.oOo.

"But he can't admit that. The job is this close to his reach, just a step away, and playing this small aspect of borders on the treaty correctly could get him higher up. And he needs to get to the top."

.oOo.

Luka Novak, 18, Slavic Male

He rubs his hands through his thick hair, sighing heavily and throwing down the poor, abused fountain pen that he despised so at the moment onto the hardwood floor. The pen clatters against the rubbish bin filled with dozens of crumpled up, torn papers, and Luka swears as he picks up the pen and sets it down on the counter. He needs a break, a break from all of this useless treaty-making with Germany! His superior was an idiot to entrust this job to Luka. He was just as much at a loss of what to do as his bosses. But he can't admit that. The job is this close to his reach, just a step away, and playing this small aspect of borders on the treaty correctly could get him higher up. And he needs to get to the top.

Erika walks into the room with a pair of her dresses still in their hangers, comparing their looks in front of herself, one after the other. "Darling, is the cerise or violet a better fit on me?"

"Don't be a dolt. Cerulean suits you much better than those nasty colours. Torch them in the fireplace, if you ask me. You look drab, superfluous in those colours." He absently fixes the glasses he has on, adjusting the large black frames before peering back at his papers. He doesn't need them, but glasses signaled intelligence; intelligence, a promotion; and a promotion meant he was closer to the top. He'd keep up that little facade if it meant he could get ahead.

Erika swats him over the head lightly with a hair comb, hauling him up and onto his feet. "We can't miss the ball, Luka. Milena's hosting it tonight, and you know how much it means to her. We have to get moving, get dressed, go! And you can't always put people down, you know. Some of us do have feelings, and feelings can be easily hurt by a man with no filter."

Luka nods with fake remorse, slipping in for a kiss before Erika swats him away. "Even if you're correct, those were presents from Mama. She wouldn't want you to talk like that about presents." She turns away, pretending to ignore him.

Luka smiles, walking towards Erika and spinning her around. "My darling, you know I would ever purposely hurt you. You know why? Reason one. I love you. Reason two. I love you. Reason three. I love you."

Erika giggles and starts to soften, turning her head away from him. "It's hard to remember all of your fifteen reasons when you're never home, Luka."

"As long as you can remember one," he whispers, watching his wife smile. Erika slowly turns back to him, only to be met with a passionate kiss as Luka swoops in. Their lips touch and her lipstick is slightly smeared by the embrace. Luka kisses her again and she shrieks as they tumble onto the floor, the two dresses forgotten. She'll choose later.

They leave for the party at six o'clock, Luka carefully shutting and bolting the door shut before walking with his wife along the road. They walk quickly, the only traffic passing by the few bicycles not confiscated by the war effort and dead leaves from the autumn before. There are no cars other than military vehicles; all cars were scrapped to make tanks for the Germans. His own car, a jolly little Adler Trumpf Junior painted all in grey, had been bombed when they still lived in the city. There's a reason they now live in the country. Their house had been taken over by German soldiers, kicking the two out in order to establish another security base. At least they had no use for the country. German soldiers had no use for simple woods when they could have the cities.

They avoid the puddles dotting the side of the road, Luka laughing as he lifts his wife over a larger one while walking through it with his now-mud stained shoes. Erika chides him laughingly, getting down onto the road and pointing at his shoes. "Luka, they're a total mess!"

"Kraljica, you'll outshine any shoe," he teases, flicking off some of the mud and wiping his finger on the grass. Erika stands there with her hands on her hips and pretends to be annoyed until he gets up, starting to walk once more to this ball. It's a Sham Ball, it's what everyone's dubbed these approved parties by the German Government in an attempt to distract them from the war. The war's already finished, but the Sham Balls are still severely lacking supplies due to fierce rationing in the country.

A squad of German soldiers walks by merrily, a round-nosed soldier happily chewing a bar of chocolate. Luka growls as they walk past the couple, a thin soldier accidentally splashing some mud onto Erika's cerulean dress.

"Jebi se," Luka growls at the soldiers, and one of the leading officers turned around to Luka.

"Was hast du gesagt?"

"Luka, don't say anything. Walk away, darling. Please," Erika whispers, tugging at his coat sleeves.

But Luka doesn't listen.

"You think you're so smart. Get away from my wife," he hisses, spitting at the officer. The officer slowly reaches for his gun, bringing it out of his holster and slowly aiming the black, shiny barrel at Luka.

"Idiot, ja? Then an idiot could be excused for accidentally shooting a Slav, of all things."

Erika tenses and moves towards Luka, a panicked tear trickling down her face and onto the pavement. And just as he aims right at Luka's head, a truck barrels past the group, separating them from one another and giving Erika time to grab Luka's sleeve and pull him away from the group. As they hurriedly walk away, Erika stumbling in her high heels in panic, the officer laughs cruelly and lowers his gun. "Those Slavs. More like slaves. Slaves to kill."

Erika tears up as the group walks away raunchily, pushing Luka away before hugging him tightly and weeping into his chest. "Please don't do that, Luka. You scare me when you lose control. Promise me. Promise me, Luka."

Luka sighs heavily and looks at the approaching mansion, his shoes forgotten. "I'm sorry, kraljica. I'm sorry for scaring you."

Erika doesn't notice that he didn't promise as they walk into the mansion. It's starting to rain.

.oOo.

"But she doesn't have time to be a child tonight, does she?"

.oOo.

Milena Kovac, 18, Slavic Female

It's starting to rain.

She looks out of the window as the guests start to approach the mansion she's busy walking around in, sending servants to dust the countertops once more and to rearrange the little cakes that she had managed to get the servants to buy in the store; well, buy as in bribing the store owners with money from her husband, but buying was buying, no matter the manners one went around doing so. She watches the dark clouds start to converge upon the mansion, a deep rumble emitting from the nearby mountains. The guests are starting to hurry their movement, a panicked look on some of their faces as they scurry through the beautiful doors of her mansion. No one wants to be caught in the rain.

She pushes back her hair and yawns slightly, her brown eyes sparkling as she walks toward her doors. A good hostess must always be ready to greet her guests, even if she'd rather be comfortably arguing with one of them on the couch.

But she doesn't have time to be a child tonight, does she?

She starts to greet some of Koper's finest: a few bachelors in charge of several munition factories in Ljubljana, likely looking for a lovely girl to brighten up their nests, a happy couple who were likely some form of royalty in Slovenia, and dozens of women who had tried to brighten themselves up with makeup but had overdone it along with overweight men who had given up on personal fitness years ago.

Just the people she wants for this party.

She sighs under her breath before lighting up, waving like a little girl to her younger sister. Erika waves back with excitement, towing her husband along into the house. "It's raining so much! Luka, pohiti into the house. I don't want to get wet! Milena, wonderful to see you tonight! How is the party?"

Milena sighs, pushing back her hair. It's stubbornly falling over her face, but she needs it to stay in the back. "The usual suspects; all of the debeli moški in stare gospe. At least you two are here. We need something to liven it up."

Erika laughs pleasantly and walks into the house with her wet cerulean dress, holding onto Luka's shoulder as she pulls off the jacket over her dress. "Let's go in there and see if we can't have a little fun. How is your husband?"

Likely near the refreshments, she thinks darkly, but Milena manages to keep a pleasant smile on her face for the sake of her guests. "I've sent him to chat with the others. I hope Domen decides to play nice with the bachelors. He doesn't like men who aren't fighting for the country."

"Weren't fighting for the country," corrects Luka, walking into the large ballroom with Erika. "The war is technically over by now. Fuhrer Schnee's won once and for all, hasn't he? Baraba."

Erika swats Luka lightly, blushing at the insult. "Luka, you absolutely must learn to keep your mouth shut. Remember the soldiers."

"What soldiers?" Milena asks politely, opening the doors for the two. "Domen hasn't let me hear a thing about the war! I'm surprised he told me that we've lost. He's got that silly little mentality about women not interfering with wartime efforts and all of his prejudices, you know the man. Now, hello to everyone!"

She grabs a glass and taps it with a spoon for attention, causing the room to pause what they're doing and look up at her. "I'm pleased to welcome you to the party! Now, the band will be playing tonight, only the best for Domen!"

Domen and the men he's chatting with laugh, turning towards Milena. She resists the urge to recoil at the smell of sour alcohol and keeps smiling, tapping the glass once more. "I don't want to hold you back for too long, so we'll have the band start now!"

The small band in the corner starts to play, a balding man lovingly caressing the violin he's holding with his frayed bow. But the music is still in it, and it stands out the most of all of the instruments. Soon, the other instruments stop playing, allowing the man to start playing his symphony for the audience.

"I've always loved Bach's Chaconne." She starts with surprise as Luka stands next to her, listening quietly to the music. "Lovely piece. The man is talented."

"He is," she replies uncertainly, taking Luka's hand and starting to dance. "Where is Erika?"

"Over with a few other wives. I hear that they're talking about how mad Schnee is." Luka takes a quick sidestep and pulls Milena along with him, and she follows hesitantly. "I agree. The man is out of his mind. Who knows what he wants now?"

She shakes her head in resignment, slowly swaying from side to side with Luka. "He is a strategic genius."

"And has killed half of Russia." Luka shakes his head in anger, his dark eyes flashing along with his dirty blonde hair. "I don't like the man."

"Just because the soldiers have pushed you out of the city doesn't mean that he's the worst," ventures Milena, turning alongside Luka. "I think that the war was important."

"It's still affecting us, Milena. Haven't you watched the soldiers come in? We're being monitored by Schnee. He doesn't trust us. Those soldiers? His special forces, trained to become a police force for all regions. We aren't in heaven, Milena. This is a dystopia."

"Let it go, Luka."

"Not when our freedoms are on the line, Milena."

A skinny man runs to the stage with the band and jumps on top of it, grabbing a microphone from a singer and tapping it loudly for attention. Milena sighs and turns away, shaking her head as Luka watches the man. "Oh God, it's Anton Casta. Kill me now, Luka. The man never lets go of attention."

"May I have all of your attention, please!" shouts Anton, the crowd turning around to him. She notices that the man's shoes are covered with mud, and his face is rather flushed as he begins to speak. "Fuhrer Schnee has released a very important announcement!"

The crowd murmurs nervously to one another, Luka pushing his way to the front. Anton breathes deeply and almost shudders when he speaks again, sweat rolling down his face. Does he have a tear in the corner of his eye? "He's announced - oh, help us God - he's going to take children, teenagers, from the ages of twelve to eighteen, to Berlin and have them fight to the death."

Anton gets his anticipated reaction, the crowd stirring in confusion before screaming incoherently at the news. Some draw out pictures of their children and hold them close to their chests, while some wives hug their husbands tightly. Everyone's crying. Everyone.

But all Milena can feel is her breath quickening and quickening and quickening until she collapses onto the floor.

.oOo.

"Look at this girl, trying to play a woman's game. You may look the part, but you can't do anything if you aren't able to take another step."

.oOo.

Petra Johansson, 17, Baltic Female

It's finally to get warmer outside.

She shrugs on the coat that her mother bought last winter for her, the warm, thick down enveloping her body in heat. She doesn't mind it, hugging the coat tightly to her sides as she steps out of the door and onto the road, dimly lit by flickering street lamps dotting the sides of the road. The town still hasn't mustered enough proceeds to replace many of the lamps with fresher bulbs, instead focusing on helping those in southern Sweden still recovering from the war. Even though it's just finished, many refugees still walk through her town, looking for a place to stay after the bombs flattened half of Stockholm. They don't feel safe anymore, especially with the German soldiers patrolling the roads every night.

She barely even feels safe in her home anymore.

The path back to her house is quick, and she breaks into a brisk jog as she leaves the main road and onto the road leading to her small home. Mother and Anika will be at home right now, likely waiting for her to return. She hopes that they aren't too worried about her. She's only been gone a bit, but one never does know what might happen with the soldiers on the streets. Too many encounters, too many terrified mothers and weeping children have told their stories to the Johanssons for Petra to let her guard down for an instant.

She reaches the small house quickly, opening the dark-stained door and shouting a greeting to her family. "Hallå! I'm back!"

Her mother calls back to her, a note of relief in her melodic voice as she greets Petra. "I'm glad you are back, sött barn. Any trouble on the roads today? I wouldn't want you getting harassed by those awful soldiers."

"How were the Berglunds?" Anika asks politely, putting aside the book she is reading and smiling kindly at Petra. "Brigit has been a dear about the war. Such a kind soul, able to let her husband and son both go! And her brother dead as well, the woman's a saint."

"Don't talk when other people are speaking, Anika!" her mother reproaches, scowling at the petite brunette. "Honestly, I wonder sometimes about your manners… you should be more like Petra."

Petra stifles a grin to herself as she takes off her coat, hanging it up in the small closet among the other winter clothing. She's nowhere near the well-behaved Anika in terms of manners. But Mother would never see that. She'd still be blinded by her affection for Petra to realize that Petra gets away with a lot more than Mother thinks.

A harsh knock on the door causes the family to stir, and Petra peeks through the curtains over their window to see a few German soldiers, dressed up in their smartest uniforms, impatiently waiting for the door to be opened. Oh no.

"Mother, soldiers are here," she begins, but her wide-eyed mother stops her before Petra has a chance to finish her sentence. Mrs. Johansson quickly brushes back her hair and walks calmly to the door, her face plastered in the calm smile she always sports for any social event. Only Petra and Anika would notice her hand shaking as she starts to reach for the doorknob.

Mother pauses, then opens the door quickly to let in the soldiers. "What a surprise!" she begins shakily, but the soldiers push past her and into the house.

"We have been ordered to requisition any radios, hoarded rations, bicycles, and food that we deem fit to take back to our officials. In return, you will receive a standard television kindly donated by the honourable Fuhrer Schnee, segne den Mann."

Mother breathes deeply, nodding towards the impatient soldiers. "Of course! We donated our radio months ago, we only have Petra's bicycle and a bit of food in the cupboards. But surely you wouldn't take our last -"

The lead soldier halts Mother in her sentence, opening the cupboard quickly and searching through the shelves. The others follow suit, taking a small chocolate bar left in the cupboard and one of their two bags of rice for requisition. Mother protests, clutching at one of the soldier's arm. "But we have little! My husband is away in Berlin, awaiting sentence for fighting in the war! Surely you can't take what little we have, can you?"

The soldier sneers at Mother, pushing her to the floor and continuing to grab pieces of silverware. "We don't bend the rules for the families of Swedish soldiers. Or should I say Baltic soldiers, considering the new countries made by Fuhrer Schnee?"

Mother bristles, getting back up and stepping away coldly. But Petra can see the fear in her eyes, the way she's breathing a little too quickly and how a small tear is rolling down her cheek. Mother is afraid.

And that means it's up to her.

She takes a deep breath and pushes her hair behind her shoulders, smiling flirtatiously and tracing the lead soldier's arm. "But Offizier, we have little else, and have pledged allegiance to the great German empire! Surely you can make an allowance for us humble servants of Schnee." She bows slightly, scarcely daring to breathe as she waits for his answer. She's done about as much as she can.

The man smiles cruelly, grabbing Petra's arm and feeling for her chest. "Yes, maybe I can make an allowance for pretty Baltic girls."

She jerks her arm away and slaps the officer, rage pouring through her body. "How dare you! Your mother must be rolling in her grave at your manners. You heathen!"

The man glares in anger, pushing Petra into her mother's arms. "Look at this girl, trying to play a woman's game. You may look the part, but you can't do anything if you aren't able to take another step."

He shouts an order to his soldiers, and they nod and step out of the house, marching towards the path back to town. But before they leave, he shouts something once more to them. A younger soldier steps forward and slams the butt of his gun through the thick glass of their living-room window, the glass cracking before leaving a gaping hole in the centre. The soldiers leave in a fury, curses streaming from the lead soldier.

Her mother doesn't say a word until the soldiers are out of sight, then collapses to the floor in a bout of weeping. Anika tries to comfort her, but Mother pushes her away. "No! I will not have you disappointment comfort me. You should have stood up for your sister!"

But Petra isn't listening to her mother's tirade towards Anika. She steps towards the window in a daze, tracing the hole in the middle of the glass.

It's true. She isn't even safe in her own home.

.oOo.

"There's nothing like standing in the middle of the boat and knowing that he's totally in control in where he's going to go. It's almost like he's... free."

.oOo.

Johannes Stølan, 16, Baltic Male

He loves his island.

It may be in the middle of a freezing sea, with a small amount of trees dotting the tiny island, and hundreds of other small islands with small amounts of people to visit but there's always the boats to escape to. He can always go into the sea and fish with his father, smelling the fresh, salty air and catching fresh fish in the middle of the sea. There's nothing like standing in the middle of the boat and knowing that he's totally in control in where he's going to go. It's almost like he's... free.

But you can't be free when you're sharing the same room with your oppressors. It's only the air in the small hills that he's hiding in that's made him forget about the soldiers.

He starts to walk down the green hills, his shoes squishing against the moist ground. Snow's left a month ago, but water still clogs the ground and makes the water levels at the small harbour on his island rise closer to the houses nearest to sea level. But the water never reaches the houses. The Islanders are too smart to build where water can so easily take away from them all with one wet winter.

He keeps walking, stepping onto the muddy road and walking towards the brightly painted houses. He always loved the bright green and red and yellow colours of the houses, pretending that they were kingdoms and he was a brave knight along with the three other boys around his age in the town. They were always inseparable in their first years, causing havoc and chaos among the large families of his town. But two of them are gone, Jon and Lukas both dead in the war that they lied about their ages to sign up for. He had wanted to go two years ago, but his mother and father had deemed him irreplaceable and made him work on the boats even more. He had wanted to run away back then, towards the exciting war where he thought everyone got shiny medals to show the world.

He didn't know the truth until the Germans had arrived.

They had said they were just building a fort to help finish the large Atlantic Wall, the Germans' pride and joy. But what they really wanted were eyes in the Froya Islands, soldiers to watch the villagers just in case anyone even thought of rebellion or smuggling in British soldiers. That thought is just wishful thinking now, thrown away with all of the other early hopes and dreams of the Norwegian people in the early days of the war. It isn't confirmed, but relatives have told that London's been burnt to the ground and that the King is dead.

He passes a young woman hanging her laundry out to dry, some of her younger children chasing each other around the bright blue house. She smiles fondly at the children as she continues to put up the laundry, deliberately flicking a bit of mud onto the German uniform she's hanging up onto the long clothesline. They might notice, but she can just blame it on the wind and the little children running around the house. It's one more way to reclaim her sanity when her country's conquerors are living in her house.

If only his parents could do the same.

The primly painted red house is still waiting for him as he enters his front door, the sound of a child's laughter emerging from the front room. Is that Lars playing? What's he playing with? They only have a few board games, and most of their things have been taken by the Germans as 'requisitions'.

He peeks into the room and gasps, Lars giggling along with one of the soldiers living in the house. The man is standing next to the small boy, a wide smile on his face as he crouches down to Lars. "Am I… eine kuh? A cow?"

Lars giggles, poking the man in the stomach and jumping in excitement. "No, Ernst! You are not a cow!"

Ernst laughs in a deep voice, his face shining merrily as he tries to keep on speaking in Norwegian. "Well then, I do not know what I could be, little Lars! I have had the twenty questions pass, have I not?"

Lars nods with a wide grin, dancing in merriment as he celebrates his victory. "I win! I win! You are a horse! A horse, silly Ernst!"

Ernst laughs again, mimicking a neigh that sends Lars into convulsions. But Johannes marches in their with blazing red cheeks and yanks him away from the soldier, apologizing hastily to Ernst in broken German. "My brother, he has to do his choices. I am sorry."

He hurries Lars out of the house, a soldier sneering at him as they walk outside. But Johannes bites back a retort and moves Lars to the laundry that Mother had hung up this morning, hiding him in the billowing sheets of white and blue covers. "Don't ever talk to the soldiers! Ever!"

Lars begins to whimper, his lower lip hanging down from his mouth. "But Johannes, I like Ernst! He is funny!"

"I'll tell Da that you were playing in the parlour when you should have been helping put away the laundry," Johannes warns, and Lars gives in with an angry face.

"Why do you have to take everything fun away, Johannes!"

Johannes leaves quickly, running back to the hills. Lars doesn't understand at all. He's too young to realize that Germans are the enemy, the ones that they should both be avoiding. He needs to get him away from them as soon as he can. Any more time spent with the Germans might end up - Oh, his mother would cry - into one himself. And Johannes is the only one who can protect him and little Anders. But then he'll be stuck here for the rest of his life.

Oh God, he hates this island.

I'm back! Did I surprise you with this update? It was months in the making, so you better be happy ;)))

Honestly, this took so long because of my first summer job, a bit of writer's block, and rewriting the Slavic intros twice over. Not fun. But it's finally up, so let's see if I can get to Berlin by the end of November! That's a worthy goal :))

I might have lost a few of you, but for those who are left, hello and please review to let me know you're here! I'm excited to get this story going again :DD especially since I finished a partial of mine and got my full SYOT to the Games! Also, submissions for my next SYOT, Hiraeth are open, so check out my profile if you're interested. Well, I've said enough already. Have fun, and enjoy the chapter! Until next time, TheAmazingJAJ