic and checking papers while your secret police lurk in the shadows playing spy games. It is a waste of resources."

"My 'spy games' are what will prevent a bomb from ending this Congress, Commissar." Yelena replied. "Your role is to be the visible shield. The deterrent."

"Deterrent?" He let out a short, harsh laugh. "A deterrent is a show of strength. Not a man with a whistle and a clipboard. You want a deterrent? Let me post my heavy response units at the Duma's gates. Let the world see we are serious."

"Your 'heavy response units' are thugs with automatic crossbows, Commissar. Their idea of de-escalation is a full quiver to them. The image we project must be one of controlled power, not brutish intimidation."

She finally stood, meeting his gaze across the desk. Though he towered over her, the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. "The plan stands. You will deploy your men as directed. Is that clear?"

His flinty eyes narrowed. She could see the calculation in them, the war hero versus the Chairwoman's favored ice-queen. He was powerful, but she had the full weight of Talulah's authority behind her.

A tense, silent struggle stretched between them, measured in heartbeats. Finally, he let out a low grunt, a sound of concession that felt more like a boulder shifting than an agreement.

"Fine." He finally said. "However," he added, a thick finger jabbing toward the city map on her wall, "my units will be deployed with heavy arms. Not just sidearms. I want HAC teams on overwatch at these three intersections. RPGs in the riot vans. My men are a deterrent, you said? So let them look the part. I will not have my people be soft targets for some terrorists because your doctrine prefers subtlety over survival."

Yelena held his gaze, her expression unchanging. She saw the logic, however bluntly it was presented. A show of overwhelming force could indeed prevent a confrontation altogether. But it also screamed paranoia, a siege mentality that ran counter to the image of confident revolution they wanted to project.

It was a push. He was testing the limits of her authority, seeing how much of his own plan he could force into hers.

After a moment, she gave a single curt nod. "The heavy weapons teams will be deployed. But they are to remain concealed within the vehicles unless a situation escalates to a direct, organized armed assault. I will not have this Congress take place under the visible shadow of machine gun barrels. Is that clear, Commissar?"

It was a pull. A concession, but with her terms firmly bolted onto it.

Dmitriev’s lips twitched beneath his beard, something between a smirk and a snarl. He’d won a point, but the victory had been fenced in.

"Crystal." he mumbled. He turned to leave, his bulk once again filling the doorway. He paused, not looking back. "Try not to freeze any of my men if they get twitchy. We're all on the same side, no?"

[●RECORDING]

“Alright~ are you recording?” A bright, smiling face filled the screen, halo glowing like a personal sun.

A deadpan voice off-camera answered. “I’ve been recording for the past two minutes. You told me to start when we left the transport.”

“Details, details! Okay, okay! Hey, hey, this is Exu back with another vlog! Today we’re back in the chilly, chilly heart of revolution—Artoriagrad! Hey! Pan the camera over there!”

With a soft sigh, Texas obliged.

The camera lens swung away from Exusiai’s beaming face, and focusing on a colossal banner strung between two brutalist light towers. It was a vibrant, almost aggressive red, emblazoned with the words THIRD INTERNATIONALE in bold white Cyrillic script, followed by translations in Victorian, Higashinese, and a handful of other Terran languages.

“Look at that! You can just feel the historical significance!” Exusiai’s voice chirped from behind the camera. “The energy is totally different this time!”

…Minus Exusiai's insistence on treating this like a personal holiday vlog, their actual purpose was to temporarily man Penguin Logistics' newly ‘re-established’ Artoriagrad branch.

Emperor’s deal with the slippery Commissar Korolev had gone through, and someone needed to hold down the fort until permanent, and more politically astute, staff could be hired. It was supposed to be an easy, low-profile assignment.

Exusiai, of course, treated it as a free vacation to Terra's most exciting new tourist destination.

Texas, on her second visit, saw the city with far more experienced eyes.

The festive banners and fresh paint couldn't mask the underlying machinery of a state on high alert. She noticed the subtle changes around them such as the increased density of surveillance cameras on every corner.

The pairs of Militia officers on patrol were no longer just bored constables, they moved with purpose, their hands resting a little closer to their sidearms and their eyes constantly scanning the crowds.

The relaxed—with heavy quotations there—atmosphere from their last trip had been replaced by a palpable, low-grade tension, thrumming beneath the surface of the organized crowds and patriotic music piping from public speakers.

It was the feeling of a clenched fist inside a velvet glove.

Maybe because it is.

“It’s so busy!” Exusiai continued, now guiding Texas to pan towards a flow of delegates. A group of stern-looking trade unionists in practical coats, followed by a more vibrant contingent from Sargon in colorful traditional robes, all being shepherded by brisk, unsmiling officials.

“Everyone’s here! It’s like a socialist festival!”

Texas kept recording, her own commentary internal.

It’s not a festival. It’s a high-value target convergence.

She zoomed in slightly on the roof of a building opposite the delegates' hotel. A glint of sunlight on glass. A sniper team’s observation scope. Standard procedure, but a clear indicator of the stakes.

Exusiai snatched the camera, turning it on herself as she walked backwards, effortlessly avoiding collisions with the crowd.

“So, the mission is to keep the office running, which basically means signing for packages and making sure the kettle works. Easy peasy! Maybe we’ll even get to deliver something for the Congress! How cool would that be?”

“A logistical nightmare…” Texas muttered, her voice just picked up by the microphone. “Protocol, checkpoints, armed escorts for a simple envelope. Not worth the fee.”

“Don’t be such a grump! Look!” She suddenly swung the camera around again, this time towards a large, open square where a monumental statue of Talulah Artorius now stood, her hand outstretched toward the future.

At its base, a group of young Pioneer scouts were diligently scrubbing away at a fresh, clumsily painted anarchist symbol. “See? The people are invested! They’re protecting the symbol of their revolution!”

Texas saw something else.

She saw the proud determination on the Pioneers' faces, yes. But she also saw the two plainclothes KGB agents lingering at the edge of the square, their postures were too still, and their eyes missed nothing, noting everyone who stopped to look for a moment too long.

She then saw the unmarked van idling nearby.

Exusiai, blissfully unaware of the layers—or pretending not to, finally lowered the camera. “Okay, I think I got enough B-roll. Let’s go find the office! I hope it has a view.”

Texas took the camera back, shutting it off. “The only view we need is of the front door and the emergency exit.” She said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “This isn’t a holiday, Exu. This city is a watchful animal, and we are strangers in its den. Remember that.”

Exusiai’s smile finally faltered for a second, replaced by a look of genuine thoughtfulness. She glanced around again, this time seeming to notice the uniformed presence and the watchful eyes.

“Right…” she said, her voice quieter. “Okay. But can we at least get a commemorative pin first?”

“Pin?”

“Yeah! A pin! You know, like a souvenir! Every big event has them. It’ll be, like, our official ‘We Survived the Socialist Super-Convention’ badge!” Exusiai’s enthusiasm was cautiously reigniting. “Come on, it’ll be a quick intel-gathering mission!”

Texas let out a breath that misted in the cold air. Denying Exusiai was often more trouble than it was worth, her relentless cheerfulness was a force of nature that could wear down even the most fortified resolve.

And, reluctantly, Texas had to admit that moving through the city with the casual cover of tourists was better than standing still and looking suspicious.

“Fine. Fifteen minutes. Then we find the office.”

“Yes! Okay, this way! I saw a kiosk near that big statue!” Exusiai chirped, grabbing Texas’s wrist and pulling her into the flow of foot traffic.

The kiosk was small, its metal shutters painted a cheerful revolutionary red. The bored-looking vendor up as they approached, her eyes lingering for a moment too long on Exusiai’s halo before adopting a neutral expression.

The display was a study in ideological merchandising. There were no fluffy mascots or ironic slogans here. Instead, rows of meticulously designed pins were arranged under glass.

“Ooh, look! It’s a tiny hammer and sickle!” Exusiai pressed her face against the glass. “And that one’s the FSSRU’s state crest! And wow, they even have one of the State Duma building! The detail is amazing!”

Texas’s sharp eyes scanned the options.

A stylized dove with a crossbow in its claws. A red star superimposed over Terra. A profile of Talulah that was more symbol than portrait. They were not mere trinkets more than they were statements of allegiances, some small, wearable pieces of the state’s narrative.

Exusiai finally settled on two. “We’ll take this one and this one!” she announced, pointing to the hammer and sickle and the Talulah profile.

The vendor rang them up on a clunky mechanical register. “Ten rubles.”

As Exusiai fumbled for the currency, Texas’s gaze drifted from the kiosk. Her focus shifted to the environment. She noted the two Militia officers standing post about twenty meters away, their attention ostensibly on the crowd but their stance clearly oriented toward the kiosk, a high-traffic area for foreigners.

She saw the small surveillance camera mounted on a light pole, its lens covering the entire square, including their transaction.

Exusiai, now proudly affixing the Talulah pin to her coat lapel, remained blissfully unaware. “See? Now we’re official participants! Well, observer participants. Consumer participants?”

“We’re conspicuous.” Texas corrected quietly, her hand closing around her own pin, the metal cold against her glove. She didn’t put it on. To wear it would be to choose a side, even superficially, and Penguin Logistics was strictly neutral. She slipped it into a pocket.

“Okay, okay, mission accomplished!” Exusiai said, beaming. “Now, let’s explore a bit more! I want to see if they have revolutionary pastries! Maybe a bread shaped like a—”

“We’re going to the office.” Texas interrupted. She had seen enough. The pins, the patrols, the cameras—it all painted a clear picture.

Artoriagrad was not just hosting a conference, it was performing an idea of itself, and every citizen, every visitor, was expected to play their part, willingly or not. And she had no intention of her and Exusiai’s part being that of unwitting extras in someone else’s political theater.

She turned to steer her companion away from the main thoroughfare, but Exusiai was already distracted, her head cocked like a curious bird.

“Oh hey, look! Aren’t those guys Yanguomindang delegates?” Exusiai pointed a discreet finger toward a small, neat group emerging from a side street.

They stood out starkly against the sea of red and grey. On their lapels, each wore a small, distinct pin that everyone in Yan could recognize.

A white sun on a blue sky.

“The same party that gave Chief Executive Wei a massive headache back in Lungmen? What are they doing here?” Exusiai continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

Texas’s hand, which had been midway to retrieving another Pocky stick from her coat pocket, froze.

She was not a native of Yan or Lungmen, but operating on the periphery of Lungmen's underworld and politics had given her a working knowledge of its fault lines.

The Yanguomindang weren’t ordinary gangster. Far from it, even. They were the exiled, revanchist ghost of old Yan, a nationalist party dreaming of a return to power to the native people of Yan, and they are vehemently opposed to the integrated rule of the True Lungs.

Their presence here, at a congress ostensibly for socialist and revolutionary movements, was a grenade rolled onto the diplomatic floor. It was a blatant provocation towards Yan and test the boundaries of the young Ursus Federation’s foreign policy.

“Hm.” Texas grunted. She slowly finished retrieving her Pocky stick, but didn’t eat it. It remained poised in her fingers. “Trouble.”

“You think they’re defectors? Or like… super-off-brand socialists?” Exusiai whispered, her voice a mix of gossipy excitement and genuine confusion.

“Who’s to say?” Texas said, her voice barely a murmur.

The YMT were nationalists first and foremost, their ideology is a messy blend of anti-Lung sentiment and populism. The socialists within their ranks were a minority, albeit a vocal and often intellectual one.

She watched as one of the Yanguomindang delegate shook hands with a Leithanien delegate. The gesture was formal, tense, and utterly devoid of the fraternal warmth shown between other delegations.

But in the end, Penguin Logistics was to be neutral. Their job was not to pick sides, but to navigate the chaotic waters others churned up. Getting involved in Great Power politics was a surefire way to end up at the bottom of a Lungmenite canal. Or worse.

Turning her head, Texas spoke with finality. “Let’s go to the office.”

The walk to the office was brisk and silent, the earlier tourist atmosphere thoroughly punctured.

Texas moved with a new purpose, her eyes constantly scanning, processing. She noted the increased frequency of KGB agents—easily identifiable by their particular brand of watchful stillness—shadowing the Yanguomindang group at a discreet distance. The Ursus state was clearly aware of the powder keg they were hosting.

The Penguin Logistics ‘branch’ was located on the third floor of a drab building that had once housed a textile importer. The plaque on the door was new, written in polished brass was 'PENGUIN LOGISTICS - ARTORIAGRAD LIAISON'.

Texas unlocked the door to reveal a single, spartan room. A dusty desk, two chairs, a secure line phone, and a large window looking out onto a narrow alley. A single propaganda poster was tacked to the wall opposite the desk calling for increased productivity.

Exusiai deflated slightly. “Oh. It’s… cozy.”

“It’s a listening post.” Texas corrected, dropping her small bag on the desk and immediately checking the window’s sightlines. “And a waystation. Nothing more.”

She ran a gloved finger along the desk surface, checking for dust, for any sign of disturbance. It was clean. Unnaturally so. The place had likely been swept by KGB counter-intelligence before they’d even arrived.

“So… we just wait?”

“We wait.” Texas confirmed, her tone implying that waiting was an active, tense state of being.

She settled into the chair behind the desk and propped her boots on the desktop. She broke the seal on a new packet of Pocky, and took it to her mouth.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Exusiai jolted upright, a professional smile instantly plastered on her face. “Oh wow! Our first customer in Artoriagrad!” She quickly straightened her jacket, trying to project an air of corporate competence.

Texas, however, didn’t move with excitement.

She rolled her eyes slightly at Exusiai’s eagerness but swung her boots off the desk and stood in one fluid motion. She didn’t like surprises, and a client finding them this quickly felt less like luck and more like a test.

She walked to the door and opened it with a cautious measured movement that allowed her to see the visitor without fully exposing herself.

Standing in the hallway was a Liberi man. He was dressed in the modest, functional clothing of a low-level functionary, but his eyes held an anxious energy that didn't match his bland appearance. He clutched a simple, brown paper-wrapped parcel to his chest like a lifeline.

“Hello.” He said in a tight voice.

He glanced furtively over his shoulder down the empty hallway before stepping inside without waiting for an invitation, forcing Texas to take a step back. “Is this Penguin Logistics? I need to send a package. Discreetly. A-a-and quickly.”

Exusiai’s smile became more genuine, leaning into the drama. “You’ve come to the right place! Discreet and quick is our middle name! Well, not literally, that would be a weird name. What’s the destination, sir?”

The Liberi’s eyes darted between them, lingering on Texas’s impassive gaze before settling on Exusiai’s more welcoming face. He swallowed hard before replying.

"Columbia—!" he blurted out, then quickly corrected himself, "Err… Trimounts..."

He held the package out. It was small, book-sized, and seemed to contain something solid but not particularly heavy.

“It must reach a post office box in front of the Yanese Consultate... No names. Just the box number.” He fumbled in his pocket and produced a slip of paper with a series of digits written in a shaky hand.

Texas’s expression didn’t change, a mask of professional neutrality, but her mind was racing, connecting wires that sparked with danger.

Columbia. Then a Yanese drop-box.

A package from a nervous Ursine functionary in the heart of the Soviet capital, destined for the doorstep of a rival nation's diplomatic mission within their ideological opposite's territory. This wasn't a simple delivery, it was a triple-layer conspiracy, a Matryoshka doll of espionage. Every alarm in her head blared at once.

She didn't reach for the package immediately. Instead, her gaze fixed on the man, her lupine eyes seeming to strip away the layers of his anxiety to the core of his intent.

“The fee for such a specialized, high-risk service is high.” She stated, her voice cool and devoid of negotiation. “And payment is required upfront. In Lungmen Dollars.”

The man nodded frantically, not even blinking at the unusual demand. He was already pulling a slim envelope of crisp LMD from an inside pocket. He’d come prepared for this exact request. “Yes, yes, of course. It’s all there. Just… please. It must go unnoticed.”

Texas finally reached out and took the package and the money. Her gloves made no sound against the paper. “It will be treated as any other shipment,” she lied smoothly, her tone implying mundane bureaucracy, not international intrigue.

“Yes, yes… I trust you…” the man mumbled, not meeting her eyes anymore. He turned and practically fled, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound that seemed to suck all the air from the room.

The cheerful facade on Exusiai’s face melted away, replaced by wide-eyed apprehension. She stared at the innocuous brown parcel in Texas's hand as if it were a live grenade.

“I have a baaaaad feeling about this…” the Sankta merely said, her halo seeming to flicker with her unease.

Texas didn't answer immediately.

She placed the package on the desk first, then she locked the door, the deadbolt sliding home with a heavy thud. Then she approached the window, not to look out, but to run her fingers along the frame, checking for any new, subtle irregularities in the dust that might indicate a recent, surreptitious entry.

Satisfied they were momentarily secure, she returned to the desk. She picked up the package again, weighing it in her hand. Then, she began a meticulous tactile examination, her gloved fingers pressing and probing, mapping its dimensions and contents through the paper.

“Well?” Exusiai whispered, hovering nearby. “What is it? Secrets? Plans? Blackmail?”

“Documents.” Texas said, her voice low. “Or a data drive. Too light for significant hardware, too rigid for just paper. Probably a folio of documents with a storage device tucked inside.” She brought it closer to her face, inhaling subtly. “No distinctive odors. New paper, cheap adhesive.”

She held it up, tilting it in the light from the window. “The wrapping is proficient but hurried. No visible postmarks or customs labels, which means it never entered the official mail stream. This is off-the-books, hand-to-hand.”

She finally set it down and picked up the envelope of cash, flipping through the bills with practiced efficiency. “The money is real. And the amount is exactly twice our standard ‘high-risk’ fee.”

She looked at Exusiai. “Whoever sent him knew our rates. This wasn’t a random choice, we were selected.”

Exusiai gulped. “So… what do we do? Do we… deliver it?”

Texas’s gaze fell back to the package. “We do our job. We are a logistics company. We deliver packages.” She opened a desk drawer, retrieving a roll of generic brown shipping paper and a felt tip pen. “But we are not couriers for a suicide mission.”

With efficient movements, she re-wrapped the parcel inside two new layers of paper, obscuring its original appearance entirely. On the new exterior, she wrote the Trimounts post box number in a bland, blocky script that was nothing like her own handwriting.

“We don’t know who is watching. The KGB. The Yanese. Columbian Intelligence. Maybe all three.” She placed the now-anonymous package into her own messenger bag.

“This doesn’t go through any official channel. It stays with me. When we leave, it leaves with us. And the first thing we do when we get a secure line is call Emperor.”

“Once again, Commissar Dmitriev…” Frostnova pinched the bridge of her nose, a faint layer of frost crystallizing on her leather glove. “There can be no revisions to the motorcade route. It has been vetted, re-vetted, and approved by the Central Executive Committee. It is final.”

Dmitriev slammed a meaty fist on the table, making the coffee cups rattle. “‘Final’? Your ‘final’ plan has the Siracusan delegation’s motorcade crossing the  Bridge during a shift change at the steelworks! It’s a bottleneck! A perfect choke point for an ambush! My Militia will be stretched thin, and your KGB spooks will be too busy hiding in the shadows to form a proper perimeter!”

“The timing is deliberate.” Frostnova replied. “The shift change provides natural crowd cover, making it harder for a sniper to isolate a target. And your men will not be ‘stretched thin’. They will be positioned precisely where the plan dictates.”

“You would use my people as bait!”

“I would use them as a visible, disciplined force to deter an attack.” She countered, her patience thinning. “A concept your heavy weapons teams, currently stashed in alleys off Nevsky Prospekt without my authorization, seem to misunderstand.”

Before Dmitriev could unleash another volley, another voice cut in from the other side of the table.

“A visible force is one thing, Commissar, but your ‘cordon’ is strangling commerce!” This came from a representative from the Commissariat of Transport, her fingers steepled in front of her.

“You’ve shut down six major tram lines for forty-eight hours. The logistical backlog will take a week to clear. The People’s Commissariat for Industry is already filing complaints about delayed shipments. My priority is keeping this city running, not turning it into a frozen museum.”

“A museum does not have its leadership systematically assassinated.” Frostnova shot back, not even turning to look at her. “The economic inconvenience is a calculated risk. A bomb on a tram would be significantly more ‘inconvenient’.”

“And what of the people?” interjected a younger man from the propaganda department. “The image we project is paramount! We are hosting the world’s revolutionary movements, not cowering from them. Having Militia on every corner with scowls and crossbows projects fear, not strength. It undermines the very message of working-class confidence we are trying to broadcast! Why can’t we use more Pioneers? Smiling youths guiding delegates? It’s friendlier!”

Dmitriev snorted. “Pioneers? You want children to stop a terrorist? This is not a theatre production, you idiot!”

“It is all a theatre production!” The man retorted, his voice rising. “And right now, we’re staging a tragedy!”

Frostnova closed her eyes for a second, trying to stave off the incoming headache.

She was fighting a war on multiple fronts against the unfortunate life forms she calls her ‘colleagues’. They were all trying to carve out their own piece of the operation, to claim credit for its success or assign blame for its inevitable failures, with no regard for the integrated whole.

“The security posture is non-negotiable.” She stated, her voice cutting through the cross-talk. “The Pioneer Corps will have a role in welcoming ceremonies, not perimeter security. The tram lines will remain closed. The Militia will hold the cordons as directed. This is not a debate.”

A representative from the Border Guard service, who had been silent until now, finally spoke up. “My concern is the influx, Commissar. Your KGB is so focused on the city center, that you are ignoring the sieve that our borders have become. We are waving through hundreds of ‘journalists’ and ‘aid workers’ with minimal screening because the Politburo wants to look ‘open’. My men are undermanned and overworked. If a threat gets through the border, your perfect little motorcade plan won’t matter.”

Another front. Another department protecting its turf and shifting responsibility.

Then, an idea. She let the Border Guard’s complaint hang in the air for a moment before she spoke.

“Commissar Dmitriev.” She began, her tone shifting from defensive to inquisitorial.

All eyes turned to her. “While we are on the topic of security efficacy and resource allocation, a related matter has come to my attention.” She picked up a slim file from the stack in front of her, though she had no need to read from it.

“I’ve been reviewing reports from the KGB’s internal monitoring division. They concern the persistent issue of illegal underground gangs distributing illicit substances—morphine, opium, originium-based drugs, and black-market suppressants—in many of the worker’s district.”

She paused, letting the implication settle. Vice was the traditional domain of the Militia.

“There have been explicit, standing orders from this office,” she continued, her gaze locking onto his, “to disrupt these networks with all available means, including, where necessary, the application of decisive force. And yet…” She made a show of scanning the non-existent page. “...the networks still operate. The flow continues. Why is that? This falls squarely within the Militia’s purview. Are your resources, which you claim are so desperately needed on the bridges, being misallocated? Or is the will to carry out these orders… lacking?”

A subtle, cruel smirk touched her lips. She had pivoted from being on the defensive about her own plan to aggressively questioning Dmitriev’s competence and the performance of his entire department on its home turf.

Dmitriev’s face, already flushed with anger, darkened to a dangerous purple. He was flustered, caught off guard. His fists clenched on the table.

For a moment, he seemed to sputter, unable to form a retort. The other representatives watched, some hiding smirks of their own, eager to see the bullish Militia chief taken down a peg.

“Lacking?” he finally boomed, recovering with a surge of indignation. “You want to talk about will, Commissar? My men make arrests every day! We haul in petty dealers and addicts by the dozen! And where do they go? Your ‘People’s Courts’ release them back onto the street within a week with a warning because the prisons are ‘overcrowded’ with political prisoners! The Justice Commissariat throws every conviction back in my face!”

He leaned forward, jabbing a thick finger across the table at her. “You give us orders to break down doors, then your KGB swoop in afterward and complain about our ‘methods’! You want the flow to stop? Then give me the authority to hold the scum we catch! Give my men the power to deal with the problem permanently, instead of having our hands tied by a thousand committees worried about the ‘optics’ of a few dead drug-pushers!”

He had turned it around. Brilliantly, might she add.

He hadn't denied the problem, rather he had blamed it on the entire Soviet system she represented. His failure was not one of will, but of being hamstrung by the very state he served. He was arguing, quite effectively, that her ideology preventing him from doing his job effectively.

The smirk vanished from Frostnova’s face. Another ammo.

"Careful there, Commissar." Her gaze was fixed on him, unblinking. "That line of reasoning sounds dangerously close to a critique of the People's Justice system. And by extension, the foundational principles of our Federation." She let the words hang in the air for a heartbeat. "Are you, in fact, questioning the Chairwoman's ideology?"

The effect was instantaneous.

It was the ultimate checkmate, the one move that could not be countered. In the political arena of the FSSRU, questioning the orthodoxy of Ursine Socialism wasn't a debate point, it was professional, and potentially physical, suicide. Talulah’s vision was the state religion, and heresy was not tolerated.

Not openly, at the very least, and not directly to one of her closest allies.

All the color drained from Dmitriev’s face, his triumphant bluster evaporating. The other officials around the table stiffened, suddenly finding the grain of the wooden table fascinating.

The representative from the Border Guard studied his hands and nails. The representative from the Transport Commissariat became deeply interested in a flaw in her coffee cup. And the representative from the propaganda department beamed with pride as soon as Frostnova invoked Talulah’s name.

Dmitriev’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened, then closed again. No sound came out. He knew he had overplayed his hand.

He could argue logistics, resources, even competency, but he could not—would not—be seen to argue against the revolution itself. To do so would invite a visit from the very KGB operatives he so despised, and not for a friendly chat.

Fear, Frostnova observed, was often the most efficient weapon. It cut through bureaucratic inertia and personal ambition like nothing else.

After a suffocating silence, Dmitriev finally managed a stiff, jerky nod. "I... misspoke," he ground out. "The Militia serves the revolution. We will... find a way to work within the system."

"Good." Frostnova said, the warmth never reaching her eyes. The subtle pressure in the room eased a fraction, though the chill remained. "Then we are agreed. The security plan stands as written. Your heavy weapons teams will be redeployed to the positions I designated, or they will be stood down. Are there any other operational objections?"

This time, there were none.

The meeting concluded with a series of terse, subdued agreements. As the others filed out quickly, avoiding eye contact, Frostnova remained seated.

The moment the door clicked shut, a patch of shadow in the corner of the room detached itself and solidified. Crownslayer emerged from her optical camouflage, her form flickering into existence beside Frostnova's chair as silently as a thought. She leaned down, her voice a bare whisper that barely disturbed the air.

"We intercepted a communications spike from a known Columbian intelligence dead-drop. Took a risk and moved in. We have one of their local assets in custody. A logistics manager for the Central Distribution Soviet." Her words were quick. "Initial interrogation suggests he was pressured into acting as a cut-out. His handler is gone to ground."

Frostnova didn't turn.

Her gaze remained fixed on the empty chairs, seeing not the furniture but the web of alliances and animosities that had just vacated them. "Details?" She replied, her voice equally quiet, devoid of inflection.

"The asset was tasked with a single hand-off. He delivered a package to the Penguin Logistics liaison office less than an hour ago. We do not know its contents. The asset wasn't told, and we couldn't risk seizing it from the couriers directly without blowing our cover. The Lupo is... perceptive."

A new variable. An external intelligence operation running a play right under the noses of her own squabbling security apparatus. It was both a threat and an insult.

"Columbian." Frostnova murmured, the word tasting like ozone. Korolev's ‘friends’ were getting bold. Or someone was making a move to embarrass him. "The manager. His level of commitment?"

"Broken." Crownslayer said quickly. "He was more frightened of us than of his foreign handlers. Gave up everything he knew almost immediately. Which was pitifully little. A classic deniable asset."

Frostnova finally moved, steepling her fingers. "The package is the thread. Pull it, and we find who holds the other end. The Columbians wouldn't risk this for simple correspondence. This is either a high-value item or a provocation meant to be discovered."

She turned her head slightly, her eyes finally meeting Crownslayer's. "Double the surveillance on Penguin Logistics. I want to know if they try to move it, scan it, or open it. Track every frequency emission from that office. And have the asset… permanently silenced."

"Understood. And if the couriers attempt to deliver it?"

"Monitor them. Document every step. But when they try to leave the city, that is when we will move in.” Frostnova replied. “I want the package, the recipients, and their entire network. A delivery in progress is far more valuable than an intercepted one."

Crownslayer melted back into the shadows, her form dissolving until only her voice remained. "It will be done."

Left alone again, Frostnova slowly stood up.

Columbia.

That was expected. Of course they would try to probe the world's socialist congress, to slip their agents into the cracks of this gathering. Korolev’s overtures had undoubtedly opened a door they were now eagerly trying to step through.

The question that gnawed at her was not if, but what. What were they trying to achieve?

A simple intelligence grab? Plausible, but almost too mundane. This felt bolder. The use of a Soviet official, the hand-off to a neutral third party with known Lungmen ties… it was a circuitous, high-risk route for mere data collection.

A provocation, then? A staged incident designed to be discovered, to sow paranoia and distrust among the Internationale delegates right before the Congress began? To make the host nation look either incompetent or tyrannical? That was more Columbia's style. Let the socialists tear themselves apart with accusations.

Her encrypted terminal chimed. A priority update from a separate, deeper channel. It was her direct line to the KGB’s internal counter-intelligence corps, answerable only to her.

The report was succinct. The nervous Liberi functionary who had visited Penguin Logistics had just been found dead in his modest apartment. Apparent cause of death was suicide by hanging. The official report would cite the immense pressure of his work for the Congress preparation as the motive. A tragedy.

Someone else was cleaning house.

Chapter Text

Exusiai had expected being placed in the revolutionary capital of Terra to be, well, exciting job-wise. She’d imagined a whirlwind of clandestine meetings in smoky cafes, high-speed chases through grand boulevards, and clients with mysterious accents and even more mysterious agendas.

Excluding that one shady Liberi who’d handed them a package that practically screamed international incident, the reality had been surprisingly… normal. Mundane, even.

They’d received a steady stream of parcels from all sorts of people, and with the volume of packages, she and Texas had made the logical and efficient decision to split up.

“Alright, guess that’s the last of ‘em~” Exusiai chirped, patting the now-empty messenger bag slung over her shoulder. She stretched her arms high above her head, her halo bobbing with the movement, and took a moment to soak in the atmosphere.

She was walking down the side of a particularly wide, newly paved street, flanked by imposing buildings that were a mix of old Imperial grandeur and gray functional Soviet architecture.

Her first impression of the city was… overwhelming. It was a metropolis under construction in every conceivable way—not just physically, but also ideologically, with every wall, poster, and loudspeaker screaming a new, unified truth. She hadn't seen this many propaganda posters in one place in her entire life.

Though… her gaze was drawn toward the city's heart, where the monumental structure of the State Duma rose.

She supposed the sheer volume of it all was because of the currently ongoing… what was it again? She scrunched her face, trying to recall the exact phrasing from a banner she’d seen.

‘The Eleventh Congress of the Socialists and Workers of the Third Internationale.’

Quite a hefty name.

She’d learned of the organization peripherally when she first stepped foot into Lungmen, hearing about it in the context of things Chief Executive Wei’s government carefully monitored and ‘managed’.

Oh, right!

During her earlier deliveries, she had, in her fashion, asked around. The people of Artoriagrad, once they got over the novelty of her halo, were often surprisingly eager to talk. And she’d discovered a fascinating tidbit, the public was allowed to enter the Duma and listen in to the Congress being held.

For free, she might add!

Texas had advised—no, ordered—against going anywhere near the Duma, calling it a needless risk. But it wasn’t like she was going in there to grab the microphone and shout a manifesto, she just wanted to sit and watch. A little civic education never hurt anyone, right?

The decision was made.

Exusiai navigated the wide boulevards toward the city’s core. The closer she got to the Duma, the thicker the atmosphere became. The hopeful energy of the outer districts curdled into something more severe and watchful.

The number of Militia officers increased exponentially. The cheerful Pioneers were replaced by unsmiling KGB agents in long coats who stood unnervingly still.

Reaching the vast plaza surrounding the Duma, she saw the queue. It was a long, snaking line of humanity, hundreds of people long, shuffling forward at a snail’s pace.

These were the citizens who had taken the state up on its offer of transparency. They were a mix of curious students, workers, and some foreign—leftist—journalists with notebook in hand.

Joining the end of the line, Exusiai immediately felt the weight of official scrutiny. A militiaman patrolling the queue stopped, his eyes narrowing at her distinctive appearance.

"Purpose of visit?" he asked, his tone not hostile, but devoid of warmth.

"To, uh, observe the Congress? " She said, offering her brightest smile.

He grunted, unmoved. "Identification."

She handed over her Penguin Logistics work pass and her Lungmen residency permit. He studied them for a long time, comparing her face to the photos with tedious slowness, before handing them back with a nod.

The first hurdle was cleared.

The queue inched forward toward a series of security checkpoints that made Lungmen’s immigration look lax. The first was a document check by a stone-faced clerk in a booth, who asked her the same questions the militiaman had and made notes on a form.

Then came the physical screening.

She was funneled into a cordoned-off area where unsmiling female guards in KGB uniforms patted her down with impersonal efficiency. Every seam of her coat was checked, and her empty messenger bag was examined with scrutiny.

"Electronic device." One guard stated, holding up her phone.

"For pictures?" Exusiai replied to the guard.

"It will be held here. You may collect it after the session." The guard placed it in a numbered cubby without another word.

Finally, she was directed through a massive, industrial-grade scanner that hummed with Arts-based energy… or something.

After what felt like an hour, she was through, emerging into the main hall of the Duma. The air was different in here. It was warm, a contrast to the relatively cold outside. There was a colossal red star hanging over the main auditorium.

She found a spot on a hard wooden bench in the public gallery, high above the Congress floor. The scale was breathtaking. Below, hundreds of delegates from across Terra filled the rows, a sea of different faces and dresses, united by the bright red credentials around their necks.

Suddenly, just as she settled in comfortably, everyone stood up.

“Huh? Eh?” Exusiai looked around, confused, one of the only people left sitting. She scrambled up, her boots scraping awkwardly on the floor.

A deep, resonant voice boomed from the speakers below, the Presidium delegate speaking into the microphone.

“Comrades! Delegates and honored guests! Please rise to sing the anthem of the worker’s struggle, the anthem of our shared future! The Internationale!”

For a moment, there was silence. Then, with a clear voice, the presidium delegate began from somewhere on the Congress floor.

“Arise ye workers from your slumbers!” He sang.

The line hung in the air for a fraction of a second, a challenged that was answered as dozens voices joined, then a hundred, then a thousand.

It was sung in Victorian, and though the accents were thick and varied, the words were unmistakable.

Exusiai found her own lips moving. She didn't know all the lyrics, but the rising melody and the fervor around her were infectious. She mumbled along, catching the powerful refrains.

“Arise ye prisoners of want,”

“For reason in revolt now thunder,”

“And at last ends the age of cant!”

“Away with all your superstitions,”

“Servile masses arise, arise,”

“We’ll change henceforth the old tradition,”

“And spurn the dust to win the prize!”

“So comrades, come rally”

“And the last fight let us face”

“The Internationale unites the human race.”

The final line thundered through the hall.

Then, silence.

As the delegates began to sit, the spell was broken. Exusiai slowly lowered herself back onto the hard bench, her heart hammering against her ribs.

The experience left her breathless. It was beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.

Maybe it was like her and the Sankta?

A shared faith, a common purpose that bound them together. Except, as far as she knew, the Internationale rejected any form of religion, seeing it as another chain. Their faith was placed squarely in humanity itself.

Interrupting her thoughts, the Presidium delegate’s voice from before spoke again.

“Comrades! The eleventh Congress of the Socialists and Workers of the Third Internationale is now in session! We will now hear an opening address from the Victorian delegate, Comrade Walthers from the Victorian Social Democratic and Labour Party!”

A polite, expectant applause rippled through the hall as an elderly man with a shock of white hair and a neatly trimmed beard made his way to the podium. He moved with the careful grace of a seasoned politician, adjusting the microphone and laying his notes before him.

Exusiai subconsciously leaned in. This was history happening right in front of her. She just hoped she brought popcorns.

“Comrades. Delegates. Friends,” he began. “We gather here today under a banner that, for generations, was a dream. A noble aspiration debated in clandestine meetings and printed on leaflets hastily distributed under cover of darkness. Today, that dream is a reality. We meet not in hiding, but in the open. We meet not as dissidents, but as builders.”

He paused, allowing the significance of that to settle.

“We owe this unprecedented gathering to a monumental achievement, that is the dismantling of the Ursus Empire.” He stated it as a fact, a historical milestone. “The most formidable bastion of reactionary power on this continent has fallen. Its tyrannical apparatus has been broken. This is a victory not merely for the people of Ursus, but for the cause of socialism everywhere. It proves that no institution, however powerful, is immune to the will of a people united.”

The applause was louder this time, a rolling thunder of agreement. He waited for it to pass with a patient smile.

“From its ashes has risen the Federative Soviet Socialist Republics—a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the validity of our ideals. It stands as a beacon, yes. A powerful example to the world that a different path is possible. A path where the needs of the many outweigh the greed of the few.”

“But beacons must be maintained,” he cautioned, his expression growing sober. “The light we have ignited has drawn attention. The old powers watch us, and they are wary. Their opposition will not be trivial. It will be economic, diplomatic, and yes, potentially military. Our task, comrades, is to prove that our system is not only more just, but more resilient. We must be shrewd. We must be strategic. We must build, and in building, we must demonstrate the undeniable superiority of a society organized for the benefit of all its people.”

He leaned forward, his hands resting gently on the podium. “Let this Congress therefore be a meeting of minds. Let us share knowledge, refine our theories, and forge bonds of mutual aid and solidarity. Let us leave here with a unified strategy not for conquest, but for construction. A plan to fortify this first socialist homeland, and to extend the hand of brotherhood to workers across Terra, so that they may see our success and be inspired to seek their own liberation, in their own time, through their own struggles.”

The applause was sustained and respectful. It was the sound of agreement from reasonable people. Exusiai found herself nodding along. It was a good speech, it was concise, and she understood it clearly.

Then the Presidium delegate returned to the microphone.

“Comrades!” he announced. “We have been reminded of our past struggles and our historic victory. Now, we must look to our present duty and our future battles! It is therefore my honor to yield the floor to the architect of that victory, the woman whose resolve forged a new Ursus from the ashes of the old! The Chairwoman of the All-Ursus Socialist Party! I give you… Talulah Artorius!”

The reaction was instantaneous and completely different from the polite and measured applause for the Victorian delegate.

A wave of visceral adulation that shook the very foundations of the Duma itself. Every delegate from every nation, was on their feet again.

“TA-LU-LAH! TA-LU-LAH! TA-LU-LAH!”

She stood up from her seat, and nodded at the crowd. Her dress was a simple formal suit, though with the added addition of the State Emblem of the FSSRU—formerly Reunion’s emblem—and the hammer and sickle on her lapel.

She did not acknowledge the adulation. She simply took the podium, gripped its sides, and let her gaze sweep over the hall like a general surveying her troops.

The silence she commanded was more terrifying than the noise. It was instant, they were hungry to hear what the architect of what they see as ‘new socialism’ would say.

Exusiai saw Walthers wiping a bead of sweat from his face.

“Comrade Walthers offers you a beacon,” she began. “He speaks of maintaining it. Of being shrewd.”

She let the words hang, the implicit criticism a slap in the face to the previous speaker’s moderation.

“A beacon is a passive thing,” she declared, her voice beginning to harden. “It is a light for lost ships. We are not a lighthouse for a world adrift in capitalism and oppression and reactionarism. We are the storm that has already made landfall!”

The hall erupted again, shorter, but with more burst of energy. She cut it off with a slash of her hand.

“The Ursus Empire was not an ‘institution’. It was a fortress of oppression. We did not ‘dismantle’ it. We shattered its gates, we executed its masters, and we salted the earth where its throne once stood!”

She leaned forward, her intensity pinning every person in the room.

“They are not ‘wary’! They are terrified! And they should be! For we are not here to ‘demonstrate superiority’! We are here to export revolution! Not with pamphlets, not with words but with action! Not with hope, but with solidarity that strikes where the enemy is weakest!”

Exusiai saw the SDLP delegates shift uncomfortably in their seats. The moderates in the crowd looked alarmed. But the vast majority of the hall was electrified, leaning into every word as if receiving a sacrament.

“This Congress cannot be a ‘meeting of minds’!” Talulah’s voice rose. “It must be the general staff for a global war! Our resolution is not a document! It is a pledge! A pledge of material support! Of shared intelligence! Of unwavering commitment to fan the sparks of rebellion wherever they appear!”

She straightened up, her final words dropping into the silent hall like stones into a still pool, each one laden with terrifying promise.

“The question before us is not if the revolution continues. The question is not how. The only question… is where and what next?”

Exusiai was utterly captivated, leaning so far forward she was nearly off her seat.

Talulah’s speech was nothing like the Victorian's. It wasn't polite or measured, it gave of some sort of energy that felt more real than any political theory.

She couldn't quite pinpoint what made it so captivating, either it was the sheer conviction, the unapologetic fury, or the terrifying vision of a world set ablaze with purpose.

A firm hand on her shoulder made her bolt upright and spin around.

“Who said you could be here?” Texas’s unamused voice cut through the revolutionary fervor.

“Ah! Eh, err… Well, it’s a convenient thing, you know…” Exusiai began, her mind racing for a plausible lie. “I was just conducting some… uh… comparative analysis of revolutionary oratory techniques? For, you know, logistical profiling and all that?”

Texas didn’t dignify the excuse with a response. Her eyes remained fixed on Exusiai for a second longer, conveying a universe of disapproval, before she sighed and sat down stiffly on the hard bench.

“We’re being watched.” She stated.

“Eh?” Exusiai’s grin faltered.

“Don’t make any sudden moves. Don’t draw attention. We’re leaving. Now.” Texas rose quickly, hauling Exusiai up by the arm with a force that brooked no argument.

“Wait, wait! I can walk on my own—Texas, you’re creasing my jacket—” Exusiai hissed, trying to wrench her shoulder free from her grip.

Texas’s response was a minuscule, almost imperceptible flick of her gloved fingers toward the shadowed gallery wall. Leaning there, half-concealed by a pillar, was a man in a long, dark coat. His hands were buried in his pockets, his face a mask of bland indifference. But his eyes were locked directly on the two of them.

Exusiai’s blood ran cold. “Oh.”

“Keep moving.” Texas murmured.

They stepped into the aisle, shuffling with the flow of a few other early departures. To any casual observer, they were just two attendees leaving before the final adjournment.

But Exusiai could feel the agent’s stare like a laser sight on the back of her neck. At the gallery doors, a second man in an identical coat detached himself from the wall and fell into stride a dozen paces behind.

“Texas…” Exusiai whispered, her voice tight, all traces of humor gone. “We’ve got a friend. He brought a plus-one.”

“I know. Walk. Don’t run.”

They emerged into the corridor outside. The muffled roar of the Congress was instantly replaced by a chilling silence, broken only by the echo of their own footsteps on the floor.

Texas didn’t slow her relentless pace. Her eyes tracked every potential threat, such as a recessed doorway, a branching corridor, or a maintenance hatch.

Exusiai tried to mimic her icy composure, but her heart refused to stay silent. A glance back confirmed the two men were still there, maintaining their distance.

“Okay, so, uh…” Exusiai muttered, “do we… try to lose them? Talk our way out? Bribe them?”

“Neither.” Texas replied, her tone leaving no room for debate. “At the next junction, take the left. Then, for once in your life, be completely silent.”

“O—okay…”

They turned the corner. The corridor ended at a heavy security door flanked by two armed militiamen in greatcoats.

Exusiai’s breath hitched. This was it. A dead end. A trap.

But Texas didn’t break stride. She walked straight toward the guards, her posture shifting into something authoritative and impatient. Her hand rested casually, yet deliberately, on the hilt of her sword.

Exusiai braced for the inevitable confrontation.

But it never came.

The militiamen’s eyes flicked from Texas to the two KGB agents behind them. A silent communication passed between them. Then, without a word, they stepped aside, clearing the path to the door.

Exusiai stared, dumbfounded. “Wait, what—?”

“Move.” Texas hissed, shoving her forward.

The heavy door groaned open, spilling them out into the biting cold of the Artoriagrad plaza. The sudden assault of frigid air and grey afternoon light was jarring. Relief flooded Exusiai for the briefest second.

The guards didn’t follow. They didn’t even watch them leave. They simply closed the door behind them with a final clang, sealing them out, or sealing the agents in.

Exusiai let out a shaky, incredulous laugh, her breath pluming in the air. “Wow. Okay. Guess the scary secret police aren’t so scary after all. They just let us waltz right out! Haha…”

Texas stopped dead. She turned, and the look on her face wiped the fragile relief clean off Exusiai’s. It was graver than Exusiai had ever seen it.

“Exusiai…” She said, her expression was deadly serious. “They let us go.”

Exusiai groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “Ughh… yeah, yeah, I got that part—hey!”

“This way, now.” Texas’ grip tightened around her arm.

She steered them off the main street, cutting into a narrow side alley that would lead—eventually—towards the Penguin Logistics branch office.

Halfway through the alley though, Texas sensed the presence of others.

“Why are we stopping?” Exusiai spoke following her line of sight. “Oh, that’s why. The Secret Police wasn’t scary enough, and now we get the welcoming committee, huh?”

Figures stepped from the shadows at both ends. Big men, broad-shouldered, undoubtedly ruffians and thugs similar to those in Lungmen’s underworld.

Texas glanced behind her back, and sure enough, they were sealed in. These thugs were carrying swords and crossbows, professional muscle, so they aren’t part-time no-gooders.

The largest among them, a scarred Sarkaz took a step forward and bowed slightly. “Apologies for the rough hospitality, ladies. I assume this is your first time in Ursus? Then let me be the gentlemen and say Dobro pozhalovat to you.”

Welcome.

He stood straight. “Our boss has an interest in your package you’re carrying.” His eyes wandered to Texas’ messenger bag.

Texas’ hand slid to the hilt of her sword. She noted the word boss, and every muscle in her body rang like a bell. Organized criminals. No good. She dealt with their kind from Lungmen to Siracusa. She noted their stances, their weapon grips, and calculating angles in the cramped space.

“No.” She simply said, her voice flat.

“Come now…” The Sarkaz took another step, and his men closed down like drawn curtains. “Small package, the size of a book… important to my boss and his… associates…” He grinned. “A simple trade, no? You hand it over, and you walk away. No one gets hurt.”

“Don’t be clever.” Texas countered, her blade whispering an inch from its sheath. “You take another step, and we will put you on the ground so fast the cold won’t know what hit you.”

There was a click beside her. Exusiai had drawn her previously concealed firearm, her usual easy-going attitude was gone. She didn’t aim—yet—but with a Sankta, that hardly mattered. A drawn gun was a promise.

The Sarkaz’s smirk faltered, his eyes narrowing at the sleek, automatic patron firearm. He glanced to his side, noticing the uneasy shift in his men. A drawn sword was a threat. A Sankta’s gun was a potential massacre.

He raised a hand, halting his men’s advance.

“Careful,” he said, his voice softening into a low, dangerous purr. “Accidents happen when everyone’s nervous. And I’d hate for anyone to leave this alley full of holes. Ain’t that right?”

One of his men muttered something in Ursine, though unintelligible, perhaps a regional dialect. Another actually took half a step back. The Sankta’s gun had them spooked, and for good reason.

The Sarkaz scoffed, but his smile returned. “So, not so simple, then. Tell me—” he tilted his head. “What’s in that package that makes you risk dying for it?”

Texas didn’t answer. Her eyes never leaving his.

The staring contest continued, until the Sarkaz let out a slow exhale. He let the pause hang until his own men began to fidget. Then, he leaned in as if sharing a gossip.

“I’ll tell you two a secret,” he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “That package is of great interest to our boss—and especially to our… colleagues.”

He then angled his chin pointedly behind them. “Ah. Speak of the devil. It seems they’ve grown impatient.”

Texas didn’t take the bait fully, but flicked a micro-glance at Exusiai, who responded with an almost small nod. Her eyes slid toward the alley mouth where three new figures were shouldering their way through the cordon of thugs, who parted for them with clear deference.

These men were different. Their clothes were similar in function but cleaner, and much more formal.

The one in front, a man with a neatly trimmed beard, offered a practiced, empty smile. “Really, Gregorovich?” he mocked. “You couldn’t even handle two couriers? The family was paid a considerable fortune for discretion.”

The Sarkaz, Gregorovich, laughed. “Then why not do it yourselves? I thought Columbian Intelligence was in the business of toppling governments, not chasing messengers down back alleys.”

The Columbian’s smile vanished. “We did not hire ruffians,” he said coldly. “We. Hired. Professionals. You were expected to acquire the asset discreetly. Instead, you make a scene and test the patience of the local secret police. You compromised the operation the moment you laid hands on that militiaman.”

“Orders were to be sure. Didn’t they teach you in spy school that sometimes you need to knock a few heads to be sure?”

The Columbian’s eyes narrowed to slits. He tapped a card he drew from his inner pocket, a flash of diplomatic brass and embossing. “This is intolerable. We have protocols for a reason.”

“Oh, by all means, diplomat.” Gregorovich shot back, spreading his hands wide. “Go ahead and explain to the ‘Authorities’ that you contracted an underground syndicate to strong-arm a package that is, by all accounts, the product of your own espionage. I am sure they will be very understanding.”

Texas and Exusiai watched the argument escalate, the two groups of their captors now glaring at each other.

“Look.” Texas’s voice cut through the tension, her hands staying on her sword. “We don’t want trouble. We are couriers. Penguin Logistics, registered in Lungmen. We have a package, we deliver it. We do not take sides in corporate or… national… disputes.”

The Columbian agent turned his gaze on her, assessing her with new interest. “A commendable ethos. Then make this simple. Hand over the package. We will compensate you for your trouble—generously might I add.”

Gregorovich took a threatening step forward. “The hell you will. The deal was with us!”

The Columbian didn’t even look at him. “The deal…” he said, his voice dropping into something far more menacing than the Sarkaz’s growl, “is whatever I say it is. You have failed to deliver on the terms. Stand down.”

For a moment, the alley hung in a precarious balance, a three-way standoff where the couriers in the middle were both the prize and the potential spark.

Then Exusiai spoke, her voice deceptively light but her finger steady on the trigger guard of her gun. “See, this is the problem with subcontracting. The messaging gets all mixed up.” She tilted her head toward the Columbian. “So… You’re the original client? The one who sent the runner to our office with this… thing?” She subtly patted the bag at Texas’s side.

The Columbia’s smile returned. “Let’s just say we represent the most interested party. And we have a policy of acquiring what we’re interested in. The man who delivered the initial payment to your office was indeed one of our… local assets.”

“Right, right,” Exusiai nodded, playing the confused courier to perfection. “So… if you’re a Columbian Intelligence agency—or whatever branch of ‘interested party’ you are—why the seven-layer dip of secrecy? Why not just hand us the package yourselves? Why go through the trouble of having a guy give us money to pick up a thing that’s supposedly a product of your own espionage, only to have them—” she jerked her thumb at the glowering Sarkaz, “—jump us to take it back? Seems like a lot of extra steps for a government that loves efficiency.”

The diplomat’s polished smile finally cracked, revealing a sliver of impatient contempt beneath. He scoffed. “You think this is a game of fetch? The asset’s value is in its deniability. A Penguin Logistics courier, neutral and based in Lungmen, retrieving data from a dead drop is a plausible, mundane transaction. A known Columbian intelligence officer doing the same is an act of war. The package was never supposed to stay with you. You were merely the unwitting—and ideally, silent—vector for the last mile of its journey to us.”

His eyes swept over them. “A plan that would have proceeded flawlessly if you had simply been robbed by common street thugs on your way back to your office. A tragic, random crime in a rebuilding shithole-ridden city.”

He shot a venomous look at Gregorovich. “But it seems even simple tasks are beyond the grasp of certain… contractors.”

Gregorovich’s face darkened. “We do not ‘simply rob’, diplomat. We ensure. We were ensuring your precious asset didn’t walk into a KGB trap. Something your ‘local asset’ clearly knew nothing about.” He took a step forward, his hand resting on the pommel of his own sword. “The deal was we secure it from the couriers. You get it. We get paid. This is you trying to renegotiate after the work is done.”

The Columbian’s lip curled. “The work is not done. It is a spectacular mess. And I am not paying a premium for your incompetence.”

While the two factions bickered, Exusiai leaned in and whispered to Texas’ ear. “Hey… serious question. Why are we the meat in this sandwich? Can’t we just… drop the hot potato and let these guys duke it out for it? My desire to not be disappeared by either the Ursus mob or a pissed-off Columbian spook is rapidly outpacing our company’s famed ‘delivery completion rate.’”

Texas’s eyes remained fixed on the two arguing men. “Hmm,” she murmured back, the sound barely audible.

Pros. They live. They avoid a fight they might not win. And most importantly, Penguin Logistics is not implicated in any international incidents.

Cons. Fail a delivery, thus reputation damage. They might not even let them go if they chose to hand it over.

The reputation of Penguin Logistics was its shield. A failed delivery, especially under duress, was one thing. Voluntarily surrendering a client’s package to armed thugs was something else entirely. It was a line that, once crossed, could never be uncrossed.

Before Texas could reach a decision, the Columbian agent’s patience snapped.

The Columbian agent and his two men reached into their coats, undoubtedly for concealed firearms.

Texas’s decision was made for her. There was no good option. There was only survival.

“Exusiai! Suppressing fire! Left side!” she commanded, her voice cutting through the impending chaos like a blade.

But just as Exusiai pivoted, as fingers tightened on triggers and muscles coiled for violence, a new sound echoed from the rooftops. Percussive crack that was unmistakably a crossbow bolt being chambered.

Every person in the alley froze.

A figure stood silhouetted against the leaden sky, looking down at them through a rifle scope. From the shadows at both ends of the alley, more figures emerged, not with the rough swagger of thugs or the polished menace of spies, but with the silent, absolute authority of the state. Their long coats were unmistakable.

“The debate is concluded.” A KGB agent stated. “The property is claimed by the Committee for State Security. You will all drop your weapons. Compliance is mandatory.”

For a moment, there was only the sound of dripping water and ragged breath.

Texas, Exusiai, Gregorovich, and the Columbian diplomat exchanged a series of rapid glances. In that moment, a silent, temporary pact was made. A common enemy made for the strangest of allies.

Gregorovich was the first to break. “Men! For the Family! Open fire!” he roared, his voice echoing off the narrow walls.

His thugs, well-drilled and loyal, didn't hesitate. Crossbows snapped up and thrummed. Bolts whistled through the air, not at Texas or the Columbians, but at the dark coats blocking the exits.

One KGB agent grunted, a bolt punching through his shoulder, spinning him around. Another took a bolt in the thigh, stumbling against the wall.

And just like that, the alley erupted into chaos.

The Columbian diplomat and his two agents drew their weapons. Matte-black Black Steel-made pistols, aiming at the KGB sniper on the roof. Three shots rang out in near-perfect unison. Chips of brick and concrete exploded near the sniper’s position, forcing him to duck for cover.

Exusiai moved with preternatural calm. Her KRISS Vector fired short, disciplined bursts chewed up the cobblestones at the feet of the advancing KGB agents from the rear, forcing them to scatter and seek cover behind overflowing trash bins and crumbling doorframes.

Texas meanwhile, was deflecting a wild swing from a KGB baton, then using the momentum to drive her elbow into the throat of a thug who got too close in the confusion. Her movements were perfectly calculated to create maximum disorder.

This was the moment.

As she pivoted from the stunned thug, she ‘stumbled’ over a loose cobblestone, a move so flawlessly executed it appeared utterly genuine. The strap of her messenger bag slipped from her shoulder. The bag, containing the incendiary package, flew from her grasp, skidding across the wet stones and coming to rest squarely at the boots of Gregorovich, who was reloading his own heavy crossbow.

"Damn it!" Texas's snarl of frustration was perfectly pitched, lost in the cacophony of gunfire and shouts. She made a desperate lunge for it, but a spray of arrows from a KGB agent stitching the wall above her head forced her to duck back behind a metal support beam.

Gregorovich’s eyes, wide with avaricious shock, dropped to the bag at his feet. The ultimate prize, delivered to him by the chaos itself. He didn't hesitate. With a guttural laugh of triumph, he snatched it up, clutching it to his chest.

"The package! The Sarkaz has it!" a KGB voice shouted, the agent’s cool facade finally cracking.

The entire focus of the alley shifted in an instant. The KGB’s disciplined advance fractured as their attention zeroed in on Gregorovich. The Columbians, seeing their objective in the hands of a third party, also redirected their fire, their precise shots now forcing the Sarkaz and his remaining men to take cover behind a dumpster.

A perfect accident and diversion.

"Exusiai! The escape ladder! Now!" Texas yelled, her voice cutting through the din.

Exusiai didn't need telling twice. She unleashed one final, sustained burst from her Vector down the alley, forcing both KGB and Columbians to hit the deck. In the precious seconds of respite, she turned and sprinted.

Texas was already at the rusted iron ladder of a fire escape. She leaped, grabbing a rung and hauling herself up with raw strength. Exusiai was right behind her, holstering her weapon and jumping. Texas' hand clamped around her forearm, pulling her up onto the platform just as a crossbow bolt thwacked into the brick where her hand had been.

They didn't look back. They scrambled up the fire escape, onto the gravel-strewn rooftop, and sprinted across the uneven surface. The sounds of the intensified firefight below—now concentrated entirely on Gregorovich and his men—faded beneath the thud of their own footsteps and the rush of blood in their ears.

They had escaped the immediate kill box. And they were now, blessedly, empty-handed.

As they leaped a narrow gap to the next building, Exusiai finally gasped between breaths. "The package...! Gregorovich—"

"Has a problem that is no longer ours." Texas stated, her voice cold and even as she landed in a controlled roll and came up running. "The client violated the terms of neutrality by hiring the ambush. The contract is void. Our only duty now is to ourselves."

“So, what do we tell Emperor??” Exusiai pressed, vaulting a low ventilation shaft. "He's not exactly gonna love 'we lost the super-secret package to the Ursus mafia in a three-way firefight with the KGB and Columbian spies' as a status report!"

"Then we tell him the truth," Texas snapped. She didn't break stride, her eyes constantly scanning the next rooftop and the next potential alley. "The job was compromised from the start by the client. We were set up to be the deniable assets. Extracting without casualties, incarceration, or a diplomatic incident is the successful outcome. The only outcome, in fact."

They finally reached a long, flat rooftop overlooking a less-traveled market square. The immediate sounds of pursuit had faded. Texas held up a fist, and they both stopped, crouching low behind a large, industrial air conditioning unit. The only sound was their own ragged breathing steaming in the air.

For a full minute, they waited, listening. No shouts, no bootsteps on fire escapes, no tell-tale whine of a scope adjusting. They were in the clear. For now.

The tension in Texas’s shoulders eased a fraction. She leaned back against the cold metal of the AC unit, finally holstering her sword with a soft click.

Exusiai let out a long, exaggerated sigh, the forced cheer seeping back into her posture now that the immediate threat of violent death had passed. She nudged Texas with her elbow.

“Soo…” she drawled, a familiar, impish glint returning to her eyes. “Should we get apple pies before we go back?”

Texas turned her head, fixing Exusiai with a look that could freeze hell over.

“What? It’s a valid operational question! We need to establish a cover. Two foreign couriers, just enjoying the local cuisine after a long day of… not being involved in a massive firefight!”

Texas continued to stare.

“… deal?”

A muscle twitched in Texas’s jaw. She looked away, her gaze scanning the quieting streets below as if seeking divine intervention. “We were almost dissected by the KGB, shot by Columbian spies, and chopped up by Ursus mobsters, and your immediate post-traumatic thought is… pastries?”

“Weeeellll…” Exusiai shrugged, the picture of innocence. “The brain seeks comfort where it can! And my brain is a big fan of flaky crust and cinnamon. It’s a proven scientific fact. Probably.”

Texas sighed as she gazed on the now nearly empty streets. There was a small café on the corner, it looked cozy, minus the very crowded wall next to it that had several propaganda posters glued onto it.

“...Fine.” Texas said, the word sounding like it was physically painful to concede.

“Sir, yes, sir!” Exusiai chirped, snapping off a mock salute. “Operative Exusiai, deploying for pastry acquisition mission.”

Texas was already moving toward the fire escape. “And if you get us into another firefight over the last apple pie, I’m leaving you for the KGB.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Exusiai said, following with a spring in her step. “But if I do, I’ll just tell them you’re the one who took the package. I hear the cells here are lovely this time of year.”

Then, a realization crossed her mind.

“MY PHONE!!”

Talulah placed the incident report on her desk.

“…And so,” she summarized. “The mobsters, the alleged Columbian operatives, and the package itself, it all evaporated, poof, disappeared, just like that. The only things left behind were fifteen of our own, dead, and several dozen more injured. A flawless operation, by all accounts. Is that the correct summary of your joint report?”

Her gaze lifted from the paper to the two people responsible.

On one side stood Frostnova, Commissar for State Security and head of the KGB. Her hands were clasped behind her back.

On the other stood Commissar Aleksei Dmitriev, head of the People’s Militia. His fists were clenched at his sides.

“The intelligence was sound.” Frostnova stated as if it were a fact, her voice was monotone. “The trap was set based on confirmed data-stream intercepts from the Columbian embassy. The package, containing possible Columbian espionage documents, was to be acquired with maximum deniability. Its retrieval was a matter of state security, falling entirely under the purview of the Committee.”

“Purview?” Dmitriev exploded. He jabbed a finger toward the report on Talulah’s desk. “Your ‘purview’ turned a downtown district into a warzone! My militiamen are not your disposable pawns! You gave us a vague alert for ‘crowd control’, not a request to be a backstop for a full-blown covert firefight against professional soldiers and gangsters!”

“The parameters of the operation required compartmentalization.” Frostnova replied, her eyes not even turning to him. She addressed only Talulah. “Wider knowledge within the Militia would have compromised operational security. The leak, as we are now discovering, likely originated from a localized source.”

Dmitriev went purple. “You dare—! You blame my men for your failure? My officers died because your people swooped in, demanded we cordon off the area, and then failed to control the situation! You used our uniforms as a backdrop for your games and are now surprised when bullets started flying!”

“The primary failure…” Frostnova said, her voice cutting through his bluster. “Was the Militia’s inability to hold the secondary perimeter. If your officers had followed their brief and contained the Columbian agents as planned, the KGB strike team would have secured the package from the Sarkaz without incident. Instead, your lines broke. They were allowed to engage, creating the crossfire that doomed the operation.”

“They had diplomatic plates! My sergeants were hesitant to open fire on a vehicle with Columbian diplomatic markings without explicit orders from a superior paygrade—a paygrade your on-scene commander refused to provide!”

“Hesitation is a luxury we cannot afford. The Revolution is not won by men who wait for permission to crush its enemies.”

“The Revolution will be drowned in the blood of its own people if it is policed by fanatics who see every citizen as a potential counter-revolutionary!”

The room froze. Even the dust motes seemed to hang still in the air. Dmitriev had voiced the silent fear that haunted the halls of power, the fundamental ideological rift between their two departments.

Frostnova’s eyes finally slid toward him. “The Committee for State Security exists precisely to identify those counter-revolutionaries, Comrade Commissar. Perhaps we should begin our investigation with those who so loudly defend the enemies of the state.”

Talulah had heard enough.

"Enough."

The single word silence them both instantly.

She looked at Frostnova then at Dmitriev. “Fifteen dead,” she repeated, letting the number hang in the air. “You will not turn their graves into a podium for your squabbles.”

Dmitriev, chest still heaving, seized the moment. “Chairwoman, I apologize for the interruption. But this failure presents an opportunity. The mobsters who stole the package have been identified as the ‘Black Cats’ family. A parasitic distributor of drugs, stolen goods, and counter-revolutionary sentiment. They are a tumor. I seek permission for the People’s Militia to deploy unilateral force. With the Congress of the Third Internationale upon us, we cannot have these criminals thinking they can operate with impunity. Let us finally root this filth out of our city’s gutters, once and for all.”

It was a bold play. An attempt to seize the initiative and operational authority from the KGB under the banner of public order.

Frostnova didn’t even blink. “A predictable and brute-force solution,” she stated, her voice dripping with disdain. “A full-scale Militia assault on an entrenched criminal organization would be like using a sledgehammer to find a needle. You will destroy the city block, arrest a hundred small-time addicts and thugs, and the leadership will vanish into the sewers long before your troops kick down the first door. The ‘Black Cats’ did not acquire that package for their own amusement. They have a client. A client we must identify. My operatives are already in place. We will turn their lower members, track their finances, and find the client. This requires precision, not a parade.”

“Precision?” Dmitriev scoffed, his face flushing anew. “Your ‘precision’ left fifteen bodies in an alley! Sometimes a sledgehammer is exactly what is needed to send a message! The message that the People’s Militia is the law on the streets, not some shadowy gang that operates in the dark!”

Talulah sighed.

She leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers. The scalpel or the hammer. The patient, unseen work of intelligence, or the blunt, undeniable spectacle of force. Which to choose?

It was at times like this where she realized that being a leader meant having to decide on difficult decisions.

Listen to him.

A voice whispered in the back of her mind, a silken thread of thought that was not her own. She knew this voice all too well, it had been her unwelcome companion over the years.

He speaks the honest language of power. She offers you shadows and… what? Hypotheticals? A client who may or may not be found? Which does a revolution respect more? Which does it fear more?

Talulah’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

Be silent.

She thought back.

This is not your concern.

Is it not?

He crooned, the sound like dry scales sliding over stone.

I am the voice of survival. I am the part of you that understands a throne is built on a foundation of fear, not debate. You must rule in the light. Show your strength. Now.

Strength is not recklessness.

She argued inwardly, her gaze fixed on the two commissars before her, who saw only her pensive silence.

Frostnova is right. Obliterating the Black Cats may only drive the true threat deeper underground. It is a short-term solution.

A short-term solution that guarantees a long-term message! You are thinking like a guerrilla again, Talulah. A terrorist striking from the shadows. You are no longer that woman. You are the state. The state must act with overwhelming authority. It must crush the insect so that every other insect sees and trembles.

Hesitation is a cancer. Cut it out.

She could feel his influence, a chilling certainty seeping into her logic, twisting it.

It was always so seductively simple.

And what of the innocent people in those city blocks?

She fired back.

The addicts, the desperate, the ones caught in the crossfire of Dmitriev’s ‘unilateral force’? Is that the revolution I built? One that massacres its own people?

Your sentimentality will be the death of you.

Kaschey hissed.

They are not ‘your people.’ They are the chaff. The collateral of progress. Every great ruler understands that to purify the whole, you must burn away the rotten parts. Would you let the infection spread to save a single limb? You did not show such weakness when you burned the nobles in their mansions.

The memory flashed in her mind. She had done terrible things for the cause. Was this so different?

It is no different. This is simply the next phase. Governing is not a purer art than revolution. It is the same art, with different tools. Wield the hammer. Let the streets run red if they must. It is a cleaner color than the grey of your doubt.

Your hesitation is a luxury you cannot afford, Talulah. It is the luxury of a woman who believes she has time. But time… time is the one thing she does not have.

Talulah’s jaw tightened.

Her personal physicians filed a report this morning. The one you’ve been avoiding. The Originium crystallization in her lungs is accelerating at an exponential rate. It is no longer linear. Every cough now is a shard of glass. Every fever a fire. How much longer do you think her body can fight?

How much time do you have to build your perfect, gentle world for her?

You want to build a sanctuary for her. A world worthy of her.

Every day you spend playing spy games with Frostnova is a day stolen from her. Every thug like the Black Cats who operates with impunity is a symbol of a disorder that consumes your energy, your focus—energy and focus that should be spent on finding a cure, on commanding every resource of this state to save her.

Hesitation is what will get you, it is what will get her killed. Remember that.

Talulah’s internal struggle ceased.

She lowered her hands, placing them flat on the desk. The moment of distant contemplation was over. When she spoke, her voice was low, devoid of its earlier conflict.

“Commissar Dmitriev,” she began. “Your concerns are noted.” She paused, letting the silence stretch.

“The Congress of the Third Internationale will see a city under the absolute control of its revolutionary government.” Talulah continued, her eyes now focusing on Dmitriev’s. “They will not see a city where rats scurry in the shadows, daring to nip at our heels. They will see what happens to those who challenge our authority.”

Frostnova’s lips tightened, but she said nothing. She saw the decision was made.

Yes…

Kaschey’s voice was a satisfied sigh in her mind.

Exactly so.

Talulah’s attention returned to Dmitriev. “You have your authorization, Commissar. Unilateral force. You will root out the Black Cats family. You will do it publicly. You will make an example of them. The world will see that the new Ursus does not negotiate with parasites.”

Dmitriev’s chest swelled with triumph. He snapped a sharp salute, his eyes blazing with renewed fervor. “It will be done, Chairwoman! The streets will run clean!”

“See that they do.” Talulah said, her voice dropping to a deadly quiet. “But understand the price of this authority, Dmitriev. There will be no room for error. No collateral damage that cannot be justified as a necessary cost of revolution. The eyes of the world will be upon you. If this hammer blow misses its mark and strikes the state itself, the consequences will be… absolute. For you. Dismissed.”

As Dmitriev left, Frostnova followed in silence.

Talulah was alone.

For her.

For her…

Talulah agreed.

Everything for her.

Chapter Text

Vladimir Sergeyevich Donskoy, Patriarch of the Black Cats, drew slowly on his cigar, letting the smoke curl towards the ceiling of the dimly lit back room.

He sat at the head of a heavy oak table. The only other occupants of the room were his two sons, who occupied the chairs immediately to his right and left.

Nikolai, the elder, leaned forward. His face was pale, the caution in his eyes a constant source of irritation to his father.

"If the Communists catch whiff of our involvement with this... package," he said cautiously. "They won't just send a warning. They'll dismantle us brick by brick. Shouldn't we stay cautious?”

Donskoy took the cigar from his lips and spat a piece of tobacco onto the floor. The room went silent, the only sound the distant rumble of a truck.

"We will not be afraid of no damn stinking communists," Donskoy spat. He gestured vaguely with the cigar towards the window. "This government... these 'soviets'... we can only weather the storm by waiting for them to inevitably collapse.”

Dimitri, the younger son, smirked. He had his father’s ambition but none of his patience. “Nikolai worries like an old woman. The Columbians pay in hard currency, enough to buy silence, new identities, and move somewhere should we need—”

“Father,” Nikolai interrupted. “Please, we can still back out of this. You saw how ruthless the new secret police are, right? They—”

Donskoy slammed his fist on the table, making the ashtray jump. "Enough!" he barked. "The Columbians came to us. That is a sign of respect. It means we are still the only ones in this frozen shithole who can get things done. This government talks of the people, but the people still need their vices. They still need what we provide. That is real power. Deeper than any politics."

He leaned forward, his eyes pinning Nikolai in place. "This fear of yours is a weakness. The Communists feed on weakness. We will show them strength. We complete this job, we take the Columbian money, and we remind everyone in this city that while flags change, the Black Cats remain."

As if on cue, a knock on the door signalled that Gregorovich had come back. The Sarkaz entered the room, but he was not alone. Beside him, looking intensely irritable, was the Columbian diplomat, Adams—the man who had first approached the family with this dangerous proposal.

“Gregorovich!” Donskoy’s face broke into a wide, triumphant smile. His eyes then flicked to the diplomat, and he offered a small bow. “Mr. Adams. An unexpected pleasure. Please, come in.”

Gregorovich stepped forward and placed the nondescript package on the table with a soft thud. “The package, Pakhan. Acquired as discussed.”

Donskoy walked over. He stood beside the package, not yet touching it, his gaze covetous. “Excellent work.” He finally traced a possessive finger over its surface. “So, Mr. Adams. The deal is still through, I assume? The terms remain?”

“The terms are simple. Seven million LMDs paid upfront for the job, in cash. The remaining thirteen million will be paid the moment you hand the package over to me. Now.”

Donskoy hummed, a low, thoughtful sound that did little to hide his avarice. He circled the table like a shark.

“Father, for God’s sake, just give him the package and let’s be done with this!” Nikolai whispered urgently. “The money is what matters!”

But the Don’s greed had been piqued.

“Thirteen million is a great deal of money…” Donskoy mused, his hand resting on top of the package. “For such a sum, one must be certain of the product’s quality. Let me just see what’s inside first. Then we can all be confident in its worth.”

“You can’t do that!” Adams’ voice rose. He took a step forward, but Gregorovich’s arm shot out, a solid bar of muscle that blocked his path. The Sarkaz shook his head almost imperceptibly.

“It is a matter of professional courtesy, Mr. Adams.” Donskoy said, his voice deceptively smooth as he began to carefully peel back the sealing tape. “A man of my standing does not deal in unknowns. What if the contents are damaged? What if it is a box of rocks? We must verify.”

“You have no idea what you’re tampering with!” Adams insisted.

Donskoy chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. “You watch too many movies, diplomat.” With a final rip, the tape came loose.

Inside lay a sheaf of documents, the dry anatomy of state power rendered in dense Cyrillic and stamped with the new seals of various People's Commissariats. It was the kind of material Donskoy found dull.

But his eyes skipped over the logistical reports and production quotas, locking onto a single photograph nestled within the folio.

His dismissive chuckle died in his throat. The air left his lungs in a soft hiss. A slow, predatory smile, terrifying in its avarice, spread across his face. “Oho? Now this… this is interesting…” he mused, his voice dropping to a whisper thick with newfound purpose.

Nikolai and Dimitri crowded over his shoulders, their curiosity overpowering their fear.

The photograph was professionally taken, a candid shot from a hidden, long-range lens. It showed two women in an office, illuminated by the soft glow of a desk lamp. One, with Draco horns, was leaning over the other, caging her against a desk strewn with papers. The other, with Elafia horns and a gentle face, was looking up, her hand resting on the first woman’s cheek.

It was the Chairwoman, Talulah Artorius, and her Premier, Alina. And the kiss they were sharing was anything but chaste.

Nikolai’s face went white as a sheet. “Father… no,” he whispered, a tremor in his voice. “This isn't just a state secret. This is… personal. They will literally burn the city down to get this back. This is a death sentence!”

Dimitri, contrastingly, saw only a key to a kingdom. He let out a low, ecstatic breath. “Blackmail the Chairwoman?” he hissed, his eyes wide with ambition. “Brother, this is bigger. With this… we own her. We own the entire revolution!”

Donskoy gently picked up the photograph, holding it as if it were a holy relic. The documents were the lock, but this... this was the master key.

“You have no idea what you’re tampering with!” Adams, the Columbian diplomat, finally snapped, his voice tight with panic. He took a step forward, but Gregorovich’s arm shot out, a solid bar of muscle blocking his path.

“Thirteen million LMD, Mr. Adams?” Donskoy said without looking up from the photo, his voice deceptively smooth. “I believe the price of this asset has just been… re-evaluated. The market has shifted, you see, I’m sure you Columbians know about market dynamics.”

He finally turned, his eyes glittering with a madness Nikolai had never seen before. “The deal is off. But I am a generous man. For twenty million, you may have the documents. The photograph, however, stays with the family. As an insurance policy.”

“You’re insane!” Adams spat. “That photo is property of Columbian Intelligence, you—”

“Property of Columbian Intelligence?” Donskoy chuckled. “By that definition, every secret whispered in this city belongs to a dozen different masters. Possession, my friend,” he tapped the photograph with a proprietary finger, “is the only law that matters here. And I possess the one secret that can make their revolution kneel.”

He was in complete control. He had the weapon, he had the leverage, he had the terrified diplomat and his own ambitious son eating out of his hand. He was, in this moment, the most powerful man in Artoriagrad.

Or so he would like to believe.

It was then that the first siren began to wail in the distance.

Donskoy ignored it. City noise.

Nikolai, however, froze, his head cocked. The siren wasn't moving past, it was getting closer. It was joined by another, then another, until it all coalesced into one loud wail.

“What is that?” Dimitri asked, his triumphant expression faltering.

A heavy, rhythmic thump-thump-thump started, the sound of military-grade trucks rolling down their narrow street at speed. Shouts echoed from outside, undeniably they are issuing orders.

“MILITSIYA! ON THE AUTHORITY OF THE PEOPLE'S COMMISSARIAT FOR INTERNAL AFFAIRS, THIS BLOCK IS UNDER LOCKDOWN! ALL CITIZENS ARE TO REMAIN INDOORS!”

 Donskoy scoffed. “Dmitriev’s thugs…”

He carefully placed the photograph back in the folio and tucked it into his inner coat pocket, securing his prize. He turned to his chief enforcer. “Gregorovich, tell the men to get ready. Barricade the doors, the windows. Leave small cracks to fire from. As for you…”

He turned towards the Columbian diplomat, a predatory grin on his face, ready to inform the man that he was now a hostage. But he was long gone, with no trace of him ever being here.

“Father, we’re surrounded! This is a suicide—” Nikolai pleaded, his voice cracking.

Donskoy backhanded him across the face, the sound a sharp crack in the tense room. “Silence! You will not show weakness! We have held this district for twenty years. We are not afraid of some communist rabble playing soldier!”

Just as he finished speaking, the entire building shuddered. A deafening BOOM from the front of the speakeasy blew the backroom door off its hinges, sending it flying across the room to smash against the far wall. Smoke, dust, and the smell of cordite billowed in.

Through the haze, they could see flashes of disciplined crossbow fire and the dark silhouettes of armored militiamen stepping over the bodies of the front-room guards. The disciplined thump-thwack of their weapons was punctuated by the short, choked screams of his men.

The state had come for him.

“What the fuck are you doing?! Hold the line!” Donskoy roared, shoving Nikolai to the floor behind the heavy oak table. He ripped his own ornate crossbow from its wall mount, his face a mask of furious disbelief.

Before anyone else could react, two black canisters arced through the smoking doorway, clattering onto the floorboards.

“Grenade!” Gregorovich bellowed, kicking the table over to create a solid barricade.

The canisters erupted not with shrapnel, but with a blinding flash of white light and a concussive bang that shook their teeth. The world dissolved into searing light and a high-pitched whine. Disoriented, Donskoy squeezed his eyes shut, firing blindly into the smoke.

Gregorovich was the first to recover. Peering through a crack in the overturned table, he leveled his heavy military-grade crossbow and fired.

A militiaman who was beginning to step through the doorway grunted and collapsed, a bolt buried in his chest. The Sarkaz worked the lever with brutal efficiency, chambering another bolt.

“Dimitri, the side window! Nikolai, reload!” Gregorovich commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos. But Nikolai was useless, curled on the floor with his hands over his ears, while Dimitri fumbled with his own weapon, his hands shaking too much to aim properly.

This proved to be fatal, as the Militia didn't just use the door.

With a splintering crash, the boarded-up windows on the far wall exploded inward. More figures in heavy body armor and gas masks began to pour in, their movements coordinated, fanning out to secure the room.

It became increasingly clear that they were in fact, professional soldiers and police officers. Not thugs who may or may not have training.

“They're everywhere!” Dimitri shrieked, firing a wild shot that went high, shattering a light fixture.

Gregorovich roared and rose from behind the table, firing two quick shots that dropped another militiaman. He was a demon of violence, a one-man army holding back the tide. He drew his massive blade, ready to meet the charge.

But the tide was too strong. A coordinated volley of bolts slammed into him from three directions at once. One punched through his shoulder, spinning him around. Another tore through his leg, buckling his knee.

He stayed on his feet through sheer will, his sword lashing out and cleaving through the helmet of an advancing officer. It was his last act of defiance. Another volley struck him in the chest, lifting him off his feet and slamming him back against the wall, where he slid to the floor in a heap.

With Gregorovich down, the last bastion of professional resistance was gone. Militia forces swarmed the room, their weapons trained on the remaining figures.

Dimitri dropped his crossbow with a clatter, raising his hands in surrender. Nikolai was already sobbing on the floor, never bothering to get up in the first place.

Only Donskoy remained. Cornered behind the table, his face streaked with grime, he saw it was over. His empire of shadows had been annihilated in less than five minutes. With a final, desperate snarl, he reached into his coat, not for a weapon, but for the photo.

“Wait!” he screamed, taking the photograph of Talulah and Alina to show it to the Militia officers. “I have—!”

He never got to show the photo, or finish his sentence.

A militiaman, seeing the sudden movement, didn't hesitate firing his crossbow. The thwack of his crossbow was flat and final. The bolt struck Donskoy square in the throat, pinning him to the wall behind him. His eyes went wide with shock, his hands spasming, and the photograph was left mid-grab from his inner pocket.

The ranks of the Militia parted to allow a tall, imposing figure in an officer’s greatcoat to enter. It was Commissar Dmitriev himself. He strode over the bodies with satisfaction, his gaze sweeping over the carnage before settling on the two surviving sons, huddled and trembling. Dimitri was defiant, Nikolai was broken.

“Kill them,” he ordered, his voice devoid of emotion.

Nikolai looked up, his face a mask of pleading terror. “Please, we surrender! We’ll tell you everything—”

A militiaman stepped forward and fired a single, point-blank bolt. Nikolai’s plea was cut short as he collapsed.

“You communist bastard!” Dimitri shrieked, lunging for a fallen sword. He didn’t make it two steps before another crossbow bolt took him in the chest, throwing him backward onto the floor.

Dmitriev paid them no mind.

He knelt beside Donskoy’s pinned corpse and, with a grimace of distaste, reached into the dead man’s inner coat pocket. His fingers closed around a single photograph, and he pulled it free. He let his gaze drift over the official-looking documents scattered on the floor with utter disinterest before his eyes fell upon the image in his hand.

He studied it for a long, silent moment, the chaos of the raid fading into a dull background hum.

The image of the Chairwoman and her Premier, locked in an intimate, passionate embrace, felt like a physical blow. A surge of pure, visceral disgust rose in his throat, so potent he could almost taste it.

This was the vanguard of their great, revolutionary state? This decadent, private depravity? It was an affront to every traditional Ursine value of strength, order, and public propriety he held dear.

He may wear the title of Commissar, carry a Party card, and hold a seat on the Central Executive Council, but his soul had been forged in the simple, stern faith of his father, and this image felt like a desecration of everything that faith represented.

Even if the ‘representatives’ of that faith had been long gone by now.

"Sir!" A Militia lieutenant approached and saluted, his face streaked with soot and sweat. "The primary targets are neutralized. The Black Cats family is broken. We've rounded up their known associates from the surrounding tenements. Several hundred prisoners. What are your orders?"

Dmitriev didn't look at him. His eyes remained fixed on the photograph for a second longer before he carefully tucked it into his own inner coat pocket, securing it against his chest.

He turned toward the officer. "The Chairwoman wanted the streets cleaned," he said. "We will make them spotless. Purge them."

The lieutenant’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second. Several hundred. But a lifetime of discipline won out over conscience.

He swallowed hard, his gaze hardening into something vacant and obedient. "Yes, Comrade Commissar." He snapped a sharp salute and turned away, his voice already barking the order to his subordinates.

Dmitriev turned his back on the building and its condemned occupants, not waiting to witness the outcome.

He walked out into the cold street, where his men were already solidifying their control. He didn't need to see it. He could hear it. A series of commands and a moment of terrified, pleading silence from the captured prisoners, and then the coordinated, percussive thwack-thwack-thwack of dozens of crossbows firing in unison.

It was the sound of order being restored.

Just then, as he was about to board his armored car, Frostnova appeared, flanked by two stern-looking KGB agents. The air suddenly dropped a few degrees colder.

"Congratulations, Commissar," she said, her voice devoid of any warmth or genuine congratulation. Her eyes scanned the scene, taking in the finality of it all, before returning to him. "Now, the documents?"

Dmitriev met her gaze, his hand unconsciously moving to pat the breast pocket that held the photograph. The state secrets, the registry, the original objective—it all seemed suddenly trivial, the shell of a nut he had already cracked open to find a far more potent kernel inside.

"The documents were compromised during the raid," he stated, his voice a low rumble. He gestured vaguely back toward the bloody room. "The Black Cats attempted to destroy them. We secured what fragments we could."

It was a bald-faced lie, delivered with the steady conviction of a man who had just commanded a massacre and knew that truth was now whatever he decreed. "My forensics team is bagging the remnants. You are, of course, welcome to review them."

Frostnova tilted her head. “Don’t lie to me, Dmitriev.” Her voice was soft, yet it cut through the ambient noise like a shard of glass. “Although you were given authority to act on the raids, the documents you procure are, by law, the property of State Security. Not souvenirs for the Militia. Hand them over.”

The direct challenge hung in the air. Dmitriev’s jaw tightened. He could feel the weight of the photograph against his chest, a secret more powerful than any official dossier.

He leaned forward, his large frame imposing, his voice dropping to a near-whisper meant only for her.

“By law?” he repeated, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. “We just rewrote the law on this street, Comrade Commissar. The Chairwoman didn’t give me a ‘souvenir’ license, she gave me a mandate. And I have fulfilled it. The threat is neutralized. The city is clean. If you wish to sift through the ashes of my operation for your papers, be my guest. But do not mistake your jurisdiction for my obligation.”

Frostnova’s expression did not change.

“You seem to have a fundamental misunderstanding, Dmitriev,” she said, her voice so soft it was almost lost in the wind. “My jurisdiction is your obligation. Article 14, Section 7 of the State Security Act mandates that all organs of the state, including the Militia, shall provide full and immediate cooperation to the Committee on all matters regarding counterrevolutionary activity, anti-Party sentiment, and reactionary elements. The intelligence in that package, in its entirety, falls precisely under that definition.”

Her pale eyes held his. “This is not a negotiation. It is a lawful order.” She gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod to the two agents flanking her. “Search him.”

The words landed not as a threat, but as a simple statement of procedure. The two KGB agents moved with fluid, unhurried efficiency. They did not grab or shove, they simply stepped forward.

Dmitriev bristled, his hand instinctively clapping over his breast pocket. “You dare—!”

One of the agents, a man with a face devoid of any emotion, spoke in a monotone. “Comrade Commissar, please comply. Resistance will be documented as obstruction of a state security investigation.”

For a moment, Dmitriev stood his ground, his mind racing.

He could fight, could order his men to intervene, but that would be open rebellion. He saw the certainty in Frostnova’s gaze. She had the law, however twisted, on her side, and she would relish the chance to break him with it.

Now is not the time.

With a growl of pure, impotent fury, he dropped his hand, his body rigid with tension. The two agents proceeded. One gently but firmly patted down his greatcoat, his movements precise. When his fingers brushed the inner breast pocket, he paused.

“Here, Comrade Commissar,” he said to Frostnova, his voice still a dull monotone.

Without a word, Frostnova stepped forward herself. She reached into Dmitriev’s pocket, and her gloved fingers closed around the photograph. She did not look at it, not yet. She simply withdrew it and slid it into her own long coat.

“The documents you ‘recovered’ from the scene will be delivered to my office by 0800 hours,” Frostnova stated, her gaze never leaving his seething face. “All of them. Do not test my patience again, Dmitriev. The mandate you were given ends here.”

She turned, her coat swirling around her, and walked away, the two agents falling in behind her. They melted back into the backdrop of the city, leaving Dmitriev standing alone by his armored car.

The sound of order had been restored, but he was no longer its master. He had been put firmly back in his place, and the most dangerous weapon in the city was now in the hands of the one person he truly feared.

A loyalist.

Frostnova had done a great many things for Talulah, favors that not even she herself knows that spanned from the frozen camps of the old Reunion movement to the corridors of the Kremlin.

It was a debt not of obligation, but of trust and friendship. It ranged from the mundane things, such as sharing her rations, standing watch through fevered nights, and to the profoundly complex, such as orchestrating the quiet disappearance of a vocal critic or, as now, intercepting a catastrophe before it could ever take shape.

After arriving in her office, she finally allowed herself a single, measured breath. The frantic energy of the raid and the confrontation with Dmitriev dissipated, leaving behind the pure, calm clarity of a necessary task completed.

She stood by her desk, the only sound the faint hum of a climate control unit fighting a perpetual, losing battle against the cold she carried with her.

From her inner pocket, she withdrew the photograph.

She laid it flat on the polished steel surface of her desk, her expression unreadable. Her gloved fingers, usually so steady, hovered over the image for a moment before she carefully smoothed its edges.

There they were. Talulah, her form coiled with a desperate, possessive intensity that was both terrifying and human. Alina, yielding and open, her gaze holding a private universe of trust and love. It was a vulnerability so absolute it was physically painful to witness. A crack in the Dragon's armor, not of ideology or strength, but of the heart—a fissure wide enough for the whole world to see and exploit.

She observed the image not with disgust, nor with moral judgment, but with strategic clarity.

The revolution was ‘revolutionary’ in its economics, its politics, and its promise to tear down the old hierarchies of class and birthright. Yet it still had to balance itself upon the bedrock of the old world, upon the deep, stubborn strata of what many considered ‘the natural state of things’.

The environment obeyed its own laws. A police force, by any name, was needed to impose order. And people, she knew, clung to their ancient biases with a tenacity that often outlasted their loyalty to any flag or ideology.

While she herself had no personal stake in such matters, she was a student of Patriot.

And she knew that from the cafes of Bolivar to the ancient dynastic power structures of Yan, from the tribal lands of Sargon to the very heart of Ursus itself, people like Talulah and Alina were often placed on the same precarious shelf as the Sarkaz or the Infected—tolerated in some enlightened circles, vilified in most, and always, always seen as a vulnerability.

A deviation from the norm. A secret to be weaponized.

Sure, some nations, like certain progressive factions in Columbia, the intellectuals of Leithanien, or the aristocratic circles of Victoria, might posture as more ‘liberal,’ offering a veneer of acceptance. But the underlying current was a deep, persistent rot of tradition and fear, a river that ran beneath every nation on Terra.

It was a universal constant, like gravity or entropy—a force that pulled societies toward conformity and suspicion, demanding immense energy to resist.

This photograph was a singularity of that vulnerability.

In the hands of someone wrong, someone in the outer circle, like Dmitriev, it wouldn't be seen as love. It would be framed as a moral failure, a sign of decadent leadership that could be used to undermine Talulah’s authority with the very traditional, conservative elements whose support was crucial for stability.

It was a spark that could ignite a bonfire of backlash, all under the banner of ‘protecting the revolution’ from a perceived internal decay.

With a slow, deliberate movement, she picked up a heavy, utilitarian lighter from her desk. The flick-scrape of the wheel was the only eulogy this secret would receive.

A steady, orange flame bloomed.

She held the corner of the photograph to the fire.

The emulsion blackened and curled, the image of the kiss distorting as the heat consumed it. Talulah’s fierce profile, Alina’s gentle trust—all of it was rendered down into nothing but carbon and memory. A tendril of acrid smoke, the ghost of a secret, coiled towards the ceiling. She held it until the flame licked at her gloved fingertips, then dropped the last, burning fragment into a waiting, fireproof ashtray.

She watched until it was completely ash. Then, she washed the remains down the drain with a blast of water, erasing the final, physical evidence.

The weapon was gone.

The secret was safe, not because it was wrong, but because the world was not yet worthy of it. It would not be a tool for a climber like Dmitriev, a bargaining chip for foreign spies, or a rallying cry for bigots hiding behind revolutionary slogans.

Returning to her desk, she sat.

The incident was now a closed file. She had not done it for gratitude, but for the survival of the one she served and the fragile future they were building. She was the shield in the shadows, and tonight, that shield had held.

The revolution, and the woman who was its heart, could continue their work, utterly unaware of the specific, intimate nature of the threat that had just been neutralized in the cold, silent heart of its chief defender.

She turned to her terminal and began to type.

The message was not addressed to a single person, but to the entire upper echelon of the Committee for State Security—her trusted inner circle, the nerve center of the state’s immune system.

FROM THE OFFICE OF THE COMMISSAR FOR STATE SECURITY
TOP SECRET // EYES ONLY
TO: All Deputy Commissars, Directorate Heads, and Special Operations Controllers
SUBJECT: Directive 741 // Enhanced Counter-Subversion Protocols

The successful neutralization of the Black Cats criminal element has revealed a critical vulnerability in our internal security apparatus. The operation uncovered attempts by external actors to compromise high-level state personnel and exposed a dangerous level of autonomy and ambition within parallel state structures.

Effective immediately, surveillance and political reliability assessments are to be intensified across all Party and state organs. Priority focus is to be directed towards the People's Militia. All departments will commence deep-level vetting of Militia officers at the rank of Captain and above, with particular attention to personal loyalties, financial connections, and ideological deviations.

The primary objective is to identify and neutralize any potential for internal subversion or the rise of personal fiefdoms before they can threaten the stability of the state. The Militia’s recent expansion of authority makes this a paramount concern. We must ensure that the sword of the people does not turn inwards.

All findings are to be reported directly to this office through established secure channels. The revolution’s greatest enemies are not always at the gates. Often, they wear our own uniforms.

Frostnova,
Commissar for State Security.

Chapter Text

The first day of the Congress had gone, to Talulah's surprise, rather well. She had expected a firestorm after presenting her ‘Twenty-Two Conditions’, which itself was a direct challenge thrown at the feet of the reformists and moderates.

Instead, the reaction had been muted.

A wave of nervous, rustling paper and a sea of suddenly very serious faces, yes. But the anticipated denunciations from the social democrats never materialized. They had accepted the document for ‘further study and debate’, and their applause was polite but noticeably lacking in fervor.

After that initial thunderclap, she had deliberately receded into the background, a watchful dragon observing the lesser beasts navigate the terrain she had just reshaped.

She sat back, letting the scheduled agenda for the day unfold. The rest of the day had been a tedious but necessary exercise in organizational housekeeping—the business of the Internationale itself.

They had debated the location of the permanent Executive Committee—which was decided to be Artoriagrad—the budget for the organization's propaganda arm, and the standardization of membership credentials.

It was dull.

Now, on the morning of the second day, the real ideological battles were set to begin. The air in the Duma was thick with anticipation. The first item on the agenda was announced by the Presidium delegate, and a hush fell over the hall.

“The Colonial Question and the Role of the Internationale in Anti-Imperialist Struggles.”

A tall, charismatic man with the sun-weathered skin of a Sargonian desert-dweller was the first to take the podium. He represented a coalition of anti-colonial movements, and he spoke with the burning conviction of a man who had seen the lash firsthand.

“Comrades,” he began. “For decades, we have heard our brothers in the imperialist heartlands speak of the workers’ struggle. We have read your books, we have sung your songs of solidarity. But while you fight for an eight-hour work day, my people fight for the right not to be branded as chattel. While you strike for higher wages in your factories, my people are worked to death in mines owned by Columbian corporations—corporations that pay you those very wages!”

He paused, his blazing eyes sweeping over the assembled delegates, many of whom refused to meet his gaze.

“You speak of breaking the chains of the working class. But you do not see that those chains are forged from the gold and Originium torn from our earth! Your prosperity, the very stability that allows you the luxury of parliamentary debate, is built upon the bedrock of our subjugation. Imperialism is not a separate struggle!” He thundered, slamming a fist on the podium. “It is the engine of capitalism! And you cannot claim to fight the machine while you are still polishing its gears!”

A roar of approval erupted from the delegates from Sargon, Bolivar, and other exploited regions. The Victorian delegate, Walthers, who had spoken so eloquently of gradual reform the day before, shrank in his seat, his face was one of pained discomfort.

When the Sargonian delegate finished his impassioned, uncompromising plea for direct, material support for armed liberation movements, Walthers was the first to request the floor.

“The comrade from Sargon speaks with a moral clarity and a passion we must all admire,” he began with a soothing tone. “And his stark indictment of imperialist exploitation is one we all, in principle, share. However,” he said, the word dropping like a portcullis, “we must be strategic. We must be realistic. A premature uprising, without the logistical and military backing of a strong, stable socialist state, is not a revolution—it is a massacre waiting to happen. Our first and most sacred duty is to consolidate the victory we have here, in the FSSRU. We must build up its industrial base, fortify its army against the wolves that circle it. Only then, from a position of unassailable strength, can we effectively project our power to aid our comrades abroad.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the delegates from the more developed nations. It was the comfortable, cautious logic of those who had never had their homes burned by a colonial garrison.

Talulah watched it all, her expression unreadable.

This was the schism she, and pretty much everyone, had anticipated. The immediate fury of the underdeveloped nations against the patient, almost imperial pragmatism of the developed.

Walthers’s argument was sensible. It was also a recipe for maintaining the status quo indefinitely, for letting liberation movements wither on the vine while Ursus grew strong in its isolation.

The argument was met with a smattering of applause from the moderate factions, but it was drowned out by jeers and shouts of "Coward!" and "Excuses!" from the left wing of the hall.

The Yan YMT delegation gave a speech that supported the Sargon position in principle, but framed it as part of a broader struggle for the ‘subjugated peoples’ to throw off all foreign influence—subtly positioning themselves as the natural leaders of such a movement.

The Congress devolved into a cacophony of competing voices. The dream of international solidarity was fracturing along the old, bitter lines of colonizer and colonized.

Finally, the Presidium delegate, unable to restore order, looked desperately toward the Ursine delegation's front bench. He looked at Talulah.

She knew then that she could not remain silent. The Sargonian had provided the fire. Walthers had provided the counter-argument. Now, she had to provide the synthesis, that uniquely Ursine path that would bind the Internationale to her will.

She rose, and the hall fell silent once more.

She walked to the podium not with the fiery haste of yesterday, but with a calm that was somehow more intimidating. She did not look at the Sargon delegate, but at Walthers.

“Comrade Walthers speaks of waiting for a ‘strong, stable socialist state’ to lead the way.” Talulah said, her voice quiet but carrying to every corner of the vast chamber. “I ask the Comrade from Victoria—when the people of Ursus rose up, did we wait for your permission? Did we petition a foreign power to come and save us?”

She shook her head. “No. We seized our liberation from our own frozen earth, with our own blood and our own hands. You speak of ‘premature uprisings’ as if freedom has a timetable that must be approved by a committee in Londinium. You tell our comrades in chains to wait, while the profits from their labor fill the coffers of the very same bourgeoisie your party sits opposite in parliament.”

Her voice began to rise. “This is the poison of social democracy!” she declared, her words a direct strike. “It pays lip service to internationalism while its heart remains shackled to the national interest of the imperialist core! You are not waiting for us to become stronger. You are waiting for a time that will never come, because you are afraid to risk the comfort built on the suffering of others!”

She turned her gaze from Walthers, sweeping it across the entire assembly.

“The revolution is not a charity we dispense from on high when we are feeling secure. It is a fire! And a fire spreads not by waiting, but by catching the driest tinder. The driest tinder on this world is in the colonies. That is where imperialism is most overstretched, most brutal, and most vulnerable. To abandon those fronts is not ‘strategic.’ It is a betrayal. It is a strategic blunder of historic proportions.”

She held up her hand, silencing the roar of approval before it could begin.

“But words are cheap. You did not come to Artoriagrad to listen to speeches.” She turned to the Presidium.

“I therefore move that this Congress establish a new permanent body, The Committee for Colonial Liberation. Its mandate will be to coordinate and provide material support to recognized anti-imperialist liberation movements across Terra. And so that this is not an empty promise, the Federative Soviet Socialist Republics of Ursus pledges, here and now, to provide the initial funding and the first detachment of military advisors from the Red Army to this committee.”

Her declaration was met with roaring cheers.

The delegates from Sargon, from the oppressed minorities in Columbia, from the Iberian resistance—they surged to their feet, their applause a thunderous, percussive roar of vindication. Talulah had thrown down the gauntlet again, but this was not a list of ideological demands, it was a concrete pledge of Ursine blood and treasure.

The motion passed by an overwhelming majority, with the social democratic factions being forced into a humiliating abstention, their calls for moderation rendered utterly irrelevant.

Talulah felt the shift in the room's gravity. The axis of the Internationale had just been wrenched violently to the left, toward a more militant, uncompromising internationalism.

But victory was a currency, and she had just spent a great deal of it. She was a revolutionary, but she was also the head of a fragile state. She knew she could not govern a global movement by diktat alone. A leader who wins every battle often ends up losing the war.

She should not push her luck.

This political reality asserted itself almost immediately.

The next major item on the agenda, The Structure and Authority of the Executive Committee of the Communist Internationale (ECCI), proved to be an even more treacherous ideological minefield.

A hardline delegate took the podium. He argued with relentless, theoretical purity that the decisions of the ECCI must be unconditionally binding on all member parties, a centralized Politburo for the world.

“We are not a debating society, comrades!” he declared. “We are the general staff of the world revolution! There can be no room for local interpretation or bourgeois-nationalist deviation. Discipline is paramount! The Vanguard’s will must be absolute!”

He was parroting Talulah’s talking points during the opening of the Congress in the first day.

The proposal was met with stony silence from one particular quarter. The Yanguomindang delegation, who had been fervent supporters of the anti-colonial motion, now looked mutinous.

“The Yanese Revolution,” a YMT delegate stated, his voice cutting through the theoretical haze, “will follow its own path, dictated by the specific conditions of our homeland and the will of our people. We did not endure centuries of Lung domination to trade one yoke for a new one, even if it is painted red and speaks with an Ursine accent! We will accept fraternal advice and comradely guidance, but we will never accept foreign commands that disregard our reality.”

The sentiment resonated. Delegates from Siracusa, Bolivar, and other nations, fiercely jealous of their own hard-won autonomy, murmured and nodded in firm agreement. The fragile, militant unity of the anti-colonial vote moments ago was threatening to shatter on the rocks of national sovereignty.

Talulah saw the trap immediately. To support the hardline position would confirm the worst fears of the nationalists and paint her as a new Red Tsarina, imposing a foreign will.

To oppose it outright would be to gut the very international discipline she needed to make the Internationale an effective force. She had to find a third way, like she always did.

“The Comrade from… Leithanien, is it? He speaks of revolutionary discipline, and the Comrade from Yan speaks of revolutionary sovereignty,” she began, her tone carefully measured. “Both principles are correct and necessary. But a general staff cannot command an army of unwilling soldiers, and an army without a general staff is merely a mob. Therefore, I propose a synthesis.”

She let her gaze sweep the hall, ensuring she had every eye.

“On matters of international strategy—a coordinated response to a direct imperialist aggression, the declaration of a general strike across multiple nations, the unified boycotting of a belligerent power—the decisions of the ECCI, passed by a two-thirds majority, shall be binding. On these issues, we must act as one fist against a common foe. There can be no dissent.”

A nod from the hardliners, though his lips were thin with concession.

“However,” she continued, turning her full attention to the Yanese delegation, “on matters of internal policy—the specific application of land reform, the structure of local Soviets, the cultural and social policies of a member party—the decisions of the ECCI will be considered as strongly recommended guidance, to be adapted to local conditions. Each revolution must breathe its own air and be rooted in its own soil.”

It was a necessary concession. The hardliners grumbled about a diluted authority but could not reasonably object to the logic. The nationalists had won their crucial guarantee of internal sovereignty.

The motion, as amended by Talulah, passed with near-unanimity. She had yielded on absolute control to preserve the far more valuable asset, the Internationale itself.

The final battle of the day was over economics, a domain where Talulah, by her own admission, felt her expertise was most theoretical. She had decided to let this debate run its course, observing where the natural alliances would form.

A delegate from an agrarian commune in Minos proposed the creation of a Socialist Common Market. His principle was of pure solidarity, the industrialized socialist nations, primarily Ursus, would be obligated to provide machinery, industrial equipment, and technical aid to developing agrarian nations at no cost, as a gift from the proletariat of one nation to another.

The proposal was met with a wave of enthusiastic support from the less-developed, but a deep, anxious silence from the Victorians, Columbians, and even some of Talulah’s own economic advisors. The cost would be astronomical, a potentially crippling drain on the FSSRU’s own frantic industrialization.

Before the debate could polarize, a Columbian delegate, a syndicalist in a suit took the floor.

"Sentiment is beautiful, comrade," he said, not unkindly, to the man from Minos. "But it is not an economic system. You are proposing a system of permanent, unsustainable charity that would bankrupt the industrial base within a decade. What of efficiency? What of incentive?"

The hall erupted into chaotic, overlapping arguments. It was the classic, irreconcilable clash between utopian idealism and cold-eyed pragmatism.

An argument, frankly, that Talulah herself had grown weary of. She saw the deadlock forming and prepared to rise, to once again forge a path through the impossible. But before she could, a new voice cut through the din.

It was the delegate from Siracusa.

"Comrades," the Siracusan began, her accent lending a melodic, pragmatic rhythm to her words. "The comrade from Minos dreams of a world without usury. The comrade from Columbia warns us of a world without arithmetic. Both are correct in their diagnoses, but mistaken in their prescriptions. We do not need charity, and we do not need the cold logic of the capital markets. What we need is a bank."

A ripple of confusion, mixed with intrigue, passed through the assembly. A bank? The very word smelled of bourgeois finance.

"Not a bank of the old world, goodness no," the Siracusan clarified. "A bank of the new one. I propose the founding of an Internationale Bank for Reconstruction and Development."

She let the concept hang in the air for a moment.

"Ahem… member states will contribute to a central fund, not as a gift, but as a shared asset. This bank will then issue long-term, interest-free loans for specific, approved development projects. The loans would be repaid not in currency, but with a percentage of the project's output, or in raw materials, at stable, pre-negotiated rates that favor the developing nation."

Stopping for a bit and catching her breath, she continued.

"The industrialized nations secure stable, preferential access to resources and new markets for their goods, strengthening their own economies. The developing nations receive the capital and technology they need without falling into a debt spiral. The IBRD becomes the circulatory system of the socialist world, pumping capital and resources to where they are needed most, creating a web of mutual economic interest that reinforces our political alliance. We are not giving a fish, nor are we merely selling a fishing rod. We are building the pond together, and sharing the catch by rules we all write."

When she finished, no one made a sound. They were all lost in thought regarding this socialist bank.

Delegates stared into the distance, mentally running the numbers, tracing the logical pathways of the proposal.

The hardliner from Leithanien saw a mechanism for disciplined, coordinated development.

The moderates saw a fiscally responsible alternative to ruinous charity.

And for many, they saw a real path to industrialization without surrendering their nation's soul.

When the vote was called, the result was unprecedented. Then again, this Congress was unprecedented in the first place.

Hands rose in a wave of consensus. From Yan to Columbia, from the Ursus delegation to the smallest agrarian commune. It passed unanimously. A wave of genuine, relieved applause broke out, the first that seemed to come from a truly united body.

Talulah had a genuine look of admiration on her face as she clapped. The Siracusan had done what she herself had been preparing to do, but with a finesse that turned potential conflict into collective triumph.

Still, a bank… why didn’t she think of it?

However, as her gaze dropped to the watch on her wrist, the moment of triumph was soured by exhaustion. A frown creased her brow.

It had only been two hours.

The day's session was scheduled to run for another two, and the monumental, soul-stirring debates were clearly still not over.

Unconsciously, a groan escaped her lips, audible only to herself. She took a slow, steadying sip of water, steeling herself for the administrative marathon to come.

The next two hours passed in a kind of attentive blur for Talulah.

She remained on the presidium, posture perfect, her expression one of engaged interest, but her mind partitioned itself. One part listened, processed, and filed away the information. Another part screamed in quiet desperation at the grinding minutiae.

The agenda items, while far less explosive than the colonial question or the structure of the ECCI, were the nuts and bolts that would hold the entire Internationale together—or see it tear itself apart.

A delegate took to the floor to passionately argue for the standardization of railway gauges across member states for ‘the swift and fraternal movement of goods and proletarian solidarity.’

This was followed by a lengthy, mind-numbingly detailed debate about whether the standard should be the Leithanien gauge or the slightly wider Ursine gauge, with engineers from both sides presenting technical schematics that made half the delegates' eyes glaze over.

Next, a representative from the newly formed ‘International Union of Socialist Artists’ proposed a cultural exchange program and the establishment of a shared archive for proletarian literature.

However, the brief respite provided by the International Union of Socialist Artists was a mirage. Their proposal for cultural exchange began as a hopeful vision of shared proletarian novels and touring revolutionary theatre troupes.

 But within minutes, it curdled into a familiar, acid debate, which characterises past Internationales, and indeed, this one as well.

A Victorian aesthete delegate, adjusting his pince-nez, argued for a big tent approach. "Socialist Realism is a vital genre, of course, but must it be the only genre? The revolutionary spirit can also be expressed through—"

He was cut off by a Yan delegate. "In Yan, our people have been fed the opiate of feudal poetry for a millennium," she countered, her voice sharp. "They need clear, heroic stories that reflect their new struggle, not confusing abstractions that only the educated elite can decipher. Socialist Realism must be predominant to re-educate the national consciousness."

The ideological schism was instantly weaponized by a hardliner.

"Comrades, this is not a matter of 'predominance'! This is a war for the very soul of humanity!" He thundered, jabbing a finger in the air. "Art is not for decoration! It is not for private sentiment! It is a weapon in the class struggle! It must be clear, it must be heroic, and it must be accessible to the masses! We must smash the decadent, inward-looking formalism of the bourgeoisie and burn the feudal myths of nationalism! There is no 'Yanese art' or 'Victorian art'! There is only proletarian art and the art of the enemy!"

His words, meant to unify, instead sowed silent, resentful division. Talulah watched the delegates exchanged looks from each other. The revolution demanded internationalism, but it was crashing against the hard shores of national identity.

Again.

The subsequent debate over a joint meteorological service was a welcome, if frustrating, descent into the practicals.

Talulah strongly supported the idea, predicting Catastrophes was a universal good, this one is a no-brainer. Surely this will reach a unanimous concensus?

But like always… solidarity cracked.

Leithanien insisted its existing academic networks made it the natural host, while Yan, suspicious of having its climatic data flow through an imperial power, demanded a new, neutral facility in a non-aligned nation.

The debate bogged down in a swamp of technical committees and data sovereignty, a thousand petty arguments masquerading as principle.

Then came the most symbolically charged item on the agenda. On the Unification of Party Symbology.

The delegate, a young, Columbian man, proposed it with the blinding certainty of a new convert. "To truly embody our internationalism, we must shed our parochial emblems! I propose we all adopt a single, unified flag—a pure, revolutionary red, emblazoned only with a single gold star! Let this be the one symbol under which all the world's oppressed will rally!"

The silence that followed was more damning than any shout.

Then the hall erupted into shouts.

"The Hammer and Sickle is not just a symbol!" Roared one of Talulah’s own Party members. "It is the truth of our land! The worker's hammer and the peasant's sickle, united! To discard it is to spit on the graves of those who died for it in the Long March!"

Before he had even finished, the Yanguomindang delegate was up, his composure shattered. "The White Sun on the Blue Sky is the hope of hundreds of millions of Yanese people! It is the promise of our liberation from the Lung oppressors! You ask us to extinguish our dawn?"

A Leithanien social democrat then shouted. "Our Three Arrows stand for the fight against reaction, against fascism, and against capitalism! They are a historical commitment! We will not surrender our history for your abstract geometry!"

The proposal for a unified flag, meant to be the ultimate expression of unity, had instead become a lightning rod for every latent nationalist sentiment and historical grievance in the hall.

Talulah had seriously considered that if any international organization could actually organize themselves into something resembling cooperation between member states, or if it is eternally doomed by nationalist sentiments.

Even so, she watched as the chaos unfold with a fresh, throbbing pain beginning to pulse behind her eyes.

The grand ideals of global solidarity were shattering against the rocks of these emblems. She saw the Victorian delegates looking on with smug, I-told-you-so detachment.

“This is what it comes down to,” she thought. “We can agree to fund revolutions and share weather data, but ask a man to give up his flag and you see the limits of his internationalism.”

She knew she had to intervene. To let this vote fail would be to admit that the Internationale was a mere alliance of convenience, not a unified movement. But to force it through would alienate her most powerful allies.

"Comrades," she began, her voice low but carrying to the farthest corners. The previously rowdy hall immediately quieted down to let her speak. "You look upon these symbols and see your past. Your struggles. Your martyrs. That is right. That is just."

She paused, letting them absorb her unexpected concession.

"The Hammer and Sickle is the blood of Ursus, frozen on the tundra and shed in the streets of Deity Grypherburg. The White Sun is the yearning of Yan, burning for centuries under foreign rule. The Three Arrows are the resolve of Leithanien and its people, aimed at the heart of its old demons."

She stood and straightened up, her gaze sweeping over them.

"But I look at these symbols," she continued, "and I see a wall. A wall you are building between yourselves, brick by brick. The bourgeoisie of the world are united. They have no borders for their capital, no sacred flags for their exploitation. They speak one language—the language of profit—and they wield it across all of Terra. And you, the vanguard of the future, would answer them with a cacophony of competing anthems?"

She finally moved to the podium, her presence now dominating the hall.

"The delegate from Columbia is naïve, but his heart is in the right place. He seeks a symbol for our future, not our past. We will not adopt a single flag. To do so would be to disrespect the unique paths of pain that led each of us here."

A wave of relieved murmuring passed through the delegates.

"However," she declared, the word a hammer blow. Every delegate was on edge. "We will not remain a confused mob of banners. Therefore, I propose this… every delegation may keep its national or party symbol. But henceforth, at all Congresses and official functions of the Internationale, it will be displayed beneath a new, universal standard. A banner of solid, revolutionary red. Upon it, we will place a simple, white globe, encircled by a wreath of wheat—signifying our shared world and the collective fruit of our labor. A blank slate for the history we will write together."

The compromise demanded a concession of pride, not of identity. It created unity without enforcing uniformity.

"The symbol is non-negotiable," she stated. "The motion is now for the creation of this universal standard to be flown above all others within this body. All in favor?"

The vote was not unanimous, but it was overwhelmingly decisive. The hardliners and nationalists had kept their flags, the internationalists had won their symbolic supremacy.

It was a victory, but as Talulah sat down, the throbbing in her head only intensified. She had just spent another ounce of her political capital, another fragment of her energy, to herd these squabbling factions.

She glanced at the clock. The session was finally, mercifully, over.

As the delegates began to file out, buzzing with the day's dramas, Talulah remained seated for a moment, her mask of authority slipping to reveal the exhaustion beneath.

The hydra of global revolution had many heads indeed, and today, it felt like for every one she lopped off, two more grew back, hissing arguments about flags and weather stations.

Gathering her resolve, she stood and moved towards the exit, hoping for a moment of quiet in the limousine ride back to the Kremlin. But the revolution offered no reprieve.

A small crowd of delegates had gathered in the antechamber, waiting for her. They were not the adoring masses, but men and women with analytical eyes and the fervent energy of true believers.

Ideologues, to put it simply.

They saw her not just as a head of state, but as the preeminent theorist of their age, the de-facto leader of the Communist world, and they descended upon her the moment she appeared.

"Chairwoman! A brilliant synthesis on the symbol question!" a delegate began.

"Comrade Chairwoman, your stance on the anti-colonial committee will be studied for decades!" another added.

But the praise was merely a preamble. The real purpose of their ambush became immediately clear.

A gaunt man with a Kazimierzian accent stepped forward, cutting off the pleasantries.

"Chairwoman, if I may," he began. "Your 'synthesis' on the Executive Committee's authority was politically astute, but it raises some theoretical concerns. You speak of adapting the revolutionary doctrine to local conditions, but this risks a fatal deviation. If the dialectic is a universal science, its application cannot be subjective. There is one correct line, determined by the objective development of material conditions. To suggest otherwise is to embrace… eclecticism."

The trap was set. He had framed her pragmatic compromise as a betrayal of Marxist-Leninist fundamentals.

Before Talulah could formulate a response, though, a Yanguomindang delegate interjected.

"The comrade from Kazimierz mistakes the map for the territory," the delegate said, offering a thin smile. "The universal science must be applied to the specific soil. In Yan, the primary contradiction is not between the proletariat and the bourgeoisie, but between the entire Yanese people and the foreign Lung ruling class. To impose a rigid, Victorian-derived model upon us is not scientific, it is a form of theoretical imperialism. Ursine Socialism, with its emphasis on a unique path, understands this. Do you not agree, Chairwoman?"

He was skillfully trying to pull her into his camp, to publicly align her with his nationalist interpretation against the universalists.

A third voice joined the fray, a Columbian as Talulah had identified by her accent.

"You both miss the point!" she said, her hands chopping the air for emphasis. "This obsession with the state apparatus, whether 'universal' or 'national,' is a fetish! The true dialectic is happening in the workplaces, in the general strikes! The vanguard party itself can become a bureaucratic class, a new bourgeoisie! The only true communism is the immediate, direct power of the workers' councils, without mediation. The dialectic demands the 'withering away' of the state, not its perpetuation in red paint!"

The Kazimierzian turned on her, his face flushed. "Anarcho-syndicalist nonsense! That is not the dialectic, that is infantile disorder! The state is the instrument of class rule. We cannot relinquish it until the counter-revolution is utterly crushed worldwide! Your 'direct power' would be crushed within a week by the united bourgeois states!"

"And your 'vanguard' will become a new tyranny within a decade!" the woman shot back.

The YMT delegate watched the exchange with a detached air before adding. "Both of you presume a level of industrial development that does not exist in the vast, agrarian world."

All eyes turned to Talulah. They had created a triangle of theoretical conflict—Universalist Orthodoxy vs. National Specificity vs. Anti-Statist Radicalism—and now they demanded she be its judge.

Talulah felt the familiar pressure, the weight of a thousand pages of theory and a million graves pressing down on her.

“God, I am too tired for this,” she thought.

The words of these purists—people who had likely never held a dying soldier or signed an order that would leave children hungry for a season—seemed to buzz around her like gnats.

Dialectics. Contradictions. Superstructure. Who the hell cares??

What was there to add, even?

They had all read the same literatures. They were just citing different verses to justify their own political desires. The theoretical framework felt less like a tool and more like a cage.

She opened her mouth, a hollow, rehearsed response about 'unity in diversity' forming on her tongue or some other bullshit. But then, her eyes—seeking an escape, any escape—drifted over the crowd and snagged on a figure near the doors.

Alina.

She stood there, a still point in the churning sea of ideology. Her presence was not dramatic, but it was magnetic. Her expression, usually calm and serene, was showing worry.

She was flanked by two KGB agents, which meant the matter was official, but her eyes were fixed only on Talulah.

In that instant, the entire theoretical debate collapsed into irrelevance. The words that left Talulah’s mouth were not the carefully balanced political statement she had been about to make.

"I'm very sorry, comrades," she said at last. "But it appears I am needed elsewhere. Urgently."

She offered a curt nod, not waiting for a reply, and neither acknowledging their stunned expressions. In long strides, she broke from their encircling debate and crossed the room, her focus narrowing entirely to the woman waiting by the door.

Talulah reached Alina, the world narrowing to the space between them. The two KGB agents offered a slight, almost imperceptible bow of their heads.

"What is it?" Talulah asked, her voice low, shedding the persona of the Chairwoman entirely.

Alina’s eyes flicked towards the dismissed delegates for a fraction of a second before returning to Talulah. "A situation has arisen," she said, her voice equally quiet, meant only for her. "It requires your immediate attention. The report is in the car."

A 'situation' could be anything from a small mistake to an intelligence breach. But the subtle tension around Alina’s eyes and the fact she had come herself, rather than sending a clerk, signalled its gravity.

"Good," Talulah said, and she meant it. A concrete crisis was preferable to that theoretical quagmire. "Let's go."

They moved swiftly through the corridors, the click of their heels and the soft tread of the guards' boots where the only sounds echoing in the sudden silence.

Only when the door of the black limousine clicked shut, sealing them in a soundproofed bubble, did Talulah let out a long, shuddering breath, slumping back into the seat.

"Thank you," she murmured, closing her eyes. "Another minute in there and I might have started quoting children's nursery rhymes just to see the look on their faces.”

Alina allowed a small, weary smile to touch her lips. "They were circling, I could see it from the door. The debates of the agenda items reached my office an hour ago. I thought you might need an extraction."

She didn't hand her a file immediately. Instead, she asked, "How bad was it?"

Talulah kept her eyes closed, massaging her temples. "They are trying to build a religion. A universal catechism with footnotes. They've forgotten that we're not saving souls, we're feeding mouths, building roofs, and stopping people from killing each other."

She finally looked at her partner, the fatigue raw in her silver eyes. "Sometimes I think… he was right. They want a God, not just a leader.”

"Then it's a good thing you're terrible at theology." Alina replied softly, her hand finding Talulah's and giving it a brief, firm squeeze. The gesture was a spark of warmth in the cold, political reality.

"Now, for the actual fire we have to put out..." Alina finally lifted a sealed folder from the seat beside her. "It's from Frostnova. The Columbians are making their move."

Talulah merely raised an eyebrow as she took the document and read it.

In short, it detailed a sophisticated Columbian intelligence operation. a mole within the Commissariat of Industry had been exfiltrating classified documents. The haul was significant, it included blueprints for the new tanks, vulnerability assessments of the Trans-Ursus railway network, and psychometric dossiers on key Red Army commanders.

It would have been a catastrophic intelligence breach.

If Frostnova’s KGB hadn’t already made quick work of the issue. The documents were secure. The mole was currently probably dead in a ditch somewhere. The operation was, on paper, a resounding success for state security.

"A neatly tied package…" Talulah remarked, her voice flat as she closed the folder. "Frostnova and her people are efficient. Is there another issue, or are we just admiring their work?"

"Another issue, yes," Alina said. "The diplomatic fallout is beginning. We're receiving formal, and very loud, protests from the Victorian, Leithanien, and Columbian embassies. They're accusing us of harboring 'known agitators and seditionists' and destabilizing the world order. They are, of course, referencing the Internationale congress."

Talulah let out a soft, humorless sound, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. She stared out the window at the monumental architecture of Artoriagrad sliding past.

"Of course they are. They spy on us, and when we catch them, they have the audacity to complain about the guest list for our party." She turned back to Alina. "What is the specific accusation? That we're providing a forum for debate?"

"More or less. The Victorian note uses particularly colorful language—'a deliberate convocation of forces dedicated to the overthrow of lawful sovereign governments.' They are demanding we publicly renounce the more... militant resolutions passed today and expel the delegations from Sargon and the Yan left-wing."

"And if we don't?"

"Then they imply… ahem." Alina said, choosing her words with care, "that 'all necessary measures to ensure regional stability' will be considered. It's a phrase with a very large caliber."

“… So… they will do nothing. That’s it, isn’t it?” Talulah concludes.

She was reminded of an old Ursine idiom from the Tsarist regime. ‘Yan’s final warning’. It was a threat issued so often, with so little consequence, that it had become a punchline.

These diplomatic protests were the same. Sound and fury, signifying their fear, but no real will to act.

The limousine slid through the gates of the Kremlin complex, the shadows of the imperial fortress swallowing them whole. Talulah was silent for the remainder of the short ride.

As the car began its final approach along the cobbled drive, Talulah turned from the window.

"Alina," she said. "Look at me."

There was a command in it, but also a plea. When Alina turned, her expression composed and ready to discuss the next item on the agenda, she was caught completely off guard.

Talulah closed the small distance between them, her hand coming up to cradle Alina's jaw, and kissed her.

It was not a gentle kiss. It was sudden, brazen attempt to seal a crack in a dam that was threatening to burst. It was a kiss that belonged privately in their offices, or bedroom, not inside of a state limousine.

The driver, a KGB agent whose impassivity was his primary qualification, did not react. But his eyes flicked once to the rearview mirror, and with a nearly silent electric hum, the soundproof barrier began to rise, separating the front seat from the intimate chaos of the back.

Alina stiffened for a second, then her hand came up, not to pull Talulah closer, but to press gently against her shoulder. She broke the kiss, turning her face away.

“Tal… we’re almost there," she breathed, her voice unsteady. She gestured vaguely with her other hand, which still clutched a folded intelligence briefing. "Plus, I have—"

The limousine came to a definitive halt. They had arrived.

Talulah didn't move. She remained close, her hair a messy cascade from the sudden movement, her gaze locked on Alina. The rejection was a physical pain, it cut deeper than any political betrayal.

"You are always 'almost there'…" Talulah whispered, the words were laced with a bitterness she rarely allowed herself. "And you always 'have' something. A report. A meeting. A crisis. Is there ever a moment that is just for us? Or are we only permitted to exist in the stolen seconds between one catastrophe and the next?"

The barrier was fully up now. They were sealed in a gilded, moving tomb of their own duties.

"Tal, you know it's not—"

"Do I?" Talulah cut her off, pulling back finally, the warmth in her eyes hardening into something cold and wounded. "Sometimes I think you use this state, this endless parade of emergencies, as a shield. A shield against this. Against me."

Alina’s composure finally cracked, a flicker of genuine hurt in her eyes. "That isn't fair. Everything I do—"

"Is for the state. I know." Talulah finished for her. She reached for the door handle as the agent outside opened it, the grey light of the Ursus evening flooding in. "Sometimes, Alina, I need you to do something for me. Not for the Premier, not for the revolution. But for me."

Chapter Text

Pavel Zaitsev had never been a particularly interested person when it came to the tenets of Ursine Socialism.

He viewed ideologies as one might view competing brands of soap. Different packaging, similar function, but they all ultimately are a means to clean away the messy, organic grime of human nature to present a more palatable uniform product.

When the revolution shattered the Empire, he had just returned, degree in hand, from a university located in the Tara territory, Victoria. He arrived to a world turned upside down, which, to a student of history and human systems, was merely a world rearranged.

The purge of the old managerial class was a brutal but efficient market correction. Fortunes and heads were lost, but the resulting vacuum created immediate, high-level job listings. He didn't mourn the old regime, instead, he landed a job as the founding director of Pravda Ursus, the nation's newest propaganda arm.

Sitting in his new office, he found the work somewhat familiar, a comfortable translation of an old text into a new, more aggressive dialect.

He'd read the fawning, ornate prose of the Tsarist newspapers back when he was a child, which spun fairy tales of a benevolent Tsar and a holy empire. Now, he edited copies praising the superhuman output of Stakhanovite workers and the infallible wisdom of the Chairwoman.

The vocabulary had been swapped—'Proletariat’ instead of ‘Subject’, ‘Class Struggle’ instead of ‘Imperial Destiny’—but the underlying grammar of power and the deep-seated need to shape a collective reality and suppress inconvenient truths… it was identical.

It was all about telling a story that served the state. A story that, if told well enough and loud enough, would eventually become the only story left.

And Pravda Ursus was the only storyteller left.

He recalled an article detailing the ‘spontaneous and grassroots’ celebrations for the upcoming anniversary of the Winter Palace's fall.

Spontaneous, he knew, meant ‘orchestrated by the local Party committee.’ Grassroots meant ‘attendance is mandatory for factory units.’ His job was to sand away the edges of the state's coercion until it looked like the organic will of the people.

He thought of the social contract not as a philosophical ideal, but as a transaction where the state offered the illusion of purpose in exchange for the individual's surrender of critical thought.

Pravda Ursus was the glossy brochure for this transaction. Every story of a worker heroically exceeding quotas was a down payment, and every editorial condemning bourgeois individualism was a warning of the penalties for default.

His mind drifted to a Gaulish philosopher's concept of the panopticon. A prison designed so inmates never knew if they were being watched, and thus learned to police themselves.

Pravda, he realized, was the central tower of a panopticon built at the scale of a nation. Its articles weren’t just information, they were a pervasive, unblinking gaze, a giant eye. Pervasive and omnipresent at every level of society.

When a citizen read a condemnation of hoarding something, they didn't just receive a message. They internalized the state's disapproval, and in doing so, became their own warden, scrutinizing their own desires and the actions of their neighbors.

The state didn't need a secret police officer on every corner, it just needed every citizen to suspect their neighbor might be one.

Mass communications was what made this possible, of course.

The control of information was the oldest game of statecraft, but modern technology had industrialized it hideously. Every government on Terra played this game, each with their own playstyle.

In Columbia, the indoctrination was a subtle, commercializing a celebration of consumer choice and individual exceptionalism that masked the rigid class structure.

Here in the FSSRU, the approach was forthright. There was no pretense of a marketplace of ideas, there was only the factory of truth, and he was its foreman.

Madness, or civilization?

The question answered itself.

It was a false dichotomy, a romantic's simplification.

The true dichotomy was between two types of order. The emergent, chaotic order of a million conflicting individual wills; and the designed, rational order of a single, collective will.

The former was not true freedom, it was merely the tyranny of chance and stronger predators.

The latter was civilization. It was the organized, scientific management of human potential. It required the construction of a common narrative, a shared reality, even if that reality had to be architecturally supported by carefully curated fictions.

Therefore, the great political question was not if will should be subordinated, but to what.

Is it better for people to be enslaved by the whims of the market, the prejudices of their birth, and the chaos of their own untamed desires? Or is it better for their will to be harnessed, purposefully and rationally, to a collective project that promises to lift them all?

Individual liberty, or collective destiny?

He recalled one of the lectures from his university that had been ingrained in his mind. The professor, a man of comfortable principles, had spoken with great passion on the sanctity of the individual.

Individual liberty, he had argued, was the highest good, the engine of progress, the very definition of an enlightened society. A civilized society.

Pavel had listened, and then he had looked out the window at the city occupied by Victorian soldiers. He saw the ‘liberty’ of the factory worker to choose between a sixteen-hour shift or starvation. He saw the ‘liberty’ of the debtor to be thrown into the street. He saw the ‘liberty’ of the press to champion the interests of its wealthy owners.

It became clear to him then, that a society's proclaimed values and its operational mechanics were two entirely different things.

Victoria and Columbia didn't lack control, their methods were merely more sophisticated and insidious. They used the invisible fist of the market, the immovable wall of social class, and the opiate of consumer aspiration to keep their populace in a managed, docile line.

The FSSRU, by contrast, was building its cage out of ideology, and it was at least honest enough to call it a collective.

For Pavel, a man who prized efficiency above all, the latter was superior. There were no illusions to maintain, only a narrative to enforce.

The masses, he concluded, did not truly crave the terrifying void of absolute freedom. They craved purpose. They yearned for a role in a story larger than their own small lives.

The Tsarist regime had offered them the story of a Holy Empire. Victoria and by extension, Columbia, offered them the story of individual economic success. The FSSRU offered the grandest story of all. The heroic, historical struggle of the proletariat to build a new world.

His job was to make that story compelling, to make the cage feel like a cathedral. The heroic worker wasn't just a propaganda trope, he was himself, a Saint, a model for living a life of meaning. The condemned reactionary wasn't just an enemy, he was a demon, a cautionary tale that gave moral clarity to the righteous.

This was the true social contract, far more binding than any philosophical abstraction. It was a transaction of meaning. The state provided a grand, unifying narrative and a sense of belonging and purpose that staved off the existential dread of a meaningless universe.

In return, the individual surrendered their right to a discordant, personal truth. It was a fair trade, Pavel thought. Most people were terrible authors of their own lives, and they were simply far happier as characters in a well-written epic.

He looked at the copy for tomorrow's front page.

It had the photo of a steelworker who had allegedly volunteered for triple shifts. The man was probably exhausted, perhaps even resentful. But that didn't matter.

The fact of his labor was raw material, the story of his heroic and voluntary sacrifice was the product. His edits transformed the man from a person into a parable. The state didn't need his genuine enthusiasm, it needed his image, to be weaponized as a standard for others to meet.

This was the ultimate expression of power.

Not the power to command bodies, but the power to define reality itself. The Victorians lied to themselves about their freedom. He, Pavel Zaitsev, was helping to build a state that lied to its people about their purpose, and in doing so, gave them a far more potent and satisfying one than they could ever forge alone.

He was not a monster. He was a civilizer. And civilization, he knew, had always been built on a foundation of necessary lies.

“Comrade Director, you have an audience.”

The voice of his secretary cut through his reverie as he was filling his glass at the pantry’s water cooler. She stood with the unnerving stillness all good assistants seemed to cultivate.

“Who is it?” he asked, taking a slow sip.

“Comrade Commissar Dmitriev of Internal Affairs,” she recited, consulting a clipboard that seemed permanently affixed to her hands. “There were no specific topics listed for discussion.”

“No specific topics?” Pavel raised an eyebrow. An unscheduled visit from the head of the Militia was never social. “Very well. Where is he?”

“In your office.”

Of course he is, Pavel internally scoffed. A man like him doesn't wait in lobbies. I bet he doesn’t even have a brain.

Gulping down the rest of the water—a bland, utilitarian drink for a bland, utilitarian meeting—he fixed his suit and walked the short corridor to his office.

It was unusual for such high-standing figures to seek him out directly. While his position as Director of Pravda granted him influence, it was the soft power of perception, not the hard power of arrest and ordinance.

He held a megaphone, not a crossbow.

And frankly. He’d liked it if it stayed that way.

Commissar Dmitriev, however, was the state’s clenched fist. The man was everything Pavel was not. Physically imposing, ideologically rigid, and devoid of any discernible irony. He was always distant, too serious. Pavel found him tiresome.

Opening the door to his room, he found the commissar not seated, but standing like a colossal monument by the window, his body blocking the grey light from outside. He was examining a framed front page from the revolution’s early days, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Comrade Commissar.” Pavel began, adopting a tone of professional courtesy. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I assume this isn’t about a subscription issue.”

Dmitriev turned slowly. He didn’t smile. His eyes, small and flinty in his broad face, performed a slow, dismissive sweep of the office before landing on Pavel. “Your paper. It shapes the thoughts of the people.”

“We provide the narrative framework.” Pavel corrected gently. “The people fill it with their own revolutionary spirit.”

Dmitriev grunted, unimpressed by the semantics. He took a heavy step toward the desk. “A strong narrative requires strong heroes. Unblemished. The people need to see their leaders as… focused. Driven by a single, pure purpose. The revolution.”

Pavel nodded slowly, his mind racing, mapping the labyrinth of subtext. Where was this going? A critique of Pravda's coverage? A demand for more hagiography?

“The Chairwoman is the embodiment of that purpose.” Pavel stated, choosing his words with the care of a sapper defusing a mine. “Our coverage reflects that.”

“Does it?” Dmitriev’s voice dropped, becoming conspiratorially low, a stark contrast to his bullish frame. “A leader must be seen as strong. Untouchable. Above… base instincts.” He leaned forward, his massive knuckles pressing white into the polished wood of Pavel’s desk. “There are… rumors, Zaitsev. Rumors that our Chairwoman’s heart is not entirely committed to the state. That it has been… captured by a softer, more personal influence.”

Pavel’s blood ran cold, though he kept his face a mask of polite incomprehension. “I am not sure I follow, Commissar.”

“Don’t play the fool. It doesn’t suit you,” Dmitriev sneered, his patience evaporating. “The Premier. Alina. The way the Chairwoman looks at her… it’s not the look of a comrade. It’s a weakness. A vulnerability that our enemies could exploit.”

“…This is a dangerous line of thought, Comrade Commissar.” Pavel’s mind, so adept at spinning fictions for the masses, now whirred at a frantic pace, calculating survival vectors. The commissar hadn’t just handed him a live grenade, and he was demanding Pavel choose a target. “I’m not sure I follow what you mean by this.”

His senses were hyper-aware, listening for the telltale click of boots in the hallway. Was this a test from the Chairwoman herself? A loyalty probe by the KGB? Or was Dmitriev truly this brazen, making a seditious pitch to the one man who could subtly reshape public perception?

Dmitriev’s eyes narrowed, searching Pavel’s face for a flicker of agreement, a hint of shared disgust. Finding only a bland, professional facade, he let out a slow, frustrated breath. The man was a locked box, and Dmitriev was losing patience trying to pick the lock.

He decided on a more direct, brutish approach.

“Let me be plain, then,” he growled, leaning in so close Pavel could smell the stale tobacco on his uniform. “The natural order exists for a reason. Don’t you find it… disordered? A woman loving another woman? And in the first place, it was never a woman’s place to be in a position of ultimate leadership. Strength, true strength, is a masculine virtue. This… this entire arrangement is a perversion of it.”

The naked bigotry, so stark and unvarnished, was almost refreshing in its simplicity.

It was also treasonous.

Pavel now knew this was no test from the Chairwoman. This was Dmitriev’s own play. The man was a reactionary wrapped in a red flag, and he was revealing his true colors to the one person he thought could help him repaint the world.

Pavel allowed a fraction of his true contempt to show, not for the sentiment, but for the stupidity of voicing it aloud.

“Comrade Commissar,” he said, his voice dropping to a similarly confidential level, but laced with ice. “You are speaking of the woman who broke the Ursus Empire and sent the Kazimierzians on the run. The one who personally led the assault on the Winter Palace. If that is not ‘strength,’ then the word has no meaning. And my role is not to question the ‘natural order,’ but to manage the political reality.”

He emphasized the last two words, a deliberate contrast to Dmitriev’s archaic worldview. “The political reality is that the Chairwoman and the Premier are the heart and mind of this government. To suggest otherwise, even in this room, is not just unorthodox. It is counter-revolutionary. My pages celebrate their leadership, their unity, and their shared dedication to the state. Any other narrative is not just dangerous, it is a threat to the stability you are tasked with protecting.”

For a moment, there was only the sound of Dmitriev’s heavy breathing. Then, a slow, ugly smile spread across his face.

"Political reality," Dmitriev repeated, mocking Pavel's tone. He didn't straighten up. Instead, he placed a massive hand on Pavel's shoulder. It wasn't a friendly gesture. Pavel could feel the immense strength in it, a promise of violence held in check. "You think in ink, Zaitsev. I think in blood and iron. Your ‘reality’ is whatever I decide it is."

His grip tightened, just shy of painful.

"Let me frame a ‘political reality’ for you. The Militia has files. Everyone has files. Your father had a rather profitable import business under the Tsar, didn't he? Collaborated with the Victorians. Your university application in Victoria... the one you submitted after the revolution began. A curious timing for seeking an education abroad. It could be interpreted as a lack of faith. As hedging one's bets."

Pavel’s blood went from cold to frozen.

They were not empty threats. The files existed, he knew they did. He had meticulously built a persona of the apolitical technocrat, but in this new, paranoid state, apolitical was just another word for potential enemy.

"You will hear me out." Dmitriev said, his voice a low, gravelly whisper, his face inches from Pavel's. "This is not a debate. You are correct that the Dragon is strong. But even a dragon can be brought down by a sickness from within. This... deviancy... is a sickness. It weakens her judgment. It clouds her focus. It makes her vulnerable to that Elafia's soft words. A state cannot be built on a foundation of sentiment."

He finally released Pavel's shoulder, leaving a phantom ache. "Your role, ‘Director’, is to begin a... sanitization campaign. Not an attack. Never that. But a gentle, steady re-emphasis. Print stories of traditional family units in the collective farms. Highlight the stern, unwavering resolve of male Red Army commanders. Remind people what true, uncomplicated strength looks like. Let the Chairwoman's... private life... fade from the narrative. Remind the people what true, uncomplicated strength looks like.”

Pavel remained silent for a long moment. The man was a reactionary brute, a relic of the old Ursus wearing a new uniform. He was also powerful, stupid, and dangerously sincere.

“You’re asking me…” Pavel said at last. “To subtly dismantle the very personality cult I helped to construct. To aim my most effective weapon not at the enemies of the state, but at its heart. Is that it?”

Dmitriev’s lips curled into something that was almost a smile. “I am asking you to save the revolution from itself, Director. To remind it of its roots. Its strength. Choose a side.”

Without another word, he turned and left, his heavy footfalls echoing down the corridor like the tolling of a bell.

Pavel did not move.

He stood in the sudden silence of his office, the phantom pressure still on his shoulder. He walked to his desk and sat down slowly, his hands perfectly steady as he steepled his fingers. He was a student of systems, and he had just been presented with a fatal system error.

Dmitriev was a blunt instrument, a cudgel. He saw the world in simple, brutal binaries, i.e the strong and the weak, the pure and the deviant, order and chaos.

Frostnova, by contrast, was more subtle. She was… a scalpel, that’s it. She was terrifying, yes, but she was precise, rational, and, above all, predictable. She served the system.

For Pavel, a man who valued the elegant machinery of control above all else, the choice was not one of loyalty. It was one of aesthetics. One could not build a lasting, efficient state with a sledgehammer.

He waited for a full hour, feeling the cold, analytical machinery of his mind re-engage. Then, he picked up his internal telephone, bypassing his secretary and dialing a secure, four-digit extension he had committed to memory but had sworn he would never use.

“This is Director Zaitsev.” Pavel said calmly. “I need to request an immediate, off-the-record consultation with the Commissar for State Security. The matter concerns a potential… ideological deviation at the highest level of the internal security apparatus.”

The days at the old Saint Katerina boarding school had never been so exciting since the new government.

Not that it was called with such name anymore. The carved stone nameplate lay shattered in a ditch, replaced by a freshly painted sign that read “Model School No. 7 - Northern Agricultural Sector.”

Pavlov’s parents, poor peasants who’d never learned to read or count beyond basic arithmetic, had been initially suspicious, then deeply relieved, when the officials came.

Their son, they were told, had been selected for a great honor. He would attend a special school, a place once reserved for the children of nobles, now repurposed to forge the minds of the new Ursus. It was a program being implemented across the rural north and everywhere else by the Commissariat for Education.

For ten-year-old Pavlov, it was all one big adventure.

The high, vaulted ceilings that once echoed with the prayers of the wealthy now rang with the marching songs of the Young Pioneers. In every classroom, in the drafty hallways, even above the doorway to the refectory, hung two portraits.

The teachers called the women in them the Paramount Leaders of the Revolution.

He had learned to spell T-A-L-U-L-A-H A-R-T-O-R-I-U-S and A-L-I-N-A before he could properly write his own surname. Their names were his first recitation, their stern and gentle faces the first art he was taught to replicate with stubby crayons.

Lessons were a whirlwind of new sounds and symbols, all pointing back to the two women on the wall.

Reading class involved slogans from Pravda Junior. "A is for Artoriagrad, our glorious capital!"

Arithmetic was "If one tractor, guided by the wisdom of the Chairwoman, can plow five fields, how many fields can ten tractors plow for the people?"

They were taught of the Tsar who let children starve, and the nobles who hunted peasants for sport in these very woods. Pavlov and his classmates would listen, wide-eyed, their own comfortable beds and full bowls of kasha in the dining hall proof of the miracle the Revolution had wrought.

One afternoon, the lesson was on civic duty.

Their teacher, Comrade Koshelna, held up a small, red cloth badge. She was new, younger than the others, with intense eyes that seemed to miss nothing.

"This is the badge of a Young Pioneer," she said. "It is awarded to those who show the most revolutionary spirit. Who can tell me what the most important duty of a Pioneer is?"

Pavlov's hand shot into the air. "To report suspicious activity!" he declared, parroting a phrase he'd heard on the school's crackling radio. "To watch for counter-revolutionaries and enemies of the people!"

Koshelna beamed. "Excellent, Pavlov! Vigilance is the price of liberty."

"But vigilance against whom?" Koshelna asked, her gaze sweeping across the room, inviting them into a secret. "The old noble hiding in the forest? He is easy to spot. The real enemies are smarter. They wear the same clothes as you. They say they love the Revolution."

She walked slowly between the desks, her fingers lightly brushing the tops of the children's heads. "Let's play a game. Imagine your papa comes home from the factory. He is tired. He sighs and says, 'The foreman is a fool, and these quotas are impossible.' What do you do?"

A girl raised her hand timidly. "We... we tell him to have revolutionary patience?"

"A good thought. But is that enough?" Koshelna's voice was a conspiratorial whisper. "What if his doubt spreads? What if it infects others, like a sickness? What if his words, even in his own home, are a tiny crack in our great socialist dam?"

The room was utterly silent. Pavlov frowned, thinking hard.

"The greatest duty of a Pioneer…" Koshelna said, her voice returning to its normal volume. "Is to love the State more than you love anything else. More than your family. More than your own feelings. Because the State is your true family. It feeds you, educates you, and it protects you. If your own papa was weakening that family, what would a true Pioneer do?"

“I know! I know!” a boy in the back piped up, his voice bright with certainty. “We report them to the nearest Party official! To protect the State!”

Koshelna’s smiled. "Correct! You protect the family. But the sickness of doubt doesn't always start at home." She turned and walked to the large map of Terra pinned to the wall, her finger tracing the borders.

"Sometimes," she said, her voice dropping again, "the sickness is sent to us. From them."

Her fingertip landed on Columbia, then Victoria, then Kazimierz.

"These nations, these capitalist empires, are jealous of our revolution. They see our unity and it frightens them. They cannot defeat our Red Army, so they try to poison our minds. They send spies who tell us lies. They broadcast radio signals full of cynical thoughts. They might even try to send pretty toys or candies that hide their poisonous ideas."

She turned back to the class, her expression grave. "A man from Columbia does not want to help you. A woman from Victoria does not want you to be happy. They want you to be weak, and confused, and selfish, like they are. They want you to doubt your leaders, to question your purpose. Because a divided Ursus is a weak Ursus. And a weak Ursus can be conquered."

Pavlov stared at the map, the once-abstract shapes of other countries now morphing in his mind into monstrous, looming faces. He thought of the simple, clear lessons in his books. Those of the heroic workers, the kindly Chairwoman, and the evil, greedy Tsar and his Boyars.

"So, your duty is twofold…" Koshelna concluded, picking up the red Pioneer badge once more. "You must guard against the sickness within, and you must be a soldier on the frontline against the sickness from without. If a stranger offers you a sweet, you must ask yourself—is this a gift, or is it a weapon? If you hear a new idea, you must ask yourself, does this come from a comrade, or from our enemies?"

She let the silence hang, allowing the immense weight of this responsibility to settle on their small shoulders.

"Remember, children," she said in a soft voice. "There is no such thing as an innocent foreigner. Only an enemy who has not yet revealed themselves. Your vigilance is the shield that protects our new world."

Pavlov looked from the portraits of Talulah and Alina hung above the classroom to the face of his teacher, a new resolve hardening inside him.

He would be a good Pioneer.

He would be a shield.

He would not let the sickness in, no matter where it came from.

Aleksander Korolev was by no means an expert psychologist, but he considered himself a masterful reader of ambition and stupidity. As the Commissar for Foreign Affairs, it was his job to understand the motives of men, both beyond their borders and, more delicately, within them.

So, when the Commissar for Internal Affairs, Aleksei Dmitriev—a man whose shared first name was their only point of similarity—barged into his office and began spouting veiled, venomous concerns about the Chairwoman’s private distractions, Korolev was forced to conduct a rapid reassessment.

The man looming over his desk was a textbook example of an idiot. Stupid enough to believe his own reactionary drivel, and brazen enough to voice it out loud. The combination was lethal.

Korolev might privately share a traditionalist disdain for certain… unorthodoxies, but he was a creature of the state, a bureaucrat. His kind had an innate talent for surviving regime changes by being indispensable, not ideological.

Dmitriev’s inability to keep his head down wasn't just a character flaw, it was a spark near a powder keg—and Korolev had no intention of being caught in the blast radius.

And unfortunately, his own faction, the Ursus Reconstruction Committee (URC), was a broad church. It housed everyone from genuine democrats to pragmatic industrialists to, he now realized with sinking dread, neo-reactionary throwbacks like the man before him.

“Let me get this straight, Dmitriev.” Korolev said, steepling his fingers and leaning back in his chair, a portrait of calm inquiry. “You have shouldered your way past my aides, into my office, to express… what, exactly? Concern for the Chairwoman’s focus? Her moral rectitude?”

Dmitriev’s face, already flushed, darkened further. “I am speaking of the strength of the state, Korolev! A leader must be a pillar, not… not this. This affection for the Premier is a crack in the foundation. It shows a divided loyalty. The people sense these things!”

“The ‘people,’” Korolev repeated, his voice dripping with a diplomat’s sarcasm, “are currently more concerned with their bread ration and whether their sons will receive a good education.”

He put a subtle, deliberate emphasis on the word ‘people’, a signal to any potential KGB listener that he was dismissing populist rhetoric, not endorsing sedition. “The ‘people’ are a useful abstraction, Aleksei, not a source of political analysis you should be citing in my office.”

His own influence, and that of the URC, was predicated on their ‘apolitical’ competence. If Dmitriev’s brazen factionalism were exposed, the ensuing purge would not distinguish between the reckless and the pragmatic. They would all be swept away and replaced by genuine, manifesto reading communists.

The thought was horrifying for Korolev.

A brief, heavy silence filled the room. Korolev broke it with a question that was anything but casual.

“Who else did you tell this?”

Dmitriev blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. "What? I came to you. As a man of influence in the URC. To gauge where we stand."

"We stand on a pane of glass suspended over a spike pit, you imbecile," Korolev hissed, his calm facade finally cracking. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "This is not a topic for gauging. It is a thought that, once spoken, becomes a contagion. Who. Else?"

"Just Zaitsev…" Dmitriev muttered, defensive now. "The Pravda director. To see if he understood the… narrative implications."

Korolev closed his eyes for a brief second, a wave of cold despair washing over him. He had given Pavel Zaitsev too much credit. The man was a cynic, not a fool, but in the face of Dmitriev's brute-force approach, his survival instincts would inevitably kick in. And a cornered cynic was the most dangerous animal of all.

"Zaitsev…" Korolev repeated, the name a curse. "You went to the chief propagandist, a man who answers directly to the Presidium, and you essentially confessed to harboring seditious thoughts about the paramount leader. Tell me, Commissar, did you at least bring your own blindfold and cigarette for the firing squad, or were you planning to borrow his?"

“Listen to me—”

"Get out of my office.” Korolev cut him off, standing up. The meeting was over. “Do not speak of this again. To anyone. Not to your mistress, not to your priest, and especially not to any other influential men. You have already potentially signed our death warrants. Now, I have to see if I can find an eraser."

Dmitriev shot him a venomous glare, a bull seeing red, but Korolev stood firm, a matador who had already sheathed his sword because the fight was pointless.

Eventually, the giant of a man shuffled out.

But Korolev could read the subtext in the stiff set of his shoulders. This wasn't defeat. It was the sullen, dangerous silence of a man whose pride had been wounded and whose only recourse was to double down on his brutish instincts.

The moment the door clicked shut, Korolev was in motion. He went not to his phone—every line was potentially compromised—but to a small, leather-bound notebook, its pages filled with the delicate architecture of his influence.

He scribbled a single name: Zaitsev.

Then, after a moment's consideration, he added two more: Frostnova. Patriot.

He needed a map of the fallout. He needed to contain this political plague before Dmitriev's stupidity infected the entire URC and brought the entire apparatus of the orthodox Party down upon them.

Has Frostnova noticed this?

If she had, he was already a dead man walking. His position, his life, his carefully constructed faction—all would be swept into the memory hole.

No. Dmitriev said he told Zaitsev first.

The drive from the Pravda offices to his own was about ten minutes. And knowing Zaitsev, he wouldn't have hesitated to immediately report him. He would have immediately dialed his superiors in a desperate attempt to inoculate himself.

He would have gone straight to Frostnova.

Korolev’s mind began to turn.

Both Zaitsev and Dmitriev were assets in his faction. Both were nominally apolitical, or at least not radical communists. Dmitriev, for all his flaws, was a crucial counterweight to Frostnova’s KGB, his Militia a check on her absolute power. Zaitsev, meanwhile, had subtly moderated Pravda’s messaging, sanding the edges off the most dogmatic pronouncements and maintaining a veneer of pragmatic state-building.

He could not save both.

To sacrifice Dmitriev would be to willingly break his own sword. The KGB, unchallenged by a powerful Militia, would have a free hand. Frostnova’s influence would become absolute, and the URC would lose its primary lever of physical control within the state. It would be a strategic capitulation.

But to sacrifice Zaitsev was to surrender his voice. Pravda would fall into the hands of a true believer, and the narrative—the very oxygen of political life—would become pure, unfiltered ideology. The URC’s platform of pragmatic reform would be drowned out by a cacophony of revolutionary zeal. It would be a political suffocation.

The choice was between a slow, strategic death by a thousand cuts from the KGB, or a quick, public execution by the propaganda machine.

…

…

…

…

…

Zaitsev had to be the one.

The logic was inexorable. Dmitriev was a known quantity. His value as a counterbalance to Frostnova was too great to discard.

Zaitsev, however, was now a liability.

By going to Frostnova, he had proven his ultimate loyalty lay not with the URC, but with his own skin. A man who could be so easily flipped was a man who could not be trusted.

Furthermore, his sacrifice would serve as a powerful message. See what happens to those who entertain seditious talk? The URC polices its own.

Korolev picked up his pen again.

He drew a single, decisive line through the name Zaitsev. Then, he wrote a quick, coded message on a fresh piece of paper from his notebook.

"The typesetter has made an error. Ensure the publisher is aware of the mistake."

Zaitsev entered the car after waiting for exactly twenty-three minutes. The vehicle was unremarkable, a black sedan that smelled faintly of disinfectant and old leather.

The driver was a silent, pale man in a plain grey suit. He did not acknowledge Zaitsev's presence, let alone speak to him. He simply started the engine the moment the door closed.

So this is it. Zaitsev thought. The panopticon has finally individualized its gaze. The abstract machinery of power has manifested as a silent man in a cheap suit and a car that smells of bleach.

He stared out the window as they pulled away from the curb, expecting the route to lead toward the dreaded Lyublanka, the KGB headquarters whose very name was a silent reminder to seditious folks like Dmitriev.

But the driver did not turn toward the city's dark heart. Instead, they navigated a series of anonymous boulevards, the monumental architecture of the state giving way to rows of identical, functional apartment blocks. The landscape was a perfect manifestation of the system he had championed. Efficient, austere, and utterly soulless.

His own theories began to mock him. Foucault wrote of power operating through institutions, but what was this, if not the ultimate institution? The state didn't need a dungeon to disappear you, it just needed a driver who didn't speak and a destination you didn't know.

After twenty minutes of silent driving, the car abruptly turned, executing a perfect U-turn that pressed Pavel against the door.

They were going back the way they came, now taking a longer, more circuitous route into the city's core. His nerves, stretched taut, began to calibrate anew.

“This is it.” He thought, a strange calm washing over him. He would meet with Frostnova.

He could almost see the grim, granite facade in his mind's eye. He began rehearsing his explanation, framing his report to Frostnova as one of proactive loyalty.

However, as soon as his nerves began to settle into this acceptance, the world exploded.

A violent, shattering impact slammed into the side of the car.

The world became a deafening roar of twisting metal and shattering glass. Pavel was thrown across the back seat, his head cracking against the opposite window. The sedan spun, tires screeching, the city outside becoming a nauseating blur.

For a moment, there was a ringing silence, broken only by the ticking of the dying engine and the drip of fluids. Pavel lay dazed, the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. He pushed himself up, his vision swimming. Through the spider-webbed window, he saw the crumpled hood of a large, unmarked truck that had T-boned them.

Is this an assassination? His mind screamed. Did Dmitriev find out?

But then he saw the driver.

The silent man in the grey suit was already out of the car, standing calmly in the midst of the wreckage. He wasn't checking for injuries or looking panicked. He was speaking into a small radio. He didn't even glance back at his passenger.

Within moments, the scene was swarming. Not with ambulances or regular Militsiya, but with men in long, dark coats.

KGB.

They moved with a swiftly. One group cordoned off the area, diverting traffic with an authority that brooked no argument. Another approached the car.

The door was wrenched open from the outside. A face, pale and utterly devoid of emotion, looked in.

"Comrade Director," the agent said, his voice flat. "Are you able to walk?"

“Y—yes. I can,” Pavel stammered, the words sounding small and pathetic even to his own ears.

He was helped outside, his legs unsteady. As his senses cleared, he scanned the scene. The truck that had T-boned them was a heavy, military-grade vehicle.

And it was... empty.

The driver's seat was vacant, the door hanging open. There was no one at the wheel.

“What happened?” He asked the KGB officer, his voice trembling slightly.

The agent’s gaze remained fixed on him. "We're still finding out," he said, the lie delivered with perfect, placid neutrality.

The calm, bureaucratic response was a perverse comfort. It suggested procedure, investigation, a world where events had causes and reasons.

Pavel’s breathing began to slow, the initial shock receding. This was just another layer of state theatre, a test of his nerve. He was still in the system, being processed.

Right?

He took a half-step forward, his mind already trying to frame this experience, to fit it into his understanding of power.

…

…

…

It was his last conscious thought.

The world turned white. A blinding flash that he did not have the time to react whatsoever.

Then, a deafening sound and an absolute roar that was less a noise and more the annihilation of silence. The empty truck erupted, a sun blooming in the heart of the city street.

Pavel saw the KGB agent’s placid face contort for a microsecond into something like… shock? Surprise? Then the fire took him.

The blast wave lifted Pavel off his feet, a rag doll in a hurricane of heat and shrapnel.

The theoretical architecture of his mind—Foucault, the panopticon, the social contract—was rendered into its constituent atoms. There was no philosophy in that instant, only physics. The searing kiss of the fire, the brutal punch of fragmented steel piercing his body, the final, dark embrace of the pavement as it rose to meet him.

His final, fragmented sensation was the smell of his own burning hair and the taste of blood and ashes.

.

.

.

A report would be filed.

Director Pavel Zaitsev, en route to a consultation, was tragically killed in a vehicular accident involving a derelict military vehicle. The cause is believed to be a faulty fuel line. The state mourns the loss of a loyal servant.

It was the final edit.

A messy, and inconvenient variable had been neatly solved. The architect of the people's truth had been erased by a simpler, more brutal kind of truth—the kind that was written in fire and blood, the only kind that ever really mattered in the end.

A day later, it was announced that Pravda would be getting a new Director. A teacher from the northern provinces by the name of Koshelna.

Talulah barely registered the dull, distant thud that reverberated through the Kremlin’s walls.

A part of her mind, the part that was always the Chairwoman, catalogued it very precisely. An explosion, mid-city. Frostnova or Dmitriev would appear soon enough with a report, reducing chaos to a few lines of text.

It could wait.

Every other part of her was focused on the door in front of her.

It was the door to her and Alina’s private bedroom.

The room beyond was vast, dominated by a bed that could easily accommodate four people. It was a relic of imperial excess that now served as their sanctuary and, more often, a place where they collapsed, too drained by the weight of the state to do more than sleep.

But not tonight.

Tonight, a different kind of energy hummed beneath her skin, a restless, possessive need that had been burning through her exhaustion all day. She had resolved to claim this moment, and the silent understanding in Alina’s eyes across the table during these day’s meetings told her the resolve was mutual.

She opened the door without knocking.

The room was lit by a single lamp, casting long, dancing shadows. Alina was standing by the window, having also heard the distant boom, her profile silhouetted against the night. She turned as Talulah entered, her usual composure softened by the intimate light.

Without a word, Talulah closed the door, the click of the latch a definitive sound, sealing them in. The world of reports, explosions, and political threats was locked out.

Now…

“The noise…” Alina began, her voice quiet.

“Is not here.” Talulah finished, her voice low and firm.

She crossed the room, her boots silent on the rich carpet. She didn’t stop until she was standing directly before Alina, close enough to feel the warmth of her body, to see the faint pulse at the base of her throat.

Talulah’s gaze was intense. This was not the look of a comrade or a Chairwoman. It was the look of a dragon guarding its most precious hoard. She brought a hand up, not with a lover’s gentle caress, but with a conqueror’s certainty.

Her gloved fingers traced the line of Alina’s jaw, a possessive gesture that made Alina’s breath hitch.

“Today…” Talulah murmured, her voice a husky whisper. “I have debated idiots, managed fools, and signed papers that decide the fate of millions.” Her other hand came up to cradle Alina’s face, holding her still. “But tonight, the only order I will give is to you. The only world I want to govern is this one in front of me.”

She leaned in, her lips hovering a breath from Alina’s. “And in this world, I am not in the mood for debate.”

Then she closed the final distance, her kiss not an invitation but a claim.

It was deep, hungry, and utterly dominant, fueled by a day of repressed power and a desperate need for an anchor in the only person who knew the woman behind the monument. It was the unvarnished truth of her desire, and it was the only truth she had left the energy to uphold.

As for Alina, there was no retort, no excuses, no thought of the reports waiting in the office.

A soft, surrendering sigh escaped her as she melted into the kiss, her hands coming up to clutch at Talulah’s shoulders. She let herself be guided backward toward the bed, a willing captive to the storm she saw brewing in Talulah’s eyes.

When the back of her knees hit the mattress, Talulah followed her down, pinning her with a weight that was both physical and emotional.

There was a frantic, desperate energy in Talulah’s hands as they worked at the fastenings of their clothes—not the slow unveiling of lovers, but the urgent tearing down of barriers.

Buttons strained and fabric tore, the sound was obscenely loud in the quiet room.

When the last shred of clothing was torn away, Talulah drew back just enough to look. The air, cool against their feverish skin, seemed to still. All the frantic energy coalesced into a single, breathless moment of reverence.

Her gaze was a physical caress, scouring every inch of Alina’s exposed body, not with simple lust, but with a ravenous, soul-deep hunger for the truth of her.

"Here…" Talulah breathed. Her hand, which could sign death warrants and shape the destiny of a nation, came to rest on Alina's stomach. "This is the only border I care to rule. The only territory that is real. For me."

She lowered her head, her mouth finding the frantic, bird-like pulse at the base of Alina's throat. Her tongue traced a hot, wet path upward, and the broken cry that escaped Alina’s lips was the sweetest sound Talulah had heard all day.

In the scent of Alina’s skin, the taste of salt on her neck, the feel of her arching into the touch, Talulah was trying to burn away the ghost of the Chairwoman.

Her mouth worked relentlessly, moving from throat to the swell of a breast, her tongue circling a peak until it tightened into a desperate point under its attention.

Her hands mapped the familiar geography of Alina’s body—the subtle dip of her waist, the gentle flare of her hips—with a new, frantic urgency, as if memorizing a sacred text before it was lost to her.

One hand slid lower, past the trembling plane of Alina’s stomach, through the soft, downy hair, seeking the heat at her very core. When her fingers found her, wet, aching, and utterly ready, Alina’s back arched off the bed, a silent, desperate plea.

Talulah’s eyes, dark and blown with need, found Alina’s. "Look at me," she commanded. "I need to see you."

She waited until Alina’s tear-blurred gaze met hers, until she saw the unguarded trust there. Only then did she move her hand, a slow, deep, claiming stroke that made Alina’s world contract to that single, white-hot point of sensation.

The rhythm she set was relentless, deep, rough, and perfect in its intimacy, each movement designed to shatter the last of Alina’s composure and with it, the last of Talulah’s own walls.

"Let go…" Talulah rasped against her mouth, capturing a sob with a searing kiss. "Let go for me. I'm here. I'm with you."

The words, layered with a lifetime of shared struggle, broke Alina’s control. A wave of pure pleasure crashed over her, so intense it was almost painful. Her body bowed, a silent scream on her lips as convulsions wracked her, shaking her apart in Talulah’s arms.

But Talulah’s hunger was a bottomless pit.

As Alina trembled through the aftershocks, breathless and boneless, Talulah withdrew her hand. A whimper of protest escaped Alina’s lips, but it was quickly silenced as Talulah gripped her hips with a newfound, primal possessiveness.

"Turn over." Talulah murmured.

The shift in energy was instant. Dazed and pliant, Alina obeyed, moving onto her hands and knees. The new position was one of utter vulnerability, offering herself completely.

Talulah’s gaze burned over the exposed line of her back, the curve of her spine. She covered Alina’s body with her own, her front to Alina’s back, her mouth finding the sensitive skin of her shoulder.

This was a different kind of possession.

It was… deeper, more animalistic.

Talulah’s hands gripped Alina’s hips, holding her steady as she entered her from behind in one smooth, devastating stroke. The angle was deeper, more intense, and Alina cried out, her fingers twisting in the sheets.

Talulah set a new rhythm, a driving, powerful pace that was less about finesse and more about pure, unadulterated connection. Each thrust was a punctuation mark in a silent, physical dialogue—Mine.

She wrapped one arm around Alina’s waist, pulling her back against each movement, her other hand continuing its devastating strokes.

The force of it, the sheer physicality, was overwhelming. But as the peak approached again, Talulah stilled, her body sheened with sweat. "Look at me," she breathed, her voice ragged, guiding Alina onto her back once more.

But this time, she didn't settle over her. Instead, she moved alongside her, a fluid, practiced shift of her limbs. She guided Alina’s leg over her hip, mirroring the position with her own, until they were intertwined in a scissoring embrace, the most intimate parts of them pressed together in a slick, heated union.

Here, there was no leader and follower.

Their bodies were locked in a symmetrical dance of equal give and take. Talulah’s eyes, still dark with need, held Alina’s with a new intensity—not of command, but of shared desperation.

The pace they found was a rolling, grinding rhythm, a mutual seeking of friction that built not from one giving and the other receiving, but from both moving in perfect, desperate synchrony.

Talulah’s hand slid between their joined bodies, her fingers finding Alina’s clit just as Alina’s own hand moved to reciprocate.

The air was filled with their ragged breaths, their foreheads pressed together. The power was no longer something Talulah wielded, it was a circuit completed between them, a feedback loop of sensation that built with every rock of their hips and every stroke of their fingers.

"Together…" Talulah gasped, the word was a plea and a promise.

It was all the encouragement needed.

The climax, when it broke, was not a wave that crashed over one and then the other, but a single, simultaneous detonation that seemed to lift the very bed beneath them. Alina’s cry was matched by Talulah’s guttural moan, their bodies seizing against one another in a trembling unison.

In the aftermath, they remained entwined, legs still locked, unable and unwilling to separate. The world outside, with its demands and its explosions, had ceased to exist.

The silence that followed was soft, filled only with the slowing drumbeat of their hearts. Talulah nuzzled into the crook of Alina’s neck, her lips brushing against the damp skin there.

The words that left her then were not spoken with the calculated force of the Chairwoman, nor the raw hunger of the lover of moments before. They were quiet, vulnerable, and carried a hope that she had carried for a lifetime, ever since she met her.

“Alina…” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Will you marry me?”

The air in the room seemed to still. Alina, whose senses were still swimming in the aftershocks of pleasure, felt her breath catch. She drew back just enough to look into Talulah’s eyes, searching for any hint of jest.

Then, a single tear traced a path from Alina’s eye, cutting through the sheen of sweat on her temple. It was not a tear of sadness, but of a joy so overwhelming it had to overflow.

"Yes." she replied. Her hand came up to cradle Talulah’s cheek, her thumb stroking away a matching tear she found there. "A thousand times, yes. In this life and any that may follow."

(Listen/watch this, I think it fits: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YEqhcuYWrTk)