NationStates Jolt Archive

[OOC: This RP is primarily between me and Pacitalia. If you want to post news releases or government reactions to the events here, please TG either me or Pacitalia. If we both approve you, you're permitted to post news releases or government reactions. The purpose behind this RP is to set forth the Sarzonian government's efforts to repair damage to Paci-Sarzonian relations exacerbated by the events in Pulling in the reins (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=465198).]

Shortly after the inauguration of President Jay Tyler and the various measures needed to fully install members of the Cabinet in their positions, Grant Haffner was packing his bags.

No, Tyler didn't dismiss his former rival for the presidential election. No, Haffner didn't decide he wanted nothing to do with working for the man who beat him out. Haffner was fulfilling a campaign promise he made when he was running for president. He was preparing for a trip to Timiocato.

The current state of Paci-Sarzonian relations could best be described as an edgy cordiality. Gone were the proclamations that each country's citizens were persona non grata in the other nation's eyes. The torrent of accusations and condemnations directed between Woodstock and Timiocato had faded into a bad memory.

However, the two nations were once close. The bilateral friendship Pacitalia and Sarzonia enjoyed was among the world's strongest bonds. Those days were what Haffner wanted the nations to return to, not the current strained cordiality. But Haffner knew the job of repairing the fractures that still remained between the two nations was not a task for a low level diplomat. It wasn't something he could delegate to even his most trusted lieutenant, James Melvin.

This was a job he had to do himself. More than any other Sarzonian, Haffner was responsible for his country's role in the erosion of Paci-Sarzonian relations. Well, if there were any other Sarzonian more responsible, he was dead. But since science hadn't developed a way to exhume the late president Mike Sarzo from the grave and cure him of the ravages of cancer, it was up to Haffner.

Haffner walked out of his bedroom with a large rolling suitcase trailing behind him. His wife, Gloria walked slowly toward the door wearing a white evening gown. Her hair, curled and blonde framed her light coloured skin beautifully as her blue eyes darted mischievously to Grant's.

"Have a safe trip, honey," she said in a sing-songy fashion. She heard a knock on the door and opened it. There, standing in a dark grey pants suit was Lieutenant President Nicole Lewis. Gloria had been expecting Lewis. After all, Lewis was Grant's ride to Sarzonia Two, which waited to take the two of them to Timiocato.

"Hi Gloria, good to see you," Lewis said, as the two women shook hands. "You have your suitcases?"

"My suitcase," she said. "I don't need too many clothes. We are going to Timiocato, after all."

"Right," Lewis said. "What about you, Grant?"

"I'm all packed."

"Good. We don't have a lot of time to waste."

Grant Haffner knew why Lewis was along on the trip, but Gloria didn't. She asked Lewis about the purpose behind her travel to Pacitalia.

"Vacation, mostly," Lewis said. "I'm sure I'll conduct some business as it relates to Paci-Sarzonian relations." She fixed a wry glance on Grant. "And to be Grant's chaperone."

"I'm sure I can keep Grant in line," Gloria said. Lewis looked into Gloria's face. Grant's wife was only lightly made up, but had bright red lipstick and two simple pearl earrings adorning her ears. It was a simple, but elegant look.

"The earrings come from Nicksia," Gloria said, answering the question Lewis had in her mind. "Most of the rest of the outfit is of Pacitalian design. I figured I'd help us make our statement by the clothes I wore our first night in Timiocato."

The three continued their drive to the private airstrip where Sarzonia Two sat waiting for them. They caught a break when daytime temperatures in Woodstock were an unseasonably warm 15 degrees Celcius and the sun was shining. Actually, the four days leading up to the departure day were all warm by Woodstock winter standards. Tuesday's high reached 21 degrees, the highest temperature in Woodstock in January since the year Sarzonia won its independence. Thus, ice and snow were not a factor as the stretch limo neared the aircraft.

Lewis departed the vehicle first and climbed the stairs, not answering reporter questions as she ascended. Gloria was next, and she fairly glided up the steps with an ease that made Grant jealous. Finally, it was Haffner's turn. He stepped out and walked deliberately toward the ladder.

"Mr. Senior Vice President! What do you expect from this trip?"

"I'm looking forward to it!" he yelled back. That would be his only answer as he climbed the stairs to the inside of the aircraft. When he walked inside, a member of the Sarzonian Secret Service shut the door. Within minutes, Sarzonia Two was airborne, flying toward its date with destiny.

Before Grant Haffner left, he sat in Tyler's executive office for a briefing.

Tyler looked up at Haffner, who remained standing.

"Have a seat, Grant."

Haffner remained standing.

"Grant?" Tyler said, raising his voice a bit. Haffner started up slightly, then sat down.

"Sorry, I didn't hear you for a second there."

"You look preoccupied."

"I am. I'm nervous about this trip." Tyler looked Haffner over, then spoke.

"Grant, you know this trip is a top priority for our government. We need to ensure that relations between Sarzonia and Pacitalia are fully restored to their pre-Panic levels."

"I know that," Haffner said. "That doesn't make the mission any easier."

"I realise that. That's why we need to develop a strategy for how this trip is going to work. Let's break this down into segments. Have you developed an itinerary for your trip?"

"I have," Haffner said. "The first part of it is a direct audience with Archonate Dr. Ell. Then I hope to have meetings with other members of the cabinet and prime minister Nera."

"Let me remind you of something," Tyler said. "Our new foreign policy mandates that we not involve ourselves in Pacitalian affairs to the extent we had been while Mike was president. I can't afford to go around putting out brush fires internationally while we're still looking toward restoring our own sense of confidence domestically."

Haffner nodded. "I understand. You won't have to worry about my getting us involved in snits with Pacitalia's -- or any other nation's -- internal matters. Serving as acting president sort of took a lot of that out of me."

Tyler nodded. He realised how much of a drain it was essentially serving as acting president and senior vice president and external affairs officer. At least Haffner was now spending more time at home in his own bed as opposed to the couch in his office at the External Affairs office building. Haffner never realised how much of a break 12-hour days were compared to 20-hour days until after Tyler's inauguration.

"Now, I'm sure you're going to have to face some very hard questions," Tyler said. "I expect you to own up to your own -- and our government's -- failings with humility and grace," Tyler said. "I realise Pacitalia played a role in the degradation of our relations, but now is not the time to play the Blame Game. We have to own up to our mistakes. Mike's not here to own up to his, so you're probably going to have to take the hit for his mistakes as well as yours."

"Jay, Nicole's also going to be there."

"I know. Nicole will probably want to spend some time talking to people there as well." Tyler smiled. "Besides, I know she loves the taste of Pacitalian food. It'll be good for her, like a nice little working vacation.

"Perhaps if you get done early and we come to an agreement that both parliaments can ratify, you and Gloria can stay in Timiocato for a vacation. Lord knows you've earned it."

Haffner smiled, then stood up as Tyler did. Both men shook hands, then Haffner turned around and walked toward the door.

"Oh, and Grant?" Haffner turned back toward Tyler, who smiled slightly.

"Good luck."

"Thank you, Mr. President."

"Call me Jay."

[OOC: Consider this a glorified BUMP for Pacitalia. :tongue:]

Cumulonimbus clouds hovered menacingly, yet distantly, in a cornflower sky, their pillowy snow-white ceilings tapering into bottoms of ominous charcoal. The atmospheric hue was the only thing betraying the "winter" season — though winter in Pacitalia was still a dream compared to summers in other places. It was a typical midwinter day in Timiocato — a bright sky with clouds that appeared primed and ready to open up and drench the Pacitalian capital, a warm, saffron sun hanging powerfully mid-height in the southern sky, a light, cool breeze dampening the humidity and the normally incessant tropical heat, delicately rustling the foliage.

Along the Corso degli Subórdinàme d'Impero di Vercingétorix, a street arguably as long as its name, big brass tables and hard-backed chairs lined up facing the sidewalks outside cafés and brasserri stole away precious walking room and crowded the pedestrian corridors. Awnings and lamps loomed overhead. The buildings lining the street were identically whitewashed with black wrought-iron fixtures over the shuttered windows. Minute by minute, seemingly hundreds ambled by, at varying speed, tourists longingly gazing at the menus and reluctantly moving on, unsure of how or what to order and furtively scanning ahead for a fast-food restaurant. The locals were in Timiocato overdrive — the women, for one, in typical Pacitalian haute-couture, their noses glued to the sky, their cell phones glued to their ears, their self-important march taking up even more space on the sidewalk.

The narrow, endless street in Timiocato's Capitolina neighbourhood was lined on either side with fleshy linden trees, their big leaves lazily ruffling in the tepid breeze. Cars and scooters raced by in both directions. At the intersection of Corso di Vercingétorix with Via della Mantidoche, a statue of a pensive Aristotle anchored the roundabout, surrounded by bollards linked with heavy wrought-iron chain. The intersection itself was a total free-for-all — after all, it was a Pacitalian truism that red lights were simply there to caution, not to stop. Anything to protect civil liberties — pedestrians crossed at their own risk.

One tourist attempted to gingerly cross Via della Mantidoche and was nearly flat-ironed by a pair of lovers on a Vespa; the man shouting epithets back at the bewildered visitor as they drove away, the blatant illegality of running a red light totally ignored by the police officers sitting enjoying cappuccini at the café. The tourist shuffled off indignantly and strode past a warm, well-lit brasserro.

The façade of the little restaurant was sliding glass, left open during business hours unless the weather was unfavourable. Gas lamps would be turned on later that evening to warm the six tables on the patio. Abstract art and recessed light fixtures adorned the bare white walls. The floor was of arsenic-varnished, sanded petrified wood, the tables dressed over in impeccable white linen tablecloths and napkins, with wine and water glasses hand-blown by master artists in Pomenigiura.

At a private corner table in the back of the brasserro, the prime minister and her new — though arguably not by choice — senior deputy prime minister sat alone, facing the front windows. As the now second-in-command in Archetenia Nera's government, Gabrielo Brunate would be present for the meetings with the Sarzonian delegation. He awaited his first major diplomatic encounter with nervous anticipation, betraying the cool charisma he consistently displayed in public. The two party leaders had agreed to meet for lunch to discuss Brunate's role.

Nera and Brunate lunched silently for about half an hour and gradually resumed conversing as the wine and main courses disappeared.

"I understand how crucial it is," Brunate said simply, finishing the last bite of a venison medallion glazed in a reduction of Pungiardella, the classic Beracantan red. Brunate did not know the Pungiardella used to make the sauce had come from Monticello Serrado, the vineyard owned and operated by the archonate himself. The deer itself could have very likely come from the Serrado highlands as well.

"What I do not understand, however, is why we are doing this... what is the precedent for this? We don't owe them anything but an apology which we have already given."

Brunate reached for a thick, chewy slice of panna d'artisano and mopped up the rest of the red wine reduction. Nera took a generous swig of the sharp, frigid asti spumante in her flute and resumed picking aimlessly at her plate of citrus-roasted sablefish.

"There are many things I fear you do not understand, Gabrielo," Nera said quietly but forcefully. "But you are here to learn at any rate and so I will explain to you why exactly it is we are doing this."

The prime minister emphasised the trailing end of the sentence whilst affixing her deputy with a cold démi-glare emanating from deep within her chestnut eyes. The fortitude of the eye contact made Brunate back away a fraction of an inch, almost imperceptibly.

"It is because Sarzonia and Pacitalia are still good friends even despite all the events of the last four years. It is an absolute, inexcusable shame that we have spent almost half of her history on bad terms. The last time Pacitalian-Sarzonian relations could be described as good would arguably be 2005, at best. We are, how can I put this, their protector, their godfather, if you will. We did our part to help them gain independence, and they are grateful. But they want to be treated as equals, and they deserve to be. I regret that Timiocato has treated Woodstock as more of a friendly nuisance — one will we listen to but in the end usually overrule or ignore. I might take liberty here and blame that a bit on their former president, God rest his soul. Ci guardare, Gabrielo. We may be over thirty times their size in population, our country nearly 2,000 years older, but they are by no means to be ignored, or worse, provoked. We share a lot in common and we have different yet overarchingly similar goals and purpose on this earth. It is written somewhere that we watch out for each other. Both sides have neglected that duty for too long.

"Therefore, it is important in that spirit that we embrace our liberal democratic friends, people meant to be our allies, yes, but more importantly people with which we share a lot in common, with which we do share a friendship. And while it has been tense, and while there have been many wrongs inflicted on the national character, on our very republic, by what can only be described as total idiocy and diplomatic incompetence from Woodstock—," as she paused to frown, recompose herself, drink some acqua minerale and draw breath, "the fact remains predecessive governments on this side of the water have done and said some blatantly imbecilic things themselves. Clearly that has not helped the situation; merely, it has made things much, much worse and the hole much, much deeper. We should have been back on cordial terms well before January 2009."

When Brunate did not respond, Nera continued. "The very fact that this was, without question, Mr Tyler's, and more notably, Mr Haffner's first foreign policy priority, speaks volumes to the fact that it is a mutually desired goal to work towards the normalisation of the relations between our two states. Yes, we apologised, but so did they. The next step is, logically, to continue to rebuild our partnership. Nothing rational would get in the way of that."

"I should clarify I don't oppose this at all," Brunate replied. "I am just concerned that we are moving too hastily on this. I feel we should give the DFA and the External Affairs Office time to develop contacts and ties, and get things rolling at a lower level first before we make the actual overtures."

"A mutual apology was enough," the prime minister replied simply. "Nothing is too hasty. It is right... imperative... that we are seen working together at even the highest of levels."

Brunate shrugged and looked up to see a wiry, middle-aged man approaching the table. A government sedan was idling, double parked on the street, other vehicles and scooters playing chicken, crossing into oncoming traffic to swerve around it. The driver was tapping his fingers absent-mindedly on the steering wheel, mouthing the words to the opera that could be heard wafting out from the passenger's side window.

"Ah, Vasiliou," Nera said. Pacitalia's slightly eccentric Agustinate of International Relations, Vasiliou Bandanaris, had reached the table. Without waiting for Nera to elaborate further than the greeting, he spoke.

"Sarzonia's External Affairs Office just relayed a message to my directorate that their delegation has departed Woodstock and will be arriving at Isolamunicipa early this evening."

"And... you had to come tell me this in person? We all have phones."

Brunate chuckled and Bandanaris glared at him. Clearly Bandanaris was still a little bit upset that his party now had to share power with a band of environmentalists, some of them arguably extreme, and share it at the expense of some of his colleagues.

Pointing back at the vehicle outside, Bandanaris replied. "We were coming down Mantidoche and I got the alert on my phone from my contact in Woodstock. I called your office but they said you were here so I figured I would just stop by and tell you rather than call you and disturb you during your lunch."

"Fair enough, I digress," Nera said. "All right, well, I suppose we should get moving, then. How long until they land?"

"About five hours," the Agustinate replied. "They took off about two hours ago from the Jetport."

"Perfect." Nera looked at the bill, which had been laid down on the table by their host about ten minutes prior. She placed a 50-doura note underneath, good enough to cover both meals and leave a very decent tip, and the two stood and joined Bandanaris. They ducked into the waiting car and sped away toward the Prado, the incessant honking subsiding.

OOC: I'd like to be involved in the newspaper side, if that's cool with you guys.

OOC: That's fine with me. I'm sure Pacitalia would have no problem with it.

Oh, and there's now a OOC thread (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=579339) for this RP.

Sarzonia Two's flight began to hit turbulence as it approached Pacitalian airspace, causing the aircraft to shake slightly.

Lewis was too busy envisioning the taste of Pacitalian cuisine to notice. She had her head leaning against a cushion and was taking a nap. Meanwhile, Haffner was wired. His eyes were wide open and he stared straight ahead. Gloria leaned the left side of her head against Haffner's shoulder and was sleeping.

An aide looked over at Haffner.

"Mr. Senior Vice President," he said in a stage whisper. "Calm down. This turbulence is normal this time of year." Haffner only grunted his response.

"Sir," the aide said. "We've managed to secure a secret landing location. There won't be any press there. The PBC won't have any camera trucks there."

"What about the Daily Mail?"

"The press office didn't give them any information about your whereabouts. The only people who know are Pacitalian authorities. They've ensured that the media won't be in full force." The aide took a look into Haffner's face.

"Sir," he said. "I know you're nervous about this trip."

"That doesn't begin to describe it, Hank," Haffner replied. "And, you've been with me long enough. Call me Grant."

"OK, Grant," he said. "I'm sure you've gained quite a bit of political capital with Timiocato just by agreeing to fly there in the first place. We probably could normalise relations with Pacitalia gradually. But I'm sure the fact you're willing to come to Timiocato speaks volumes to them about how serious we are."

"I wish I could take some comfort in that," Haffner said.

"Grant, you can't control the past. You can't control what the Pacitalians do or how they'll react to you. All you can control is yourself and your own actions. I'm sure they've seen how you've handled things since you became acting president. I'm sure you'll be fine."

Henry Sieurgassa smiled. "Besides," he said. "If Pacitalia weren't interested in normalising relations with us, I doubt this meeting would even be taking place."

A couple of hours later, the aircraft began to descend slowly as the skyline of Timiocato came into view. Haffner hadn't been there before, but Lewis had. She slowly stirred awake and looked out at the window. A smile creased her face as she began to recognise the approach to Timiocato.

"You're going to love it there," Lewis said.

"I'll bet," Gloria said. She was now awake and smiled. Her earrings gleamed even in the artificial light of the cabin, as night was beginning to approach the grand city. All of a sudden, the pilot's voice snapped into the small talk reverie taking place in the cabin.

"Control tower, this is Sarzonia Two. Request permission to land, over."

"Sarzonia Two, this is Control Tower. Permission to land granted, over. And welcome to Timiocato."

The aircraft soon taxied to a stop along the runway, and a mobile staircase soon wheeled toward the exit door. Lewis was the first of the three Sarzonians in the delegation to descend, and she walked out wearing a smart grey pants suit with thin white pinstripes vertically lining it. Gloria Haffner was next, fairly gliding down the staircase. Finally, Haffner himself stood near the doorway.

"C'mon Grant," Hank said. "It's now or never." Finally, Haffner looked out, grabbed a tight hold onto the handrails, and slowly walked down the staircase. As expected, no media outlets were there to greet him or the rest of the party as secret service agents led the three into a stretch black limousine. Soon, the vehicle would be on its way toward their destiny and that of their country.

The night air was warm thanks to a tepid breeze filtering in slowly off the Carcossian Sea and over the islands of the Menguante—Dossavora archipelago.

The small charter jet taxied to a stop in front of the sleek new terminal at Timiocato Isolamunicipa International, the city's third airport and its main port of call for charter and diplomatic flights.

The jet's white, nondescript exterior glistened in the moonlight, looking like any other private airplane. Across the enveloping black water of the Timiocato river estuary, red aircraft caution lights pulsed on the colourfully-lit skyscrapers of the central business district. Silky grey light pollution creased the empty night sky, drowning out the stars directly above. Out here on Isola Concepta, despite the bright lights of the terminal, and despite being only a half-hour's drive from the CBD, the stars were still perfectly visible.

Beyond the double chain-link security fencing and the high-tech electronic surveillance equipment protecting the terminal grounds from the compound's exterior, two men sat waiting, but with different purposes.

In the tall reeds and dry grasses, cloaked within the shadow of a tall date palm, an averagely-built man in his late twenties crouched, surrounded by equipment in heavy-duty grey plastic cases. He was standard-issue paparazzi, sent to watch the airport for eight, ten, twelve hours and get high-quality shots that his agency could sell to the highest bidder — tabloid magazines, established newspapers, the television news. Of course, they had no idea whether the government was expecting any visitors, as they had kept the identity of this particular guest, or guests, irritatingly secret.

...which, of course, made it that much more important that he capture excellent shots of whoever it was coming to Timiocato. It could be anyone from a celebrity to a sports star to a political leader.

The photographer heard a gentle rustling behind him and turned sharply to peer out at his surroundings. Seeing nothing, he chalked it up to the breeze or some small rodent or snake running through the tall grass. About five seconds later, he heard a gentle flick and turned again. Nothing.

The plane's stewardess, her starched and pressed navy and white uniform distinguishable even from this distance, poked her head out as the hydraulics-powered stairs on the jet descended to meet the tarmac.

Any second now, the photographer mused.

It was so quiet that he could hear the seconds tick by, delicate and nearly imperceptible, on his gold-plated Serrafumo wristwatch. But as those seconds passed, a distinct aroma of Turkish tobacco smoke and rosewater floated through the air, becoming ever stronger and highly overpowering. The photographer's eyes watered and he took his hands off the camera and tripod to wipe them dry with his handkerchief.

"Getting any good shots?"

The photographer jumped and looked to his right. A man, "tall, dark and handsome" in the traditional sense, with a thin, black goatee framing his paper-thin lips, was suddenly standing right next to him, looking out at the tarmac. His thick obsidian hair was slicked back, his beady oceanic eyes glinting almost harmlessly in the reflections from the terminal.

"Jesus Christ, you scared me," the photographer breathed, replying in Pacitalian. "I'm sorry, who are you? I-I don't mean to be rude, of course."

"Oh, I was just out for a stroll and noticed you here. Thought I'd come over and see what you were up to. I live over on the other side of the hill." The tall man pointed half-heartedly off in the distance behind him.

"You've got some great equipment here." The mystery man gestured down at the plastic cases full of camera accessories. "Does it cost much to maintain all this stuff?"

The man took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled the dark smoke into the prevailing wind.

"Yeah, it does," the photographer replied amiably. "One time I had this particular camera here knocked out of my hand during a pretty intense press scrum. It broke in three places... cost me ten thousand just to get it fixed."

"Doura?"

"Of course."

"Incredible," the strange man whistled softly. He took another drag of his cigarette.

The photographer stared awkwardly at the ground for a few moments but looked up to see the airplane he was supposed to be watching taxiing down the apron towards a waiting hangar. There wasn't a single soul left on the tarmac except airport workers.

"Well," the tall man said, "I should keep going with my walk. Don't want to stiffen up. Enjoy the rest of your evening." He smiled and turned on his heel.

"Fuck," he muttered, glaring at the mystery man as he walked back down the hillside, disappearing slowly amongst the tall grasses.

Even though the arrangement made it clear that no media were welcome near Sarzonia Two's resting place, Haffner still walked down the steps tentatively, looking for all the world like someone who had a fear of heights. Once he got down to the stairs, he instinctively pulled his briefcase up in an attempt to cover the left side of his face while he tried to cover the right side of his face with another bag.

He looked around nervously before getting into the unmarked vehicle. Once inside, an aide picked up both his suitcase and the other bag and put them into the trunk of the vehicle.

As the car slowly drove away, Haffner scanned the area with his eyes.

"If there are any media outlets nearby, they're not authorised," an aide said in Pacitalian before apologising and repeating the sentence in English.

Haffner exhaled slowly, then looked out the window. Gloria looked over at him with concern and put her right hand on his shoulder.

"You're rather tense," she said.

"Wouldn't you be?"

"Um, no," Gloria said. "I'm not the one who singlehandedly fucked up Paci-Sarzonian relations, she said with a laugh.

"Stop, please."

"Grant," Gloria said. "You're just going to have to be yourself. And you're going to have to show Dr. Ell and the rest of the Pacitalian government you're sincere about why we're here. Nicole and I can take care of the social events. You just focus on doing what you need to do and relax. Or do you want me to speak for you?"

"That's quite all right," Haffner said, trying to sound reassuring and convincing everyone in the car but Gloria.

"This is what you signed up for," Gloria said. "Running the country and being senior VP is about a thousand times harder than this is. I know first hand."

So did Grant. The days of sleeping on a couch in his office and working 20-hour days came back to mind. At least now he was able to go home in time for dinner. Gloria made a great Chicken Woodstock, and Haffner missed her cooking. So did Gloria, rueing the fact that the government provided the president, lieutenant president and the senior vice presidents with chefs and official residences.

But all that was in the past. They hoped their future would include a return to normalcy for Paci-Sarzonian relations. And they hoped for fabulous Pacitalian food.