NationStates Jolt Archive

The chains clanked eerily, and the entire grey, dark oil covered titan groaned. The sun slowly rise, politely poking its kind but muted visage above the mammoth, almost haphazard shape. Rockets, missiles and guns bristled about this harsh beast of war. It was like looking at a mountain. A series of whistles blew out a deafening roar across the ocean and the night complement exchanged places with their day counterparts in a flurry of chaotic, insane, meticulously controlled movement. It was a vague triangle from whatever angle you looked at it excluding the exact top and bottom. The sun climbed higher and the actual number of weapons on this defender of the oceanic gates of hell became apparent, and one knew what it was immediately.

It was a Floating Fortress. It was war incarnate.

Everything about it screamed Kriegos culture. There was no timidity about it. There as no kindness about it. There was only pure, horrific, poorly thought out purpose. The purpose of dealing death second, and the purpose of incurring terror or whipping up feelings of pride and patriotism. The coastal cities that had spawn these horrors looked out upon them with pride from their squalid, ugly habitats, generations having bled, sweat and died in their construction. Any objective naval architect would doubt their actual strategic worth, and the Kriegos did had such architects, which was why more logical defences waited on land in the case of an actual conflict – the Floating Fortresses were a glorified activity programme to keep the proles occupied.

And in those coastal cities, the factories began to already kick into life. The managerial outer-inner party class already observing the first proles to arrive, and the ugly, sprawling buildings quickly began to pour thick, dark smog into the sky. A small fleet of fishing boats went out to rape the poor waters of their creatures plentiful. The Proletarian Guard drilled about the city of Greenpool in their numerous barracks, while armoured manoeuvres were occurring miles outside the city already in the churned up training ground sections of the country-side.

Go a thousand and a half or so miles inland and one reached the capital. Krieg. And one notices immediately the main gleaming white pyramid in the middle of the city, stretching tall and high, maintaining a constant vigil over the clean inner party section of the city. It was filled with houses from the old Industrial Revolution times that were built for the burgeoning middle class of the period that managed the factories now churning out rifles in the thousands. Outside the cleanliness of the inner party zone, you found the sprawl. Squalid, cramped conditions housing the labour-capital of the Collective Oligarchy of Kriegorgrad.

And it was in the sprawl birthed out of the agonising throes of industrialisation that the vast majority of the urban Kriegos population lived in. The market towns of old still existed more or less as they were and they maintained a somewhat free economy in the surplus food that wasn’t sent to the cities to feed the bloated peasant class, and arts and crafts could still be found if one knew the locals. However, amidst the backdrop of old Kriegorgrad were constant reminders that this Kriegorgrad wasn’t the one that existed roughly a hundred years ago: statues of Comrade Leader John Fedorenkov - recently renamed in order to make him more ‘Kriegos’ - which may or may not represent his true visage; posters encouraging fear, paranoia and hate and soldiers with red star stamped on their mk.3 turtle helmets – a relic in most armies – standing on street corners with Lee-Enfields slung over shoulder why they shared a smoke.

It was this strange nation of oppression, industry and an uncompromising fascination with war led by an equally uncompromising elite that would, for the first time in a long time, seek partners or at least form diplomatic relations with other members in the region beyond its isolationist standpoint thus far deployed by the Oligarchs. It was on January the 8th, 1991 Kriegos Calendar, that a communiqué was dispatched on an open channel to those who would care to read it.

To any whom it may concern,

Kriegorgrad has for a long time remained a distinctly isolationist state for reasons of cultural purity, however, it has been decided at my whim that we are to become a more involved member of the world stage. It is for this reason that we are offering embassies in the Inner Party zone of the capital city, a secure, safe and cleanly area filled with attractive houses from old Kriegorgrad.

If any state is interested in sending an ambassador to further negotiate, reply to this message via whatever means you see fit. States of the region Continentia will be given increased importance when it comes to dealing with their communiqués.

Trade deals are a possibility, and worth bearing in mind for the foreign entrepreneur is the distinctly cheap labour of Kriegorgrad. Just a passing note.

Yours Sincerely,

Comrade Leader John Fedorenkov of the Collective Oligarchy of Kriegorgrad

Official Statement
http://img100.imageshack.us/img100/9083/image003pq9.gif

The Realm of Cotland, itself a recent new arrival in the world stage after a long period of isolationism, wishes to take this opportunity to establish diplomatic relations with the Collective Oligarchy of Kriegorgrad. While we may not necessarily share the same political affiliations, it is the Realm's belief that we share similar financial and industrial interests. Therefore, with your permission, we shall dispatch a member of our Diplomatic Corps from the Realm, which is located in the southern area of the region of Continentia, to Kriegorgrad to establish official diplomatic ties and to discuss a possible economic collaboration further.


Sincerely,

Yngve Reitan
Councillor for Affairs Beyond the Borders of the Realm
The Council of the King
The Realm of Cotland

Vauxhall Cross
Jesselton
Questers

"You're joking, right? I mean, this has to be fake." Leaning over the table with his two arms supporting him, Andrew Woodward removed the cigarette from his mouth and stubbed it out in the small glass ashtray. "I mean, come on. That isn't even a real bloody ship is it." He laughed. His equivalent in the Defence Intelligence Service shrugged and smirked. "It doesn't even look like a real bloody battleship!" Woodward continued, moving away to light up another cigarette. "Why the bloody hell is brass even concerned about this?"

"Alright, calm down old boy. Its nothing to get your knick-"

"Shut up! Just shut up!" Woodward took a deep drag and breathed outwards. His job wasn't easy as it was, and facing a divorce at home, a hefty MOT on the car, a newborn and now this was driving him round the bend. It wasn't that he was scared or threatened of the commies southeast of Questers. It was the sheer amount of work, and the fact that now he would probably have to stay late at the office sorting out the paperwork for this. As if writing a thirty page report on the recent acquisition of more FROG-4 missiles on the Chukrainian border wasn't tiring enough.

"Alright. Alright." Woodward repeated, pacing back and forth as his counterpart sat down in a chair, folding his legs over. "I can't believe they pay me £55 a year for this bollocks. Why the hell didn't I become a lawyer instead..." He trailed off.

"Look. I've got the photo-recon shots here for you. All you have to do is give Floor Eight some estimates..."

"This is Floor Eight we're talking about here. They don't want bloody estimates. They want to know how many pounds of rations are stored on that in early winter, to the tenth bloody decimal place!" Woodward flicked the cigarette into the ashtray. "Bloody scrambled eggs." Woodward slumped in his office chair, which he had not left for near on twenty hours and just glared at his phone. He would have to ring his wife and tell her he wasn't going to be back that night. The very thought filled him with dread as the phone appeared to be getting closer and closer. Woodward swore he would get some kind of stress disorder out of this. Work had become incredibly difficult in the past three months, what with the Chookies mobilising...

"Well, I'd love to stay." The Naval Officer shrugged. "Look, I've heard that the FCO is setting up and embassy in Kriegorgrad. If you'd rather get some hands on intelligence work going, I'm sure you can pull some strings to get a foreign assignment."

Woodward blinked. He'd never thought of that. "Okay, well, see you later." The man peaked his cap and left, closing the door behind him. "You fat faggot." Woodward spat. But yes, an overseas posting might do him some good. He decided to get another cigarette before phoning home, and shook the packet vigorously. It was empty.

Drat.

~

The Questarian Government officially applies for an embassy in Kriegorgrad.

James Baxter and Edwin Coller sat in opulent high back-backed leather chairs, the two new lead Oligarchs after Mustapha and Henry had embezzled billions in state funds and fled the country, to parts unknown to live lives of extreme luxury while the people of Kriegorgrad that had given them so much still suffered in the abject poverty they were used to. Of course, the people of Kriegorgrad were duped into giving all they had but that didn’t reduce the evil of the moral dilemma in the slightest. Well maybe a little, in the eyes of the two now traitorous Oligarchs. Of course, any knowledge of this was kept strictly to the Oligarchs and only the most trust of the Inner Party – the proles couldn’t get wind of dubious happenings in the ‘pure’ and ‘protective’ leadership of the nation.

James swilled a glass of fine brandy about in his somewhat tanned hand, it free of the calluses that the labourers of Kriegorgrad needed to stop their hands bleeding or becoming wracked with sores when they worked the cheap, clunky machinery that produced such a massive output for the nation. Edwin read over the two sheets of paper, communications from foreign nations with differing levels of interest. He was happier to read the message from Cotland but the Questarian reply sparked more interest – one couldn’t expect such a blunt communiqué from the naval super-power and expect it to be utterly meaningless or without some ulterior motive. The pair exchanged a knowing look James took a sip of Brandy, before opening his mouth to speak.

‘Comrade.’ The opener to the conversation drew a chuckle from Edwin. The use of the word “comrade” was such a communist, prole thing to do, and despite being part of the highest echelon of the country’s supposedly communistic leadership, they were raging classists. He continued.

‘Comrade, it’s fairly obvious we respond to those from Cotland amicably.’

Edwin arched a bushy eyebrow as he read over the Questarian reply for the fifteenth time, his prominent nose dominating the area over the thick moustache that lived above his mouth.

‘I suggest we say yes…despite how strenuous initial links to the bastards might be, we should try our utmost to forge a decent relation with the de facto regional power.’

‘Agreed. And even if the barstards try anything dubious, we’ll have some of their nationals in our reach.’ The fact he pronounced the word “bastards” in the elongated old fashioned “proper” way showed his true social roots, and despite being a leader of this “classless state”, they were anything but classless, and anything but proletarian.

‘Splendid.’

‘Capital.’


To the Questarian Leadership,

The Oligarchs have conversed and we agree on allowing a Questarian Embassy if likewise is granted.

Yours Sincerely,

Comrade Leader John Fedorenkov of the Collective Oligarchy of Kriegorgrad

‘And, of Cotland?’ said James as he flipped through the annotated reply of the Cotland communiqué, already been extensively “marked” by the Ministry of Truth for its true meanings. They’d had more fun than with the Questarian message, which they had less than a field-day with.

‘We’ll reply to them amicably, of course. They were courteous to us despite our differing “political affiliations” and the such.’ The pair laughed. They knew full-well that most first world nations would not share the morals, if such things existed anymore, of Kriegorgrad.

‘Of course. Also, the prospect of exports is promising, and with the promise of cheap labour, we’ll draw the entrepreneurs in with the promise of men and women who will make anything, provided it’s branded as a “noble effort to advance the glory of communism, freedom and liberty.”’ Again they laughed. The state induced ignorance of the working classes amused them greatly, being a pair of upper class snobs presiding over a communist state was filled with such ironic humour for a certain mindset.


To Yngve Reitan,

We are glad that at least some nations have noticed our cautious first steps back into the world stage, particularly ones that, as you said, we do not share “political affiliations” with, but rather more pragmatic financial and individual interests. Economically, Kriegorgrad can do huge good for Cotland, but there are strict rules on business in Kriegorgrad, albeit not ones that impact on profits.

First off, all businessmen must have a cleared visa and will have to learn the social order once they arrive, and businessmen will be entered as Inner Party which means they’ll consort mainly with men of equal station. Also, they must act as Kriegos Inner Party officials to the proletarians, and act of Kriegos birth if they are forced to interact with the working classes, but that should be kept to a minimum as much as possible. The wages of the people employed must be said to have come from the state, even though this is not the case; the Inner Party may know the truth but the outer party may not.

Another point is the harsh restriction on foreign labour – it is not allowed, except for training purposes where after they will be forced to leave Kriegorgrad; cultural purity is a keystone of Kriegos culture. I understand these may be constraining restrictions, but you have to understand the nature of Kriegos culture does not allowed for free mixing of different cultures, creeds and breeds at its lowest levels. The Inner Party is quite metropolitan by comparison, but I doubt anywhere near as much as your “city highstreets” or “malls” or where it is your consumers consume. And it is because it’s metropolitan that I hope your entrepreneur class, if they do choose to come, do not find Kriegos culture entirely unbearable. All possible provisions will be made to comfort the bringers of business if they do choose to stay in Krieg, with very cheap, very high quality housing on offer with a recent relocation of certain elements of the Inner Party.

I hope to hear from you shortly Mr. Reitan.

Yours Sincerely,

Comrade Leader John Fedorenkov

i trickd u. i no ur codes. i fire 1000000 nuclear missiles at u.

post losses.

[OOC: You don't have a million nuclear missiles. *fires I.G.N.O.R.E. cannon*]

IC:

To say that Kahanistan detested Kriegorgrad was an understatement along the lines of saying that Hitler didn't like the Jews. They had committed a completely unprovoked surprise attack against their citizenry and infrastructure that most people in Kahanistan considered a very low and cowardly act, not to say most hypocritical in that a self-declared communist state had done so in its alliance with the capitalistic Questarian Commonwealth.

For Kahanistan's part, they had run a Scandinavian-style social democracy until increased foreign investment backed by military force began a gradual transformation of Kahanistan into a capitalist-based welfare state. Few had any idea what the foreign investment would bring. Cultural purity was an alien concept to most people in Kahanistan - they had very liberal immigration policies and encouraged free association with foreigners.

However, any apparent change in Kriegorgrad was viewed in Kahanistan with cautious optimism. While the new President of Kahanistan was a communist, she did not trust the Kriegos government or system. They struck her as a Stalinist regime, while her own communist views were a form of Trotskyism with some elements of Titoism. Most of the Communist Party at best mistrusted Kriegorgrad, while the furthest to the left saw them as capitalist agents enslaved to the Questarian Commonwealth. Even so, it was decided upon to accept the olive branch they extended.

---

Official Statement of the Free Republic of Kahanistan

The Government of Kahanistan is willing to send an ambassador to Kriegorgrad. While our governments may mistrust each other, I believe our people are in much the same situation.

Signed,
Nadia Sklenova,
President of Kahanistan

Three weeks later,
Kriegorgrad

The weather was dismal as Woodward stepped out of the terminal with his wife, their son, and a small baby. Dressed in somewhat less formal, but still not really casual clothing, Woodward looked around. The embassy having been established not just a week ago, he had arrived after finishing up more work at home, and had not even met any of the intelligence staff assigned to the embassy yet. Eager to start some more interesting work, and hoping that a holiday - if you could call it that - would help calm relations between him and his wife, Woodward finally appreciated he was on foreign soil for the first time. He then realised that it was embarrassing that an MI6 officer had never traveled overseas before. He had received training, and quite a lot of it, and a refresher course, and had noticed more than a few Kriegos intelligence agents in the airbase itself who were keeping their eyes out for him.

He was about to open his mouth when he saw a portly, jolly man, accompanied by another who was tall and wiry. Watching with stone faces, a pair of Kriegos guards stood silently next to the two Questarian men. Already Woodward was beginning to appreciate how glad he was he didn’t live in a police state. Yet, anyway. He was about to say something, but the larger man was quick on the trigger, his Questarian accent booming out across the opening part of the terminal. "Mr. Woodward!"

Woodward raised his hand up and strode over, smiling towards the two gentlemen with his family in tow. Tipping his hat to the two men, he shook hands with them in typical Questarian manner. “I’m Daniel Hammington, Station Chief, and this is Richard Cottage, Ambassador.” The tall wiry man nodded and smiled without saying a word, but moments later the Questarian greeting of “how do you do” was exchanged by all three, and Woodward introduced his wife and his children who received similar treatment. “Security’s a bit light.” Woodward joked sarcastically, picking his bags up again and hoping that he could get out of the airbase post haste. “Indeed.” Hammington said, turning away as the ambassador, and Woodward and his family followed. “There’s a wagon to take us back to the embassy. Unfortunately, they absolutely insist on having their people drive it.”

After many security checks, tiring waits, and arrogant displays of military might, the car had arrived back at the embassy, which was a small, square white granite building with a pair of Questarian flags flying outside and some marines milling around in the garden playing cards and drinking beer, not even pretending to have a job to do. Hammington clicked his fingers and a pair of marines gave a sloppy salute before moving to take the bags and move them outside. Hammington told Woodward that there’d be a staff meeting in an hour or so, and that he should get comfortable in his quarters before coming down. The room that had been provided for them was large enough, with its own lounge, dining table, bed and bathrooms, and a small office. Satellite televisions and radios had been allowed and for the Questarian embassy staff, life was fairly free (inside the grounds anyway). Usually it was a pain to put the children to bed, but after the long flight and the knowledge that an embassy was a boring place full of grown ups, they quickly fell into a deep slumber unusual for a four month and four year old. Woodward’s wife, Jennifer, sat down and let out a long sigh.

Loosening his shirt and taking off his tie, Woodward sat down next to her. “It can’t be that bad.”

“Uh-huh. Real great holiday destination you chose.” She said, rolling her eyes. “I can’t believe you dragged us into this place. The people here are crazy, I don’t know anybody, and we can’t go out. Honestly Andrew, I want to leave already and we’ve only been in this country for an hour.”

Woodward slumped back in the leather sofa and looked up at the ceiling, twirling the tie in his hands. “Well it makes a bloody change from Jesselton, doesn’t it? I’m sure you can last for three months without going to Mary’s and whining about how I can’t afford to buy you all your shit.” He stood up, throwing the tie onto the floor and continuing before she could say anything. “Damn it Jennifer, we need the bloody money. Maybe we wouldn’t have to be here now if you didn’t pay your credit card more attention than you do me!”

“Well how the hell can I pay you any attention if you’re always in your office! When was the last time you came home for dinner Andrew? When was the last time?”

Woodward was already half way across the room and searching through his bags. “I wouldn’t have to stay in my office all the time if you stopped buying all that shit. It’s all you bloody want isn’t it? Money, money, money. Well, if I’m not good enough for you, maybe you should have married a fucking bank manager. Jesus Christ Jen, I know your father sneers at me because I don’t have two cars, I know your mother thinks I’m too poor for you, and I know your brother hates because I refuse to watch shitty sports games, but it’s not my god damn fault! I work sixteen hours a day so we can live in our house, so you can drive your Rolls Royce, so we have food on our fucking plates and you throw it right back in my face.”

The F word was out. While Questarians were conservative people, they did swear often and a lot, but fuck was, for the middle classes, strictly reserved for true anger. It was one of the most distasteful words in the vocabulary of a Questarian. Woodward unscrewed the top on the whiskey bottle, and didn’t even bother with a glass, sending the fiery liquid straight down his throat. She didn’t really have anything to say in response. It was, of course, true. She had grown up in an upper class household, with everything she wanted; a pony named Starfish, the most expensive car on the market the day after she passed her test, and a half dozen credit cards with no withdrawal limit. Nor was she used to men saying no to her, for there wasn’t a male in the most expensive private school in Jesselton who wasn’t set in a trance by her deep eyes and beautiful light brown hair. Never having worked for her money once in her life, she was certainly taken aback by Woodward’s tirade. Woodward took another gulp of whiskey and sat down on the floor, back against the wall. “I work longer hours than a coal miner to give you what you want Jennifer. I love you, you know. You just don’t give a shit. When was the last time you said that to me?”

She was about to reply to the sharp interrogative, but was cut into again. “It doesn’t count if I was paying for something.” She didn’t have anything to say. She knew it was true, and she had nothing with which to reply. He put the whiskey bottle to his lips and lifted it high, pulling it away when the burning sensation became too much. “I have a meeting to go to. I’ll see you later.” He dropped the bottle back in the bag and slung on his overcoat, slamming the door behind him.

In the bedroom, the familiar wail of a newborn baby broke the short silence, and Jennifer’s cupped hands covered her face, tears streaking from her eyes.

~

Woodward was late, and allowing himself into the room around the large table, he sat down, quickly accepting the glass of water propositioned in front of him and downing it with great haste before realising he had made a mistake of etiquette. “Sorry.” He said. Noticing that everyone was looking at him, he again realised he hadn’t put his tie back on or even fixed his collar since leaving the room. “Couldn’t sleep on the flight. We’ve just had a new arrival to the family, you see.”

The others accepted his excuse and seemed to take little more notice to his somewhat scruffy appearance. There where five men that Woodward did not recognised but assumed to be SIS IntOs; two more that were from GCHQ, and Hammington, plus a military attaché. Hammington stood up and introduced Woodward. “This is Andrew Woodward; he’ll be working with you as our HUMINT and IMINT specialist.” Handshakes and greetings followed, and Woodward was given an introduction to all of them. He was of course, correct; the five other men, varying from ages of 21 to 60 where SIS, and the two GCHQ men were for the signals department, which was to do with getting messages securely back to Jesselton. The military attaché was there simply to compile the information and make an estimate on Kriegorgrad’s military strength.

Hammington fast-forwarded to the introduction of the Intelligence Operations that would be going on in Kriegorgrad. “Basically, we’re here to gather as much as we can. Obviously, SIGINT is out of the question. ELINT is varied; we plan on getting to know some of their signals, but that’s for another time. Our key areas here are going to be COMINT, HUMINT, and IMINT. Also some OSINT, but I imagine that’s of limited use given the sheer amount of propaganda the state pumps out.” Nods and grunts signaled that the group understood. “Essentially, our primary aim here is to pick somebody up, and get them the hell out of here. Probably across the border to Shansekia then to Cape King George, or up to Kampfers. Aside from that we’ll need to know data on the Kriegos military – they’re quite fond of showing it off I believe, so that shouldn’t be too hard. Remember people, this isn’t a nice liberal paradise. If they catch you here, they’ll kill you. Probably after torturing you. I assume you’re all familiar with Chookie methods? Well, they pale in comparison to what the Kriegos come out with – or so we’ve been told. Its unlikely that our Government will cover for you. This is a highly sensitive operation. We’re having your rooms gone over for bugs now – and given the level of sophistication we believe them to be operating at, it shouldn’t be at all hard, but remember, this isn’t going to be a cakewalk.”

“Now then Gentlemen.” He continued after giving the room a sharp reality check. “Electronically, we’re equipped with…”

~

A sharp rap at the door prompted Jennifer to come open it. Meekly turning the handle and pulling inwards, she was met by a tall and broad marine carrying a full load of electronic gadgetry. “Oh, how many I help you sir?” She asked, ever timidly.

“I’m here to check your room for any bugs ma’am. Shan’t be long.” She moved out the way and he entered, lacking any sort of grace or sophistication in his movements, and immediately unpacked the gear needed. Faced with this man; likely several times fitter than her husband and infinitely better looking, she suddenly felt the urge for male attention that she remembered craving in her earlier years. He got to work quickly, scanning different parts of the room and trying to find receivers and transmitters that Kriegos COMSEC would use to pick up speech in the room and transmit it back to their analytical specialists.

It felt wrong, somewhat distrustful and definitely not in line with Church morals, but Jennifer needed the attention her husband was too tired or busy to give her. She flicked a plastic bottle cap, and it twirled in mid air and landed right next to the marine, who was kneeling down and scanning below a table in the kitchen. She bent over forwards, and even if she wasn’t wearing a low cut top, from any mans point of view it would have been impossible not to be distracted, especially as Jennifer was naturally well endowed. Instinctively the marine turned around, and after a millisecond of taking in what he had saw, passed her the bottle cap. “Thank you sir.” She replied slowly, standing up and yawning cutely.

“No problem ma’am.” The marine replied, his mind elsewhere, and believing himself to have checked the table he moved on.

He was wrong.

Early the next morning, when the Kriegos transmitters turned on and sent back their data to their intelligence headquarters, they would be pleasantly surprised to find that there was still one bug in the embassy that they could listen in to, especially one that was positioned almost next to the bedroom and the sitting room.

Vyacheslav Gromkyo, Foreign Minister for the Totalitarian State of Red Tide, took a sip of vodka as he filled out 'Ambassador Form A-34,231'. This particular man was going to Kriegorgrad.

Narmonov had said that the Red Tidean people and the Kriegans(?) had so much in common. They were both hardworker's, capable of tolerating immense amounts of suffering, and so-on. Gromkyo, of course, forced himself to not think about the other thing they had in common: they both labored under oppressive police states that would eliminate them without a second thought if they so much as farted at a Intelligence Commissar(in Red Tide) or COMSEC Agent(in Kriegorgrad).

So Narmonov had said he wanted better relations and a embassy. And what Narmonov wanted, Narmonov got. But there was a benefit hidden in there: it would give the Intelligence-Commissarat an extra place to operate from.

Just in-case, of course.

Official Message from TSRT Government
To the Collective Oligarchy of Kriegorgrad Government
"The Totalitarian State notes that there is much in common with our individual people, it is thus that we wish to extend a hand of friendship towards the Collective Oligarchy, we would like to set up embassies and establish trade relations inbetween our two governments."
End Message

Dr. Jean-Baptiste Montrose, the Kahanistanian representative who was, if all went well, to be the ambassador to Kriegorgrad, arrived in the capital. He wished to meet with the Kriegos, to resolve certain differences, and he knew that other nations would be there as well eventually. The politician was a tall, muscular black man around 40, dressed in a suit and tie, and had a military bearing befitting of his past in the military.

When he stepped off his plane in the largest international airport in Krieg, he pulled his cell phone out and called the Kriegos Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

"Hello. I am... a representative of the Foreign Ministry of Kahanistan. I would answer your nation's dispatch for foreign relations."

eyed the Questarians across the table from him

Erm, what table and what meeting?

The Skyian Government officially applies for an embassy in Kriegorgrad.

Offices of the Ministry of External Relations, Commerce and Cult
Grand Palace of the Chancellery
Franciscopolis, Capital Federal
Franberry, Federal Republican Duchydom of,

Estanislao leaned back on his chair, absentmindedly twirling a ridiculously expensive pen, courtesy of the taxpayers. Estanislao had been through a couple of boring weeks lately, he had been relived of his post, being time to head back out as an Ambassador again, unfortunately, he lived in Franberry, and that meant that there was paperwork to be done. Weeks and weeks of paperwork, triplicate, quadruplicate, dodecicate, yes, dodecicate, 12 times, welcome to Franberry. Estanislao could not fathom where 12 copies of his blood sample would go, why anyone would need such a thing from an ambassador, and why they could not simply access the countless samples he had taken multiple times before. No one could explain either why 21 different people had to sign the authorization for him to serve as an ambassador in the exterior again. Nor why it first had to be ratified inside the Ministry itself, then the chancellor, then Congress would review it, pass it to the Senate, then the Senate would vote, pass it down to the Congress, then send it to the Ministry of the Presidency, where the President would sign it, sending it back to Congress, were they would vote, and the Senate would vote again on the matter, then the Chancellor would sign it. And then, after all that, they would ask if he wanted to serve in the exterior again.

Estanislao, having nothing better to do than sit on his office, was attempting to shoot old papers, crumpled into balls, into the glass which had held whisky that morning. He missed, the ball striking the picture he kept of his lovely wife and their four children. Estanislao then uttered a word which is not appropriate to say in public, and would have been perfectly fine, had his secretary not walked in at that exact moment. She blushed, he blushed, he coughed and she pretended she did not hear.

"Sir, the Chancellor had this envelope sent down."

"Yes, thank you, leave it there." He pointed to the table beside his wooden desk. Her secretary did so, walking over to the table and carefully putting the envelope down in a smooth, beautiful motion. Which was exactly what Estanislao was thinking about his secretary while she did that. Smooth curves and a beautiful girl all around, after all, he normally was a hard-working gentleman, no reason why he should privy himself from little joyful sins. The secretary walked out, her admirable posterior tightly wrapped in a skirt which was probably a tad too small for her, oh, length-wise you could not even see her knees, so it was all good and proper if Estanislao ever had to prove his sense of morality. Something he was not going to do then, he was going to pick up the envelope, open it, and read it. Which was exactly what he did.

"You, Estanislao Lopez de Moreno e Ingrenio, have been selected by the Chancellor, and approved by the glorious Congress and Senate of the Franberrian People, with the authority granted to them by his Most Democratic Excellence, the Elected Will of the Franberrian People, Geoli Joolitan, to represent our grand nation at the embassy which shall be established in Kriegorgrad, should the before-mentioned nation approve our request to establish a diplomatic mission in their territory."

The letter was signed by what seemed to be at least 30 people. Estanislao did not even pay attention as to who the "Representative of the Secretary for Architecture" was, or why he even needed to read, much less sign, the paper which had been just handed to him.

"Kriegorgrad... shit..."

And this time, his secretary had not heard Estanislao.


---
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Official Statement from the Federal Republican Duchydom of Franberry

The Federal Republican Duchydom of Franberry is most interested in extending diplomatical relations to the Collective Oligarchy of Kriegorgrad. This embassy shall not only be a direct line of communication with Franciscopolis and Franberry itself, but also act as a consulate for Lafonia, our colony in Continentia.

Franberry is particularly most interested in any sort of economical activities that could be done in Kriegorgrad by Franberrians or Franberrian-backed companies.

Our relations would start in a most favorable manner if the Kriegos government would approve the schematics we have sent for an embassy. We hope that if it is built, it is as similar to the plans sent. We would of course be willing to pay fully any costs involved in the building, or ship the men and supplies required to build it to Kriegorgrad. Or rather, build an embassy to any specifications you might have in Franciscopolis.

*attached: plans for ridiculously lavish palace to serve as embassy*

Dios guarde a Vuestra Honorabilidad,

His Most Democratic Excellence,
President of the Federal Republican Duchydom of Franberry,
Geoli Joolitan

[Fine, changed my post to conform to the dictates of the other posters.]

[Excuse me, I must have interpreted the guys sitting around a table in Krieg's thread as your guys getting together to meet with his, especially since you're allies. (I tend to skim through the longer posts.) Very well, assume I have a guy sitting... wherever the Kriegos are going to meet and discuss embassies.]
OOC: Read more carefully then. No one has gotten together to discuss embassies yet. And no one has been in a meeting with someone from another nation either.

Foreign and Commonwealth Office, Warminster

The Admiralty had taken its time to send the report on the object in Kriegorgrad, such a stir had been created when satellite photography showed what appeared to be a battleship under construction. Far bigger than anything in the Royal Navy's arsenal or a matter of fact the Questerian and Praetonian forces. Room Fourteen checked with MI6, responsible for international intelligence in the Haven region and beyond. A quick check with the Questerian counterpart showed the same, the satellite wasn't acting up.

"Its impossible, the thing is impossible in terms of naval architecture... Or so I've been told."

"Funny how they pipe up now, in isolation for so many years. You've seen yourself how thin the intelligence file is for the country, heard its quite a desolate place. Cabinet and the Select Committee have confirmed a diplomatic mission will be established there."

"And I'm guessing they want to send me?"

"Correct Steven, by order of the King you have been chosen to represent the Crown in the Collective Oligarchy of Kriegorgrad."

"I thought I would be getting a better posting sir, I did do all that work in Kahanistan. Kriegorgrad is some communist hell hole by the sound of it, they are building probably the worlds largest ship."

"Your plane leaves in four days, I would tell your wife as well. Might be a good idea to warn her so she can pack her bags. You will have a full team, hand picked with military and diplomats, as Ambassador you will be representing the Clandonian State and Crown, a highly prestigious role and I hear the houses are quite nice in the embassy district, good luck."

As Steven drove home through the rush hour traffic of Warminster he was rehearsing in his head what he would say to his wife. When he pulled into the drive and stepped into the kitchen she hit the roof, he had expected it. A diplomatic posting in a hell hole for four years, great...


---

Official Clandonian Response
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Open Declaration:

His Majesty's Government would like to formally apply for an embassy in the Collective Oligarchy of Kriegorgrad. In keeping with Clandonian diplomatic tradition we offer an exchange programme for Kriegorgrad to establish embassy and consulates in the Imperial Crown Kingdom and Her Colonial Protectorates. Clandonia is most interested in utilising the workforce of Kriegorgrad due to the relative cheap cost of operations. We have selected a suitable representative of the Crown by the name of Steven Brigstone a diplomat who has had excessive work in various nations including Questers, Praetonia and Kahanistan.

Once confirmation of our request has been completed we will be happy to send out our advance team to prepare the embassy for use. An inventory list of requirements, equipment, furniture and staff is attached along with security arrangement details.


God Save the King


Sir Alan Philips, Foreign and Commonwealth Secretary

OOC: I hope that this post isn't too aggressive, but it should evolve into a good storyline for a role-play.]

The Castillian steel mill was situated completely out of place, surrounded by sprawling fields of barley, grape producing vines, cereals and some olive trees here and there. The fact of the matter was that the ‘industrial revolution’, as some foreign countries liked to call it, had only began in the past fifty years in the small kingdom which called itself Castilla y Belmonte. Fortunately, the decades of military dictatorship in the country, since the end of the civil war in 1973, had prioritized its policies in turning the kingdom into a haven for the military. Ambitious and, most of the time, unrealistic projects spurred the funding of the construction of massive industrial polygons dedicated to the armaments industry. These armaments required steel, electronics, plastics and other raw and finished materials, which in turn pushed the industrialization of these once-dormant sectors of the Castillian economy. Of course, by the latter years of the 1980s the Castillian country began a deep period of modernization and liberalization, and these projects which required so much of the nation’s hard earned money were slowed and ultimately cancelled. As a result, some industries, like this solitary Castillian steel mill, were built without neighbors – a product of clashing policies of two separate regimes.

This particular steel mill was run by a high-category business man that went by the name of Antonio García Lopez. With the ascension of Alfonso VI to the throne, and his policy of liberalizing the economy and introducing reforms which had the eventual goal of a free economy, most economists and businessmen foresaw a period in which Castilla would finally reduce protectionist laws and eliminate the support for the Castillian worker. In other words, most were hoping that soon enough industries could operate without a minimum wage law and other money-consuming idiocies which centered on the king’s hope to remain popular with the masses. So much talk about free trade, especially between Franberry and Castilla, amounted to absolutely nothing. Foreign investment grew, but Castilla’s protectionist policies of her industry were only decreased. Completely economic independence has never been achieved.

Consequently, the propaganda campaign of Kriegorgrad to increase foreign investment in the country came as a surprise. This massive, corporatist juggernaut which championed authoritarianism, patriotism and cold-hearted corporatism provided a ‘once-in-a-lifetime’, so to speak, chance for many of the larger Castillian companies to increase property and investment in foreign nations; this couldn’t be more true for the steel industry. Steel entrepreneurs, like Antonio García Lopez, knew that Castilla y Belmonte was very poor steel country. In fact, most of the country’s steel was imported – one only has to study the amount of steel paid for the Lince tank project alone! Ample resources and cheap labor dictated that Castilla’s steel industry move itself to Kriegorgrad. Of course, most of the monetary output produced by the investment would benefit Castilla, but that was beside the point.

With this mindset, Antonio García Lopez of Industrias Aceroimetal, found himself on a flight towards Krieg, surrounded by his cohorts of relevant analysts, economists and advisors. As Lopez thought to himself in silence, his right-hand man – Diego de la Mancha – curled his lips in a pseudo-smile, the kind made by men who knew that their future would bring corruption, wealth and industry, and said, ‘Well Antonio, what has the government said about your decision?’ He was referring to Industrias Aceroimetal’s decision to begin the transformation of their Castillian steel mills into subsidiary stockpile warehouses.

Antonio, half reclined in his all-leather broad seat, positioned near the center of his private jet, returned the smile and replied, ‘Old friend, these are not the same backwards idiots who ran the country into the ground after the war. These men have a vision for the future and can see the empire I’m trying to build.’ The curled lip turned into a broad, tooth-filled grin, ‘Dear Diego, do you have any idea of what will become of us if our plans go through?’

Diego nodded, ‘I think steel will be the least of it.’ He paused for a second and looked at Antonio, as if there was something more, and then continued, ‘We will finally enter the world-wide market.’ Although such machinations had already been surpassed by the majority of the world’s companies, it has to be noted that for any company that came out of the dark ages of the Castillian dictatorship such plans were purely sinister. The words ‘economic imperialism’ and ‘capitalist oppression’ were not yet fully-defined in the Castillian and Belmontese dictionaries.

Antonio agreed through the glee in his eyes, ‘We will be the vanguard of the nation’s entry into the world market. We will begin the transformation of Castilla from a continental industry, to a global economic empire. Can you imagine a world without protectionist laws, expensive workers fee quotas and powerful unions? I can, and we can almost smell it – Kriegorgrad, my friend, will be our gateway to power.’

‘What about the king?’ The question was out-of-place, and the response was almost rhetorical.

‘What about him? He knows full well of the advantages existing in Kriegorgrad! I have already been informed that Castillian diplomats will be sent to Kriegorgrad to open some kind of embassy, which will be the gateway to diplomacy between the two nations. I can already see the great number of Castillian industries which will flood Kriegorgrad, and I don’t blame them. Hell, we’re doing exactly the same thing.’

Diego nodded, ‘And we’re doing it first.’

The topic of their conversation stated what should have been obvious to all countries which had a vested interest in Kriegorgrad’s sudden political resurgence. The door had been flung wide open, and Castillian companies were known for their impulse, drive and vicious ambition. It would be a matter of weeks before companies like Sistemas Terrestres Segovia, Bancinterbel and others made their moves. The war driven industrial economy of Kriegorgrad was perfect for Castillian industrial ambitious, given that the kingdom’s greatest industrial strengths lay in areas relevant to the production of armaments. Furthermore, Castillian companies would need Castillian banks to control their money. To no degree of surprise, the Castillian government was fully involved.

Communiqué Directed To: Mr. John Fedorenkov, Collective Oligarchy of Kriegorgrad

Estimated political brother, comrade leader of Kriegorgrad,

I have personally taken command over Castillian interests to establish an embassy in Kriegorgrad’s capital. There is no doubt that our … ambitious, to say the least … friends at Aceroimetal have already approached whomever is relevant in dictating economic matters in your country to discuss the possible sale of several existing factories. There is no doubt that Castillian companies are willing to spend quite a bit of money to secure these assets – I think that the speed of Castillian economic entrepreneurs cannot be matched by any other nation. I hope that you find our economic leaders to be gentlemen, and I can reassure you that the interests of the oligarchy will always be taken into consideration.

With that topic out of the way (and much better left to those that know their art), I’m sure that it’s obvious that Castilla y Belmonte wants more than just an embassy. We’re hoping that Kriegorgrad that spare some top government officials of some sort to establish some kind of convention between Kriegorgrad and Castilla over the opening of the country to Castillian investment. We are a small and relatively unknown nation, and so you may be asking yourself what advantages a nation of your size and esteem would gain by catering to a kingdom such as mine. Given that we are a burgeoning economy, I can say that we offer your nation a huge advantage. The level of investment which our industries are willing to invest is hard to surpass, and we’re sure that there is room for everybody, in any case.

I hope my cordiality attributes to some gain between relations between our two nations. I leave the issue in your half of the court, majestic oligarch.

[signed]Alfonso VI, His Majesty King of Castilla, King of Belmonte

Krieg, somewhere in the industrial heartland of the city
The city of Krieg continued to be a mammoth sprawl of smoke stacks, brick factories and equally as ugly apartment blocks to house the poor and hungry proletariat. David Razón noted to himself that absolutely nothing had changed. The skies were still grey, and not blue. The grass was still brown, and not green. The city was the definition of the color red – the bricks, the government propaganda banners, the gas-blotted, sun-streaked sky; absolutely everything. It really didn’t shock the young Castillian man now walking through the very streets he had fled from as a child. An industrial, war-driven nation would always remain an industrial, war-driven nation if there was nothing to impede it – the government continued to have a firm grasp of their citizenry. Independent thinking had been abolished a long time ago, and the nation’s administration had done a good job of blocking out foreign influences with state controlled media and some high-tech methodology of controlling the thoughts of the people they administered. Razón’s father had been one of those men. Razón had only managed to escape as the nation began its period of dormancy, and it had been thanks to another Castillian teenager who had come for a new life and found out soon enough that Krieg did not lend the life ones had previously thought.

Indeed, during Castilla’s years of poverty Kriegorgrad and her titanic industrial complexes had been the target of Castillian emigration. They were looking for jobs, and Kriegorgrad offered these – the lack of wage laws meant that foreign investment was always rampant, which meant that jobs always existed. Unfortunately, it meant inhumane treatment of the worker class. Whether it was better to live in hell than to live in hunger is a topic of a long-winded debate beyond the mental interests of David Razón, that was for sure.

That day, he walked the streets as a mercenary. Mercenary companies paid well, and a man who had come from nothing found it very hard to turn nothing into something in post-war Castilla. The army and mercenary companies were often the best choices for a young-man looking for adventure, sex and most of all a good wage. The tight brown leather jacket, the gelled back hair, and the blue jeans didn’t give his lonely profession away, but it contrasted him from the rabble that lived in the housing complexes which he walked beside. Well, more than a mercenary, he was more accurately an assassin. He had been contracted by the Castillian government to kill. In all actuality, he had been contracted by a technically illegal Juumanistran mafia, embedded in the city of Valdemoro, to kill ‘enemies of the family’. In reality this meant that he was working for an illegal group which had been contracted by the government in secrecy to kill those who could put themselves between Kriegorgrad and Castilla’s attempt to gain contracts which would lead to massive Castillian investment and growth in Kriegorgrad.

David thought to himself, whatever, these assholes can do whatever they like. They pay me good fucking money, and that’s pretty much all that matters. Truth be told, eighty thousand pesetas per month wasn’t a half-bad wage for a mercenary. Instead, he could have been offered thirty thousand a month for some job as a paid soldier for some third-world country half-way across the globe. No thank you, I prefer this hell hole. The 8.8mm pistol under his jacket, tucked into his jeans, was hardly visible to anybody around him. This is going to surprise them all. David Razón, you’re making history brother.

He could see a huge factory in the distance. That was one of the principle steel production facilities in the city, and the principle headquarters of Krieg strongman Mikhail Baryatinskiy. This cat was the leader of one of the nation’s largest steel empires, which more or less fed the Krieg war industry. As one could easily imagine, this was the target of Aceroimetal. David Razón hardly cared about why he was doing what he was doing. He wasn’t a politician, he was a killer. If those who hired him let him do his job like he liked it, then he would let his clients do their job as they liked it. Quid pro quo, that’s what the fancy language majors called it these days. The education of the Castillian population had ruined the fun – now, in the era of democracy, Razón had to come to shit holes like the industrial center of Krieg to make some money.

Just one time, Razón could see that he had come. Through the transparent bullet-proof glass revolving doors which marked the entrance to the office section of the mega-factory-complex, David could see his target. He arched his right eyebrow as he saw other targets – six, wide-shouldered bodyguards. This is going to be bloodier than I had originally expected. David looked inconspicuous, as he was some innocent foreigner coming to find a job, unknowing of the hell such a place could bring upon an innocent man. The bodyguard formation wasn’t too tight. These guys don’t see violence too often. Ah, the product of a nation that controls everything in a citizen’s life, including his thoughts and ideals – easy prey.

The job didn’t take too long. Quickly reaching for the gun situated in his lower back, he took it out and made his first kill – the lead bodyguard. The bullet hit in the right shoulder, and knocked the man to the ground. One down, a lot more to go. He wasn’t interested in the bodyguards; he was interested in the man his clients were paying him to kill – Mikhail. He shot the businessman in the stomach, which paralyzed him in fear and brought him to the ground. A puddle of dark-red, almost brown, blood quickly spread throughout the concrete floor. The bodyguards reacted faster than David had originally suspected, and these took quite some time to kill. But a mercenary like David would be difficult to defeat, and six inexperienced gunmen were not much of a challenge. With the deed done, he approached Mikhail, who was sprawled in front of his factory. Kneeling, he put the muzzle of the gun to the opposite man’s forehead and said, ‘I send greetings from Castilla.’

Mikhail’s eyes pivoted towards the Castillian murdered. David could see fear, exasperation, and the quest for retribution. Too bad, this man wouldn’t have his chance. The assassin whispered, ‘Good bye.’ The sound of the ignition of the propellant, and the consequent expansion of the gasses produced and the escape of the projectile from the barrel and directly into the man’s cranium could be heard miles away.

When Krieg commissars would come, they would see written in blood, ‘Workers of Kriegorgrad, terror is your only hope.’

Political destabilization through government-supported international terrorism was one way of cajoling a foreign nation into catering to your economic needs. Of course, Castilla would immediately condone the attack, as if to allude that it was trying to gain the oligarchy’s support for their economic expansion plan through anti-terrorist cooperation. Regardless, Castillian companies were willing to pay money to bring in mercenaries to re-stabilize any situation created through sponsored terror, and the Krieg government well knew it.

Until then, David Razón and others like him had a lot of work before them …

Somewhere else, the same city
‘How morbid,’ commented the Krieg government representative, looking at the Castillian banker José Morena. This particular Hispanic was one of the wealthiest men in the small kingdom, and his banking complex had already began to creep into nations like Franberry and even Juumanistra. Kriegorgrad was another perfect target.

He smiled slightly and responded, ‘Well, serfdom is a touchy topic.’ Both men laughed, and Morena went on, ‘In all seriousness, Bancinterbel is the perfect new bank for the city.’ He pointed to a wooden model of the future two buildings the banking company wanted to erect in the business district of Krieg. They were modern, tall and true behemoths of the business age. The seven hundred meter, inclined twin-towers, would form some type of door – or so the rationale behind the design went – called ‘Victory’s Gates’. Truly impressive structures, that would add a new speck of modern industrialization to the skyline of Krieg. ‘What does your government say?’

‘How should I know?’ The Krieg politician looked away, ‘We may be looking for foreign investment, but Castilla’s method of catching our attention has been a bit unorthodox. Crushing indigenous companies by introducing the flow of millions of pesetas that they cannot match is hardly fair-play.’

‘Nothing in economics fair-play, my friend. Besides, we’re not looking forward to ending the lives of innocent Krieg industries and businesses. We’re just looking for a nation that will serve as a springboard for future economic expansion of our country’s interests. This bank is positive both for Castilla and Kriegorgrad, and you know it. Why don’t you let your leadership know it? One way or the other, Castillian companies are going to implant themselves in this country, and there’s nothing much you can do to stop it. Plus, I don’t know why you would even want to stop it. If there is no Castillian bank in Kriegorgrad, the money will flow outwards. It’s within your nation’s interests to make sure that Bancinterbel gets a large stake in this oligarchy’s banking matrix.’

The Krieg politician didn’t seem too persuaded, ‘I’ll report these ‘facts’ to my superiors. Expect a response to your inquiry about the possibility of constructing those two towers in the center of Krieg soon enough.’ The man turned around, and began to walk out. But he suddenly stopped and turned his head to say, ‘You Castilians have always been a very driven people.’

José Morena grinned and wittily replied, ‘Yea, well, make sure your superiors know that.’ That said, Morena turned around and walked towards the glass window of the small office he had bought across the street from the potential construction site. The old, brick office buildings looked at him menacingly, as if defiant of his machinations. He thought to himself, Don’t fret blood red buildings, you’ll soon be turned into a modern, hulking portal to new, improved industries. He smiled to himself, I can’t lie; this is going to benefit Kriegorgrad more than it’s going to benefit Castilla.

Throne room, ???, Battleford, Izistan.

“...and so we expect that Tatzelwurm will be at minimum operation capacity by the end of the month. By which the RCS and fire control systems will be operation, we're guessing another six month before she's actually useful.”

Zedlacher leaned back in the Obsidian Throne and savored the rich Spizanian tobacco in his cigar; for such luxuries came only a few times a year (doctors orders).

The presentation droned on: “...Project Heir has reported that they have successfully implanted one embryo. Primarily genetic scans show that it should develop to project standard. Carrier reports all is well, and that we should decide on securing Questerian schooling for the child when he comes of age.”

Zedlacher couldn't hide a small grin at that. Thousands of embryos had been sacrificed in the pursuit of a genetically perfect heir to the Izistani throne. None of this mucking about with foreign lasses and sharing power, just straight test tube genetic magic. Of course, a little modification to the germline at the same time never hurt...

The presentation officer flipped through his collection of items for the day, before finally settling on a foreign news item. From Kreigorand.

“The Collective Oligarchy of Kriegorgrad is seeking foreign relations and possible trades links. Now Foreign Affairs has attached a memo about excessive cheap labour in said nation...Apparently they've got Robertson Arms and the others straining at the bit to send representatives. They even got that launch loop outfit from Struan on the phone.”

Neurons fired in Zedlachers brain, thoughts clicking together, spreading. Thoughts rose and fell, as empires scrawled their handiwork across a million planets. A decision was made.

“Get me a pen.”

- - - - - -

Comrade Leader John Fedorenkov,

I am Imperator Isbrand Zedlacher, High Protector of Most Serene Imperium of Izistan and dominions and scourge of those who trespass against the Fatherland. You herald has come to my attention, for we too pride ourselves on “cultural purity” as you call it. As such we would like to extend a hand of friendship to a like minded state. As such I have authorized a diplomatic attache and trade delegation by air lift. We should have everything in order in a week and depart post hence. Will a suitable facility be provided for a embassy? Rest assured that we shall provide the various furnishings, and security.

Yours,
Imperator Isbrand Zedlacher.

James reclined back with an arrogant flash of his smooth jaw, shaped in that way that distinguishes Anglo-Saxons of privilege from the rest. Edwin, again, read through the communications from various nations before thumbing through the paper, arching an eyebrow at something in bemused concern. This in turn, provoked an arched eyebrow in bemused concern from James, and after the pair had exchanged arched eyebrows of bemused concern, Edwin passed the paper.

INNER PARTY MEMBER MURDERED BY ASSASSIN
Guardsmen have been placed on high alert in the area, after a man in a leather jacket and jeans shot dead an Inner Party member and manager of Eastern Steel. Security services are narrowing down the list of suspects rapidly and anyone correlating to the picture above should contact the authorities as soon as

'Well now isn't that something, Edwin?'

The other man shrugged, bemused arched eyebrow maintained, offhandedly remarked in an unconcerned manner something about terrorists. Time ticked by in the pine-panelled room void of any urgency. A bell rang downstairs and James was greeted by the sight of his son entering through the lavish door, his brown hair messy and wet from school. It was raining outside.

'So Henry, how'd the war go on the fields of Eastbridge?'

'Rugby went fine, dad, we smashed the boys from Slough. Didn't stand a chance.'

'Slough...that's an outer-party school, isn't it?' James was blithely unaware that by mentioning the idea of outer-party and inner-party schools, he had essentially undermined the myth of egalitarianism that ran Kriegorgrad ideologically, and kept the masses duped for the benefit of the elite. Probably a good thing, that all those present were a member of the elite, after all, no one would have liked a revolution on the hands of the good minded leaders of Kriegorgrad.

'Yeah. Bloody proles got smashed famously.'

'That's what I like to hear.' After a short and meaningless silence, it dawned on Edwin to ask why his son was there. And he did.

'Why are you here, Henry?'

'To tell you the Belogas and the Carruthers want to go shooting next week, they were at rugby and asked for you.'

'Bugger I might be busy, but I haven't seen them in such time.'

And that was about as urgent as life got for the elite of Kriegorgrad.


To all those who've inquired,

Trade agreements are confirmed. As is use of labour. If you choose to pursue use of Kriegos labour, you'll need to double-check terms and agreements with other, economically minded members of government.

Embassies established will be in an old fashioned suburb, and will not diverge from the already generous provisions that have been made. Kriegorgrad is not a land of palaces, and we're sorry to those who have asked but we will not break from architectural themes, as this will only disrupt what is already a somewhat fractured urban landscape. We hope you understand.

Yours Sincerely,

Comrade Leader John Fedorenkov


'Thank you ma'am', the marine crackled from the tape-recorder. Some more banter was recorded, but for the time being, it was meaningless and not particularly useless.

'Bollocks. What a shitty waste of scanning! Keep an ear out for anythin' more useful, all right lads?'

Grumbles of half-hearted acknowledgement came from the assembled COMSEC officers. Barker sharpened his tone.

'Keep an eye out, all right, lads.'

Full-hearted approval filled the dingy room, but by that point, Barker had already left, his mind on infinitely more important things, such as taking a piss and getting another cup of cheap coffee to kick-start his morning shift.

Henry leaned back on his clean, tanned elbows from his position on the bearskin rug, chin tilted jauntily up at an angle that proffered a nigh-sidelong glance at his father, his expensive shirt-sleeves rolled up, his coat hanging on a hook by the entrance of the cabin, along with a plethora of ornate shotguns propped up against near door frame. Henry had inherited his father's broad, powerful jaw and his commanding eyes. James, his shotgun not propped against the door, stood plucking the expended shells from the double-barrelled firearm, his gaze focused on the task at hand while his son spoke.

'Dad.'

'Yes, Henry?' He inspected the barrels with a learned look while his son spoke.

'Well, are you going to maintain true control over the economy with private foreign investors having a say in how certain things are run?' Cool daylight soaked in through the windows as Henry's educated manner of speech once again showed how unequal Kriegorgrad was. Half the denizens of the country didn't even know what “investment” was.

'Of course, Henry.'

At this point, James closed the breach of the hunting gun and propped it against the log wall with the rest, safety on, of course.

Henry, like his father, wasn't a deep or questioning man, possessing the educated ignorance of the Kriegos ruling class that he had been indoctrinated with at Eastbridge and the exclusive boarding schools he'd attended before that, and thus did not pursue his line of questioning any farther.

Besides, the Carruthers had just arrived back from the manor house with a small troop of servants, burdened with jugs of Pimm's, bottles of good gin and all manner of foods to keep the day moving along swimmingly.

'Why Carruthers, you old bugger, about time you got back!' Henry's tone, as always when speaking with his old Eastbridgean chums, was jovial.

Mr. Carruthers said something back. In the time it took for Mr. Carruthers to make some educatedly witty retort about the competence of the manor-staff and the drink, 4 young men from the outer party doing their national service died on a training exercise when their tank's engine simply exploded. Cheaper engines were part of Kriegograd's drive to economise.

Carruthers, James, Henry and the late to arrive Beloga all necked a glass of Pimm's each, and then wondered how they'd drive their Rolls Royces home after the day of drinking, eating and shooting was done. They laughed. 4 more men died in a different part of the country due to a similar accident to the first.


Barker, a week after the infinitely important piss and cup of coffee that we left him at a week prior, was walking down the fluorescent lit hall of the ugly, grey building that was the local COMSEC centre. His head pounded of a hang-over. It was Monday, and in a vain attempt to drown out the sheer awful nature of reality, he'd gone out and got thoroughly trashed the night before. He regretted it every Monday. And repeated the same mistake every Sunday. He got his regular cup of cheap coffee, not entirely sure what quality coffee tasted like, or even if it existed, and dragged himself through the monotonous, dull corridors. Cheap laminate-mock-tiles damaged in places, revealing a sliver of ugly concrete to complement the grey or white walls; Barker could never be sure of the colour any more, let alone on his 'hungover' day. He keyed in the code to the door and opened it to a chime.

'Anything at all, lads?' He took a gulp of his vile tasting, trying to ignore the headache rioting about his skull.

'Well sir, now you mention it...'

OOC: is this back, or wut?

sound the horns

Fedorgrad,
Kriegorgrad
"This place is rather bleak"
"Be quiet, no its not."
"No, look at the houses, they're all little concrete boxes stacked ontop of one another. It looks like a bad lego set."

Ambassador, Estanislao Lopez de Moreno e Ingrenio struck his aide with his walking cane. "No, its not like that, stop being rude and pointing at that slum in the distance. Why don't you pay attention to these buildings around the airport terminal? They look completely civilized."

"Si señor"

"And stop with the silly comments, someone may speak Spanish and we do not want to leave a bad impression."

"Si señor"

The rather large delegation started to board the Rolls Royces, most of them muttering about the bleak atmosphere and how unlucky they were to get this destination, despite Estanislaos attempts to quiet them all. The caravan set off through to the old suburb which supposedly housed the embassies, and was apparently fancy and old fashioned. The Franberrians could not even begin to contemplate what stood for "old-fashioned" in this backwards communist hellhole, but they were most determined to at least give it one good try. Failing that, they had brought copious amounts of whiskey to pass the time quickly. The line of sleek black cars finally reached the suburb and winded down the roads to the Franberrian embassy. It wasn't bad really. I wasn't good either, but it was not the concrete box that most people were expecting. Decent, one would say, or rather, "acceptable" for an ambassador, especially considering the destination. The men in their smart suits, accompanied by their wives in neat little dresses and their children dressed impeccably, holding the hands of their mothers, all walked into the building at a brisk pace.

The large wooden door opened without a creak, say what you will about those silly communists, but it was clear they did their best to put on a good impression. The floor, likewise, did not have a single spot of dirt, and the same went for the chairs, curtains and other furniture. The Franberrians made their way in, the aides and servants scurrying all over the house at a rapid pace, and the guards had already started to patrol the terrain and figuring out the strongpoints and weak areas of the property. Estanislao had no desire to work on his first day at the job, especially as he was quite mad that due to the differing timezone he had missed the football games in the afternoon (on Franberrian time). It was indeed a good time to call it a day. Nothing to do, as the servants were getting the house in proper shape, waxing and shining everything just in case the Kriegians missed even the littlest spot. Estanislao walked upstairs, and to his room, surely it was bugged, but Estanislao was a tired man. He did, however, turn on some classical music rather loud whilst he went to the bathroom, in order to bother the poor sods who spent 20 hours a day in some dark basement listening at what was going on. They would, in turn, be treated to Estanislaos loud snores as he took the opportunity to sleep whilst his children and wife were bothering someone else, stupid woman never shuts up.