Return on Investment
Epilogue – Under New Management
"Was it worth it? How many points did you get?"
— Graffiti found in the ruins of Hoffnung
"War is bad, but planes are rad!"
— Project Aces, probably
Erusea, 'Tis For Thee
Farbanti, Erusea
19 September 2020
The anteroom was well furnished. Sunlight, streaming in from a single curtained balcony, reflected off the walls and bathed the room in a warm, honeyed glow. The floor was covered with glittering slabs of the finest Emmerian marble. Columns, railings, and doorhandles had all been fashioned from polished brass. Even the little decorative tables, each one carrying a vase of alternating red and white roses, had been artfully carved to the highest standard. A huge Estovakian-style chandelier hung from the high ceiling.
Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise of Erusea shuffled slightly in place, tingling from the personal attention as her two handmaidens made the finishing touches to her appearance - one of them had been grooming her outfit, fastening straps and running out dust and fluff with a master-crafted lintbrush, while the other checked over her face, brushing and tucking loose hairs and applying some last touches to her makeup.
At last, their work was finished.
'Everything is ready, Your Highness.' said the senior of the two handmaidens. 'They are ready for you.'
With her trademark smile, Rosa nodded at her. 'Thank you, Miss Fitzgerald.'
Leaving the anteroom, flanked by her handmaids, Rosa arrived in the great gilded corridor where her procession was waiting for her. Two columns of hooded, ornately-robed figures, standing in ceremonial readiness.
At the head of the formation were Rosa's three dearest friends; Avril Mead, the Osean mechanic and ex-convict who had become her closest companion through many difficult trials and circumstances. Out of respect for today's occasion, Avril had made the rare effort to clean herself up, wearing a hired dress that was about two sizes too large, making her shuffle about as comfortably as a Belkan in a field of flowers. Only her short hair and lack of makeup made her recognizable.
Then there were Ionela and Alma Shilage, granddaughters of the great Mihaly Dumitru Margareta Corneliu Leopold Blanca Karol Aeon Ignatius Raphael Maria Niketas Archange Shilage. They were wearing their signature blue dresses, holding baskets of white rose petals; they were the flowergirls of this great procession, standing at either side and ready and eager to scatter them as soon as the word was given.
The presence of these three foreigners in such prominent positions of what was traditionally a purely Erusean ceremony hadn't sat too well with many of Rosa's royal staffers. However, Rosa herself had insisted on their presence, and that was that.
'Looking good... Your Highness.' Avril said, smiling with the awkwardness of a face unaccustomed to smiling, never mind the orders and niceties of high society.
Rosa nodded back at her, grateful for the compliment, and took her place at the head of the procession.
Her mind prepared and at ease, Rosa Cossette D'Elise led the procession in purposeful, graceful strides through the halls of power. She was wearing a long, bouffant gown of snowdrift white that left her shoulders and upper arms bare. It trailed behind her on a red velvet carpet that muffled the sounds of footsteps, giving an onlooker the impression that she was gliding across the ground, like a guardian angel. The head of a large, white rose had been pinned to her upper chest, just below the collar.
They passed by rows of palace honor guards, crisply dressed in crimson military tunics adorned with golden armor plates and pauldrons. In turns, each one presented arms - polished gold-lined rifles, with bayonet tips gleaming - at their Princess' approach.
Music and muffled shouting rolled distantly through the thick palace walls.
Rosa swallowed. The time was near.
'Peoples of Erusea!' proclaimed a loud voice. 'Presenting, Rosa Cossette D'Elise of Erusea!'
She came out onto an open, curtained balcony. Facing westward, towards the ochre glow of the evening sun, the view of Farbanti was breathtaking; huge crowds of people covered the streets like a great carpet of heaving, clamoring humanity, throwing up massed cheers and adulation at the mere sight of their Princess. There were so many of them, waving flowers and Erusean flags and flickering smartphones, that they had overflowed the rolling reaches of landscaped garden enclosed by the mighty angled outer arms of the Palais Pentagone, stretching beyond even the classical-fronted and flag-draped avenues of Farbanti's government district, beyond even where Rosa's blue eyes could see. Thousands of cameras were flashing.
It was as though the whole of Erusea had come to witness her. She'd seen occasions like this hundreds of times, but today's was special.
For today was her coronation as the Queen of Erusea. Traditionally, Erusean law held that only males were permitted to rule as King. But on this occasion, a special exception had been made on the grounds of her honorable service to humanity as a refugee advocate, her endurance through difficult, often bordering on the horrific, circumstances, and proven character references from friends and allies both within Erusea and without.
A military band was playing, horns and drums parping loud above the thronging crowds, playing everything from old sentimental favorites like Pensées and Where There's A Whip, There's A Way!, to more contemporary Erusean hits like The Anti-Ulysses And Anti-ISAF Aggression Song, and Burn Osea To The Ground!. A military choir too loaned their talents to the festivities. The galleries to her side were packed with guests and foreign dignitaries from all over the world; Rosa could see heads of state and military uniforms from over a dozen countries, near and far; from friendly brother-countries (Estovakia and Leasath) to mortal enemies (San Salvacion, the FCU, North Point, Bulgurdarest, Selatapura, Delarus, Amber, the Republic of Voslage, and of course, the Osean Federation) - all had come to witness the spectacle. Even the Osean President was in attendance, albeit sitting in his seat busily playing Call of Battlefield: Infinite Effect on his Playbox Switch, leaving his First Lady and Secret Service detail to do the celebrating for him.
To think that exactly one year ago, on this very day, this whole place was a battlefield...
Fighting down a lump in her throat, Rosa stepped forward to a raised plate. Her procession fanned out behind her, with Ionela and Alma throwing up as many petals as they could, encouraging the crowd with each toss. Avril stood to the side, arms folded but watching her friend on with a look of reserved pride.
Rosa waved the crowd and the band silent, mildly amused as the silence took about a minute to sweep through the gathered masses from front to back.
The High Ecclesiarch of Erusea, a bearded man wearing the largest and shiniest robes in Rosa's procession, stepped out beside her. Then, simultaneously, the two turned to face each other.
Rosa gave him a knowing nod. It was time.
'Rosa Cossette D'Elise of Erusea,' said the Ecclesiarch. 'Are you willing to take the oath?'
Carefully placed microphones and amplifiers carried his echoed voice through the city, and through the airwaves to the many millions more who were watching from their homes and gathering places, in bars and shopping centers and bustling city streets, from homely Erusea to the suburbs of Osea, the wide open steppes of central Yuktobania, the irradiated wastes of Belka, the shining jewel box-metropolis of Port Edwards, and even the frozen tundra of Wellow.
Rosa nodded judiciously. 'I am willing.' she said.
'Do you solemnly promise to swear, with all the honorable peoples of your fair Erusean kingdom to witness hereby, to govern the peoples of your fair Erusean kingdom in full accordance with the necessary laws and customs of the land and of your office?'
'I solemnly promise, so to do.'
'So therefore, be anointed with this oil...' The Ecclesiarch did just that, dipping his finger into a small dish of olive oil and various fragrant, sweet-smelling spices, before gently administering them to Rosa's forehead. 'Be anointed and consecrated sovereign over all the peoples of our fair Erusea...'
Then, the Ecclesiarch produced a golden scepter - an ancient artifact that had existed longer than the city of Farbanti itself - and, with a bow, presented it with both hands.
Rosa received it with her ivory gloved hands, bowing in return.
'... And of all of your kingdom's possessions, wherever they may be...'
Now clasping the scepter, Rosa turned back to face her people. She swallowed again, taking a moment to reflect on everything that had happened; the war, the Ravens, the recovery, the struggle, the people she'd met, the people she'd lost - including the one friend she'd killed to protect her other companions - the tears, the suffering, the blood, the bruises, and bricks shat, and all of the other trials she'd been through, everything that had led her to this singular moment today... Had it all been worth it? Even now, she could not say.
The Ecclesiarch then produced what everyone else had come for (so to speak); the royal crown of Erusea, a national relic, glittering with ornate carvings and precious stones. Straightening up, the Ecclesiarch raised it high above Rosa's head, for all to see, and then began to gently lower it with the ceremonial care that his appointment demanded.
'I crown thee, Rosa Cossette D'Elise...'
Rosa felt the new weight on her head. The crown was in place.
'... Queen of Erusea. Congratulations... Your Majesty.'
Saying that, the Ecclesiarch stepped back and raised his arms triumphantly, declaring,
'Erusea, Erusea! 'Tis for thee! We present your undoubted Queen!'
'All hail the Queen!' boomed the people. 'All hail the Queen! All hail the Queen!'
Queen Rosa Cossette D'Elise of Erusea fought back a tear. Regarding her nation for just a brief moment, she clenched her fists and held them high above her head, crossed at the wrists - the Erusean salute.
Nearly a million more arms went up in response, all erupting into applause and cheer.
Fireworks were launched in the distance, crackling and bursting in bright colors in the skies above. A line of fighter jets screamed overhead, as though joining in the adulation in their own way.
The band began playing the tune of the Erusean national anthem, and with one united voice, the whole of Farbanti sang along with it,
'Strong and peaceful, wise and brave~! Fighting the fight for the whole world to save~!'
'We the people shall ceaselessly strive~! To keep our great Erusea alive~!'
'Unfurl the banners, look at the Queen~! Never before has such glory been seen~!'
Rosa lowered her arms. It was a surreal feeling, like the worst case of imposter syndrome she had ever felt in her life - and she had had her moments. She almost couldn't believe it, a part of her expecting to wake up in the blasted hellscape of Tyler Island any minute now.
She glanced round. Avril, Ionela, and Alma were still there, applauding her - not as a Queen, but as a friend. They were smiling. Everyone was smiling.
Rosa smiled back at them.
'Eru-sea-ahh~! Eru-sea-ahh~! 'Tis for thee~!'
'Every deed, every thought, 'tis for thee~!'
'Every deed, every thought, 'tis for thee~!'
Maybe this was all a dream, maybe none of this was real. But she was here now in this place, in this situation. Her people needed her now, more than ever before, for their Queen was responsible for anything and everything that could affect them or the Kingdom, even theoretically. She was the public face of all things Erusean and, in many ways, a personification of the national character.
She knew it was not going to be an easy task. Princesses were pampered and taken care of, but Queens had actual responsibilities and expectations to meet. The business of ruling a nation was a very serious one, and few nations were as serious as Erusea and all of her problems; from the still-ongoing postwar reconstruction, to the still-ongoing refugee situations, the still-ongoing separatist crises and terrorist groups gnawing at the borders, the still-ongoing bad blood between Erusea and her neighbors, and of course, her still-ongoing humanitarian project at the Space Elevator.
There was much work to do. Life was going to be hard. She knew that she was going to have to fight, suffer, bleed, perhaps even lose control of her bowels, all for the sake of her people.
But she was prepared for that now. And today, she would celebrate.
With Thunderous Applause...
The IUN General Assembly
Expo City, Eastern Usea
1 July 2020
Delegates from over a hundred countries had gathered under the great domed ceiling of the IUN General Assembly Hall - the accepted forum for the expression of international hatred. The cavernous central chamber had been filled to capacity. Every row of seats, radiating out from the rostrum at the head of the hall in a rough half-donut shape, had been occupied by a delegation from an IUN member state; from places as diverse as the hosting Federation of Central Usea (FCU), mighty Osea and equally mighty Yuktobania, noble Emmeria, and farthest Belka. Small quadrotor drones, carrying underslung cameras, buzzed along the galleries as they recorded the proceedings.
The mood was one of tense, agitated anticipation. The delegates were restless, many of them outright shouting and making offensive gestures at the stage. Everyone had gathered today for a particularly special announcement, and the press galleries were stacked with throngs of media cameras and journalists all clamoring to get good angles, choice soundbites, and unflattering facials (so to speak), that would then be fed to AI-driven algorithms, unleashed on social media for consumption by an unsuspecting public.
All eyes and lenses were focused on the three lecterns perched atop the semi-circular rostrum, each individually crafted from very expensive green marble by equally expensive artisans.
Behind the large, central lectern stood Gabriel W. Clarkson, the chair and current President of the IUN General Assembly. A very young man for his office at age 36, he had previously served as the Osean Secretary of State, and had been recommended to his current posting after several high-profile recommendations - mostly attesting to his rare ability to translate any Osean President's whimsical ramblings into a language that Osean citizens and foreigners alike could understand.
But it was the men standing at the other two lecterns on each side that were the most startling of all;
The first of them was Gilbert Park, former deputy CEO of the General Resource corporation.
Then there was Aldair Carlos Nascimento, the current, newly-appointed CEO of General Resource. Aldair was a balding man that had only recently had surgery to implant an augmetic heart into his body, after his actual one had been suffered a severe case of gunshot during a recent terrorist attack on the International Space Elevator almost a month prior.
The presence of these two men - scions of the private sector, from the most corporate of corporate corporations - had been too great for anyone to miss. What business did such men have, seated at both the left and right hands of the IUN President? Such were the questions from the many delegates that disapproved of their presence, who were making no secret of their displeasure.
'Order!' shouted Gabriel. 'We shall have order!'
More squabbling and yelling thundered from the assembly, most of which was abuse hurled at Gilbert and Aldair, both of whom withstood it with smug, semi-mocking grins.
Frustrated, Gabriel cranked up the volume on his microphone. 'Everyone, shut the hell up!' he yelled, feeling a slight catharsis as his voice was amplified several dozen times over, smothering every unsoundproofed corner of the room and rattling the stained glass windows looking out across the Expo City skyline.
'Very diplomatic.' Aldair said surreptitiously. 'I like his style.'
'I gotta get me one of those.' concurred Gilbert Park, sotto voce.
Perhaps miraculously, silence gradually fell across the chamber. Gabriel took a moment to cool down, briefly reflecting on how wonderful it was to actually have the loudest voice on the room for once.
'Now then,' Gabriel began, clearing his throat and resetting his volume. 'We are gathered here today to discuss an important matter. As we know, we are living in a time of unprecedented change. This time last year, we all saw the terrible consequences of the Lighthouse War spill out from this Usean continent and on to the rest of the world.'
'No thanks to your dipshit Presidents!' one of the delegates shouted. 'Burn Osea to the ground!'
'Erusea started the war!' another delegate countered. 'We should boycott Erusean products and force them to take in more refugees! There's no way that could ever backfire spectacularly on us in ways we should've seen coming, but didn't!'
'Fuck 'em both!' a third person added helpfully. 'This twisted game needs to be reset!'
'Silence!' Gabriel commanded. 'This bickering only proves my next point. The world has changed greatly over this past year, and shall continue to change whether we like it or not. Global communications are still down in many areas. Much of Usea remains locked in strife and disorder, and many non-state actors - terrorists, warlords, and pirates - are stepping up to fill the gaps. Although the Lighthouse War is over, for many, their problems are just beginning. Therefore...'
'Get to the point!' jeered another delegate.
'... As the world changes, we must change with it. ' Gabriel went on, ignoring the remark. 'As recently as June 2nd of this year, the International Space Elevator - the brainchild of the great peacemaker Vincent Harling, praise be his name - was attacked and occupied by a group of Belkan terrorists.'
'The Principality of Belka resents that remark!' bayed the delegate from the Principality of Belka. 'Belka did nothing wrong!'
'The Belkan terrorists,' Gabriel continued. 'Desecrated what was once a symbol of hope and peace for the entire world. Hundreds dead, thousands wounded... including Mr Carlos standing beside me, who was gravely injured in the attack. Only a swift and decisive IUN response prevented further bloodshed, and I am pleased to report that the Space Elevator has now been returned to the protection of the IUN.'
At this remark, there were no interruptions.
'However!' Gabriel said sharply. 'Looking at the occurrences of this past year; the Lighthouse War, loss of global communications infrastructure, civil war and unrest, and now this incident at the Space Elevator, has made one thing perfectly clear; the IUN peacekeeping forces are depleted, overstretched, and in dire need of reorganization to adapt to these new times. The current international structures have clearly proven inadequate in upholding-'
Once again, moans and protests howled up from the gathered assembly.
'-in upholding global security.' Gabriel spoke over them, turning up his volume again. 'New leadership is needed.'
The clamoring intensified, for many could already guess what he was going to say next.
'For this reason...' Gabriel continued, having to raise his voice even though it had been deployed at maximum volume. 'And following the advice from Mr Carlos... as well as my own measured deliberation... I am hereby appointing Gilbert Park as the new Secretary-General for the International Union Peacekeeping Force.'
This opened the floodgates to a howl of outrage from the dissenting delegates - the loudest and angriest outburst yet.
'This is an outrage!' roared the delegate from Yuktobania, standing up at his seat and banging his shoe on the table. 'How can we allow this corporate snake to have responsibility over our multinational peacekeeping forces? If this motion must be forced, then consider my government's support for the IUN-PKF withdrawn!'
'The same applies to the Federal Republic of Aurelia! We won't be part of a peacekeeping force that answers to a man with a known track record of exploiting the innocent!'
Sensing that it was his time to speak, Gilbert Park tapped on his microphone.
'My friends, the attempts against our world order...'
A fresh brace of boos thundered up at him.
'We're not your friends!' said the representative from Sotoa, backed up by an ensemble of colorful abuse from the rest of his delegation. 'Get lost!'
'This is a difficult time for us all. I share your concerns.' Park said, keeping a straight face with years of careful practice. 'I share your concerns that a man of my humble calling and modest qualities may not be suitable for this appointment.'
More jeers.
But Park was undeterred. In fact, a ghost of a smile had formed at the corner of his mouth.
'Therefore,' he said. 'As my first act in this new capacity, I have humbly requested my former employer - General Resource - to offer a five hundred trillion MRP loan to partner with any IUN member nation in need of economic stimulus or other material assistance, that would seek our investment and expertise in restoring their communications infrastructure.'
This remark was quick to restore some semblance of order. For many of the attending delegates, their nations really were still reeling from various strifes and crises of their own, and the prospect of free money- no, a shitload of free money, was enough to gain the attention of even the most die-hard of die-hard corporate skeptics in the room.
Just as planned.
'This initiative is a gesture of goodwill,' Park continued, now that he had everyone's attention. 'A signal that the private sector is ready to do business with the world, and ready to help.'
'It is... with great reluctance that I have agreed to this proposal.' said Aldair, only half-truthfully. 'But, with General Resource's record profits this quarter, and our continued growth - achieving de facto monopolization of many industries and sectors - my former colleague was successful in convincing me that it is long past time for the firm to step up to the challenges of the world. To show everyone that we can make a difference, that we can be a force for greater control-... I mean, greater public good, and share our vision and our riches with the world in this time of great uncertainty.'
'Good...' Park added. 'Now, this is by no means mandatory. Any nation that wishes to recover through its own means shall be allowed to do so. This is one-hundred percent your choice.'
And one-hundred percent your liability, he added in his mind.
Many of the delegates were looking at each other now, some of them even daring to lick their lips with cautious optimism.
'W-well...' said the Yuktobanian delegate, gingerly putting his shoe back on. 'My government might be willing to discuss the... terms of this investment opportunity, but we will of course have to make... enquiries...'
Others began chiming in,
'The government of the Democratic People's Republic of Leasath shall gladly accept this assistance!' declared the Leasathian delegate. 'We will of course use the funds responsibly, and in no way use it for any of our ongoing military research and development projects that definitely don't actually exist, no siree.'
And even those who remained opposed were being far more considerate in their choice of words.
'The... government of Aurelia greatly appreciates this offer. But our nation has no need of this economic stimulus. We shall pass up this opportunity, that it may be given to others more deserving.'
'Of course.' said Gilbert Park, nodding judiciously. 'Now, as I was trying to say before... The attempts against our world order have left us scarred and deformed.'
This time, his words were met with quiet murmurs of hushed agreement.
Park gave a small smile. The change in mood could almost be felt in the air. With the power of money, he had successfully corralled all the nations of the world into the palm of his hand. It was a simple strategy, as old as the hills themselves, but one that remained proven and wildly successful even in the present day. He had practiced it well in Shilage, honed and perfected it in the months since...
... and had successfully employed it against the rest of the world.
'But I assure you,' he continued. 'My resolve has never been stronger! In order to ensure security and continuing stability, the International Union Peacekeeping Force will be reorganized into the first Universal Peace Enforcement Organization! For a safe... and secure... society!'
Deep in the thrall of their collective hip-pocket nerves, the IUN General Assembly - the single greatest concentration of political power anywhere on the planet Earth - erupted into thunderous applause.
Arms crossed, Abyssal Dision had been watching the session from one of the upper galleries with dry amusement. Deciding that he'd seen enough of human desire and its effects on the world for one lifetime, he turned to leave, vanishing into the whooping, rapturous crowds that choked the balconies and corridors.
He was smiling.
Driftwood
Tyler Island, Southwestern Usea
19 September 2020
Specks of driftwood were floating on the waves.
He sighed. Driftwood... Yes, that's what he felt like right now; aimless and without purpose, uncaring of - or perhaps unable to stop - wherever the tides would carry him.
Georg was sitting on a bollard in the shadow of the abandoned, crumbling mass driver ramp that had once been the cornerstone of this island's very existence. He'd been looking wistfully out to sea, contemplating his life and his choices, when he saw the little boat approaching, a faint speck on the horizon. It was a small five-man fishing vessel, bobbing and swaying in the wind as it headed to shore.
Lowering his binoculars, he got up and withdrew to an abandoned warehouse, its walls still peeling and smashed from wartime damages.
Tyler Island as a whole had not recovered from the carnage of the war. Much of its infrastructure and equipment had been bombed out beyond recognition, or outright looted by opportunistic scavengers. The few items that remained had fallen into disrepair - without regular maintenance, the humid weather and high-salt content of the environment quickly saw them rusted over and corroded, worthless even as scrap. The late Doctor Schroeder had briefly restored some of it for a time, but as his plans fell apart, that too had faded away.
Now, once again, the island was dead. A dismal derelict wreck; a silent testament to the unspeakable atrocities that this seaswept, misbegotten little rock had witnessed. Dust and chemicals polluted the air, and many of the trees and foliage had died. Even the animals had fled.
Inside the warehouse, littered with unfinished prototype airframes of various alien designs, Georg sat down on a large briefcase and waited, arms crossed. He had an MP7 submachine gun slung across his back in case things went pear-shaped, but at this point, he was beginning to question whether or not he cared if he lived or died. He'd seen many horrors of his own, many of which had been committed by his own hand. Horrors for which he felt there could be no forgiveness. Surely the people he was meeting today could not possibly be any worse than he?
Two foreign-looking figures strode boldly into the warehouse, both dressed in dark olive military tunics dripping with medals and honors. Neither of them were armed, but Georg had seen enough of these backroom deals to know that they likely had backup waiting outside.
The first figure was a large, older man, with eyes like black pits, wearing a huge peaked cap and golden epaulettes. He was looking around like a kid in a candy store, gazing wide-eyed at the half-built aircraft littering the warehouse. There was something in his look that made Georg uneasy, but he shook it off.
The second figure - less old, bearing a Captain's rank slides, and wearing a slightly smaller peaked cap - was dragging an old, worn-looking suitcase behind him.
Georg stood up and outstretched his hand,
'Georg.' he greeted curtly.
The first, older man took his hand and shook it. 'Diego Gaspar Navarro,' he said, with a deep and guttural voice. 'Supreme Leader of the Democratic People's Republic of Leasath. This is my associate, Captain Frank Burlington.'
'Greetings.'
'Welcome to Tyler Island.' Georg said blankly, unfazed and unbothered by the realization that he was talking to a military dictator. He'd already seen a few in his time, after all. 'Do you have the payment?'
'That depends.' Navarro said. 'Do you have the goods?'
'Right here.' Georg picked up his briefcase, opened it, and presented it to the two Leasathians. 'Schematics, research documents, and test reports. All genuine EASA articles. You won't find these anywhere else in the world.'
At a signal from Navarro, Captain Burlington inspected the contents, rifling through first for traps and other unpleasant surprises, then through the papers and electronic disk drives packed within. He even had a Geiger counter with him, although on this occasion, its use was unnecessary.
'It's clean.' Burlington said. 'Looks legitimate, too.'
Navarro nodded, licking his lips. 'Excellent,' he said. 'Then, Captain, if you please...?'
Complying, Burlington tossed his suitcase over to Georg. 'There's your payment.'
'In full?' Georg asked.
'Everything in there is now yours. And that's all you're getting.'
Georg shrugged. 'Fine, whatever.'
'A pleasure doing business with you, Mr Georg.' Navarro said, proffering his hand to seal the deal. 'I assure you that we will put these... artifacts to good use. And I sense that you have been quite involved in the field of aviation yourself?'
'More than my fair share.' Georg said bitterly, shaking the hand.
Navarro gave a most unsettling grin. 'You know,' he said. 'I'm something of an aviation enthusiast myself.'
'Supreme Leader, we should go.' Burlington said, tapping on his watch.
Navarro sighed. 'Yes, very well...'
They turned to leave.
As they left, Georg opened the suitcase. It was stuffed with bundles of old, crumpled MRP bills, caked over with thick layers of dust. He grabbed a bunch and inspected it carefully, sniffing it and then sneezing, and only then deciding that they were in fact legal tender.
Georg sighed, sitting on top of the suitcase as he watched the men go. At least something had come out of his time here. With the money he'd gotten for selling Doctor Schroeder's prized prototypes, perhaps he might have just enough to restart and begin life anew. He would travel the world and try to find meaning in his life again, wherever it would take him. Like...
Driftwood.
He was pulled from his thoughts when Navarro stopped at the door, turning around.
'Say, young man,' he said, with a sudden glint in his eyes. 'You are a Belkan, are you not?'
Georg just stared up at him, saying nothing.
Navarro, however, was undeterred.
'You see, unlike those vile Oseans, we Leasathians respect you Belkans greatly.' he said. 'We worship you. Even our best and brightest all have Belkan wives... or at least, masturbate furiously to pictures of them. And rightfully so. For through your veins flows the superior blood of conquerors, warriors, and survivors. So why are you still here, wasting away in this little backwater like driftwood?'
Driftwood...
Georg's brow twitched.
Noticing this subtle movement, Navarro turned to face him fully. 'Come back to Leasath with me, Georg.' he said. 'Come back with me, and I'll give you not just a job, but a purpose again. A new beginning, and a future.'
He was smiling devilishly, with the confidence and composition of a man who believed that he'd already won.
'I have an operation in a lovely island resort called Archelon Fortress. And I am in need of talents and technology - specifically, the talents and technology of honorable men such as yourself - to carve out a little corner of the world in which my people can live in peace and prosperity. I want you there with me, because I know you have much to offer. And, of course, you too will be rewarded greatly for your services. What do you say?'
Georg did not take long to make his decision. Standing back up, fists balled, he gave his answer.
Afterparty
Farbanti, Erusea
19 September 2020
Soft music carried through the ballroom, the gentle melody only slightly clipped by the ambient murmur of chattering voices and clinking glasses. Long, candlelit tables hived the velvet carpet into neat rows. More tables, decorated with sweet-smelling bouquets and studded with finger food, were arranged at the corners of the room. National emblems - the Erusean flag, and the Rose emblem of the ancient House D'Elise - were hanging from the high, columned ceiling.
On the podium at the far end, a small cabaret band were playing Pensées.
Watching them from the dance floor, Queen Rosa Cossette D'Elise of Erusea smiled. The fluttering mezzo-soprano of the lead singer was good... but she knew she could do better.
Well, no matter. The afterparty to her very own coronation had been arranged and thrown in her honor, and so the polite thing to do was to let them serve their Queen to the best of their abilities.
Besides. She was far too busy gliding gently across the floor in the arms of an Osean fighter pilot she never quite caught the name of. He was a man of few words, and young - perhaps only slightly older than she was - making up with vigor and sheer confidence for what he sorely lacked in technique. Several times she contemplated stopping to instruct him on correct form and more delicate movements, but ultimately decided to simply let them both enjoy the moment, gloved hands clasped, galloping and twirling around as the lovely song progressed.
For those precious, pleasant few minutes, they had the dance floor all to themselves; the other guests had all made way and gathered in a circle, clapping and flashing cameras, not wanting to miss the once-in-a-lifetime spectacle of seeing their new Queen and her foreign swain going at it (so to speak).
Ionela and Alma were there too, laughing and clapping joyously next to their stern-faced grandfather, who, despite his age and wheelchair, still managed to look at once regal and fierce at the same time, like an old lion.
Avril and several other ex-444th Squadron guests joined the crowd a little later, yelling and urging them on with bottles of fine Shilagian plum brandy they'd pinched from somewhere, much to the visible disgust of the local Erusean nobility.
In fact, the unusually large number of foreigners on the guest list had rankled with much of Erusean high society, but very few had actually stepped up to voice their objections, for ultimately it was Rosa who decided who would be invited... and who would not.
As it was, the number of foreign guests was quite large indeed...
Feeling Better?
In full dress blues, beneath the glinting chandeliers and ornate candlelamps, half of the Long Range Strategic Strike Group had gathered at the table closest to the dance floor. They were chatting and gasping in equal measure as they watched the once-unthinkable sight of Trigger, their very own flight lead, waltzing with the newly-crowned Queen of Erusea herself.
The notable exception was Long Caster, who had instead elected to circle the room like a shark, stuffing his face with whatever finger food he could get his hands on, and borderline-harassing the catering staff in the process.
'Trigger's movements are insane!' Count remarked. 'Damn, buddy!'
'I look ridiculous.' Huxian grumbled, shuffling uncomfortably in her service dress blouse and knee-high skirt for the thirteenth time that evening, having worn a frown from the very second she'd been made to put them on.
Beside her was Lanza, nursing a glass of cola. 'Yeah,' he snorted. 'You do.'
Huxian shot him a venomous look.
Then Count chipped in,
'Well, if it's bothering you,' he said slyly. 'Maybe you and me can change into something more comfortable... if you know what I mean.'
Huxian nodded and smiled, regarding him for a moment.
Then she kicked him.
'Ow! My balls!' Count groaned, bending double and clutching his lower horn.
Huxian then swung a fist at Lanza with remarkable speed - aiming not for the man himself, but rather at something far more precious.
'Shit! My cola!' Lanza cried.
There was a slap of broken glass, shattering against the edge of the table and spilling glass and bubbling cola all over the royal velvet carpet.
'There, much better.' Huxian huffed, grinning triumphantly.
Several of the guests had glanced over at the commotion. The headwaiter - a spiky-haired, ill-tempered brute - pushed past them.
'The hell is this?' demanded AWACS Bandog, looking decidedly out of place in his red waiter's vest and black bowtie - and pretending that he didn't notice Count jolting up in surprise and trying to hide his face.
'My cola...' Lanza moaned, pointing ruefully at the broken glass and the deep cola stain spreading across the carpet like fungi.
Bandog shook his head dismissively. 'Hmph. Regs.' he scoffed. 'Rookie! Cleanup on table four!'
A balding, middle-aged man dressed like a loser came tottering out of the kitchen, carrying a washbucket and another sack of cleaning materials. He was scowling, defiantly sullen, and seemed to be dragging his feet.
He was muttering under his breath, 'Scheming little... Scrap Queen... Solitary... Harling's murderer... Ruined me... Shining star... Coulda lived like a king...'
With a grumble, Colonel (formerly, dishonorably discharged) D. McKinsey got down on all fours and gingerly swept up the loose glass shards into the dustpan, before getting to work on the cola with the sponge and washbucket. But the stain was persistent - the sugary liquid proved surprisingly resilient, and wouldn't be dislodged from the velvet carpet so easily.
As he scrubbed desperately, biting his lip, he caught a glance at Trigger on the dance floor with the Queen of Erusea in his arms. Flashes of anger, jealously, and then pain ran across his face. He stared, just for a moment...
Noticing his newest employee's (and old boss) malingering, Bandog gave McKinsey a well-deserved kick.
'The hell are you looking at, rookie?' he snapped loudly, in spite - or rather, because of - the growing scene he was making. 'Eyes down! Or maybe you want to spend another night in solitary instead?'
By reflex, McKinsey whirled up and came within a breath of shouting back at him... before stopping himself, and obediently resuming his work.
Having sated his compulsion to assert his dominance, Bandog turned on his heel and stamped away.
Sausage Party
'Do you have kids? Well, I got one, and I've saved up a whole lotta war stories to tell him. But boy, do I sure have a lot of stories to tell you too!'
Further across the room, Jaeger had cornered a group of Erusean dignitaries, all of whom looked like they really wanted to be anywhere else but there. He was regaling them with pictures of his young son Erich and with all the stories he was going to tell him, and how he was going to raise him to be a great fighter pilot one day, and how quickly he was growing, and...
'Wow, he just never stops, does he?' Tailor asked, sipping his drink.
'Well, bringing up your family is normally a huge death flag.' Skald tried to answer, reasonably. 'But now that the war's over, he's got no reason to hold back.'
'You mean he wasn't before?'
'He's practicing for when he actually tells Erich about us.' Fencer snorted. 'Poor kid's got no idea what's waiting for him.'
'Yeap...'
The three Osean pilots chuckled lightly at that remark, which wasn't even funny. But they felt compelled to keep the conversation going.
A part of it... okay, most of it was envy - that Jaeger was actually having a great night, even if that was by talking the ears off anyone unlucky enough to be within his line of sight and general vicinity.
'Look at him! Look at my little Erich! Isn't he the cutest thing you ever saw? Just wait till I tell him all the stories I've got saved up for him... One day, he'll grow up to be just like his daddy! You know, I'm gonna tell him about the time...'
Meanwhile, an awkward silence had come between the three Cyclops squadron pilots, their conversation petering out as soon as they ran out of things to sarcastically comment on. And what else was there to do? They couldn't go to the dance floor - Trigger and the Queen were ruling that space. Food? Long Caster would make damn sure they wouldn't. Mingle around and try pick up chicks? Maybe... but talking to girls was scary. So, no.
Unable to bear it any longer, Fencer shuffled uncomfortably in place. 'So, uh... bit of a sausage fest here, eh?'
There was a collective groan. Tailor spat his drink all over a passing nobleman.
'Did you have to put it like that?!' he spluttered.
'I know us Eagle drivers get a bad rap for that,' Skald said, scratching his head thoughtfully. 'But... it's kinda hard to deny the memes at this point.'
'Yeah...' Fencer sighed, inwardly cringing that he'd been so desperate to keep the conversation going that he had to point out what everyone else was already thinking. '... Well, I didn't have anything else planned for today. Let's go get drunk!'
Regret and Recovery
Mihaly Dumitru Margareta Corneliu Leopold Blanca Karol Aeon Ignatius Raphael Maria Niketas Archange of Shilage watched Three Strikes dance along with Queen Cossette. He was... amused. Three Strikes' moves were rough and unrefined, but was still managing to carry himself along with sheer self-confidence.
But Mihaly knew from his own bitter experience that relying on self-confidence alone would only take him so far. If only he could still walk, he'd show him a thing or two...
He sighed inwardly. Was he thinking in terms of dancing, or flying? The sudden sadness he felt in his heart was his answer.
He watched his granddaughters, Ionela and Alma, sway and clap in time with the music among the onlooking crowd. They were enjoying themselves. Everyone was - even Three Strikes and the Queen. Oh, to be young and carefree again...
... Mihaly sighed again. There was no point in feeling sorry for himself. That would achieve nothing. Instead, he decided that, if his granddaughters were happy, he would be try and be happy too.
With some effort, he wheeled his wheelchair around. The crowd suddenly parted for him, and he moved towards one of the candlelit tables. More people stepped aside as they saw him approach, cutting off their conversations midway to let him through.
It was almost funny. Even confined to a wheelchair, his presence still commanded both fear and respect from friend and former foe alike. It was as though everyone could sense from his whole aura and demeanor that, even in his weakened state, he was still the meanest son of a bitch in the room. Many of the Osean guests in particular were watching him anxiously, as though expecting him to suddenly stand up and make the sky start speaking Latin. Such was his reputation.
Mihaly paid them no heed as he wheeled along. He didn't care what they thought of him - he had nothing to prove. So long as they left him and his granddaughters alone, he'd let them think and gossip whatever they liked.
Past the murmuring crowds, the tables were mostly vacant. All the guests had already got up in favor of mingling around, leaving their catered dinners largely untouched.
Most of it was pizza.
Pizza... In all of his dignified, noble years, Mihaly had never actually been served "pizza" before. He'd only seen it in pictures, and knew only that it was a delicacy favored among Osean commoners. The choice to serve this plebeian foreign dish in an Erusean royal function was a curious one, but apparently the catering staff - comprising a group of Osean Marines that the Queen somehow seemed to know and trust for some reason - had insisted on it. "Basilisk" something or other, they were called.
No matter. Mihaly decided he'd try some of this "pizza" for himself, drawn in by the youthful novelty of trying something new for the first time.
He reached the buffet tables, neatly arrayed just outside the kitchen area. All of them were bursting with pizzas, sausage rolls, and sandwiches - so much so that Mihaly quietly wondered whether this was really meant to be a royal function, or a childrens' birthday party. Only the presence of a fully-dressed Osean air force officer, stuffing his face from one of the tables and making obscene chewing noises, convinced him of the former. There was something familiar about the patch on the man's sleeve, but Mihaly couldn't quite put his finger on it.
Shrugging, Mihaly picked up a plate. His trained, hawk-like eyes spotted a particular pizza that caught his interest; hot and fragrant, and topped with what looked like pencil shavings (mushrooms), strips of plastic (peppers and olives), packing foam (ham and sausage), and melted rubber (cheese). Locking on to his target and swooping in for the killshot, Mihaly reached for a slice and...
... His hand did not connect. That wasn't part of the plan.
Breathing in, he leaned forward, straining... and still came up short.
Mihaly swapped his plate to his other hand and tried again, twisting his body, painfully and awkwardly, but still to no avail. This foe was proving elusive and unpredictable, just like Three Strikes.
He noticed some of the other guests were watching him struggle. But none of them were coming to help - they were too afraid.
That's fine, he didn't need their help anyway. Pursing his lip, Mihaly braced against the wheelchair armrests, and tried standing up... and was soon reminded that he couldn't do that either.
He was just about to try pulling on the tablecloth when he heard a familiar voice,
'Allow me.' it said, speaking in perfect Shilagian.
A sky-blue sleeve reached across his shoulder, its gloved hand picking up a slice and helpfully depositing it onto Mihaly's plate.
Mihaly quickly added a couple of sausage rolls to his mix, before turning up to face his helper.
'Wit.' he said, keeping his voice low and composed to mask his mild surprise. 'And Seymour. It's been some time.'
'Hello, King.' Wit said.
'I told you not to call me that.' Mihaly growled. 'And I didn't need your help.' Then, as though struck by an afterthought, his eyes softened imperceptibly. '... But it is appreciated.'
The two Voslagian officers bowed slightly, honored by their old teacher's recognition. They were wearing the traditional Voslagian dress uniform, sky blue tunics with golden trim and polished peaked caps. Distant memories flashed through Mihaly's mind - memories from a time when those same dress uniforms had been standard issue among Voslagian officers, and who held respect for Shilagian royalty. It was hard to believe that those times had returned now, in a strangely nostalgic way.
'You're... looking better.' said Seymour, needing a moment to try and find something to compliment.
'My recovery has been a long and arduous process.' Mihaly replied. 'But it will continue.'
Wit and Seymour bowed their heads solemnly. They knew more than anyone that there was more to Mihaly's recovery than simply rehabilitating his physical injuries; he had also been battling depression ever since it became clear that he wasn't going to be flying ever again. Having long abandoned his earthly ties, even to his cultural roots and his noble titles and privileges, the sky was all Mihaly had left - the only place in the world where he had ever felt truly alive and with purpose.
Now, all of that was gone. For the second time in his life, Mihaly's kingdom had been stolen away from him. Far more than the agony of his broken body, that pain was nothing compared to the spiritual and psychological death-blows that had torn up in his heart. His whole reason for being and sense of self-worth had been gutted out from under him. All he could look forward to now was an empty future on the ground, with none of the meaning and purpose he had once enjoyed in the skies.
It was clear that Mihaly still had a long way to go before he would come to terms with his new reality. But perhaps the one bright spot was that he still had good people around him, people whose lives and wellbeing he valued, and could trust and rely upon. If nothing else, Mihaly was beginning to subconsciously realize, he could still be grateful and appreciating for them.
'How is Voslage?' he asked his former companions.
'Voslage lives.' Seymour said.
'Despite their efforts.' added Wit, shooting an ugly scowl at the people gathered around the dancefloor.
Mihaly nodded. 'I see...' he said. He poked at his pizza thoughtfully for a moment, then looked back up. 'I envy you.'
Wit and Seymour looked quizzically at each other, then back at Mihaly.
'Us?'
'You are still flying, are you not?'
'Ah.' Seymour said sheepishly.
'We've lost a lot of good people.' Wit said, gravely. 'But, yes. Our national restoration goes well, and we have been trying to find our own sky.'
'It is... a shame you cannot fly with us anymore.' Seymour added.
'Do not pity me.' Mihaly said. 'Focus on your future.'
'I only wish you could be a part of it.' said Wit. 'Even now, we look to your teachings for guidance.'
'Then I already am.' Mihaly said, his expression softening again. 'Make the most of your time in the skies, and leave no regrets behind. Otherwise... you will end up as I did.'
Clutching his plate, he turned and began to wheel away back towards the dance floor, to his granddaughters, but not before a final pause.
'And... thank you both. For everything.'
His two former wingmen bowed again.
'It is we who should be thanking you...' Wit called after him. '... Mihaly.'
Smiling - the first he had known in many years - Mihaly wheeled away.
The pizza wasn't bad either.
Curtain Call
The band was playing on.
Rosa laughed, and then twirled again in time under Trigger's outstretched hand.
By the time she finished the motion, two newcomers had come skipping in beside her; Ionela and Alma Shilage had joined the dance floor, holding hands and circling around. They were smiling and laughing, radiating a cheerful, youthful energy that momentarily stole away the spotlight from Rosa and her escort.
Then Avril staggered in, fully intoxicated, roaring and hurling her body around like a wild animal. Everyone else was pointing and laughing. Even Mihaly, now with a plate of pizza and finger food in his hands, was trying very hard - and failing - to contain himself. Wit and Seymour were there too, arms crossed, content to watch from the sidelines. Behind them, the commander of the Osean Basilisk team was busy serving up another round of pizza.
Meanwhile, Rosa noticed a cleaner glaring viciously at her, before the spike-haired headwaiter berated him with a punch to the gut, thrusting a mop into his hands as he bent double.
The rest of the Osean Long Range Strategic Strike Group jumped in; Count, Jaeger, Huxian, Lanza, Fencer, Skald, and Tailor, all of them completely sloshed, hooting and hollering like baboons as they tore up the royal dance floor. Long Caster, his face caked over with ketchup and partially-chewed food, dove in after them.
Surrounded by her dearest friends, all the people she'd met with through her long and storied journey, and losing herself in the music and the swinging, swaying motions of the man who had saved her life on more than one occasion, Rosa realized that this was about as close to true happiness as she had ever been.
What more does the future have in store? she wondered hopefully.
End of Return on Investment
Assault Record #8 - Mihaly Dumitru Margareta Corneliu Leopold Blanca Karol Aeon Ignatius Raphael Maria Niketas Archange of Shilage
Aircraft: N/A
Rank: Colonel-General (retired)
Unit: 68th Experimental Squadron "Sol" (formerly)
Nationality: Shilagian (formerly Erusean)
Dossier:A legendary ace pilot, feared by friend and foe alike, originally from the Grand Duchy of Shilage - a fertile agricultural region straddling the great Zala River along Erusea's eastern fringes.
Born as the eldest and most favored son of the last Grand Duke of Shilage, Mihaly developed an interest in aviation at an early age. Tutored by the Chief of the Royal Shilage House Guard, a close personal friend of the Shilage family, Mihaly quickly displayed his talents as a prodigously fast learner and the instinctive ability to control his aircraft as an extension of his own body - talents that were quickly picked up by the Royal Shilage Air Guard.
In the summer of that year, however, a coup d'etat led by the Chief of the House Guard and a group of foreign mercenaries stormed Shilage Castle, seizing control of the country with the goal of reforming it into a military dictatorship. In the chaos, Mihaly was shot in the face by his own friend and mentor - inflicing the deep scar wound across his face - while seeking refuge in the Shilage Catacombs.
As Shilage splintered apart into civil war, the neighboring countries took interest and intervened; from the northwest, the famine-stricken Kingdom of Erusea saw an opportunity to secure Shilage's abundant agriculture and food reserves for themselves. To the southwest, the allied Republic of Voslage dispatched troops to ensure Shilage remained a friendly and stable buffer state. After a period of confused fighting, the Erusean Army emerged victorious and had fully occupied the country.
Perhaps miraculously, Mihaly himself survived these events. However, the trauma of his betrayal left him deeply disillusioned - going so far as to refuse the Erusean "concession" of restoring his royal title and privileges, instead choosing to renounce his nationality and all ties to his old life. His past record and talents saw him swiftly recruited into the Erusean Air Force, by order of King Gabiel Marie Ferdinand du Rao Jean-Bourbon D'Elise - the last King of Erusea, as the eldest and only son of Queen-Consort Madeleine Celcia Marie Claire Fantine Alianor d'Aquitaine D'Elise.
Mihaly served the Eruseans well, quickly rising through the ranks and building a fearsome reputation across Erusea's many subsequent conflicts with its other neighbors and rivals - earning a reputation as the "King of the Skies". During this time, it was said that he trained a young Yellow 13; another Erusean ace who would go on to serve with distinction during the Usean Continental War before ultimately falling in battle to another legendary ace; Mobius One, the "Grim Reaper". Mihaly himself did not see action during this conflict.
In 1991, Mihaly was reassigned as a test pilot for the Erusean Air and Space Administration (EASA), who had partnered with North Osea Gründer Industries to develop advanced combat drones. In order to gather data, Mihaly frequently flew under extreme conditions for long periods of time, causing his physical health to decline sharply over time. Four pilots of Voslagian heritage - Wit, Seymour, Hermann, and Roald - would also often fly alongside him as chase planes, and later escorts. Together, they formed the "Sol Squadron", with whom his granddaughters Ionela and Alma would also live with on the base.
Mihaly's work with the EASA continued into the Lighthouse War of 2019, which also saw the deployment of the first of the new combat drones. Mihaly himself would occasionally be sent back into combat to gather additional flight data, each time proving more than a match for his Osean opponents and earning the codename "Mister X".
Throughout the war, he and the Sol Squadron would clash repeatedly with a young Osean pilot, who would eventually become known as the legendary "Three Strikes". The flight data gathered from these various encounters would eventually be programmed into the ADF-11F Raven units.
With the loss of global communications on September 19, the Sol Squadron withdrew to Shilage, where they formed the core of a faction of disillusioned Erusean officers and soldiers seeking to restore their homelands' independence. Mihaly went with them, but did not play an active role in these activities.
This changed on October 24, when the Osean Long Range Strategic Strike Group - led by Three Strikes himself - bombed Shilage Castle. Mihaly arrived in an advanced X-02S Strike Wyvern prototype and engaged Three Strikes over his ancestral home, but was ultimately defeated. He survived the battle, but, between with his injuries, age, and rapidly deteriorating health, his flying career had ended.
The war ended on November 1, along with the threat posed by the Ravens. Mihaly currently remains in Shilage, working through his rehabilitation, and gradually coming to terms with living a quiet and peaceful life.
Author's Notes:
▪ The chapter quotes come from Max0r and oboeshoes, respectively
▪ The song sung during Rosa's coronation is the 1984 theme song, with minor changes
▪ The entire post-coronation afterparty segment is based on a comment thread for Pensées (heh) on Youtube
▪ Major characters Diego Gaspar Navarro, AWACS Bandog, McKinsey, and Mihaly appear in this story outside of mentions/references for the first time
▪ Mihaly's assault record entry includes a super-condensed version of another story idea I once had; featuring the adventures of a young Mihaly
▪ And as always, many thanks to all you readers who've stuck around until the end. See you in the next adventure!
Farbanti, Erusea
20 September 2020
...
... It was late. Most of the guests had gone home, and of those that remained, almost all of them were paralytically drunk... and Osean. The waitstaff were busy cleaning up the almighty mess that had been spread across the ballroom like rancid butter, and noisily packing away furniture, equipment, and taking down decorations.
Queen Rosa Cossette D'Elise of Erusea had decided to get some air on one of the palace's many outside balconies, mostly to get away from the knocks and bangs echoing through the walls (so to speak) and be left to recover from the festivities in peace.
It was two-thirty in the morning. Post-coronation celebrations were still murmuring across the city. A salty breeze was sweeping in from the nearby seaside, blowing away the smoky, acrid odor of the city's industrial sector. The air itself was muggy and thick with static - a storm was approaching.
Below her was the Parc de la Paix; a replica of the main garden of the original Palais D'Elise, which had purportedly been the favored happy place of Rosa's ancestor; Madeleine Celcia Marie Claire Fantine Alianor d'Aquitaine D'Elise - the last Queen of Erusea, before the nation had become a Federal Republic.
The original site was now deep underwater, but its memories lived on in this modern replica; lamp posts and oil lanterns cast pools of warm, orange light on curving pathways of raked gravel and striped, landscaped lawns. Beyond the glowering lights, ferns and shrubberies had been clustered around raised terraces and iron gates. All around them, bulbously-trimmed rose bushes dotted the ground, bracketed by white paving stones and murmuring, running water features.
Deep within the garden was a small circular pond containing only two fish; a white koi with a black spot on its forehead, and a black koi with a corresponding white spot of its own.
Rosa found herself gazing into the pond, its surface still and undisturbed like glass, reflected the image of the clear, full moon in the night sky. Beneath the pond's surface, the two koi appeared as to swim around each other in a circle, with the moon's reflection in the middle.
The day's events dominated her thoughts. She had began the day as a Princess, bearing the heavy burdens of the war, the disorder, and the Space Elevator - burdens that she still carried even now, finishing the day as Queen. A part of her still felt like all that had really changed was the shape and size of the crown on her head, and that on the inside, she was still the same Rosa Cossette D'Elise. Her identity and who she was... that hadn't really changed. Not yet, anyway.
Sighing, she looked up. Stars filled the sky. A beautiful canopy of nebulous clouds and little bright lights, underlit by the shimmering moon, winking away at the Earth from the depths of the cosmos. Probably there were more stars in the sky than drops of water in the ocean.
Twenty-one years ago, those same stars had fallen down to Earth - one of them right here in Farbanti, turning half the city into Atlantis, and sparking a wave of crises that her country had never really recovered from. Its shadow had remained, known today as the Ryker Crater.
Then, only last year, the stars had fallen down again - satellites, artificial machine-stars that had once linked the world together through the power of global communications, snuffed out by the fury of war. This time, the crisis had been entirely man-made, and another one whose consequences would be felt well into the next generation.
Perhaps morbidly, she noted that major globe-shattering catastrophes seemed to strike this little blue planet once every twenty years. What would the next one be, in the year 2040? And the ones after that?
So long as she was alive and Queen, she would just have to try and deal with them. To do her best with the hands that she would be dealt. That would be all anyone would ever have the right to ask of her, even as Queen. And if ever she failed... well, she would have to deal with that too.
She extended her reach to the stars above, clasping her hand as though trying to catch a few and bring them down to Earth. On this occasion, at least, the stars seemed content to remain in the sky, silently, wordlessly watching events unfold on the Earth, and in their turn be unreachable by human hands.
The dream of mankind... she caught herself musing. Perhaps, someday, we'll all make it there...
'Warm congratulations, Rosa.' an unknown voice called out. 'A most joyous occasion.'
Another woman had appeared behind her.
Rosa turned around, caught off-guard by the stranger's use of her given name.
The stranger was tall and slim, with pale-skin and long white hair that ran down to the small of her back. She was wearing a matching white shirt and thigh-length skirt, along with a contrasting tie, that sharply complemented her crisp features and clung to her figure like a fine morning mist.
But most striking of all were her ice-blue eyes. They were cold and pale - colder even than the late Doctor Schroeder's had been - seemingly lacking irises and glowing faintly in the gloom.
She was smiling, projecting an image self-assured confidence - a clear sign that she was no stranger to high society - yet also an air of mystery, like she was hiding something; there was something about her - the way she had so casually used Rosa's given name even knowing her status, the way she carried herself, her expression, and all of the slight bodily movements that Rosa subconsciously picked up on, that she found somewhat unsettling.
Rosa found her difficult to read. Her instincts, honed by hard, painful experience, were telling her that something sinister was lurking beneath the composed, smiling surface of this strange, inscrutable woman, telling her that she couldn't be trusted... but what? And how?
'Thank you.' Rosa said politely, nodding slowly. 'I appreciate your patronage. But... I do not believe we are yet acquainted?'
The woman chuckled, closing her eyes and covering her mouth as she did so, like a princess from a cheap cartoon show. The motion came off as deliberate and controlled, rather than instinctual. Again, there was something unsettling, unnatural about her whole demeanor and mannerisms that Rosa couldn't quite place.
'Of course, how rude of me.' the woman then said, offering a smile. 'Sometimes, my enthusiasm gets the better of my sense of etiquette.'
Rosa smiled back. 'It happens.'
'My name is Koko Hekmatyar.' the woman said. 'I represent Hekmatyar-Chevalier Logistics Incorporated, and I'm here to help.'