Original story based on characters and material created by Project Aces. The author claims no for-profit ownership over them.

Interlude

Port Patterson (ACP) - The South Leasath Rebuilding Committee announced today that efforts to restore Port Patterson to full operation would be temporarily delayed after an attack by remnants of the Aurelian Defense Force.

According to official reports, a combined attack from the Army and Air Defense Force resulted in the destruction of several civilian cargo ships and ferries docked in the harbor. The attack was then intercepted and repelled by the Leasath Naval Arm and Air Force. The SLRC reports several dozen civilians dead from the attacks, and hundreds more are wounded.

"Their resistance is brave, but in vain," SLRC spokesperson Armando Gomez told reporters at a press conference in Griswall. "Their only option is to slaughter civilians in order to intimidate the population while we try to rebuild."

However, the Aurelian Government-in-Exile at Cape Aubrey has claimed that the targets of their attack were the Leasath Naval Arm warships stationed in Port Patterson. They have denied any attacks on civilian vessels, and insist that the city is now under their control.

When asked to confirm this, Gomez replied, "The city has always been Leasath's. And soon it will be greater than anything Aurelia ever built on it."

Remnants of the ADF are also reported to have staged attacks on Puna Base, located in the country's western plains. Very little is currently known about the ADF's remaining offensive capability since the Air Defense Force's massive defeat over Cape Aubrey last week.

The Leasath Armed Forces has also repeatedly maintained that they have a perimeter around Cape Aubrey, offering the government-in-exile a chance to surrender before a final strike. However, that situation also remains unknown.

Griswall, Aurelia
Late October 2020
2137 hrs.

He isn't here. Or she isn't here. And from where I'm standing, I either probably missed them because they've either left or died.

This sinking gut feeling of disappointment lingers as I make my way down the stairs of this modest hotel to the taxi waiting to shuttle me to the Gaiuss Tower. The air outside has been getting warmer as of late, not so much due to the approaching Southern Hemisphere summer but more from the emissions of the military vehicles constantly patrolling the streets.

Just as well, my taxi isn't so much a regular cab as it is 'official transport.' The upper mid-range Romny-made sedan has probably been forcibly "requisitioned" from a high-end rental company to chauffeur me and other journalistic dignitaries to my destination. The flag of Osea flies from small poles attached to the car's front wheelarches, almost like I was an ambassador. It easily betrays their intent to pamper me, especially since Leasath was one of those countries that railed against imperialist Osea on an almost daily basis. Now, the last thing they need is some journalist calling them out on their imperialistic intentions, which they have also made abundantly clear over the past two weeks.

The Leasathian Army have pushed the Aurelians back to the northwest coast after only ten days of fighting. Griswall fell quickly, after a valiant defense ultimately proved futile, and the Leasathians are now conducting cleanup operations of the remaining pockets of resistance. Other South Osean countries are offering asylum for the Aurelian leadership, but none of the leaders are budging despite the circumstances.

The last complete unit of the Air Defense Force had been annihilated in one fell swoop by their airborne fortress Gleipnir less than a week ago. It seemed a fitting vengeance for the AADF shooting down its sister ship earlier in the week with experimental Neucom aircraft. I'm particularly disappointed because I'm certain there was only one pilot that could have evaded such a weapon like the Gleipnir used...and from what I've read so far, nobody from the Aurelian squadron did.

Yet amidst the conflict and all the disappointment, everyone still finds the time and effort to look nice. Not necessarily 'formal' nice as I'm going in my journalist get-up, but nice enough to fit into the event I'm headed to with my minder in tow on the backseat beside me.

I don't exactly have a choice with my minder. Leasath haven't completely bugged everyone's conversations yet, so actual minders breathing down your neck would have to suffice. Each journalist is assigned at least one over-enthusiastic army grunt in civilian clothing, their military profession betrayed by the small, shiny medal they wear over their hearts and the green-and-red flag pin on their lapels. What they earned that medal for is beyond even me.

These minders not only guide us to these official events, but also "peer review" the articles the military approves us to cover to make sure we don't say anything subversively sarcastic about their glorious new annexation. They are especially finicky about their terminology and history for Aurelia. Apparently, Aurelia used to be Leasath's southern province until a Cold War rebellion of the local ultra-rich sponsored by the OCIA and neighboring South Osean dictatorships led to its secession, along with a "blockade" of the border that suffocated northern Leasath into civil war. Standard Osean history books would say that the Aurelians were a majority oppressed by a minority within their own state, and when the minority had decided to persecute them for finding new prosperity, they decided to take matters into their own hands.

The real history, as was always the case, ran somewhere down the middle. But now that I was in "Leasath" again, compromise was the last thing on my mind.

The occupation mood has already settled in at Griswall, and the newly-created South Leasath Rebuilding Committee has already drawn up grand plans for molding Aurelia into the proper Leasath image. Everywhere my official transports have taken me, it seems there's always some eager high-ranking cadre rattling off about how he intends to build a great and productive edifice to Leasathian pride over a random residential block or small shopping center. One of my favorites was the Griswall Neucom Stadium, which that particular cadre wanted to remake into a sister stadium of the (bigger!) one in Leasath.

At least I could somehow agree with him that whoever designed this albeit modern stadium's outer facade was probably addicted to something.

That and the cushy rides allow me to finish the naps interrupted by the minders knocking at my door.

Ever since the invasion force left Griswall I've been bored out of my mind. The internet connection has been restored, but other than international media sites anything remotely Aurelian, even tourist guides have been blocked. Like the internet, the only operational TV station that isn't an international news network is Leasath's state-run channel. And with the war pretty much over, the international news networks have moved on to the latest set of Vinewood movie awards nominations. Being dragged out to events like these are all I have to look forward to until they reopen the airport for my flight back to Oured. And hell, even I can't pass up free food.

There is little traffic on the way to the monolithic Gaiuss Tower, home to Leasath's Central Command. Well, the East Tower, anyway. The West Tower and its restaurant is reserved for special locations like these. Ironic how a symbol of Aurelia's peace is now a monument to Leasathian military conquest.

As we get out at the Gaiuss Tower's front driveway, my minder is all smiles - almost like a butler - as he swiftly ushers me out of the car, past the APCs guarding the front entrance to tell me that escape is futile, across the brightly-lit lobby and into the elevator to take me all the way up the West Tower. It's hard to keep my distance from my minder in a relatively tight space, but at least the elevator's speed keeps me from getting too uncomfortable as it gets to the top in less than a minute, at which it opens to reveal the front door for a large restaurant that occupies the entire 100th floor of the West Tower.

Once a popular meeting location for conferences and weddings, Premier Diego Gaspar Navarro has converted the Ciel Restaurant into his personal banquet hall, opened "to all the people of Leasath, not just the elite."

By 'the people,' of course, Navarro only refers to the journalists he can round up to directly listen to his speeches about the Gleipnir's power. They range not just from big-name newspapers and magazines, but even the hottest tabloids looking to spice up their pages with a glimpse into the life of a real dictator. Not that they'd say he's a dictator out loud. The only other people here apart from him and the press entourages are their minders and his closest cadres from every branch of the Leasath military.

Before I even step through the front door of the Ciel, I am 'treated' to a speech emanating from a podium at the back of the dining area instead of some relaxing piano ambience. My minder takes it as a cue to pass me an index card, which I reflexively pocket with disgust.

Navarro has already begun his victory speech for the night. As always, he mentions the Gleipnir's supremacy over the "shiny toys bought by Aurelia's greed," easily consigning the memory of its sister ship Gandr to the memory hole. He then boasts of how the crew, consisting of people from every walk of life in Leasath, worked together to deal the single fatal blow to the opportunistic Aurelian squads.

He's made elaborate speeches like these practically every night since he first walked into Gaiuss Tower, and they've become so predictable that I felt that even I could write them myself.

Which is a good thing in a way, as it lets me enjoy the food and catch up on some reading. Not that the latter is as impressive as the former. The only two newspapers left on the rack are a fresh copy of the Leasath People's Daily and an already-worn copy of the Oured Tribune. The People's Daily still has the printing press creases that indicate that nobody's even touched it since it got delivered, let alone read.

The Leasath Army has already reprogrammed the local printing presses to churn out truckloads of these propaganda sheets barely two weeks into the war. Of course, even though they have access to better quality paper here, it's still easy to tell it apart for its extremely bold and propaganda-laden front pages.

The international papers still find their way into the delivery routes though, for good reason. Navarro wants his audience of foreign journalists - myself included - to take the news of his army's victories back with us to our home countries, even us Oseans. In return, he wants to know about it to fuel his ego.

Once I pick up the Tribune I immediately start scouring for news of the war. From what I can decipher from its small column in the corner of the World News section, I can actually assume that the Aurelian Air Defense Force has actually helped the army take back Port Patterson. That was all she - or rather - my Oured Tribune counterpart wrote, and I return the paper before grabbing a plate of pasta and a can of soda from the buffet table. I watch as most of the gathered guests converged at a long table opposite from where Navarro spoke.

After his nightly speeches, Navarro brings some of his cadres up for a brief "press conference" before letting the guests enjoy the food. The questions, of course, are all expertly written by the propaganda department on index cards like the one I just received. In fact, the questions probably sound more professional than the responses. Although he had a quota for the minimum number of questions asked, he liked to at least appear to give the impression that the new South Leasath would still have a free press.

Fortunately for me, my minder is currently preoccupied at the bar to "encourage" me to write my question down on my trusty notepad as the others were doing with their partners.

I want none of it at all, and decide my way to the window instead.

The view of Griswall from the Ciel looking down at the city and its ringed wall, built by the pre-Esapino civilizations and claimed by locals to be perfectly circular - would fuel anyone's ego. And as I look up at the starry sky, it seemed like even the phases of the moon were at odds with those of the northern hemisphere. Of course, it was at least a better view than below, where the Army had only ordered the city's main roads, hotels and landmarks lit, like a laser grid.

That the major papers relegated coverage of the war itself so harshly after the initial victories meant that Navarro's wining and dining of the press had started to pay off. A Usean reporter I had befriended during an international conference in San Adrian was actually more fascinated with the glass of wine in his hand than the press conference. He always fancied himself a bit of a connoisseur, and was eager to show off the knowledge he probably looked up on the internet.

Anything is more fascinating than yet another of Navarro's press conferences, I figure as I chow down.

According to him, one glass of the extremely rare bottle of Stiergarten 1994 on the table beside him is roughly equivalent to more than a decade of an average Leasathian citizen's salary. The years of civil war, which probably predated the end of the Circum-Pacific War itself, had left Leasath as impoverished as parts of Sotoa. I couldn't even get myself to have a taste, feeling guilty over how what was effectively a historical artifact was desecrated for casual consumption.

In that guilt, however, I never expect to find inspiration.

A waiter conversing with that reporter then admits that the Ciel's wine selection never included anything before vintage 2015. This could only have meant that Navarro had acquired it with his own money...money that also oiled the Leasath war machine for years.

I begin to ask myself...where is it coming from? Where is it going, and why? Surely hosting a banquet at the Ciel this often must mean little more than pocket change for Navarro who, like most of Leasath's civil warlords, must have accumulated quite a fortune. It turns out to be a great distraction from the festival of propaganda going on practically next to me as I finish my plate. But listening to this rehearsed question-and-answer session might distract me even more.

I quietly make my way to the restroom to think up a plan away from the watchful eyes of the security cameras and the minders. Before long, my idle mind conjures up a plan to expose the money flow in an action movie-style plot that ends in the International Criminal Court. But mostly, I just wanted an excuse to get away from this charade and get some sleep.

It's not as if I have anything else to do.

I peer out of the restroom and spot my minder at the bar, chatting up one of the bartenders. She looks like she'd definitely rather be someplace else if Navarro's boys weren't tipping everyone so generously. I walk out toward him, a little stumble in my step.

It's quite easy to convince him that I'm drunk, after all he seems to be about the only one more drunk in the hotel than I am. The hard part is asking him to take me back to my hotel, rather than out to one of the nightclubs-turned-soldiers' hangouts. But in the end, he complies out of 'protecting journalistic integrity' and before long, the two of us are back in the elevator, on our way down to the lobby.

In the 45 seconds it takes for me to head back down it seems my fear keeps my fake drunken stupor almost too convincing, as my minder constantly wants to have the elevator shut down to fondle me in place of the bartender girl. He also keeps offering me a drink from the bottle he's brought out with him. I turn my head away, pleading repeatedly that "I can barely see, how am I supposed to write for you!"

The lobby and the official taxi waiting at the driveway wasn't a welcome sight, and the cold night air threatens - fortunately in vain - to sober me out of my charade.

The ride back to the hotel consists of even more drunken conversation (which increasingly switches to the continent's native Esapino) and attempted flirting complimented with a bit of song every now and then. By the time we reach my hotel, even I'm convinced that I'm drunk.

"Here, I want you to have this," he says, handing me the bottle he kept clenched in one hand as I get out. "A gift from our people to the citizens of Osea for finally lending an ear to our troubles," he adds, clearly sarcastically repeating the propaganda.

Quite a bit of wine dribbled from his mouth over the course of the trip, making him look a bit like a vampire under the street lights. It's pitiful, but somehow apt. Halloween is supposed to be around the corner, but the occupation forces have already taken all the treats. In fact, their enforced blackouts make the city look almost haunted.

I wait for the car to disappear around a corner before taking a good look at the bottle.

One look at the label quickly and finally scares me sober.

The label on the bottle clearly reads Stiergarten 1994. I hadn't noticed it until now, but this was the very same bottle from the restaurant, and my minder was very likely intoxicated off the contents.

I felt both furious at him and sorry at him as the taxi pulled away, leaving me on the doorstep of my hotel. To me, the bottle may as well have been full of blood...or once full, anyway. The grunt had practically emptied the damn thing on the way here. I want to see it simply as him getting drunk off the horrific bloodshed of the nuclear explosions already a quarter-century ago, and the vengeance their instigators nearly unleashed upon the world more than once.

I raise the bottle to smash it against the sidewalk...only to suddenly stop in midair.

He was only a single soldier, a leaf on the smallest branch of the military tree. Like many Leasathians recruited at the end of the Civil War, he probably joined the Army just to keep his stomach full after the chaos left the country destitute. He probably didn't even know where Stiergarten was, or what made the 1994 vintage so valuable in the first place. Even a ride in a luxury car was probably a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity he would try to savor before he was very likely punished for stealing from Navarro's personal stash. Whenever a journalist caused trouble, they were quietly deported. The minders, well, they weren't so lucky.

It is on this sidewalk, my arm raised to smash a bottle on the pavement, that my inspiration finally transforms into a clearly defined mission.

I race up to my room and change my clothes to something to something that would help me blend in to the local crowd. I stumble upon the index card my minder gave me as I transfer my stuff to my new wardrobe. Within seconds, the card and its scripted question are confetti in a trash can, and the empty bottle resting beside my laptop to inspire me further.

Navarro continues to exude so much confidence in his military's might that he's actually set the curfew at 1 in the morning as a pretext for, to recall his exact words, "reinstating the freedoms that the new citizens of Leasath shall enjoy once this conflict ends." He's even gone so far as to prohibit the use of tanks and large-bore artillery within the city walls. It's a ploy, of course, to keep potential dissidents out in the open so he can track them.

That includes me.

As I step out of the hotel, now definitely sobered up, I make it my mission to get to the root of this money trail once and for all. It is no longer the product of an idle mind, but an obligation I have to fulfill as a journalist.

This wouldn't be the first time I watched a lust for profit do horrible things to people on both sides of the firing line. But this time I was deep inside enemy lines and much closer to the heart of their operations. There would be many more soldiers loyal to their 'mission' than those that could acquire the information I need for a 'token fee'.

Ironically, it is this sense of danger instead of the news of the Aurelian victory at Port Patterson that renews my hope that maybe I could finally meet the survivor I came here to find.

To Be Continued...