NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: First off, my apologies. I posted this on NS earlier, unaware that the people I would be running with wanted to run on II. Fortunately, *ahem*, no one saw it. :rolleyes:

IC:


“It's a good day, right?” The portly man tipped his wine glass forward, leveling the empty vessel like a gun at his companion. “Tell me I'm right.” He'd had far to much to drink, his cheeks rosy and his gaze blurry.

The other man, seated across the table, was rail thin, his features gone from merely “skinny” to truly gaunt over the last decade, smiled slightly, glancing down at his untouched glass and barely eaten meal, pealing the crust from the last intact slice of bread.

“Tell me I'm, right, Dave.”

David Chambers, chewing on the crust, merely glanced up, to the half broken stone wall their table sat against. A “table” made from an abandoned cable spool, chairs scavenged from nearby patios, all set between the blasted wall of the old Parliament house and a crater, left from some long expended artillery round.

The dust still clung to the area, light gray and fine, puffing up when disturbed, leaving everything covered in that coating of pale soot. But they didn't mind, not today. The pristine sun cut through clear blue skies, and even the plumes of old smoke and dust appeared nothing more than low lying clouds, yearning for the heavens.

A small bird nested atop the abandoned machine gun post, it's occupants long gun, leaving nothing but broken sandbags and expended casing behind, the holes in the walls already overgrowing as nature reclaimed the position. David watched that bird, as it pecked along the broken wall, not five feet from him, and he smiled, glancing over to the House, the defunct Royal Armory next door, the soldiers clearing out the rubble.

He leaned back, taking the first drink. “We can hope, Charlie."

The large man rolled his eyes, pouring himself another. "For God's sake-

"God had nothing to do with this."

"See, see!" Charlie Brehn slurred a little. "That's what I'm talking about. It's over. The winds of change are blowing, friend-"

"Which way, though."

"Jesus, man, it's a song."

"What's that got to do with this?"

"Nothing at all, but that's my point." There was no reason to with Brehn at any time, especially not when inebriated. "The country is ready to rebuild, to heal, to turn outward again. We were great once, we can be again!"

"I know we can, the question is timing. Our neighbors may take advantage-"

"And provoke a larger war? No, no..." a slurred pause "no. A stable, productive Nathrin is what the world needs, selling petro-gold and resources to the world, open arms, open minds, our Brave New World!"

Chambers could hear the capital letters click into place. "So you say." He allowed a tick of a smile. "And who am I to argue with the man who sold the Royalists their own guns and kept the ammo."

"Quite more than my old sales job, eh, professor?"

"Yeah."

The bird began to fly, and Chambers allowed himself to hope, as he watched the Republican flag rise over the Parliament house, over the framed surrender documents from the junta, over a, at least on paper, reunited Nathrin.

"Our new day."

“What do you have for me General?” asked Grand Field Marshall Kersov, seated at his desk. The desk, finely crafted of dark oak, was large enough to sleep upon. Upon it, Kersov had spread several black and white reconnaissance photos. These images, captured by a FRP-27 Observer reconnaissance craft, showed destroyed landscapes, ruined cities, battered and broken battlefields.

The Military Headquarters of the Peoples Democratic Republic of Berackistan was a buzz of activity. Aides and officers of the Republic came and went in a flurry of activity. Years of civil strife had lead to harsh military crackdowns in the nation. Civil rights and political freedoms had fallen by the wayside. A false sense of nationalism had been instilled among the people, nationalism brought on by recent events.

Nathrin, a medium sized nation west of Berackistan, had been drowned in a bloody civil for nearly 10 years, on and off fighting, never regaining its balance. Nathrin, which had once been a powerhouse in the region, had plunged under the water, and was swept away by the riptide of idealism and democracy. Nathrin, once a rich nation, was now reduced to rubble. Nathrin was also rich in natural resources. Oil and other deposits in the mountains were vastly unexplored and untapped, leaving them one of the most resource-rich nations on the continent

Berackistan had had its own share of internal strife over the years. Economic collapse, and squandering of its own resources, had led to a brief, but bloody, civil war fifteen years prior, ending in a military coup by “Grand General of the People” Victor Oriskin. and the seizure of power. Despotic leaders had gained control of the nation, and had promised a return Berackistan to its former glory. It was the fault of the more “civilized” nations, they said, that Berackistan had fallen on hard times. Nations such as Estannium, Nathrin, Vitoli, and others to the west, hording their resources, and denying basic necessities such as food, and medical aid to Berackistan that had led to the downfall of the nation.

Was this true? It didn’t matter, the people believed it, and that made it close enough to the truth…for government work.

Fifteen years of military buildup and oppression. General Oroskin had brutally suppressed any descent, claiming those who expressed ideas of democracy and equal rights to be “traitors to the people” and “insurgents of chaos and disorder, bent on returning Berackistan to poverty.”

Was the population happy? It didn’t matter; they were kept in line by fear. Oh, some of them believed the tripe about it being the western nations fault. More importantly, they were angry, they wanted revenge, they wanted, needed, to take out their aggression on someone

And Oroskin had found them a target.

“Sir, it appears that Intelligence was correct, these reconnaissance photos prove it. It appears that the Nathrinian civil war has gone cold. Major hostilities ceased 2 weeks ago, with only small scale engagements flaring up here and there. The western boarder is undefended, guarded only by a few scattered units, a light company, with little to no armor or artillery support, and no air support to speak of.” Replied Colonel Perinchkin

“And what of the capital, and the oil fields?” asked Kersov

“Sir, it appears that they have begun rebuilding efforts in the capital city, as well as the oil fields. There’s no way to be sure, but over flight photos and Intelligence reports indicate that heavy equipment and personal are entering the area.”

“This is excellent news; I will inform General Oroskin at once. The time to reclaim the glory of Berackistan draws close. You are dismissed, Colonel” said Kersov, reaching for the telephone on his large oak desk.

“Yes sir!” shouted Perinchkin, as he snapped a perfect military salute, spun on his heels, and left the office.

The soft white light played through the arched windows, moving through the students in the sloped classroom, shining down on the chalkboard and the young professor in his academic jacket. He leaned on the globe set in the corner, tossing his chalk as he lectured, trying to ignore the music floating through the cracked windows, trying to get the students to understand-

“It was the oil.” He pointed to the maps drawn down, to the chalkboard. “The oil changed everything.”

Someone was chewing gum, the infernal substance, in the back. He heard it snap, and he stopped at his board.

“Mister Levine, is something dull here? Am I not holding your attention?”

“Uh, no, professor, I-” The pimply youth shifted in his chair, trying to look more professional, “I just... you know... bad breath... er... sorry...”

“Right.” He turned back. “With the striking continuing at the Fullerton Works-”

James Levine died in the fighting in Crausberg, six years ago. They didn't know which side he'd fought for, if at all.

But the light was shining still, if a bit lower, while the music had turned to a jazz tune, played by some brass band by the river, and Professor Chambers had a class to teach. It was supposed to be history, but what was going on now was so vital!

“Nathrin Oil and Royal Steel have both been implicated in the investigation from the Oversight Committee in Parliament, meaning that we can effectively say that the men who own the resources have committed treason against the government that protects them. They refuse to acknowledge the authority of the Crown Heir to nationalize their interests, and are using the new wealth to pit the middle classes against the aristocracy.”

“But, professor!” Jonathon Hale, prodigal son of the railroad magnate, “We can all see that Prince Francis is a complete dolt-”

“You will show respect to the crown, Mister Hale, no matter whether you agree or not.”

“Yes, sir, my apologies. The policies the Crown Heir is pursuing are ill conceived. The market is new, volatile, and he's trying to strip it away. It's not just the “tycoons”, as might be said, but the vast people who are tired of being led by the nose by a relic of an institution with no place in the modern, rational, world!”

“Mister Hale.” Chambers sighed. “Please, respect!”

“Aye, sir.” The young man sat, quieted, but the fires in his eyes undimmed. Others nodded in affirmative, and Chambers felt the room change. This age was ending, he knew it. But he had to arm them, to give them knowledge.

“We can draw parallels here, to the early struggles-”

Reginald Hale was assassinated while leading a protest against the iron-fisted rule of the Nathrinian National Commission, during the gap in the fighting four years ago. His death started the second stage of the war. He might get a statue some day. He might be branded a villain some other.

The twilight red burned through the cracked windows, flashing brighter as the artillery shells blossomed in the quadrangle. The roar of machinegun fire and the crump of explosions rattled the building, sending another wooden barricade falling from the window.

But the professor sat on his desk, watching his empty seats, his books clutched in his lap as the flashes lit the empty halls, reverberating through the abandoned school. The siren scream didn't make him shake any more, and he read his lecture to the seats and the globe and the boards.

“With the seizure of the Silvaine Province, and the complete disbanding of Parliament, King Francis has stopped the investigations into his father's death, but has cemented the schism inside of the military and the provincial governments. Can anyone tell me what factors lead to this decision?”

The explosions were the only answer. No reason, simply force.

“Why?”

The building rattled, and the professor sat, clutching his books, half waiting for that stray shell to find him.

“Professor?” A voice at the door!

“Miss Cavanaugh. You shouldn't be here!” Miss Cavanaugh, first of her family to go to post-secondary education, and aiming for a seat in Parliament. Well, before it was declared treasonous.

“Neither should you, Professor. We noticed you weren't at the evacuation shelter, and we drew straws-”

“To see who would have to come out and get the old fossil?”

“No! To see who would have to stay! We need you, Professor!”

And Professor Chambers had no reply, other than to follow his student down the halls.

Mary Cavanaugh died later that night. No one knew whether she died from Royalist or Republican gun fire.

The classroom was still full, in his mind, full of the students who wanted to learn, or who simply wanted to pass. It didn't matter, they were here, safe, and David Chambers could teach them how to be better people, to think for themselves, to understand this world gone mad. But in his dreams, it never went mad. Cooler heads prevailed, war was averted. He never fought any battles, never had to take a life, or watch so many futures broken. But this was not-

“Professor?”

“Minister?”

This was reality. He had to focus. Acting Prime Minister David Chambers closed the book he hadn't been reading, and placed “Paradise Lost” back on the shelf. It really was a similar job, he believed, but so much worse. So much was broken. So much they had to fix.

Brehn was in the doorway, wearing his too-small suit. “They're waiting for you. First television address, you ready?”

Chambers drank his water, trying to clear his parched throat. “I think so. I hope so.” He checked the mirror. This has to be perfect. “I never wanted this, Charlie!”

“That's why they chose you, sir.”

King Wilhelm V turned his gaze east from his balcony, toward distant Nathrin, and Estannium beyond it. Further still lay the mad country of Berackistan, which insisted upon trying to take by that which could be gathered far more efficiently through trade. What a pity for the Estannis, he thought, a slight smile appearing on his face. Even more of a shame for the poor Nathis, just getting their civil war all finished up, he further mused, just before his thoughts were interrupted by the entry of Joachim Eaton, the prime minister.

Eaton bowed perfunctorily, then spoke, without awating permission, “Your Majesty! We have just received reports that Berackistan has officially crossed the border into Estannium! It is imperative--”

Here Wilhelm cut him off with a gesture, “Your Excellency, with all due respect to your exalted office, I have had intelligence telling me of the date of the invasion for weeks now! Perhaps next time you decide to barge into my chambers, you will have something useful to say, rather than just gibbering inanely at me! I get enough of that from the populace as it is!”

The prime minister flushed, stammered for a few moments, then managed to get out, “I a-a-a-pologize Your H-h-highness. I m-merely thought...”

As this point, Eaton lapsed into incomprehensible muttering, which Wilhelm was more than happy to shout over. “Yes, you thought! Not one of your strong points, is it, Your excellency?” He continued without waiting for an answer, blood rising to his face and spittle begin to form on his lips, “At least with the damned parliament I can get a glimmer of intelligent thought from time to time! You, on the other hand, if the people didn't love you, in spite of all your idiocy, you would be dead in a shallow grave by now!” At this point he stopped himself, realizing he may have said too much.

After taking a moment to compose himself, Wilhem continued, “I do sincerely apologize for my for my outburst there, Your Excellency. I'm not entirely sure what came over me. Perhaps a small dose of morphine followed by a nap will assist in calming my nerves. Of course, if any word of this little incident leaks out, all the opium in Estannium wouldn't curb my wrath. I do hope we have an understanding here...Your Excellency?” he finished rather weakly as the Prime Minister fainted.

Perhaps I was a bit too hard on him, Wilhelm thought as he grabbed about a thimbleful of whiskey from his desk and forced it down Eaton's throat. The prime minister of Vitoli coughed very hard, twice, than sat up, looking himself again.

“Your Majesty?” he asked, somewhat blearily. “What h-happened?”

“Don't you worry, my dear Joachim,” Wilhelm said calmly, while assisting the prime minister in standing, “Twas nothing but a brief fainting spell, brought on by currently unfortunate condition of our great city's air.” It truly could have been that, at least in part. Pollution was taking its toll on Meckenwald, but such was the price of wealth. And a price I'll gladly pay, Wilhelm thought, before saying, “Are you feeling up to the rest of your daily routine, Joachim? If you feel as though another spell might come on, it would be best if you retired early today. You're truly an inspiration to the people, and we can't have them seeing you in any sort of weakened state.”

“Oh, I'm fine now,” replied the normally passionate orator in an embarrassed tone. To think! Fainting away at a bit of anger from the King, he thought, It's not as though the old bastard'll have any real power left by this time next year. It was then that he realized that Wilhelm was watching him, and felt he had to speak, “If you would be so kind as to excuse me, Your Majesty,” he added a quick bow, and left without waiting for the reply, leaving King Wilhelm V of Vitoli, wealthiest nation in Antropica, fuming uselessly in his office.

OOC: Well, war just jumped me. Posts continue in the following link, to consolodate the WARZ!!!11!!lol!!

Erm... sorry, this link:

http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=13343027&postcount=4

Go to post #4 to see what THIS post should be!

Sorry for the trouble!