"It's good to see you Field Marshall, but you're a few days early. If I had known you would be here I would have come to greet you personally at the Gate," said Colonel General Alexadrov, saluting and then shaking Konev's hand.

"Yes, I had originally not planned on coming until Friday, but I have recently heard some interesting news about the Gate and decided that it required my immediate attention. Shall we go for a walk?"

"Yes, that wouldn't be a problem sir."

Konev didn't say anything for a while as they walked past rows of barrack blocks, with their entourage of guards, aides, and reporters that numbered as a small army keeping a respectful distance back from them.

The street was wide enough for two tanks to pass each other easily and the barracks were like those that one would find in basic training, long single story buildings capable of holding a hundred men and their equipment. Konev stopped and stared at one, causing the rest of the entourage to stop with them.

"Do you know what this is General?"

"It's a barracks sir, in D-block section four."

"Yes, and do you know who generally lives in a barracks General?" asked Konev turning and facing Alexandrov, hands clasped behind his back.

"Sir, if you wish to berate me please do not beat around the bush."

"Very well then. Soviet Soldiers live in Soviet barracks constructed by Soviets who have used Soviet military funds to make them. This is a military base correct?"

"Yes it is sir."

"And on this military base, every man sent here, from yourself to the simplest laborer was screened in minute detail to be allowed here. We have a file on every man and woman here. We know everything about them. Where they've lived, their financial situation, their family life, what kind of damned whore they would see on the weekend away from their wife. You were chosen based on your skills, history, and personal fortitude. Every detail of what is being done here has been approved by multiple committees on every level. We had a team of the best engineers and architects design the layout of your Camp. Now within this grand undertaking that is the greatest find not only in Soviet History, but human history you personally take in four thousand inhuman beings right into the heart of our operations without any consultation with Moscow. You know nothing about them. What diseases they they have, what their allegiances are, or who the fuck they are," said Konev, his voice a low hiss so that the reporters a few steps away would not hear. Despite his anger though, his face showed none of it. "Explain why."

"It was an act of humanity sir, and a propaganda victory. We liberated slaves from an Imperialistic Empire filled with Bourgeoisie and feudal lords sir. I thought that the drain on resources would be worth the positive image it would create for us. Word of mouth is how word travels here and I believed that it would inspire other uprisings within the Imperial Empire, further weakening them and making the populace more accepting of us. In the Soviet Union and within the Empire we will be seen as liberators and welcomed when we begin to expand with a much lower chance of guerrilla resistance."

"General, you're a smart man, but you didn't consider all of that in the few moments you talked with them when they were literally at your doorstep. You thought of that afterward to rationalize it and tell me to make me go, oh, my, that is a good idea indeed General. Keep up the good work. But I'm not saying that, do you want to know why? Intelligence tells me that the Empire and its people, in general, don't give a damned about these inhuman nomads. None of them are citizens of the Empire, none. In fact this will most likely hurt our image in the eyes of the regular citizen who will see us upsetting their order of life and replace it with our own. They will see it as us taking the inhuman side over theirs, which will most likely make them question if we are human ourselves. In fact General the only ones that will greet this news with open arms and gratitude are more homeless nomads and escaped slaves. All of which. Will. Come. Here."

"I can see your reservations about the whole affair sir," said Alexandrov.

"I have more than reservations General, I have outright hostility towards it. Sure, we can afford to feed some four thousand more mouths and the barracks room they've taken up won't be crippling, but what are you going to do when the next group shows up? How many are you willing to accept General? Another thousand? Another four thousand perhaps? Ten? Twenty thousand perhaps? You've opened a floodgate General, created a goddamned paradise in this world with free lodging, food, security, and protection. No questions asked. If you're a poor nomad discriminated against wouldn't you take up that offer? You could have very well created a mass migration towards this base. We plan on housing some two hundred thousand Soviet Personnel here and another hundred thousand settlers by the end of the year. Which I might add is only five months away. We are investing billions of rubles here for Soviet citizens, not dog men."

"I wouldn't necessarily allow them all entr-"

"Oh? But you would let more in yes? And those that you didn't? They won't go back, they can't. Not when the Empire has seen them as traitors and defectors. You'll get a slum on the outside of your walls. You'll get disease, starvation, pure heart string tugging misery, all in plain view of the cameras. How will you make them move once they're there? This isn't the era of Stalin anymore, we can't just shoot them and bury them like was once the case. Can't send them to the gulag and we can't feed, shelter, and care for all the destitute of this world. Not when we're trying to accomplish something here. As of yet, the Soviet Public sees no difference between them and the Empire. Right now, the citizens of the Union want blood for what happened in Kiev General. More than you've already spilled. I do wonder though, isn't a little odd that so many slaves escaped from a mine all at once? Could it not be possible, that say some of them are actually spies that seek to undermine us? Perhaps attempt to kill you even? Such a feat would be a political victory at best, but it would shake public confidence in what we are doing here, in the safety of this place and that is simply unacceptable. Just because they are primitive, does not mean that they are incapable of subterfuge."

"I understand sir, I do. However, this war is not a test of our military might, it is a test of our benevolence. If unleashed I could be at the Empire's Capital in three days and take it. The question isn't if we can win, but how we will handle our victory. If we turn up our noses imperiously at those who ask for our help, we show that we are no better than those who enslaved and abused them. We would torture them, not through conscious will, but mindless apathy towards their plight. They would die from our disinterest as surely as if we had pushed the blade into their heart. We formed the Soviet Union on the principles of liberating the working class, the people from their masters so they could have a better life. If we abandon that idea, if we abandon our guiding principle, because it is no longer expedient in our desires, then our Union is built on a house of cards that will surely collapse."

"This isn't a matter of principal and I may have lied when I said that we can't simply shoot them. We control the media, the statements, and who travels in and out of here. If we deem it appropriate, we will dig a pit and fill it with bodies, because like I said General, this isn't about principal. It's about reults."

"With respect sir it is. We can have the greatest intentions and desires, but it is our actions that will determine who we are. Who will believe us when we say that we're finally ready to help after we've already let potentially thousands die? There can be no half measures sir, it's failed every time that we've tried it. There are two ways to conquer and occupy sir and both will work so long as you see it through to the end. If you want them to obey out of love and respect, we must provide for each and every one of them that arrives. They will love us for it. Their children will be taught the Soviet way and we will expand through conversion of the local populace. To do this, we must be fair, kind, and benevolent. We must be understanding of their mistakes and initial resistance, using a feathers touch where we would be tempted to use a hammer. Fight only when necessary, and not an iota more. The other way sir, is to have them fear us so much that they never dare to even look at us. If one of our patrols is attacked near a village, we burn that village to the ground. If a lord sends an army after us, we kill every single man of his army and then the lord and his entire blood line. A mob gathers to protest against us, we kill them all. If an ethnic group will always oppose us, eradicate it until it can no longer do so. Both methods will work so long as you are consistent. I will say right now sir, that I will do everything in my power to have the Soviet Union succeed in its goals here, but if the second option is chosen I may very well find myself forced to resign."

"You may very well be replaced before that General. You are not indispensable to us, no one is. You have made a lot of very powerful men very unhappy, myself included, the only thing being is that you have made an equal number in the Politburo quite happy with your actions. The reporters with me will now, instead of documenting the strength of our defenses, will instead be documenting how generous and caring our Union is to the people of this new world. Which means that in ten minutes when they start asking you questions about how everything is going, you will smile, be cordial, and say how it was your patriotic duty to help those in need."

"Are you telling me that I dodged a bullet then sir?"

"No Alexandrov. Merely that you received a flesh wound where it should have been fatal. The problem with bullet wounds General, is that they bleed for quite a long time. Sometimes what you survive initially merely kills you later. Now there is another matter that we will discuss more at length in private, your recon team making contact as it were. You will be supplied with the new T-64 and T-72 Main Battle Tanks as well as our new BUK anti air missile defense systems. In addition to this, the 86th Guards Airborne Division will be added to your command with their new Mi-24 hind gunships. Their arrival should be immediate, around 1700 hours for the first contingent."

"I'm honored sir."

"Don't be. This is merely a precaution in case what you happen to go against is more dangerous than first thought. I may not like you at the moment General, but I will give you the tools to succeed before you even need them. You will in total have ten divisions under your command when all have come through General, a full army in its own right. Please understand the significance of what you are being given as an indication of how important your assignment is. We are no longer giving you excess divisions that won't be noticed when taken out of circulation, we are giving you category A troops and even an elite airborne division. These movements will be noticed, there absence brought under scrutiny by our rivals in NATO."

"And what would you like me to do with these top tier divisions sir?"

"Win Alexandrov. I expect, demand that you win, the Politburo demands that you win. As I have said, we will talk more on this later. Now, smile for the cameras, we have to make this look good."

xxx

Two years ago in Chechnya, at an estate near Grozny.

The man died quietly, his last gasp of life stifled by the gloved hand clamped firmly over his mouth. The Kalashnikov rifle clutched firmly in his hands, slipped from nerveless fingers as he was lowered to the ground. Before his body was even cold it was pulled off the road and into the brush, hidden by the dense foliage. The man had been guarding a narrow, winding mountain road against intrusion. Now, several black clothed men moved quickly, unimpeded past his guard post. The operative known as Sabre 3 among them.

Chechen nationals had grabbed a bus full of Russian students doing an exchange in the region, taking them hostage and issuing a list of demands. They had been holed up in a theater building for the past four days with upwards of thirty hostages and an unknown number of gunmen. There had been sporadic communication between them and the police, with a devolving situation. Frustrated with a lack of progress, the Chechens had cut the finger off of one of the students and gave it to the police in an envelope to show that they meant business with threats to begin killing the hostages if their demands were not met. Even this, grisly as it was would not have warranted the attention of the elite GRU Sptesnaz, it was not their theater of operation. However, one of the students taken hostage was the only daughter of the widower Mikhail Lobov.

Now even the only child of a widower, while sad, would still not warrant the attention of the GRU branch. No, what warranted their attention was who the widower was. Mikhail Lobov was the secondhighest ranking military officer in the entirely of the Soviet Union. He was a General of the Army and a favorite to become the next Marshall of the Soviet Union. He was also a family man, who still grieved the loss of his late wife, never having remarried and he doted on his daughter lavishly, treasuring her above all else. So, with her life so threatened the man had flexed his great power and set loose men who were only ever supposed to be used outside of the Soviet Union. Men sometimes called Russia's pitbulls. On Lobov's word, men died.

Sabre 3 moved quietly and quickly, dressed all in black and armed with a special shortened Kalashnikov, but he was just one of many such men, no more than liquid shadows moving up the side of the mountain. There was no moon tonight, and the sky was overcast settling the mountain in a heavy blanket of inky blackness. The kind that you stare into trying to make out familiar sights from the day time, but are unable to see a man more than ten feet from you standing upright.

The reason that they were here was simple. They knew the identity of the leader of the gang of kidnappers and this was his home. He was a prominent man in the Chechen revolutionary world, with ties in old blood and new money. He and his men had taken hostages and shown that they meant business, so the GRU were going to do the same.

The villa was inspired off of old Russian Empire design, most likely constructed still in the time of the czars. It was a large two story affair, with tall curving arches and a flat roof with several domes. Ivy vines grew up the sides of the building and a garden with chipped and faded statues decorated the front yard. Lights were still visible from inside, as were men walking long circumferential routes around the estate grounds. They disappeared though. Every time they went behind a tall bush, or left the sight of the main house or went behind an outbuilding, the never reemerged. Quick applications of steel and wire was all it took.

Sabre 3 stacked up with the rest of his team at a set of doors leading into the kitchens. The sounds of voices in casual conversation and the scrape of cutlery and clatter of plates filtered in dimly from within. The leader of Sabre team, after confirming that the rest of teams were in place gave the signal to breach. Sabre 3 drew back his booted foot and with a mighty heave, kicked in the door.

With a splinter of wood, the doors flew inwards and surprised cooks and busboys dropped plates in surprise, the porcelain shattering against the tile floor as the GRU Spetsnaz rushed in.

"DOWN! EVERYONE DOWN NOW!"

The chefs and busboys were shoved down roughly, thrown in some cases out of the way and subdued violently. Sabre Lead and Sabre 3 were about to exit the kitchen into the main building when a flurry of automatic weapons fire punched through the doors like they were paper.

Sabre Lead took a full burst to the chest, shredding his combat webbing and pitching him to the floor. He was dead before he hit it. Sabre Three threw himself behind the door frame, Kalashnikov clutched close to his chest while the rest of Sabre Team took cover behind stoves, sinks, or whatever was most substantial. Many of the chefs and busboys were not so lucky, as most had been ushered up near the walls closest to the house interior and acted as human meat shields, soaking up the first outpouring of weapons fire. They fell bullet riddled corpses to the floor, soon turning the tiled floor of the kitchen red. The blood gurgled as it made its way to the drain set into the floor, not that it could be heard over the constant chatter of weapons fire.

There were too many of them here and too well armed for it to be a coincidence. It was supposed to be a family gathering tonight, but it seemed that they had been expecting something like this. Or been tipped off.

Sabre Three was shaking, bullets punching through the wall all around him, chips of masonry stinging his cheeks even through his balaclava and dust clogging his nose. To someone watching he would have appeared to be terrified, but if they would have seen his face, stripped of its black covering, they would have seen a feral grin of almost unrestrained glee. A low, almost manic chuckle covered by the rattle of weapons fire.

The swinging doors to the kitchen opened and a Chechen with an older model AK 47 walked through, barrel still wafting smoke. He died before he knew what he was facing, a burst of 7.62 cartridges removing a sizable portion of his skull, spattering the wall behind him.

The man behind him entered firing in the direction that Sabre three had fired from, but barely had time to register surprise as Sabre 3 came up from a crouch, batting his rifle to the side and driving his own hard into his stomach. As the Chechen doubled over, Sabre three wrapped the sling of his rifle around him, controlling his movements and exited the kitchen using the man as a human shield.

There were several more waiting in the vicinity directly outside of the kitchen, but they hesitated when they saw that their comrade was standing between them and the black clothed Spetsnaz. Just as Sabre 3 knew that they would and they paid for their hesitance. The first died while still contemplating what to do and the second as he resolved to shoot regardless. The third died doing his forced role of human shield and Saber three discarded him as the lifeless body fell to the ground, bullets passing by him close enough he could feel the air as they passed by, his own Kalashnikov answering in kind, except that Sabre 3 didn't miss.

He rolled behind a decorative column and gained a moments respite. Men were yelling loudly and there was weapons fire all over the villa as the other teams found similar welcoming parties.

The Chechens a few scant feet from Sabre three were yelling conflicting orders to each other, but were cut short as the rest of Sabre team emerged from the kitchen, taking down the now exposed Chechens with ease. They shot them once in the head as they passed each prone figure to ensure that they were dead and Sabre 3 joined them, flicking away his empty magazine as he loaded a new one.

They met resistance in every hallway and every room they went through. However, these were men with minimal training and experience that dealt mostly with shooting at the odd law enforcement officer or off duty reservists. Not Spetsnaz. Though there were a lot of them.

Radio chatter was saying that their target was trying to flee out the west entrance to get to the garage and to converge in that direction to cut them off.

Sabre 3 rolled through a half open doorway to avoid the fire from two more guards who had rather unexpectedly each sprung from either side of a T hallway after it had appeared that they had eliminated all of them. However, Saber 3 might have been better off to have stayed where he was.

He had rolled right into the middle of three Chechens, all of whom were armed. Sabre 3 rose, holding down the trigger as he did so, stitching a bloody zipper like trail up one of the mens body as he did so until the Kalashnikov clicked dry, then threw the empty rifle at the second Chechen, drawing his Makarov pistol as he did so. He shot the man twice in the head in a rapid double tap and watched him fall. The third however, proved to be a more difficult adversary.

He tacked Sabre 3 and they fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs, grunting and hitting each other, but with Sabre 3 unable to bring his pistol to bear. It discharged twice as the Chechen beat his hand against the floor until Sabre 3 let go of it. The man pinning him to the ground had a thick beard and was a good fifty pounds or more heavier than Sabre 3 was. His breath stank of cheese and he was in the process of trying to use his superior weight to force the knife into Spetsnaz's flesh.

Sabre 3 put every ounce of hard won strength into resisting the downward descent of the blade, but found it inexorable, his own strength insufficient to stop it. So instead of pitting brute force against brute force, he tried a different tactic.

Shifting his weight and bringing his legs up around the Chechen's neck, Sabre 3 reversed their positions with a mighty heave, but was unable to retrieve his sidearm. So instead he forced the Chechen's arm into a lock, breaking it before driving the knife down, sinking it to the hilt in the large mans chest. Then pulled it out and sheathed it in the mans neck for good measure. He took in a few more shallow breaths, but the river of crimson pulsing from his neck and his ruptured heart soon saw his gaping breaths end and he grew still. Before this though, Sabre 3 was already gone.

After the escapade in the kitchens, and encounters of servants with hidden guns, they shot everyone who wasn't their VIPs. Maids, servants, butlers, guests, guards. In turned into a slaughterhouse, hells own resort that had reserved these people their very own suite. In time, the screams faded and the rattle of gunfire subsided, with only the quiet sobbing of a trio of small children and the rebel leader's wife.

They bound and gagged them bundled them into a corner of the Villa where they took a picture of them from a colour Polaroid camera. Several in fact, and even some of the villa and the dead distant relatives and their guards, all except one.

She was a small girl with dark hair and eyes, one of the twins and her identical sister being bundled off with the rest of her family, but she had been left in the care of Sabre 3. Now the GRU are not nice men, they're trained to follow out their orders no matter what and be utterly loyal to the Union. To call them soldiers, would be inaccurate in a way. They are specialists, problem solvers without scruples that carry out the will of the Union, no matter their orders and their orders had been clear. The Chechen had sent a clear message that he was serious, so they were going to send a message that they were just as serious.

The girl was odd. Despite all the gunfire and violence, she merely stared at Sabre 3, even when the young Spetsnaz pulled out his knife.

The next day a box was placed in front of the theatre with a manilla envelope on top. Upon assurances that the rebels inside would not be fired upon, the door was opened and the box was brought inside.

The box was nondescript, sturdy, yet made of cheap, but thick cardboard and taped shut. The manilla envelope the kind that you could get in any post office in the Soviet Union. The manilla envelope, much to the horror of the Chechen leader, contained photos of his wife and children save one, bound and gagged as well as photos of his home, bullet riddled and blood stained. But beyond that, there were photos of family members of every man present in the envelope. Not bound and gagged, but taken as they were doing daily things. Going to school, working in the garden, hanging the laundry, even eating supper. There was also a note in the envelope.

"Know that if the hostages are not released immediately, a similar fate will happen to the rest. Look in the box." It was a short message, and ominous in its meaning.

With trembling hands, the man who had been waging a personal war secretly against the Soviet Union for the better part of his life, a rich man with loyalty of hundreds of fighters peeled back the tape and opened the nondescript box. His wail of grief is said to have penetrated the walls of the theatre, making the police present believe that someone was being murdered inside. For when he opened the box, he found his daughter's head, wrapped, almost mockingly in how delicately it was done.

The hostages were released shortly thereafter and Lobov got his daughter back, the police their terrorists, and the students got to go home. Publicly, no one knew why the Chechen's had given up so quickly, but privately the GRU units involved were given praise and promotion by Lobov himself. Among them a young man of promising potential and remarkable skill. Feliks Volkin was promoted and became a team leader for his part in the raid despite his age, discarding the call sign Sabre 3 for Sabre Lead.

xxx

"Do you think that these guys are a lot more advanced that us? I mean they're still using Phantoms," said Vitsin, the young blonde medic pointing to a distant airfield where several of the aircraft were parked.

"Aren't our MiGs wrecking them in Vietnam?" added Grekov. Grekov was about average height, but had the body of a runner with dark brown hair and gray eyes.

"Yeah," admitted Vitsin. The 21s are actually getting positive kill ratios. I've heard it's because the Americans took the guns off of their planes and their missiles aren't as accurate as people think. Though their new F15s have been knocking our planes out of the sky down there."

"That's just Vietnamese pilots though, not Russian ones," said Grekov dismissively.

"True," conceded Vitsin. "Still, their helmets look like it's made of the same kinda stuff our vests are, but better. And they've all got night vision goggles, or something that clips onto their helmet that they can put over their eyes. Though compared to Camp Zhukov, this place isn't very big. What do you think, about one division? Maybe two with all all their support stuff? Probably planning on expanding though. Hey! Farmboy! What do you think?"

"Me?" asked the young marksman Davydov, pointing to himself rather dumbly. He was a short man, still a kid really at 17. He weighed maybe a hundred and thirty five pounds soaking wet, but fit from a life of farm work and surprisingly strong for his size and his dark blue eyes never seemed to miss anything.

"Yeah, what do you think about all of this?"

"Well I don't know about their gear, but I think that this place is as big as it's gonna get once their little fortress is finished honestly."

"How do you figure that?" asked Grekov

"Well, when I was fifteen I helped my dad make a little extra money by doing some survey work. Mostly I'd just put down these wooden stakes wherever they told me to and carry stuff. You know, mark stuff out so that the work crews that came in would know where they could build or cut down trees and stuff."

"Oh yeah, we drove past a lot of those when we were leaving Zhukov," said Vitsin. "Kinda embarrassing really, didn't know what they were."

"Yeah, and when you look out there, you don't see any of them," said Davydov, gesturing beyond the wire mesh fence."

"Huh. Well at least there's more of us over here anyways. That's at least kind of reassuring."

"What would be more reassuring would be if I had my Kalashnikov back," grumbled Belikov, sitting at a picnic table playing cards.

"What would you need your Kalashnikov for Belikov?" demanded Vitsin.

"Makes me feel better. Good to have it around."

"He just wants it, because he almost got eaten by a damned Dragon when we went and smashed that army first week we got sent it," said Grekov laughing.

"Shut up, it wasn't funny," said Belikov sourly.

"It kind of was though, damn thing chased you half way around the camp and you got away by crawling under a T-55. Damn, that was something though. That dragon just exploded when that 105 hit it at point blank range. Pieces went everywhere," laughed Averin, which ended up sparking an argument.

Vitsin left it to them to sort out, and sat close to the wire mesh fence looking out over the low rolling hills leading to the camp. There was a town of sorts growing outside of the base about a mile or so away and patches of trees beyond. There were scars of a battle that had taken place though, craters and broken pieces of armor still littered the fields leading up to Alnus hill. The Japanese were messier than the Soviets though, they hadn't made an effort to clean up their mess. Or maybe they had left the remains of the armies sent against them as a warning?

Whatever the reason, it couldn't be helped that they were all starting to get a little agitated. They had been here three days and hadn't seen the Lieutenant in the past two. Their weapons and radios had been confiscated and they weren't being told what was going on. They were given quarters and food, but they weren't allowed to leave their little area which was only adding to the agitation.

The little town that the Japanese had set up of cheery looking wood building actually extended into the base itself, albeit with a checkpoint before it got into the base itself. However.

Vitsin squinted, seeing trucks a large puff of dust and dirt fly into the air.

"Hey. Hey you guys, come take a look at this!" called Vitsin.

"What?" asked Belikov.

"Something's happening over there. Look!" True to his words, another explosion of dirt flew up into the air and the sound, like a small bomb going off reached them moments later.

"Are they under attack?" pondered Belikov aloud.

"I don't think so, I don't hear any gunfire," said Davydov, ever preceptive.

"The Imps don't have guns idiot," chided Averin.

"I meant the SDF's guns. There isn't any shooting."

"Oh yeah."

"Hey, hey guards! There's something going on in the town down there," called out Vitsin to their marine guards. But, either not understanding them, steadfastly just ignoring them, or both, they never twitched a muscle.

"Hey don't ignore me. Hey Jarheads!" said Vitsin, now getting offended. "There. Is. Something. Happening. In. The. Town!" enunciated the medic, slowly and loudly like he was talking to very dull or very slow children. Frustrated, he picked up a small rock and threw it at the Marines, which bounced off the mans helmet. Very slowly, the marine, the size of a small truck turned around and he was the biggest, blackest man that Vitsin had ever seen and he did not look pleased in the slightest.

"Oh hell."

xxx

Ianthe had walked the remaining miles into the expanding city on the slope leading to Alnus hill. She had originally had her traveling cloaks hood up, shielding her face, but found that doing that actually made her stand out more than not, so she put it down.

There were lots of men in green walking around, but more so, at least in the town, were nomadic peoples and Imperial citizens. Or ex-Imperial as the case could very well be. It wasn't like any town that Ianthe had ever been in though, it was too clean, smelled too good. There was no sewage, no readily visible garbage, and everyone looked remarkably clean, like they had all bathed that day and there were a lot of shops. All of which sold goods that had to have originated from their homeland.

Ianthe couldn't believe the laxity of the security though. Even a small city with only a few thousand people would have had guards search her and more than likely confiscated her sword that was currently secured to her waist beneath her traveling cloak.

The buildings were all brand new, made of wood, and looked as if they had been put together by professional carpenters with proper tools rather than simple villagers with no real idea of construction. The roofs were shingled with actual shingles and not thatched with straw or branches. One feature actually made Ianthe stare in wonder though.

She knew that the Soviets were rich beyond measure which explained why they had so much glass and of such high quality in addition to mirrors of such clarity that they could merely stick them anywhere they chose to. But these were mere villagers, how could they afford to put glass in their windows? To hire a glassblower and pay them to make this many windows would have cost a fortune and the quality of the glass spoke of a master glassblower who had done it.

Stiffening, but forcing herself to relax, Ianthe saw two of the dark haired green men walking down the street. Not necessarily towards her, but down the street she was on. After a moment she realized that she was staring and immediately averted her gaze.

Trying to look normal and blend in, Ianthe ducked into a store directly to her side, looking at various things without any real interest of buying them. There were lanterns overhead that gave light without flames. Luella had told her that those were lights that used electricity, similar to lightning to work, but it just sounded like more magic to Ianthe. They were similar to the ones on the wagons that the Soviets used, but different.

"Hi, can I help you with anything?" asked a cheerful voice. Ianthe turned and saw that it clerk who was talking to her. She was a nomad and clearly not human, but she was still running a store which was more shocking than anything Ianthe had seen today. Nonhumans worked in stores all the time, but in the back, out of sight and out of mind. Not acting as the shopkeeper.

"I am just browsing your wares thank you. I must ask though, where did you get all of these...goods?" asked Ianthe, picking up a writing instrument with switches that when pressed down put some kind of quill point down that was filled with ink. A pen Volkin had called them? Whatever it was it felt very cheaply made, not at all like the one that Volkin had used to take notes.

"Oh, well we get all of our wares from the SDF from the land of Japan and they employed me to run the store, can you believe that?"

"No actually," said Ianthe bluntly.

"I know right? I mean all I had to do was learn how to speak Japanese and now I'm learning how to write their language. Best part is, they pay me to learn it."

"They pay you to learn?" said Ianthe, half as a question, half as a statement of disbelief. It was common knowledge that you paid your mentor for their knowledge and experience to take the time to impart that onto you. For someone to pay you to learn how to work for them seemed almost inconceivable. Even the Skyraiders, when adopting orphans and training them how to fight were basically making an investment.

"Yeah, they call it a training wage. Two months ago I was sweeping floors and moving casks in some crummy tavern, and now I've got this job. Heh, the heaviest thing I've got to lift is boxes of plastic pens. The job is a breeze and there's no bandits here, the SDF and the yew ess em see patrol here all the time. Hey, you don't look entirely human, you part elvish or something?"

"And what if I am?" demanded Ianthe adversarial, hand going halfway to the hilt of her sword.

"Woah, hey hey, calm down. I didn't mean it like that," said the girl, throwing her hands up in a placating gesture nervously.

"Then what did you mean by it then? Speak plainly."

"Well the guys here, they aren't like the Imperial Soldiers," said the clerk, lowering her voice and leaning in almost like she was sharing some kind of secret. "In fact they love anything different. I mean elves, cockatrices, vixens, even warrior bunnies. If you've got some part of you that doesn't look human, they follow you around like lost puppies. There was one SDF guy, he saw a cat girl and I thought that he was going to go crazy and propose right there and then. You know," said the clerk appraising Ianthe. "You've got a good figure, you could make a lot of money being a barmaid at the local tavern."

"A barmaid?" said Ianthe, her voice low and venomous. She threw back her traveling cloak over her shoulder, revealing her articulated draconian knight armor and mythril longsword. She drew her blade with a sharp rasp and held it up for the girl to see.

"This is how I make my living and earn my keep. I am a draconian knight of the Skyraiders from Messalon. I did not train for war all of my life, merely to discard my pride and honor to serve drinks to impotent drunkards in search of cheap coin. I am a warrior and you would do well to remember that girl."

"O-okay, I-I didn't mean to offend you. Really, I didn't," stammered the cockatrice behind the counter.

"I did not think so. Now, I have some questions."

"S-sure, anything you want. Really."

"There is an apostle of Emroy here, that travels with the SDF as you call them. I would like to find her, do you know where I can find her?"

"Well, no. Not right now that is," said the cockatrice quickly. "I mean she comes and goes, either usually wandering around town or else further in the military camp. She's usually in town around this time. You aren't going to, um, use that sword on me. Are you?"

"What? No, why?" asked Ianthe, a frown creasing her face.

"Well you drew it, and pointed it at me."

"Oh, heh, I apologize for that. I just like to articulate and I don't really think when I get mad," said Ianthe sheepishly, sheathing her sword. Her father had given her more than one swat on the head for drawing her sword in anger, or to make a point. Someone would have thought that she would have learned from that by now.

"Okay. Well, is there anything you wish to buy?"

"No, I have to find the apostle of Emroy. I may speak to you again later," said Ianthe, waving as she left.

"Goodbye, have a great day," said the cockatrice smiling, but her legs, hidden below the counter quivering violently. As soon as Ianthe was gone, the cockatrice went to the back and told the SDF liaison what had happened and he immediately called the MP's to be on the lookout for a silver haired woman with a sword. Ianthe, ignorant of this, continued her search.

As it turned out, you could not use Silver to buy things in this town. Or at least not from establishments owned in part or wholly by the SDF. You could however, if you so chose go to an exchange merchant you would give you paper notes that the SDF used as currency, but Ianthe didn't trust it. Silver and gold had value, if not for the country the coin was minted in, then the simple fact that it was silver or gold had value. The weight of it was an assurance of wealth and security. She would not trade it so quickly for pieces of paper. So instead she used silver for one of its more useful purposes, loosening tongues.

Not for every fool though, just those who would legitimately know something of interest or value about the Apostle. Rory Mercury, the nigh millennium old demi-god and high priestess of Emroy. She had become the apostle at a very young age which gave her the appearance of a young girl, almost a child, but it was a sick ruse. The Priestess was very old and had killed more men then there was wheat stalks in a field. A cold blooded killer who delighted in death in pain, not merely a phantom of the battlefield, but a demon of it come to claim the souls of those slain upon it. In fact actively participating in the mayhem.

So even though she was actively pursuing the Apostle, a cold ball of dread had settled in her stomach. Icy tendril extending to every part of her being, dulling her senses and weakening her resolve. To challenge an apostle, especially one of Emroy was asking for death, if not outright pleading for it. She was looking for the apostle, but a part of her did not want to find Rory. She found out other things though, useful things.

There was an elf, and a young human girl who traveled with the Apostle and the SDF. She also learned that the commander, who most likely had met with Volkov with named Itami Youji. A junior officer much like Volkin tasked with a similar mission. If she could find any of them, then she could use them to perhaps gain entrance to the main military camp. As luck would have it though she didn't need to look very hard to find the Apostle.

"Rory Mercury! Turn and be recognized," commanded Ianthe to the Priestess of Emroy, walking with the blonde high elf she had heard about named Tuka. Her voice sounded commanding, but on the inside she felt as if she was made of water, weak and needing only a pinprick to fade away to nothing.

"Who, me?" asked Rory turning, a coy smile on her face. The picture of innocence if not for the utterly massive halberd that she was carrying as if it weighed no more than a feather. They were in an open square area in the middle of a cluster of shops whose vendors sold food.

"Yes priestess," said Ianthe advancing. "You traveled with a man three days ago. A foreigner and I have questions about him."

"Questions? That sounds boring. Come and ask me again later okay? I'm busy right now." Rory turned and began walking away, when with a whistling thunk a knife embedded itself in the wooden beam of the building directly next to her head, only a hands span from it.

"Do not turn you back on me Priestes-" Ianthe was cut off as the knife, in a movement too fast to follow was pulled from the building and thrown back at her. Ianthe felt the air from the blade as it passed and it took her a moment to realize that it had cut her cheek, a line of crimson dribbling down the side of her face and onto the ground.

"You shouldn't play with sharp toys, you might get hurt." Rory was smiling, but it wasn't a kind smile, but one of cruel intent. The lipstick on her lips, as if by magic had changed from cherry red to a deep purple. Ianthe, very much afraid, but finding death preferable to dishonor pressed on undeterred.

"There was a man. His name was Feliks Volkin, a senior lieutenant in the Red Army. What have you done with him?" Ianthe advanced on the priestess as she spoke until only a few paces separated her from the apostle.

"Done? Why would I do anything with a man I hardly know? Do you think so little of me to act so crudely? And in such a tone. What do you intend to do if you don't like what you hear? I wonder, but you are so afraid," the smile only seemed to deepen after that.

"I will not ask again priestess what have you done to him?"

"What is he to you?"

"He is my lord, and I am his sword and shield. I serve him and I will be told where he is and what has become of him."

"And who would you be, exactly?"

"I am Ianthe, daughter of Acamus and you will answer my question."

"Oh, a Messalonian huh? Took me a moment to place the accent. You people are always getting so caught up in your honor and blood debts it really does get so irritating." Smiling cruelly, Rory leaned in close to the mercenary. "I killed him." Laughing, before Rory could say anything else, a roar of pure primal rage filled the square and she had to bring her halberd in place to block a blow from a longsword that had filled the mercenary's hand so quickly it was almost as if it had been put there by magic.

"I killed him."

Those words had melted the icy ball of dread and terror in Ianthe's stomach and boiled what remained into a frothing cauldron of molten steel, fiery and uncontrollable. Moving on instinct, she had drawn her own blade and attempted to behead the Apostle of Emroy. Her Mythril blade singing through the air as it was put to deadly purpose. Five inches. That was how much farther her blade had to go before it met the Apostle's flesh, but a twirl of the Priestesses wrist had seen her giant halberd moved into place to block the blow, and a flick to send Ianthe back stumbling with a clash of steel. Despite this though, the priestess never stopped smiling.

Ianthe adopted an Ox guard and charged the Apostle, moving with the grace and skill of a master swordsman, she unleashed a flurry of blows in but a heartbeat, yet each was blocked with almost contemptuous ease by Rory. Her weapon didn't sing through the air as it moved, sounded more like a warhammer swung too quickly. The great weight of her weapon roughly pushing the air out of the way rather than cutting through it.

It was a change in demeanor, not even a physical cue, but more of the look in the Apostle's eyes that warned Ianthe that she was about to go on the offensive. A mere manipulation of the wrist and the great halberd was raised high overhead, far too quickly for something of that weight.

Ianthe leaped back, abandoning her attack a split second before the halberd fell like the rush of an avalanche and when it hit, dirt and pieces of the hard packed road flew up, almost like someone had used magic to make the earth erupt, the sound like thunder. Ianthe shielded herself from the debris, wincing as smaller pieces rebounded off of her face and a few larger pieces off of her armor. Ianthe blinked quickly to clear her eyes of the dust and could only stare in shock, seeing the halberd being withdrawn from a crater larger enough for several full grown men to lay down in trailing dirt.

"Good, I'm surprised you were able to dodge. Tell you what, we can stop now if you want to. I'll even let you leave. How about it?" The Apostle asked the question as if this was a game to her, the large halberd resting on her shoulder.

"I can not leave, nor do I wish to. I must see you dead or die in the attempt, there is no alternative for me. So come at me whore of Emroy," said Ianthe, adopting a fools guard, lowering her center of gravity, mythril blade trailing behind her and widening her stance. She moved through the stances as if they were as natural to her as breathing, her blade merely an extension of her own arms.

"Ah, well at least you'll make a pretty corpse then." The hard packed dirt turned to dust under her feet as Rory moved, bringing her halberd around like a farmer scything his field, intending on cleaving Ianthe in half.

Ianthe was not wholly prepared for the speed of the Apostle, though she had been expecting it. More of a force of nature then facing a halberder.

Wait for the perfect moment, Ianthe mentally coached herself as time seemed to slow, revealing everything in minute detail to her. The near murderous look of glee on the Apostle's face, the halberd picking up speed in its arc, even the way the frills rippled on the formal dress resembling a maids attire. Now.

Ianthe leaped into the air, rolling and drawing her knees up in tight to her chest as the halberd passed underneath. Ianthe hit the ground firmly on her feet, sword ready to bring up, but already the halberd was coming down in a diagonal arc towards her. Committing fully, Ianthe rushed ahead, the halberd missing her by no more than a hairsbreadth as it passed overhead, crashing into the ground with an explosion of dirt and dust, but now she was within the Apostle's guard.

The mythril blade whistled as it was brought up, glimmering in the noonday sun, slowing only slightly as it bit into flesh, goring the apostle from hip to shoulder, loosing a spray of blood, surprise on the Apostle's face. Yet Rory brought her halberd up again a split moment later like she had not just been mortally wounded.

Ianthe managed to deflect to blow, but it hit with the force of a galloping horse and nearly spun Ianthe around, numbing the fingers of her sword hand, the mythril blade ringing as if in pain from the glancing blow. The halberd now held entirely upright like a monument to war and death, ready to descend. With a snarl, Ianthe barged into the Priestess, her companion dagger in her hand. It was a quick, but poor thrust, yet one that found the Apostle's throat and kept going until it lodged into the spine at the back. A strangled gasp escaping Rory's throat as blood welled around the blade lodged in it.

With a howl of mindless rage, Ianthe brought her longsword down and lodged it to the hilt just above the collarbone of the Priestess, the end of the blade exiting out of her lower back, bathed in red.

"For Volkin, the man you murdered now avenged and for my honor now regained," snarled Ianthe pushing the blade in deeper. The flesh squelching as the mythril was forced in deeper. She was vaguely aware of the blonde elf who had been with the priestess screaming. Ianthe felt the priestess go limp, the light drain from her eyes and begin to fall slack in her grip. The halberd loosening from her grip, then stop. Half slumped over, sword pinning her body to the ground and a dagger in her neck, the priestess stopped as if suspended by invisible wires. Then, Rory's head came back up like a sick marionette, a smile on her face.

"Very good, but not quite good enough."

Ianthe stared in horror for a moment, eyes going wide, but it was long enough. Rory hooked her fingers under the lip of her cuirass, then lifted her up and threw her armor and all. A full grown woman of the Messalonian Skyraider draconian knights, with enough force for her to hit and go through a wooden wall in a shower of splinters and broken wood. She tumbled, her body numb from the force of the impact and only alive because of her steel protection.

Ianthe's vision switched rapidly from the hole in the wall, the roof, and the floor as she tumbled end over end. When she finally came to a stop, she wanted to lay still for all of eternity, but instead pushed herself up on trembling arms, legs quivering and seeing double in her vision. By the time she was back on her feet, she was vaguely aware of Rory coming through the hole in the wall towards her, pulling out the mythril sword with a sucking of flesh, before tossing it idly to the side with a dull clatter.

The rest of the patrons in what was revealed to be a tavern were looking on in shock, but Ianthe brought her fists up into a fighting stance, steel armored gauntlets held in a classic boxing stance.

"You ruined my ceremonial clothing," huffed Rory, pulling at the bloody slash marks on her dress, the flesh underneath as unmarred as that of an infants.

Ianthe was a large woman, standing at six feet tall with long limbs and she had been taught how to fight from when she was just a child. As such, she could hit very hard and wearing her steel gauntlets, she could hit as hard as she was able to without fear of injuring her hands. Not that she was concerned about hurting herself at this point.

Advancing quickly, she put all of her power and training into a classic pugilistic punch, throwing her whole body behind the blow, rocketing her steel covered fist forwards like a cavalry charge. Only for it to be caught and stopped dead by an amused Rory.

"You know, I wasn't expecting you to be that good," said Rory with a laugh. "You would have killed me if I was mortal. Fortunately, I'm not."

Pulling hard on Ianthe's arm, Rory swung the woman around, lifting her off of the floor and threw her through another wall of the tavern in another splinter of wood, watching the mercenary tumble end over end, before coming to a stop. She laid still, but was still breathing, blood flowing down her forehead from a cut. Her armor was dented and her muscles were quivering from trauma and exertion.

Rory kicked her over so that she was laying on her back, Ianthe's eyes unfocused, not truly seeing Rory. Rory brought up her halberd, sharp point hovering over Ianthe's throat.

Whistles blasts filed the area as SDF soldiers in green with MP armbands rushed into the square. Rory put the halberd down.

Xxx

Ianthe regained lucidity sometime around the time that she was being pulled out of one of the green men's carriages. She stumbled like a new hatchling on unsure legs, every movement a new kind of torture to her battered body. She was only dimly aware of what was happening to her as she was led down a hallway that was like stone, but wasn't and far too clean. More of those lights overhead that used energy like lightning. She didn't know what was going to happen to her, but what did it matter?

The man who had hired her, given her a contract, a fresh chance at a life she thought was gone forever was dead. A man that she was supposed to protect with her life and had failed to do so. Then had failed to avenge him. She was nothing but a failure in the eyes of both men and gods and it weighed heavily on her soul, making her feel as if she was but a hollow vessel.

"Ianthe?"

The voice was familiar and the mention of her name made Ianthe look up and to her disbelief, see Feliks walking the opposite way, next to a man who looked like an officer.

Ianthe had been told that it was her elvish blood that made her so temperamental. Whereas elves felt emotions much more strongly and deeply that humans, they also had a restraint and thoughtfulness to keep it in check whereas humans had impulsiveness and passion that amplified their own emotions to a heightened degree. Ianthe had gotten traits of both of her parents races, the deep emotion and feeling of the elves, with the impulsiveness and passion of the humans. Needless to say, it led to some varying results.

"Volkin, you're alive!" cried Ianthe gleefully, joy making her heady and warm before spreading to the rest of her body, making her feel as if she had done nothing more strenuous than go for a mild run. Giggling like a girl, her elvish heritage making it lyrical like water tinkling atop of crystals, Ianthe practically launched herself at the young Soviet officer, wrapping her manacled arms around him and kissing him. Laughing merrily in the way only elves can laugh.

"You're alive! You're alive!" Cried Ianthe joyously. "You're ali-you're alive," said Ianthe, her demeanor changing immediately as she realized that she had tried to kill an apostle of Emroy, the god of war, death, and other unpleasantness to avenge a man that was still alive. She glared at him, her two ice chip eyes turning as cold as the ice they appeared to be.

"You're alive. You fucking idiot."

AN: Well I'm gonna get some feedback for my own personal Seven moment, but before that I'd just like to say, please don't put my head in a box for doing that. I like it on my shoulders and it likes being there. We're both quite attached to each other.

I remembered hearing one time about a hostage situation either in Russia or the Soviet Union where they had taken a Russian diplomat or his family hostage and cut off a finger to show that they meant business. The Spetsnaz then did the same with a member of the hostage takers family and sent it to him. Needless to say they let the diplomat go as the story goes. I always found that the GATE series, while good, tended to portray their protagonists as holier than thou do gooders, while literally everyone who was against them or voiced opposition to what they were doing, were basically mustache twirling cartoon villains.

So with my character Feliks, while a good natured guy who tries to do the right thing and likeable in his own way, has done some very bad things in his life when ordered to and is capable of doing them again. I like having characters that you can argue are good or evil depending on your point of view, like for example Ianthe. She's a mercenary, kills people for money, but she's loyal, honest, and brave. All good qualities, but with a different set of morality. Her honor is everything to her and she is essentially a medieval mercenary and we all know how medieval mercenaries behaved. The answer is not nicely, so while we haven't explicitly seen her do bad things, it's pretty much a given because of her life. In fact the only really innocent one out of the Soviet group is Luella and I did that on purpose.

PS. Don't ever look in the box.