NationStates Jolt Archive

The sky above Tempe coloured a dull grey, heavy winds coming from the north swept with them black clouds and the prospect of rain.
Air Marshal Delane tugged at the buttons of her black overcoat in an attempt to keep the wind out, her white hair dancing up and down with every gust of wind.
Their late again, stupid groundpounders couldn’t get any sort of time-related mission done it seemed, especially not the units in the Farmina Defence Force. She thought, scanning the skies with her bare eyes for the familiar sight of an armoured hull carrying the symbol of the Empire.
“Ma’am! Over there ma’am!” One of her lieutenants screamed at the top of his lungs from the other side of the observation platform, his voice barely rising above howling of the wind.
Delane turned around and fixed her eyes on the tiny dot in the distance rapidly closing in, other dots appearing behind it and seconds later the blue form of the TH transport screamed overhead alongside nine ink black Raven interceptors.
The Air Marshal turned to the security detachment standing behind her, hands planted firmly into her sides. “Sergeant, follow me.”



Hangar bay #45 was unlike any other, specially designed to house the largest of aircraft so that foreign heads of state could be easily received, should there ever be a need to divert them to Tempe. But now, they where not just receiving a head of state, they where also receiving a staunch ally and a public hero of the people of the Empire.
Delane had made sure the formalities would be minimal; just a handshake and then their guest would be escorted to his specially prepared quarters to find some rest; there was no need to strain him so much already she thought.

As she once again went over the words she had chosen to speak at the handshake – she was not trained to handle foreign heads of state at all – the sound of the automatic doors caught her attention. As she looked over her shoulder she noted that the medical team she’d asked for was waiting in the corridor, she had no intent on making any mistakes regarding this for dire consequences would be waiting if she failed.
She turned her attention back to the transport, its boarding ramp had already lowered and two of the Emperor’s Handmaidens had already exited; blood and scars covered their faces and parts of visible flesh where their armour had been ripped apart.

But her gaze was fixed upon the young man barely being able to walk down the boarding ramp by himself. In her excitement she nearly yelled out his name, rushing to his side to support him. “Justinian!”

OOC: Note spelling of ‘Farminan’. There are no Americians after all.

IC:

A mild thud awoke Justinian from his deep and dreamy sleep. “Where am I?” he thought to himself. He was sure he knew, but as of late these things seemed to slip his mind. He remembered getting onto a plane. “No,” he corrected himself, “Taken onto the plane.”

“I am dead?” he pondered, “No; heaven wouldn’t be this windy.”. The cold was obvious now. “The door is open,” he thought, although he wasn’t exactly sure where the exit was. “Cold, so cold,” he muttered, before thinking quietly, “This must be Dumpsterdam.”

He had been to Dumpsterdam once before, but the reason why evaded him as did the reason for this visit. The others were standing up seeming battered and worn to him, though he felt worn himself as well. Unbuckling himself he stood up. His effort at standing up was not altogether successful, his legs not as stable as imagined. He threw out his hand, clutching his seat to provide him with support. His spare hand rubbed his face and he noted the presence of mild stubble and that he seemed to have a small wound on his forehead. He put out his arm and grabbed onto something. Then he moved his legs forward, and then his arms and his legs. As he progressed in this slow and unstable fashion, he remembered a battle, soldiers in tight black uniforms and others in a deep green coming for him and others in white or black trying to stop them. And a name, he remembered a name, Tobias.

His legs moved slowly down the boarding ramp, his arms holding weakly to the rail. The cold was even more apparent. He for the first time he clinically noted his choice of dress and his choice of clothes seemed inappropriate: white dress trousers of a very fine material and a light singlet.

“Justinian!” called out a fair haired lady below, dressed in black. He dared not guess at her age, although he was certain she was older than him. “Justinian,” he thought, “Yes; that sounds like me.”
She rushed forward to assist him, but too stubborn he refused to take his hands off the railing willingly. “I must enquire to your name,” he said, trying to sound as formal as possible, “And why I am I here?”

Delane gently grabbed Justinian by his left wrist and looked into his eyes. "I'm Air Marshal Delane and I am responsible for your safety now that you are here in the Empire." She turned her head half-way back to the corridor, signaling for the medical team to come in.
"I am afraid that there has been a coup against you Justinian and nothing the Empire, nor your own troops could do would have saved it. The Emperor decided that you would be evacuated alongside our troops, he would not abandon you."
Four soldiers aproached the ramp, red crosses stitched on their shoulders as two carried a evac-stretcher, one quickly stepped forward, leaning over to Delane. "Marshal, we believe that we must get our patient into the medical bay at once, he might just drop dead here on the spot, we have no idea what kind of drugs they where using on him." Delane nodded. "Justinian, these people will take good care of you, please listen to what they say, they'll fix you back up but you have to listen to them." She looked him in the eyes, not with a commanding look, but with a pleading one.

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"Huzzzaaa!" Colonel Firen - wearing nothing but a kilt - jumped on the oaken table and raised a wooden keg filled with a yellow substance to the heavens.
"God bless the royal air force, glory to the DDF and let us not forget our brothers in the White Guard!" The entire mess hall was, well a mess, thousands of men and women where busily celebrating their "victory", the beer and wine flowed richly as did the condoms and other things the Colonel had ordered under the "house-garden-kitchen" excuse.
But what was a party without music, nothing much, so that’s why the air force’s chapel was busily playing songs in one corner of the hall with the tunes spreading all along the walls and ceilings to the far back.

As colonel Firen was busy performing his badly imitated Russian dancing, kicking things of the table, hitting people in the head with his boots and balancing on the table edge a yell came up from near the door. "Officer present!"
Firen looked to the door, tripped over a pig roast and fell face first off the table only to find Councillor Solar towering above him. He managed some sort of half-arsed salute from his prone position, generating a laugh from the now dead-silent mess hall.
"Colonel I see you are busy, obviously, but do you think you could spare me the effort of being able to stand on your feet and address me at near eye-height?" Solar chuckled; he was enjoying this, Firen and his soldiers where a fine bunch and he wasn't going to take away their celebrations. Yet.
Firen in the mean time had raised himself with a bit of help from two of his soldiers, saluted and belched. "Colonel Firen, reporting - sir..."
The councillor nodded, looked around and produced a medal from the palm of his hand, dangling the little piece of metal in front of Firen. "The Emperor has decided to pin the lot of you a new medal on, the Sword & Shield for outstanding work in holding a defensive position, now, this defensive position looks mighty fine with all the booze and entertainment you have here, so I'll be given you this one now Firen and your soldiers will receive them EARLY in the morning." Solar looked around the mess hall once more and then disappeared through the double doors, Firen was still oblivious. "Sergeant, what time is it...?" "Almost 05.45 sir, parade's at 06.00." The colonel cursed and took out a small headphone out of the pocket of his kilt. "Tower, this is Firen, sound the alarm, where under attack." "No, no reinforcements, no support, I just need the men out of the barracks..."

As Dulane spoke, memories came back to Justinian, blurred and disordered, the line between myth and reality unclear. Words rung in his head but he couldn’t put them logically into the puzzle. “Coup. Tobias. Black-shirts. Conservatives. Vespasuis,” flowed through Justinian’s mind, “Dekker. Carnival. Massacre. Grey Storm. Kerria.”

Dulane finished speaking, Justinian absorbing her words, while trying to sort the words in his muddled memory. Before Justinian could say anything, the Air Marshal’s attention had been taken by freshly arrived medics. “Tobias,” he said in his own mind, and sub-consciously, he felt a great sense of hatred. If one thing was known it was his enemy’s name.

“Justinian, these people will take good care of you, please listen to what they say, they'll fix you back up but you have to listen to them,” said Dulane, returning her attention to him.

Justinian looked at the Air Marshal’s earnest face. Unable to resist, he said meekly and dryly “Of course, but have a full report on my desk in first thing in the morning and organise a meeting with Emperor…er…Vespasius, if you would be ever so kind my dear.”

He seemed completely unaware that his desks were gone, in another nation and most likely firewood in Tobias Grey’s grand furnace; not to mention that he was in no position to give instructions and that it was already the first thing in the morning.

Justinian put forward his right foot clumsily as he moved towards the medical soldiers resigning himself to whatever awaited him. And in the first sign of weakness Justinian had allowed himself in a long time, he put his left arm across Dulane’s shoulders for support as moved towards the medical team.