NationStates Jolt Archive

London, Questers
King Richard V International Airport
13th July

Lieutenant Matthew Hogan, Imperial Questarian Army, 552nd Air Defence Regimenet, sat silently in the lobby of the eighth terminal. Lighting up a cigarette, he watched out the window as the passenger aircraft gently glided onto the tarmac and began taxi-ing to the terminal, surrounded by military jets and surface to air batteries of all kinds. The airport had become militarised for some time and it had sort of taken priority over its original function.

He had been assigned to meet with a foreign journalist who worked for some foreign company in some foreign land. Not that he cared much for foreigners, and Hogan would rather be on the front line with his unit than escorting a journalist of all people. Nevertheless, it could be interesting. Hogan had never met anyone outside of Questers, let alone heard them speak (except from the television.) He only hoped this journalist he was meeting could speak good English...

Ika-13 ng Hulyo, 2007
>error! "lang_code doesn't match region_code. Revise log"
>parsing new logs...done!

London, Questers
King Richard V International Airport (A designation: QRKR))
July 13, 2007

So I came down in an airliner that doubled as a big cargo craft. No big, but the militaristic nature of the aircraft - spartan and all that - didn't exactly do wonders to my, oh, "painstakingly" prepared hair. But what could I have expected, really? As a military journalist, I needed to get used to wearing fatigues and flak jacks. They even gave me a gun on my last assignment, saying, "There ain't so such damn thing as noncombatants." The hell there weren't! Well, at least I got a kill. Received a nasty scar on my shoulder, though.

Name's Andersen Lederman - call me Andie, if you're a friend, and if you're an enemy, please summarily go to hell. I got my Master's in Journalism in Christenburg ten years ago and I've been a military correspondent ever since - sometimes I did freelance work when no one needed me, and that quietly slipped me into the candidacy for a Pulitzer, if I remember right. Call me a news mercenary, if you will.

I'm here in Questers's city of London for a job that's all set to be one big honkin' land war, but for which the Sun didn't have enough reporters. They hired me, good ol' merc I am, to do work for them. Got me tickets, an escort from Imperial Questarian, and not a single goddamn hotel booking in sight. I come to rethink my decision in acceptance, but hey - I could get some big monies from this. Maybe the payroll will be sufficient to offset possibly needing to sleep in barracks.

Anyway, the topic's the First Haven War, and today's day one. I got a bit of basic background here; Gholgoth and the New Alliance went empire-mode across the territories and QC just couldn't take that anymore. Full-scale war deployed, and the press is itching to get a piece of the pie.

After some manner of fiddling with my mobile phone's roaming service, I went down the stairs stacked against the door of the plane, and poked my way into the terminal. I looked around for someone in battlefield attire amidst the crowd of civvies, and there he was. Looked like a warmonger. I hear Questers is somewhat sexist, so I hoped that he wouldn't mind the female. I straightened up my skirt and pulled back my hair, and walked towards the guy.

"Hello," I said to him on arrival. "Andersen Lederman, working for the Sun."

Hogan stood up and introduced himself. "Welcome to Questers. First Lieutenant Matthew Hogan, 552nd Air Defence Regiment." He tossed his cigarette into the bin nearby, taking a quick glance at the journalist's skirt.

"Right. Do you want to get a a drink before we get going or... well, I mean, we've got all day." He shrugged and picked up his rifle, slinging it over his shoulder.

The guy's eyes flicked fast, and they reminded me of the refresh rate of the old monitor I had back home. 85 hertz at 1024x768. I have NO idea why that came to mind. Where he looked was a mystery to me.

So the Hogan guy offered a drink, saying that the two of us had "all day." Well, I didn't want to stand around all day, seeing as the Sun so conveniently picked a girl who looked like someone who didn't care about hotel reservations. Could anything be "worser?" But there was some truth to that. I could live in a barracks for two months! Hell, I did! Now, not that I would want to, for all the money in the world...but it was a favor-type of job, that one. Point being, I wanted some form of fair treatment, seeing as most of the time that I would spend in this place would be on the warzone, covered in soot and the guts of the guy who'd blow up next to me.

"A drink, One-Ell-Tee Hogan? Hmm," I voiced. "Yes, that'd be nice, thank you. If we've gotta wait all day till the meat of things, I wouldn't want to spend it in an airport terminal. Do you have a place in mind?"

"I know a small place not so far from here. Its alright, pretty quiet since half the city is either in a factory or bloody mobilised." He paused momentarily. "'Scuse my language, ma'am."

Hogan was an educated man (which is why he was an officer). One of the few priveleged Questarians to go to secondary school, his father was a doctor, and he was brought up with traditional and conservative values. That said... people have, well, urges, and especially proffessional soldiers on active duty. Even so, he was a respectful man.

"The car's just outside." He said. "Here, let me carry these for you." Hogan picked up Andersen's bags and signalled her to follow him out to the car. In no time he had slung the bags into the back of the dark green four wheel drive and opened the car door for her.

"Why, thank you, Lt. Hogan," I said. And I meant it. You don't see a man opening the door for you these days, or carrying your bags. The conditioning of present society, really; I wrote a short essay on it for the Tribune some years ago.

I got into the car and we were off to that said small place of which he knew. I took the time to look out the window, and to make some notes on the observable state of the nation. See, I'd already been in a lot of wars and battles. I've found myself in (epic) full-frontal charges, (scary) small-scale skirmishes, and once got caught in a (dangerous, will-never-do-it-again) last stand for a small outpost. However, I've never been in a Home Front. London, Questers, happens to be my very first experience with a country building up from within.

Outside, I saw that the number of civilian cars seemed highly limited now, and columns of APCs and supply trucks were commonplace. When Hogan passed by a gas station to tank up, he had to show three levels of identification to confirm his position in the military; the customer before us handed some coupons of varying colors - presumably gas vouchers that were determined by the nature of the usage. I'd think that, as always, civilians who simply wanted leisure trips would get a highly limited supply; family trips on weekends only, and walks to the park instead of short drives. A separate war saw farmers having basically unlimited gas available to them, but this was offset by the limitless mounds of paperwork that needed to be filled out and sent to the government. Gas rationing was a terrible prospect, in my opinion.

I saw long lines at groceries. People clutched close to their bodies various slips of paper and ID cards. No matter how rich you were, here was where equality stood: Always a set number of ounces of meat per week. This was clearly done to curb inflation. If people went on standard buying sprees parallel to the insane expenditure on military supplies, things would slowly double, triple, quadruple...until whatever economic purpose the war would have served would be totally consumed by the horribly distorted prices back home. A country would end up crippled by unreasonable and unreachable prices. Law of Supply and Demand would eventually normalize prices, but not before the Economy of the New World was shattered and ruined.

Right there...Now that was a picture worth taking. It just came at me. "Hey, Lt. Hogan, could you stop by here please? I'll just be a moment," I said. He did oblige, and I went outside, whipping out my phone. Here was a cool feature for anyone; I reached into my purse and grabbed a huge SLR lens, with which I replaced the Zeiss over the 7.2 MP CCD. My subject was a mother carrying her child. Simple, right? Sure it was; the mother, however, was dressed in full combat armor, and while the child was latched on one shoulder, a .50 cal BMG rifle was slung over the other. The child herself had over her chest a kevlar vest that was too big for her, and wore a helmet that seemed too hardy and dull in hue to be a toy. From my vantage point, I snapped that little photo, and it was over.
"Thanks, Lieutenant," I said. We were off.

I'd already filled three pads with notes. There was a lot going on here. Farther towards the industrial region, I saw a kid's toys factory with an artillery piece in its adjacent, connected warehouse. At this point, civilian vehicle density drastically dropped to nearly zero. All I saw now were main battle tanks and supply trucks - weren't they ruining the roads this way? Ah, but they must make 'em well here. Soldiers marched in formation on the roads that must have been, at some point, populated with little kids wanting to see how "Tickle-Me Elmos" or "Plushie Barneys" were made. The flags of Questers were visible on almost every major building too. Interestingly, the roofs of every building seemed to have been hastily painted the same (or approximately the same) shade of dull brown. I'd guess it would be to conceal high-priority targets from aerial bombers and satellite images, amidst all the similar sights from the sky.

At last, we got to the "place." My notepad had six sheets of it saturated with little scribbles, to be transcribed to my Book later on. We parked, got off, I kept my pad, and went with Hogan into the little cafe. "Nice place, this is. It is quiet."

Hogan sat down, pulling out a chair for himself and Andersen. This wasn't uncommon in Questers; despite the fact that some people (mostly Allaneans) claimed it was sexist, at least the educated classes showed more than a basic notion of courtesy towards women.

"What do you want to drink?" Hogan asked, slipping her the drinks card.

"Hmm. Brewed coffee, please." He replied.

"Alright" he said, and called over the cafe owner. "Ey, Dave."

The owner, a short, old man man with cropped brown hair and a jovial smile quickly appeared from an open door behind the counter and leaned over to talk to his two customers.

"Finally! Customers! What'll it be?" He said, seemingly delighted that people had actually come to his cafe for once.

"Tea and brewed coffee." Hogan replied back.

"Brewed 'ywhat?" the cafe owner raised an eyebrow back.

"Coffee man! You know, that stuff those Juumans drink." Hogan said in reference to the southern neighbours of Questers. Coffee was virtually an unknown drink; it was only imported in small amounts and extremely expensive, especially due to rationing. The vast majority of Questers drank tea, and in large amounts too. Of course, almost all tea was imported from overseas too, and so was rationed, albeit more liberally than coffee.

"Oh aye." Dave dissapeared for a moment, and Hogan rolled his eyes and smiled. "Nice little place this. As I said, its as quiet as it gets." He noted as a flight of aircraft soared overhead, jet engines booming. The populace of London had gotten used to aircraft flying over every night and it didn't seem to bother them. Foreigners were different, however. It might take some getting used to for somebody not yet adjusted to the military climate.

The man reappeared with a small tray, and placed it down on the table. He took the two cups and placed them down, each accompanied with enough milk or sugar to be personally poured and stirred, and a small teaspoon each for said job of stirring. Hogan fished out his wallet, a battered leather thing which may well be more than a decade old.

"How much is that?" he said, peering through for money.

"S' seven quid."

"Seven quid?" Hogan looked up at him. "You joking or what?"

"Sorry mate." The man replied and shook his head. "You know how much this stuff costs."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Hogan sighed. "The Navy has to escort every convoy leaving our waters. Sometimes they hire foreigners or private groups to do it. Either way its damn expensive. That and the inflation..." He explained to Andersen while taking out a ten pound note from his wallet and handing it over. "Keep the change."

"You sure?" The man looked at Hogan.

Back in the old days, before the war was even thought of, the Questers was rich. A few pounds here and there was nothing, especially to people like Hogan. As a child, he had all the money he ever needed from his father. Right now, it wasn't a great idea just to give away even twenty pence in such a fashion, but old habits die hard.

"Yeah. You need it more than me, friend."

Dave thanked Hogan and left, and the Lieutenant sighed. "You know, I haven't seen someone drink a cup of coffee in two years. And that was before the rationing."

Now here was a guy of class. Traditionally, the masculine mode of discipline ingrained into most military warfighters would leave them lacking in some social graces, but it was nice to see that Hogan retained etiquette. And maybe sexism wasn't as profoundly grounded here as I heard. I dunno.

"You know, I haven't seen someone drink a cup of coffee in two years. And that was before the rationing." I laughed a bit at that.

"I don't drink coffee much myself, but the trip here screwed up my body clock. Oh, and the cost of this...I'm really sorry, wish I'd paid more attention." I wasn't too rich, but by anyone's standards I was well-off - enough for that cost not to make a dent on me.

I looked up instinctively upon hearing the screech of jet engines that didn't belong to passenger aircraft, but of course, all I saw was the ceiling. I was quite unaccustomed to being in a city and hearing that noise - it would've been infinitely more appropriate had it been a battlefield, where it, along with the deep booms of artillery and constant gunfire, would have converged into an orchestral cacophony that made the sounds seem just normal. But here in the city, to combine these engine noises with the bustling of normal people going about their daily lives, seemed so nastily out of place that it really just ticked something off in my head.

I sipped my coffee. The brew was good - not quite as rich as the one good Bartender Joe made back home, but it was good enough.

If you're an enemy, please summarily go to hell. "You can call me Andie, Lieutenant. My first name sounds like a surname, so here's a better one for you to use on me.
"Er...really, I don't have much to say at the moment. There aren't any falling bombs yet, or mangled corpses." I'd just ventured into a degree of "humor" that could easily have been deemed insulting. "Sorry. So, seriously, I'd like to know...How has the war affected you?"

"How has the war affected me?" He repeated the question. "Well." He gulped some tea down. "It hasn't, really. I've lived apart from my family - I'm from the central south - for some years. Father bought me a commission into the Army. Most of my friends are in my unit. I'd consider them family now."

Hogan looked out of the window as a group of trucks passed by.

"The war hasn't changed my life. 'Course, if I ever get to see active duty, I might just get killed..." he shrugged. "I already weighed that up. The war just means its more likely." He grinned.

I scribbled furiously at my notepad for all of ten seconds, while finishing the last of my coffee. "I see. Although you don't seem too opposed to the idea of going on the battlefield." I smiled a bit. "I hate war, but it's what pays the bills. Hot-zone military correspondents don't live too long. If they stay alive, chances are they'll break down, too. Once you turn out to be neither, however, like me, that's the only thing you're good for. I can't be a homeland reporter anymore, or a political columnist, because everyone thinks that my views will be colored by my experiences in war. Well, damn right they'll be colored!"

That's right. I mean, who better to explain the state of warzone calamity than someone who's been there, who's fought there? I can't understand why the people up there don't want the "opinionated truth" out. The perfect perspective would be from the eyes of the guys who do all the dirty work. I wasn't one of them, but I ate, slept, and bled with them.

But enough of that. "Let's go," I said. "Where to?"

Hogan smiled. She was obviously under the impression he had actually seen real combat service. Hogan's active duty spent abroad was spent sitting in an air defence tank batting off mosquitos in some hellish jungle and occasionally taking potshots at some daredevil bolshie-rebel helicopter pilot. Well, if she ever asked...

"Well, they offered me any place to stay in London, and since I live much further south, or with my unit, I chose a five star hotel in central district for us to stay in." He explained as they left the cafe and he unlocked the car. "Figured it'd be a nice change."

Driving through from an area near the airport to the central business district one could easily see the contrast. Getting closer to the city centre, and especially further away from the railstation and the airport, meant less and less of a military influence, although it was still there. Sandbags around the street lampposts, posters urging people to join the military or local defence volunteers, giant flags hanging from streets, the like. However, as you got nearer to the centre, cars began to appear more commonly and the buildings generally got larger. However, the Royal London Hotel wasn't that close to the centre itself. Outside the hotel, flags of all the Commonwealth nations flew proudly alongside the Questarian flag itself, and Hogan drove the car to a halt in a parking space.

Within ten minutes, Hogan (carrying the baggage, of course), opened the door to their hotel room. Well, it was actually three rooms; two bedrooms (each with an en-suite), and a sitting room, with a view right over the city. Laying the baggage down on the floor, Hogan dropped himself onto a chair and leant back, breathing out.

"So. You're the journalist, I'm the guide. What do you want to do now?"

I plopped onto the bed and looked at the ceiling for a few seconds. What did I want to do? I came around for a big war, and I was about to get it. Till then, though, there was a day in a hotel that wasn't reserved for me. Did I want to visit the nearest military installation? Bah, fat chance at that; my appearance was probably scheduled to the last minute. What about eats? Well, I was full already from the coffee (yes, I know. Pathetic, isn't it? But I'm not anorexic!) and Questarian food, to be very honest, wasn't much to my taste.

I'd taken a bit of time for research on Questers in the few days leading up to my trip here. Surfing the Wikis, chatting on the demilitarized IRC channels...but I don't think it was enough. So this is what I wanted to to.

"There's a bookstore in the lobby. Can you recommend some reading material on your nation?"

Hogan blinked. Oh shit. She was asking about literature. That was bad. Questarians were good writers, but the subjects they wrote on and what they wrote... well, its not exactly endearing. Hogan looked down at the floor.

"Um. Literature..." he thought. "I don't really know, don't have much time to read anymore. We can go down and have a look and you can pick some yourself if you want." Hogan hoped she'd refuse, because he didn't particularly want this woman getting any wrong impressions about him.

~

Hogan was pretty wary as he watched Lederman browse the books carefully. The last time he was standing in a shop with a woman he ended up with an empty wallet and a load of useless crap.

Since this was a five star hotel, it was expected that people travelling to Questers to stay here would be one of two things: rich, and white. Anyone staying in Questers for business, from friendly nations like Praetonia, Clandonia, Willink and Hamptonshire would probably stay in a hotel very much like this one, so reading material was stocked for these sorts of people.

As such, books that would accurately describe Questers were mostly written by economists, historians, or wealthy capitalists. Names like "The Races Across the Lands And Their Place In History", "The Great Empire" and "A Mandate from God" promoting Questarian supposed racial superiority and Imperial right, viciously anti-communist and anti-statist pieces like "Communism: The Great Lie", "Property, Life, and Liberty", and pro-military intervention such as "The Hawk Circles" and "Tyranny's Days Are Numbered".

Generally, the books all follow a similar theme; that is, Questarian people and their racial equivalents in foreign lands are racially superior, that Questers has a "mandate from God" to rule the world. Communism and generally any left wing theories are viciously attacked, and almost all the books support the point of view that Questers is a righteous nation that is doing the world justice by waging the war on Automagfreek (they are generally written before the war and advocate the war in any case). The type of writing is archaic and old, something that would be suitably published in the nineteenth century.

Hogan ardently insisted on paying, even if his wallet was getting precariously smaller. Inflation had jacked up prices horribly, so what originally had been considered cheap was now somewhat pricey. Leafing out some light blue notes from his wallet, the attendant at the counter pushed a sort of menu towards Lederman.

"Would you like your free firearm with this purchase ma'am?"

On the menu were a number of free (concealable) handguns and sawn off shotguns, as well as rifles, automatic shotguns, and submachineguns that could be purchased for extra payments.

Books were nice. I wanted to pay, but he insisted. Inflation made those look pretty pricey, though. Was it possible to overestimate the effect of gradual increases on the price of a book? And even though this was right, was it possible for said overestimation to be so impacting as to cripple the buyer's spending?

Apparently so. You know how secondhand book stores can get you a book originally worth $30 for only about $2? Well, think of Questarian inflation as inversely proportionate in that way. Of course, not quite as bad as that...but you get the idea.

On the topics implicated in the bookstore, I flipped through a few of the titles. Now, when I say conservative, I would mean logical resistance to change, reformation being disapproved, and conformist within feasible constraints...NOT "we are the greatest," "no to other ideas, they be bad!" internal propaganda masquerading as political overtures towards a steady governmental stance. You build your house on rock instead of sand, sure. But what you DON'T do is build your house on sand, and then use a roll of duct tape to reinforce the thing and say "Oh, look! We're as strong as the rock!" And this isn't to be done not just because duct tape won't hold your sand together for long, but also because you're not supposed to make those comparisons directly. It just isn't...well, right. Rightist, that is. Think Pepsi versus Coca-Cola, harumph.

What am I describing? Well, take a flip through the leaves and figure it out for yourself. I don't wanna talk about it anymore.

Regardless, most of the books available were good. While still reeking of propaganda-ish nature, the statements were clear and at least grounded on more feasible precepts. Social class isolationism is a fun topic for the first few milliseconds, yeah, but we need to move on...

My wallet was heavy. I myself insisted on lightening it with this book, but still Lt. Hogan refused the offer, even after I noted that his eyes sort of twitched on seeing the newly established prices of books. I made a mental note to do him a favor sometime. Anything would be fine...

"Would you like your free firearm with this purchase ma'am?" And I was like, what the fuck? The novelty of this!

"Hmm, let's see...SMG, full-auto...burst fire, repeater shotgun...Oh, here we are." I looked at Hogan for a moment, and then turned back to the clerk. "I want this one. Barrett M107. This one's a pretty fine weapon, semi-auto with a max-effective of 1.8 kilometers. Huge fifty-BMG rounds, too." I know this because I spent some time in Clandonia testing one of these big things. If besides my journalist skills, there is another thing in which I take pride, it's my shooting. Single-hole groupings at seven hundred meters. I practiced with my father way back. Now, I'd never really survive in a real battle, mostly because I only hunted with my rifle skills...and the stress would kill me before any .50 cal BMG bullet.

With some difficulty I hauled out the rifle (15 kilograms loaded!), bought a few extra magazines of ammunition, and showed my acquisition to Hogan. "D'you like it?"

Hogan watched as Lederman bought the rifle and the extra magazine. What in the devils name does she want that for? Nevertheless, he had always had a thing for women with guns... he wiped his mind clear as he looked down at Andersen holding the rifle. "I... uh, I suppose so." He still could not get over the image of this journalist lugging round a rifle larger than his own.

"Do you want to get something to eat?" He asked, lighting up another cigarette as they stood in the empty hotel foyer. "I'm fucking starvi- um, pretty hungry."

She agreed, and a few minutes later Hogans car was reversing out of its parking spot and driving down the streets of London. Yet, as they drove to each of the restaurants on Hogans list, it was found each one was closed, an oh so familiar sign hanging on the doors "Store will reopen by christmas, God Save the King." and a flag hanging from the inside of the restaurant window. As they watched the night come down over the city, Hogan at last decided he was too hungry to go driving around looking for somewhere to eat. Crying inside for his wallet, he drove the four wheel drive up Imperial Cliffs and, with the Imperial Palace only ten minutes drive away, parked the car outside the 'Imperial Questarian' Restaurant, the best and of course most expensive restaurant in the city, and in the whole country. The view from inside was fantastic; from the window seat Hogan bartered for they could see the whole of the city, as far as it stretched into the horizon, long rows of terraced housing, factories, skyscrapers, and the like. The sun had already set and the bright lights from the city's nightlife lit her up like a bulb.

As he pushed the plate away and leant back, a loud screech began to emanate from the city. A wailing siren, reaching out to all corners of London, awaking millions from their beds. The screech did not stop, it did not relent, and the wail of warning sent a chill and a panic down the spines of many.

It was an air raid siren. The citys air defence warning network began to activate, hundreds of sirens warning the people to get to the bomb shelters as soon as possible. It has to be a fucking drill, he thought.

By now, half the restaurant and growing was looking out the windows onto the city. Then the first aircraft appeared, high in the sky. They were barely visible, but the bright lights of missiles engaging and engines blaring could stil be seen. A single bomb, invisible at this range, left its bay in one of the aircraft and fell down to the sky. It was the first munition to be seen, and it was impressive and terrifying; a supernova bomb. The impact zone, a central residential district, was ripped apart as the flame shot outwards and upwards, impossibly bright sparks of explosive shooting out, shockwaves of earth and fire booming from the impact point. Cries of shock came from within the bourgeoise customers of the restaurant. Moments later, the explosives began to take their toll on the city. Over twenty thousand tons of munitions were spread over the city, igniting fires and great explosives, knocking down all sorts of buildings, creating giant firestorms and sending plumes and waves of thick black smoke drifting upwards and mixing with the night sky. It seemed the whole city was ablaze, an inferno of smoke and fire.

The visible dogfight in the skies took the crowds attention several minutes after rendering them speechless. Twelve Allanean fighters sweeping over the city were intercepted by a brave flight of four Questarian fighters, a small but deadly dogfight ensuing with cries of encouragement from the people in the restaurant. "I say, sock it to those Allanean blighters!" one of them called out.

It was, however, useless. In general, though swirling dogfights occupied the skies, the Questarian fighter defence network had been taken by surprise and whatever defence could be mustered was simply not enough. The Allaneans left as fast as they came, leaving the city in ruin. There was shock in the restaurant still. Nobody opened their mouths, simply watching as the city struggled to extinguish the flames that began to conquer it.

"My God!" I screamed. The great columns of smoke in the distance were illuminated by the firestorm below, looming overhead like many-eyed demons glowing in the night. Nowhere I'd want to go!

That urban area which formed ground zero - that place was gone. It was replaced with so much smoke and debris that it was like a single black mass had just crashed down to Earth. Around this mass were tongues of fire licking the ground and the few buildings that stood nearby. Some men were on fire, still running, still dying out there. I wanted to help, but by the time I'd get there it would be too late already. But that's war, right?

Wrong. Sure, it's war, but aren't the the epic battles on open ground that comprised the set battlefields for factions, infinitely preferable to horrible civilian attacks like this one? "What about the kids, you bastards!" I wanted to yell back after the fighters. The pilots, however, would've been too busy congratulating themselves at their victory of innocent deaths, to hear my rant.

They say that I'm not supposed to take sides, but just maybe, I might be gravitating towards Questers. Whether it's because I haven't seen whatever atrocities they may have committed, or because I just saw the textbook accomplishment of a tactical bombing in an urban location, I don't give a shit. This is what I saw, and this is what my camera was capturing now; the flames spreading like a glowing plague, the dying screams on the faces of the hundreds hopelessly injured, this is what I was here to take.

"What about the kids, you bastards," I said finally, under my breath, just loud enough that maybe Hogan could hear.

Hogan could certainly hear what Lederman was saying, even over the roar of the fires and the noise of the explosions that kept ripping apart city blocks and bringing buildings smashing to the ground. He didn't have anything to say back, though. His jaw was slightly open in a mix of horror and disbelief. How could this be happening to London, the mightiest city on Earth? Hogan gulped down hard the reality of the situation, the grim truth of war. Watching the raging inferno it felt like the end was at hand; for many people it was.

Little did Hogan or Anderman know what they were witnessing was the beginning of the people's war. Alexander Kazansky would later admit, though privately, that the attack did not have the intended effect. It did have an effect however; all across the country, the civilian populace began to be mobilised for full scale total warfare. The Tiger, they said, had shed a tear when it had watched its most prized city razed by the enemy. From this point onwards, there would be no quarter, no surrender: the enemy would pay. If the Allaneans wanted terror war, they'd get it.

Then Hogan realised he was still wearing his uniform, the jungle green of the Imperial Questarian Army. He remembered when he signed up for the Army, when he had taken the King's shilling, the words he had pledged to honour. At all times, to protect those who can not protect themselves; those who bear the privelege to call themselves Questarian should look up to you as their defender... As anti aircraft fire and spotlights strobed the sky, barely showing themselves from the thick acrid smoke and its hellish flames, a sudden urge of patriotism swept over him.

"If you want to come with me, you can." He said quickly to Lederman before jumping out of his seat and quickly walking out to the car. The last thing Hogan was thinking about was the fact he didn't pay for the meals.

Beneath them, the raging fires began to consume the city of London, capital of an Empire on which the sun never set.

I was an SFJ (Singularly Frustrating Journalist) out of Christenburg when I first set foot on a warzone. The Grand Unified Federation of Perimeter Defense: Education Sector, had just put out a military journalist call across the nation, and I was one of the first ten to sign up. I was enthusiastic as hell; ain't no better quarry for stories than a war. Take a look at the dying G.I. next to you, and you instantly gain an epic tale of hardship, defeat, rebirth, victory, and lost loved ones. You also get automatic insight into war as the bullets whiz past an ear, and, in my case, a .223 to the shoulder. It hurt, and left the scar I mentioned earlier. But I guess it was worth it. Big paycheck, honors for helping fight the enemy, and some extras for getting additional stories that weren't within parameters. I kept on going for battles later on because I realized that military journalists have to be of a specific build, having both empathy for the soldiers and the pained by deaths, and a certain cold detachedness from the horrors all around. The former is necessary for understanding the stories that I'd eventually write, and the latter is necessary for survival.

Here I was, in the ruins of an attack that took place at the beginning of a war, that was somewhere between my fifteenth and eighteenth. I lost proper count because I couldn't tell if some of those three questionable "wars" were as such, or just big motherfucking battles that spanned months. Here I was, in the ruins of said attack, and I was ready to shoot some opposing forces! Was that caused by a "certain cold detachedness from the horrors all around?" I don't think so.

"I'm a military journalist, Lt. Hogan." I said. "To quote that movie, 'I live for this shit.' I'm in." I got into the car with him, and we drove off down into the city.

If a keen observer were to look at my 1.5 meter-long sniper rifle, he'll notice that my safety was off.

The city was an inferno. Hogan coughed heavily as he slammed the door behind him, the thick smoke from the rapidly spreading fires clogging his lungs and the acrid smell of burning flesh and all sorts of materials setting alight burnt into the back of his throat. If this is what war was like, Hogan didn't look forward to his posting at the front. The roadblock ahead was hastily assembled and couldn't be more than an hour old. Manned by armed police, soldiers, and militia alike, the ten figures patrol up and down just one of many entrances into the central business district had a very clear job:

To stop looting.

Gunfire rang out not so far away. Fairly quiet, but loud enough to be heard over the cackling flame. As he wiped his eyes from the corruption of the air, Hogan looked ahead to see the group slowly raise their weapons.

Aw shit. He said to himself. He knew that giving her a gun would be trouble...

"Lieutenant Hogan, Questarian Army!" he shouted out, beckoning Lederman to follow him.

"Who the fuck's the civvie?" A soldier, seemingly a sergeant, called out as Hogan walked up to present his pass.

"Foreign journalist." Hogan didn't need to say any more. The soldier had already checked over his ID and nodded. "Go ahead sir."

Hogan saluted back and walked past the roadblock, Lederman behind him.

"Make sure you get this shit on tape." One of the soldiers grunted as she walked past him. In his eyes brewed a mixture of hate, of distrust and anger, though it was hard to tell who it was directed at. For most what was happening was unreal; unbelievable, to some who had read Allanean history and kept up on current affairs, it was very believable. Inevitable, perhaps. They knew the consequences of picking a war with a nation who had no qualms in killing thousands, millions, even billions who opposed them. The destruction wreathed upon London in one night would be later be compared to the struggle Questers faced itself, standing alone against the world with only a handful of allies, fighting for what it thought was right.

It wasn't long before Hogan knew where he was going after taking some tips from various personnel scattered around. Within five minutes he was lining up outside a busy desk after telling Lederman to wait for a moment. A moment turned out to be quite a bit longer than that though, and the poor woman was probably subject to a plethora of looks from passing soldiers and militiamen, varying in their nature. Finally Hogan reappeared, lighting up a cigarette.

He pulled one from the packet and offered it to Lederman.

"There's a truck coming to pick us up and take us to St.James'. Apparently its ablaze right now." He spat on the floor. "Fucking Allaneans."

Hogan was a fairly peaceful man. He didn't get angry often, but this was a very rare occasion. His eyes burned almost as brightly as the fires themselves. If sheer hate was recognisable in anyone, it would be now.

Not that he was any different from any of the other soldiers and other volunteers waiting around.

I got quite a few looks from the military boys around. I guess this gun turned out to be something of a liability in that field, but it'd prove its worth later, on the battlefield.

Hogan mentioned a truck to St. James, but I had to make a quick something first. "Hang on, Lieutenant." I added the Zeiss lens to my camera phone again, but this time I loaded up the video recorder. 60 fps at 1280x720 progressive. Good quality HD. Enough for the archiving later on, I suppose. But the stream had to go somewhere first.

"Ring, ring, ring," I said to myself as the purr of the cellular network's receive-echo played on the speaker. "Hello? Francesa, it's Andie. What? No, no, Andersen Lederman. Yeah. Umm, does the Sun happen to have 2mbps free? I'm sending in a stream on the home front. I cut down the audio to 2.1, so---what? Yes, this is the Questarian job, what the hell else could it be? Oh, okay. Here, stream id's 3adg. Password is 'Jorge.' With a 'J'. Got it? Great. Oh, listen, send me some information on the rest of the war while you're at it, okay? I need to see what's going on around here. All right, thanks a bunch. Bye."

The message I received in a while linked to "Listings on HW1 Embeds" (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=530740). Apparently, some other journalists have been embedded in other nations across the warzone and its participants. Some originated in NATO nations, some from Questers, others came down from neutral nations that didn't really have much to do with the mess at all.

Now it was time to show the rest of the world what was going on. This wasn't some censored, politically-correct GNN stuff, nope. This was the real deal, and I made the Sun, its video output station, and all related shit know it. Before wearing the mobile phone-cum-camcorder around my neck, I spoke into the lens as an opening for the stream:

"This is Andersen Lederman, working for the Sidner-Hayley Sun. I'm attached to 1Lt. Matthew Hogan of the IQA's 552nd Air Defence Regiment. Today and for the rest of this video broadcast, I'll be roaming around the Questarian home front and perhaps some of the exterior battlefields as well. This stream isn't a shock video. This isn't a cry for help, or a plea for 'intolerable peace.' This bears testimony to the absolute pain that war causes, made by people who, at their moments of being in it, were detached from the politics of the situation, were simply in tune with every bullet snap and spray of blood. This is the inhumanity of war, in human form." That sounded good enough.

The stream of bits began its journey from my phone to the world, by exiting terrestrial data traffic via a SatComm-capable cell-site, and then relayed across a few more satellites before getting to SHS's geosynchronous platform. I'm assuming that as soon as it came to the eyes of one ViDoc editor, he sent me the text message that I'm reading right now: "Andie, this is some motherfucking hot shit. We haven't had a civilian attack slash home front mobilization since GW3! Make it good, come back alive, and you'll be coming home to champagne, admirers, and envious co-workers! Jesus H. Christ!"

I don't think I cared about the money anymore, or the fame or recognition. This was something that needed to be done. Those outside of firsthand experience with conflict like this will have had their hearts drained by constant exposure to media on the topic - war's become old hat, a commonplace occurrence. Every time I land on one of these wars, I feel bad for helping propagate this emotional dulling of the public, but how else can the "game" be disseminated? War is commonplace. It's like an economic exchange of lives and territory nowadays; ideals are out of the picture, and genocide is the name of the game. But to lose compassion, to feel only mechanical, reactive pain and sympathy for the dead, the suffering, the affected, just because you see it all the time? That's unacceptable. In that regard, isn't the public itself at fault as well?

My job, and my contemporaries' jobs, revolve around giving the facts, and some minor opinions, I'd guess, for a personal perspective on the issue. The viewer's job isn't a job at all. It's simply to take this shit in with a discerning, processing mind. He probably has license to detach himself from it, if he's far away enough and sufficiently distant from national relations. He may even criticize the whole affair for having idiotic objectives, or silly losses for silly gains. To lose the emotion for it, though, to fail to have any scrap of feeling, it's not right at all.

I went back to Lt. Hogan then. "I'm ready. Let's go." His mouth and voice engaged to response, but his eyes were as distant as the flames ahead, and burned just as intensely.

I looked at these flames, casting an angry red glow over the horizon, and there was some remote shouting and screaming heard, and muffled gunfire perhaps, and there was Hogan in the midst of it all, some kind of solitary, quiet inferno building up within him. A changed man, from an elegant, educated man of the world, to a hardened soldier, within hours of the supreme destruction that became the saturnine evocation of a tear from the Questarian Tiger.

Into the camera's speaker, and perhaps as a self-query as well, I said, "So this is war?"