NationStates Jolt Archive

'You wanna know why this all started or are you just going to do what the rest of the system's media loves to do and just blame the Aumanii? Because if you want to know why we're having all the problems we are today, it'll take awhile...'

An Aumanii partisan struggled to light his cigarette. An explosion tore through the street outside, throwing dirt on the war reporter that was trying to get a story from the old fighter.

'I have all day!' quipped the newsman in a Germanic accent, making light of the rapidly changing situation just outside the cafe they had taken cover in.

'Oh boy, then you're in for a history lesson. Well, ten thousand years ago, during the invasion of the Dragonoids...' laughed the old, tattoo'd, man as he stroked his white beard.

'May'be not that far, Zag.' said the reporter, using the soldiers first name casually.

'Well, if you want a recent history...It all started when we got to this shit hole camp of yours...'

----

'Turn out your pockets. Place your hands on the back of your head. Interlock your fingers.'

A Dersconi soldier searched some Aumanii teen for contraband. The lines of people stretched for miles from the space ports of Tundaria, people built shanties on the runways and air traffic was halted for a few days. Obviously your boys used racial profiling, all Aumanii were stopped where as other ethnics, like the Turks and the Siberans, were just allowed to walk right into the camps. A soldier took my dentures.

'Oh for fuck sake, man! I don't have shit...look at that guy over there, he's carrying a rifle!' shouted the young man who was being searched, the Soldier promptly told him to...

'Get down and shut up!'

The Soldier dragged this kid to the ground by his collar. Aumanii just watched in disgust as one of our own was treated like a second class citizen, while a group of Turks walked by laughing.

----

'They took my boots. A pair of steel toed working boots. They said they were dangerous contraband. I'm a bloody carpenter, not a Shock Trooper. I wouldn't know where to begin when it came to killing.'

I was with a group of older Aumanii tradesmen, working folk, we stood in a circle talking and smoking. Across the square, we could see a Dersconi soldier was checking his operating procedures, making sure we were allowed matches, lighters, etc...to his disappointment, they were.

Our guests weren't taking any chances with us, there were alot of stereotypes and racial prejudices in regards to the Aumanii...chief being that we are all raping, pillaging, baby eating, barbarians. That, however, couldn't be further from the truth.

'They broke my guitar. Thought there might have been a secret compartment in it.'

Aumanii, aside from our obvious military background, think of ourselves as accomplished artists and musicians, and hoped we'd be better known for our beer then for a few battles that were fought over a hundred years ago.

'The power of foreign media, Buck.'

'Eh?'

'You think the outside world ever saw the real shit that went on in the Duma? All they ever saw was Navarrone flying off the handle, never what caused him to do it. Everyone thinks we're maniacs...so, when we come to a place like Derscon, a place I don't think an Aumanii has ever been, they take one look at the news and make their first assumptions on that. Can't blame them, really.'

'...MNN.'

Aumanii, on average, were generally well informed. You could say what you want about our government, but they made well sure we knew the real story...and sorry to say it, we were the subject to racism on a solar-political scale.

----

'Why do you think your people are the focus of so much hatred? It may be obvious to you, but it's hazy for some of us here in Derscon.'

'We were Martian. Real Martians. The others sold out years ago. Even more collapsed to the intrigues of the Colonial powers. They didn't like us because we told them "No.", it drove them insane...'

'Well, from what I've been told, your nation took a belligerant stance time and time again with no real attempt at diplomacy...'

'That's a funny one. The fact is, the enemy, their concept of diplomacy is "Do what we say, or else.", what we did was simply reactionary. I'll note, never once in recent Aumanii history has our government ever used direct threats of force...'

Gunfire erupted outside, Zag hefted the barrel of his rifle over the lip of the busted window-sill he was using as cover and fired a few shots. A handful of other Aumanii partisans joined him. Soon, the shooting died down and the two men continued their interview.

'Anyway, we're not here to talk about what got us in the camps...but why we're fighting in them, eh Kandajr?'

----

Human society is a creature all its own. It has its own thoughts and feelings. It has intrigues. Think of it like this. Ethnic Aumanii Society, at this point, is a Dear...The Turks, thanks to updated profiles, were quickly brought down to our level, after all we were adversaries and most obviously the most violent groups in the nation. The problem is not in the execution of the disarmament, but in its uneveness. The Turks and Aumanii lost anything that could be used as a weapon...I'm talking things from rifles to butter knives. This gave an advantage, however, to another group.

The Siberans.

Soon, as society is as organic and flexible as nature itself, a hierarchy began to develop. The Aumanii, the Dear. The Turks, the Fish. The Siberans, the Bear. We didn't stand a chance...

The Siberans, eager after years of "oppression", imposed themselves as the rulers of the camps. At first, the Dersconi supported them...why? Well, if you look at the old news vids you'll realize one of two things. First, that you never hear of the poor Siberans taking up arms and secondly, the foreign media produced them as some sort of beaten child...Anyone who studied history, on the other hand, would find out something completely different.

'They are murderers!'

Aumanii Refugee Camp 173; Triumverate of Kæsþiöndhrgarðr, Derscon

"Send those back to the Depot. We don't need anyone to get their hands on them."

"Yes, sir." The Kommandant of Camp Group Seven, SS Colonel Issac Khodus watched a lieutenant order some grunt SS soldiers to move the crates of contraband from the platform to the cargo trains shipping out to the unfathomable complex of the STSN.

The entire project was taken on under Tsar Alexei Andropov XIV, in an attempt to save a nation from the complete annihilation of the spiteful powers of Mars. Unfortunately, one billion Aumanii are difficult to administer. Sent to refugee camps in the northern parts of Imperial Derscon and southern Hrímgarðr (referred to as the "Tundarian Expanse" by most everyone), there were simply too many for the Dersconi government to keep the peace with. So, naturally, they let them rule themselves.

With the ascent of Tsar Xavier, however, this "self-rule" was coupled with the SS overseeing an Aumanii war within the camps. Xavier's only real knowledge of the Aumanii came from foreign sources -- none of which were friendly towards the Aumanii or the Turks. Therefore, he did the logical thing and gave the power to rule to the Siberans. They were in the majority, and they weren't inclined to warmongering. Or so they thought.

The SS Kommandant turned over command back to the Captain and Konzentrationslagermeister and hopped into his motorcade back to the fortress in the centre of the five camps that made up Camp Group Seven.

On his way back to the fortress, the sounds of battle were all too present, but the Kommandant dismissed them as he read the magazine. No matter. The more they kill each other, the less we have to worry about.
_______________________________________________

National Military Command Centre

The STSN was divided into various sectors, each centred around a Sector Core, which controlled all of the activity of that sector. However, they all were connected to the NMCC, the Core of the STSN, and the heart of the Imperial War Machine.

Lord General Kruchina Drakonov -- Overseer of the NMCC -- sat in his office above the Eye of Providence, with Orpheus in the Underworld playing on his stereo, drinking a glass of cherry vodka. His secretary came in with the Warmaster Chronicles, the official newspaper of the Dersconi Imperial Armed Forces, refilled his glass, and left the room, shutting the door behind him. Lord General Drakonov leaned foward in his chair to grab the paper and proceeded to recline once more, having no need to exhibit the formalities of a flag officer, when there was no one but him present.

He glanced over the front page, which was usually some sort of article about nothing useful, but saw down at the bottom a small "investigative piece," and became interested. Hmm, Kandajr Kazankrov. Good writier. "Struggle of a Homeless People; The Plight of the Displaced Aumanii in Derscon." The Lord General raised an eyebrow. Hmm.

Three glasses of vodka and two pages of notes later, the Lord General set the paper down and put a note on his daily planner, Aumref@genstafconmor, before heading off to bed in the Living Quarters above him.

Somewhere in Allanea

“There are Aumanii?! In the Empire?! What the freaking fuck is that all about?!” - for a moment, Kazansky was the embodiment of rage. “Who the hell let the beer-swilling idiots onto Prussian soil? Is there no God?”

Victoria nodded. “I understand the notion of the Aumanii being this near discomfits you a little, Alex... but you must understand, they are but another group of refugees – not unlike my and my mother at an earlier time. You helped us then – you cannot deny them help now.”

“Vicky, the Aumanii brought this upon themselves. They have denied any offers of improvement, any help, any negotiations. They have allowed the Shanderians to corrupt them with their whispers of glory... yes, they have failed. How much failure can we witness before we see that the proverbial Forge of Adversity must be allowed to take it's toll?”

“But my people have failed as well, and you have helped them. Surely, you will not allow...”

“That will be enough.”

“But, Alex! Surely you would not like those abroad to think that Allanea's charity has faltered...”

“It shall not. I have heard rumours that Christian Aid and some other Allanean groups will be sending aid to the refugee camps. You can go and visit the Aumanii refugees there. This is all. Outside of your business... the Allanean governemnt will not help them. I will veto Congressional Acts if need be. This is all. I have cast the Aumanii out of my favor, Vicky.”

“But...”

“Didn't you want to go and visit them?” - Kazansky's voice became a sneering hiss. “Go. Go now.”

Liberty-City Airport, Allanea

Lord Kourai Dasc smiled as he stepped off the Menelmacari ‘plane’ a silver vehicle whose wings extended over the boarding tube, visible through the glass. Arriving here from Menelmacar, after acting as a glorified courier for the small (which was to say one-room) embassy there, delivering a rather more glorified, glorious in fact, set of information packages to the local government, he’d been surprised by the convenient number of pleasingly luxurious business flights to Allanea.

He had few preconceptions of the place, thinking no more or less of it than he did of the likes of Derscon, Xirnium or Pantocratoria. It was simply another new place. His keen, augmented eyesight told him much about the place; spread out, low built, structures that seemed rather temporary, in a wide variety of styles. Something of a melting pot, one might say, of cultures and a wonderful place to acquire trinkets, were that what he was after. However, to his mind now, it was simply a stop along the way.

Outwardly, he looked quite different from both the locals and from the Menelmacari. His style could in all respects be called eccentric; dressed in a violet version of a eighteenth to early nineteenth century European cavalry officer’s uniform, it appeared he might pass as one of the local history enthusiasts, save that his sword was wrong, a short sword of some kind, and his black hair, which seemed to accentuate a growing baldness by being cut and gelled – one assumed – into a wide, semicircular crest, akin to something one might find on a Roman Centurion’s helmet, that seemed to frame his face. He was short, slightly overweight, and seemed to be perpetually amused.

With a swagger, he made his way to an information desk; his questions were quite straightforward, how to get to Derscon. He had a desire to see some things there.

Then there was the matter of getting himself a copy of an Allanean passport; he had an operating budget of several million M€, but finding a decent source would be a delay. That said, Allanea was a nation renowned for its smuggling and easy laws, so it was unlikely to be as difficult as he feared.

Then on, to Derscon!

OOC: I know it doesn't specifically say "closed," but it'd be really appreciated if you ran everything by Auman and I first. We do, in fact, have a set plotline, and I'd like it not to go to hell. I don't have a problem with people participating, but...just clear it with both of us first, before you do anything major, please. Thanks. :)

Star Office, Imperial Palace: Dersconi Empyrean Asgardia, Rekjyavich Andropov Military City

The Dersconi Empyrean Asgardia, often simply titled "The Kremlin Palace," was an enormous palace structure that was unarguably the most beautiful building in Derscon, and the most decieving. While big, the architecture of the palace made it seem much smaller than it actually was. In fact, the Kremlin Palace was actually four different interconnected palaces, but it would be almost impossible to tell that from simply looking.

The Imperial Palace was the highest palace, literally sitting on top of the other sections. It was where the Tsar had his offices, where the Imperial Family made residence, and where low-key official functions with heads of states who were friends of the family were held.

The Star Office was a large room in the shape of a seven-pointed star that was the main office of the Tsar of Derscon, and where the entire Dersconi Government was run.

Currently meeting in the office was Tsar Xavier II, Minister of State Security Yuri Golovko, Minister of Defence Imperial Marshal (ret.) Sir Arthur Wellesley, Commander in Chief of the Schutzstaffel Reichsmarshal Reinhard Helmer, and Commander in Chief of the Imperial Air Force, Imperial Aeromarshal Herrfuchs Ljossalfheimer. At the moment, it was the CinC-AIR that was speaking.

"Well, sir, the crafts from the north-eastern sections of the Tundra have not re-appeared as of yet, but we are continuously monitoring the location. Obviously, though, we can only do so much, as the location where they most likely are is a technological dead zone." Xavier nodded.

"Yes, yes. Well, keep me posted. Now, Wellesley, do you have something?" It was a well known fact -- although never spoken of -- that Wellesley and Xavier did not get along at all, due to their polar opposite positions on not only tactics of warfare, but the use of warfare itself. Wellesley was kept on board, however, due to his history as one of the greatest Dersconi Commanders since the Vanirs of the Amaranthine Imperium.

"Indeed. It's about the Aumanii refugees in the north." Xavier nodded but said nothing, so Wellesley continued. "Firstly, they're having quite a bit of in-fighting there, and I believe that if we deploy the ar--"

"No." Xavier shook his head after the interjection. "I will not intervene. If they want to kill each other, then go ahead." Wellesley clearly was disappointed and angry, but shrugged it off and moved on.

"Also, GICAPFAH has reported that they have found foreign organizations -- as well as GICAPFAH itself -- that wish to send aid to the refugee camps." Xaiver scowled.

"They can send aid, but it will have to go through the Army if it wants to actually do something. They can go into the refugee camps in Kæsþiöndhrgarðr, but none other."

"But sir, there are only five in Kæsþiöndhrgarðr, and they don't need the aid. It's the hundreds of camps in the Tundra that need it." Xavier glared at Wellesley.

"No, damnit! No one goes into the Tundra -- ever! There is a reason foreigners are barred from enterance into the Tundra, and nationals have to work through the Kremlin to get in. My answer is and always will be 'no.' Now stop pressing the issue!"

OOC: Nothing major is immediately planned. Just assessment and recon, for now at least.

OOC: Nothing major is immediately planned. Just assessment and recon, for now at least.

OOC: Well, if you can manage to do that with a jamming network over the Tundra, and xenophobic travel laws, all the more power to you. Due to how you RP your nation, you probably can, But whatever. Again, just don't do anything that may change the plotline Auman and I are working on. You, C'tan, seem like a decent enough person to have the courtesy to not do such -- as I would not deliberately do such to you. Thanks again or being reasonable. :)

The man in the officer's uniform would be directed quickly to a certain desk marked Allanean Airlines – one of the few companies that ran frequent lines to Derscon. The clerk did not mind the cavalry officers' uniform, nor the sword – he was, himself, dressed in an outfit that reminded loosely of the fashion preferred by inhabitants of the late Galactic Republic period, down to a nastily-upgraded Mauser pistol.

“Tickets to Derscon, eh? “ - he nodded as he arranged a few things - “You can pay in a currency of your choice for economy-class, business-class, or elite-class tickets. However, company policy means I have to warn you about certain things about travel to Derscon. First of all, their internal travel policy sucks – they've still got closed cities and closed areas – kind of Old Soviet Russia, you know. Pretty much boggles me how an advanced nation like Derscon still has these laws, don't you know. But, policy is policy. Anyway... here's a list of currently restricted areas – note that like half their fucking nation is restricted – especially everything near the capital, and the entire tundra area.”

“Now, the bad part – you have a Dersconi visa, don't you, Sir? Oh. I see. Well, you see, for Derscon, an open visa policy means it'll take a month to confirm a visa... at least. I'm sorry, they're just like that. Would you like me to leave you a phone number of the Dersconi embassy?”

“Perhaps you would like to be directed to a place to sleep while you await your documents?”

'Ya see, a bunch of Aid Organizations were sending relief packages in. Allegedly.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, we never got them. The problem was, after the Dersconi Army had their pick, the Siberans got theirs...'

'They were hoarding relief supplies? That's illegal, why didn't you tell someone?'

'You think they would listen?'

Kandajr had a sincerely concerned expression as Zag carried on...

----

Trucks were lined up at some transfer point down south. Dersconi Soldiers made sure to record every vehicle that passed them by, and double check as they left, just to be sure...of what, I don't think they even knew. Aid boxes were tossed from the trucks into quickly disintegrating piles. The rain was coming down hard that day. Siberan militiamen shared cigarettes with their federal counterparts, laughing, joking in broken up Unilac. All the stuffs were going to the East side, that's where the Siberans lived...up on the heights, the bastards. Every once in awhile, people down below would be hit by bullets, same days...well, some days it was just best to stay inside. Some days, it didn't even matter.

----

'Okay, and who can tell me what this is?' a dark haired woman, caring, compassionate...so said her friends...was teaching a group of kids out of a tent. A pair of thugs walked in, drinking powdered milk. Sons of bitches were sucking it down like water at a spring, and these poor kids...who hadn't had a bite in days were watching like, well...I dunno.

'It's a Tiger.' said one of the pukes, he was drunk too...explain that to me?

The teacher didn't say anything, she knew what this was. 'Can you at least let the kids go?' she begged, pleaded, them. They didn't listen. I won't go into detail about what happened right then...

----

'She was raped, wasn't she?' asked Kandajr, solemnly. Zag went quiet.

'We got them. Don't worry about that.' said Zag, grimly, swirling his index finger along the stock of his rifle.

----

I don't know why, but everyone started to show up at my place.

'Zag...' the teacher's husband, Yoren Zaba, asked me, '...I hear you know things.' He looked like someone had just shot his dog, I nearly told him to fuck off, but...

'The Sib' bastards...they...' Yoren broke down, his friends sat him down. I still hadn't said anything, neither did they. One of the guys explained their situation, anyway. I wasn't surprised, I was old enough to know their tricks...it was nothing new.

'What do you need to know?' I asked.

'We want to get these guys.'

----

'So....'

'So what?' snapped Zag, he didn't quite like Kandajr's tone...it implied something, something he didn't want to adress.

'Should we just cut off this interview right now? Are you just going to splice and dice this entire thing, make it look like we're a bunch of animals? Because, if you're having your doubts now, you won't like what I'm about to tell you.' said Zag.

Kandajr sigh and went on, 'Sorry, it's just my own set of beliefs, Zag. I don't think it's mature to take justice into your own hands. Iam a man of integrity, however. I won't let you down. Keep going, please.'

A staccato burst of gunfire bracketed Kandajr's words and lent intensity to Zag's unfaltering expression of determination. Zag knew his nation was broken, it wouldn't be the same again. Sol had its minds made up already, Auman deserved it after all! However, Zag wouldn't let this war, in this time, right now, be under represented...

Green Meadows Cafe

Thankfully, the new anteroom added to the cafe a few years ago kept the draft out. It was -34 degrees outside, with heavy winds. It was an unusually cold day, for being late winter, and not really being very far north.
good for a meeting like this, especially when it could get you court martialed and executed. The ban on capital punishment had not extended to the military.

The man he was waiting for came through the door, brushing off the snow before entering the cafe itself. He causally took his seat across from the Jaeger, ordering a cup of tea when the waitress appeared. When she was finally gone, the man looked inquisitively at the Jaeger.

"It's not often that we have a member of the military approach a journalist. At least, not without threats." The Jaeger let out a nervous chuckle before taking a sip of his vodka.

"Well, sir, it's not often that we find the army sanctioning behaviours that would send people to class three labour camps." The man perked up at the condemnation. Christ, this must be big.

"I'm listening." The Jaeger shook his head.

"No, I'm not telling you anything." He handed over a copy of The Warmaster Chronicles and pointed to an article in the lower-right-hand corner. 'Struggle of a Homeless People, Part III.' The man raised an eyebrow.

"Kandajr Kazankrov, eh? Good man." The Jaeger looked confused.

"You know him." The man nodded.

"Yeah, I know him. He used to work for me, for about a year, when he was just a teenager. He got sick of being a gopher, though, and went off to join the military. Ended up hopping from division to division for a few years, then settled in some special ops force I don't recall. Eventually, though, he found himself leading Shock Troopers in the Blitzkrieg Brigade under Razladanov when he was still a General. Rumour has it he participated in the Burning of Fayettesville."

"Burning of Fayettesville?"

"Yeah. It was a 'battle,' if you could call it that, during the Reichskamphen civil war after Napoleon IV was assassinated. When the Dersconi forces crossed the border, they came across a small Pax Maria-infested town. The Pax Maria surrendered, and then were lined up and shot. The rest of the townspeople were locked in their homes, and the village was burned to the ground.

"But, after that, our Mr. Kazankrov left the Blitzkrieg Brigade after complaining about the harsh treatment, and was relegated to being a reporter -- something he was born to do." The man took a sip of his tea. "So, now you know who our reporter-friend is. Now, let's see what he has to say..."

...the Siberans, chosen over the other two races to manage the camps, are proving to be more cruel than the Dersconi government initially imagined...

...hoarding relief supplies meant for all of the people in the camps, they keep the aid for themselves as they work to repress the Turks and the Aumanii... The man was moved, but the next passage set him over the top.

...I was told of a story where the Siberans came to a class-tent, threatening the children. Under threat of their deaths, the Aumanii teacher was brutally raped by the Siberans.

When he was done, the man was shaking, but laid the paper down. "I can't print this. I'll be sent to a class three." The Jaeger shook his head and stood up.

"You have to print it. The military isn't doing anything about it, and I know the Kremlin won't, either. The people have to."

"But..." The Jaeger shook his head, interjecting.

"No. No buts. Would you be so selfish as to allow this to occur, just to save your skin?" The Jaeger then snapped his heel around, not waiting for a response, and marched out of the cafe, leaving the man alone with the article, letting his words sink in as he faces the toughest choice he's ever made...
______________________________________________

Aumanii Refugee Camp 062, The Tundra

Kandajr ducked as the gunfire came through the window. He just listened to the sounds of battle from outside, trying to form a picture in his head, when the roof collapsed on them. Kandajr was out of the way in time, so he wasn't injured, but some of the others were not so lucky.

A few were completely crushed by the rubble, and others just knocked cold. Zag and Kandajr, though, were the only ones still concious. Unfortunately, Zag's arm -- along with his rifle, was pinned under some of the rubble, along with his one leg. At that point, a squad of 'camp police' swarmed in the building, walking straight past Kandajr to Zag.

"We've been looking for you." The sick grin on the one's face set Kandajr off. As he was seated behind them, they didn't notice him crawl up behind them...

"Yes. I think it's time we s--AARGH!" Kandajr lunged forth with a piece of twisted metal from the rubble pile and plunged it down, vertically, into the squad leader's skull. As the one on the right began to turn around, he swung the metal rod (along with the body) around and smashed the soldier in the chest, knocking him back. As the one on the left began to notice, he tossed the body at his face and dove toward the guard, grabbing the combat knife strapped to the Siberans leg, and, practically jumping up, slit his throat and elbowed him in the solar plexus, knocking the Siberan to the ground. By the time the other one turned around, without giving the Siberan time to raise his weapon, he found the combat knife plunged into the front of his skull, all the way down to the handle.

Kandajr picked up two of the rifles and smiled. "You may, if you wish, interpret this as me being sympathetic to your cause."

When the sun went down the fighting stopped. With the fighting going on in the neighbourhoods so close to their homes, the fighters usually called it a night and went home to their families for dinner and a warm bed. Zag and Kandajr were strolling down the street. Zag walked with his rifle slung over top of his shoulder, holding it gently by the barrel, Kandajr wasn't so casual.

'Things work differently in this war I've noticed.' said Kandajr, eyes wandering, checking the shadows for movement.

'As a race of people, we're used to fighting wars in the dust and dirt. Both sides. It's sort of an understanding, we've come to.' Zag was talking in a light manner. The days fighting was done and he was ready to relax. Kandajr was putting together a picture in his mind, a portrait of the Aumanii people.

'What did you do before the war, Zag?' Kandajr inquired.

'Which one, there have been a few?' a bright, toothy, grin flashing behind his thick beard.

'This one.'

'I was a refugee.'

'What I mean, Zag, is what is your trade...what did you do for a living before.'

'Ah, I see what you mean now. I was a member of the Three Three Five Battalion, I was a Longshoreman*.'

'So you were in the Army. What were your plans for afterward?'

'Afterward?'

'My friend was in the Army, but now he's a welder...he says the pay is better.'

'Ah, I see.' said Zag in a manner that suggested he didn't think much of Kandajr's pay cheque.

'In Auman, you don't usually leave the Army. Especially when you are an Aumanii.' said Zag.

'Why's that?' Kandajr shot back a response quickly, thinking Zag was going to tell him a horror story.

'As a Lieutenant I made a hundred and thirty thousand per annum.' said Zag.

'Really?!''

'I nearly made a job as an instructor, would've got a trainers rate then. And we're here!'

Zag and Kandajr stopped in front of a small slit of a house nestled in between two apartments. Yellow light beamed onto the cobbled road, which was barely large enough to fit a cart through. Soft music was playing inside, you could pick out the young fingers of Zag's son happily plucking away at the strings of a guitar...and the laughter of many young voices.

'Ville De Zag.' laughed the old Aumanii.

OOC:

* In Auman, Port Operations were run by the Army...Longshoremen worked out of Battalions which operated the same as a Union.

Reichsmarshal Reinhard Helmer was listening to the complaints of the man in front of him with only mild interest. Helmer was the commander in chief of the Dersconi Schutzstaffel, therefore, the one in command of all internment and refugee camps. It was quite an unfortunate duty.

"...and they've been constantly assaulting us! It's gotten worse and worse every day!" The man in front of him was in fact one of the higher-ups in the Siberan hierarchy for the 'self-government' of the refugees. Reichsmarshal Helmer looked up at him with disinterest.

"Well, if you're losing so bad, then maybe we should support the Aumanii." The Siberan went wide-eyed.

"What?! They're murderers, rapists, warmongering scum! You couldn't do that!" The Reichmarshal grunted, and showed him a copy of The Warmaster Chronicles, pointing to the article written by Kandajr.

"He thinks differently." The Siberan looked at the article with apprehension, slowly picking up the paper. When he got about half-way through, he sat down in the chair for him, unable to take his eyes of the paper. When he finished, his face was white, but he managed to regain his composture quickly. I must find this 'Kandajr' character quickly.

"I assure you, these are nothing but slander and lies." The Reichsmarshal glanced up at him in disbelief.

"Sure they are."
_______________________________________________

Kandajr looked around at the house, and inside, studying it. Well, I've seen worse... he thought.

"Nice place, considering the circumstances." Kandajr looked over at his kids and smiled at the irony of children enjoying themselves in this kind of a war zone. A true blessing, undoubtedly. Then he remembered it was his nation that was indirectly causing all of this, and a sudden feeling of sickness fell over him. The thought of the children he just looked into the face of, the last bastion of innocence in this hell Derscon has condemned the Aumanii to, could and probably would be killed in the genocide of the Aumanii the Siberans were committing, under the blind eyes of the Dersconi government.

"So, Zag, what do you typically have for dinner around here?"