[h1]New York[/h1]
[h1]New York City[/h2]

He looked down at the floor, but he didn't see the white woolen carpet, he saw a bed of snow deep as a man's waist and driven by a fierce nor'easter. He smelled the air, but he didn't smell the cheap stale tobacco of an exhausted cigarette – if it could even be one – but the cordite infused choking mist of battle. The wind did nothing to drive it away as it only blew in more from elsewhere beyond the snowy gray haze. He didn't like to think it, to see it, or to smell it; but he allowed himself to get lost in it because what else were you supposed to do in a waiting room?

To him, he was back on the Vermont frontier, years ago when he was something of a younger man. It was towards of the war though, because for all purposes the man was still something of a young man, but he bore more lines in his face that didn't matter for his age. Never the less, he was there with a rifle hugged tight in his hands and heavy rags wrapped around his hands and face as well as finger less gloves and an itchy wool scarf. His eyes watered and teared in the biting wind and if he didn't bleak them away the tears would freeze. He already lost feeling in his rifle, a stout rifle the length of his arm with a maple stock.

Zachery Maden was just a  young officer then, little more than a fresh lieutenant from out of the Gray Castle up river from New York City itself. He had been sent there because his father was important and he could get in on account of friends in government. But he was also there because he was the second youngest of five and unlikely to get any sort of land inheritance when his father – the loud horse-racing drunk that he was – finally croaked. Some sort of military career and an allowance was all he had been given in life.

Stout, with a round face and a large nose; he was called a crow or mouse among his cadets at The Castle. But he always thought himself more a mouse with how much he felt his eyes were dis-proportionally small for his face. But really his brows just sagged low and they were set deep in. But on the winter fields he hardly mattered much with his face covered, he was another in a line of thousands slowly crunching their way through the hills and desolate winter forests.

Outside the office windows, something crashed to the ground outside the great clatter echoed up to Zachery's ears like the crack of a rifle and in his memory he spun to find a Vermont militia man open fire into his face with a shotgun made from an old glass beer bottle. The weapon was fragile though, and it exploded in his hands as soon as he fired it, but his aim had been off and the shot went wide. What hit Zachery instead were the pieces of glass and wood that had exploded out in front of him, from behind a snow bank not a few inches further than an arm's reach away. He felt the glass cut the side of his face and nick his nose, the warm sensation of blood from newly opened scars running down his face and into the threads of his scarf. His heart raced in his chest, and he jumped a little inhaling sharply the warm office air.

He looked around, eyes wide and held is hand to his chest. “God.” he muttered under his breath, and pulled out a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his dirty thread bare suit and whipped out his sweating eyebrow. As the memory faded he could hear the report of his rifle in response to the offending shooter, so far off in his imagination it might be confused for a gun shot in New York's cavernous urban valleys.

In his post-war years, Zachery had fallen into the habit of committing to as many rituals as possible when the flashbacks returned and quickly he signed through them; bowing his head and crossing his shoulders and humming a little. He didn't quiet know what the Muslims did,  but he cross his arms across his stomach and keeled over in his seat like it was sick and hoped that did enough to appease their god to help lessen these bloody memories.

Just as he was finishing the door opened and in stepped the man he wanted to see, a tall but unspectacular balding man, whose few remaining strands of hair were combed across his sparkling domed head in a weak effort to hide the planetoid bald-spot.

“Jesus Christ you aren't fucking sick now are ya?” he asked, unsure and a little repulsed.

Zachery looked up, and felt the blood rush from his face in embarrassment. “Ah, no sir. I wasn't.” he said quickly, but the felt cold and weak leaving him.

“Well shit ain't you an ugly bastard.” the man remarked again with an unaware grimace, almost subconsciously the stranger his hand to the side of his face and touched his own unblemished cheeks. Zachery felt his stomach role as he realized what he meant, the exploding glass-bottle gun had tore wide jagged scars across the right side of his face and his cheek was chiseled down as a result of the flesh being carved off it like a holiday ham.

“Oh, ah- that'd be from the war...” he said bitterly, “The, ah, last one.”

“I see.” the man said uncomfortably. “Well I guess we got off on the wrong foot. Forgive me.”

Zachery waved him off dismissively. Gesturing politely the taller gentleman bid him to stand up and follow him, “Into my office then, we'll discuss matters accordingly.”

Zachery nodded nervously, and stood up. As he left his chair he picked up the leather wide-brimmed had on the seat next to him and uncomfortably played with the brim of the wide hat as he followed.

The next room was the main office itself, a small corner room in an old brownstone brick building at one of the distant edges of New York City itself. Windows swept both the back and left wall of the room, letting in ample light and the sweeping skeletal remains of New York City.

For miles and far off the island of Manhatten was a forest, or more aptly: a mountainous landscape built by man, where the mountains were not gentle sweeping hills rising up high above the heads of man but whose cliffs were sheer and blasphemously tall and artificial. And clearly even at his distance Zachery saw and noted the slow work being done by man's hand to decompose its own creation. The skeletal framework of the distant skyscrapers were clear as pencil-thin lines sketched against the blue afternoon sky. And in a regular grid the network of ancient streets marched towards and away from the office.

The nameplate on the simple wooden desk red in black letters, “Donald Smithson.”

“So, it is my understanding you would like to purchase a reclamation site here in the city.” Donald said matter-of-factly as he sat down at his desk. He stirred uncomfortably as he looked up at Zachery's scarred face and looked away and pretended to look busy deorganizing and reorganizing and otherwise organized desk.

“Yes, I understand you have some properties someone like myself could own?”

“The city does.” Donald affirmed, “Small jobs in the brownstones here on the edge of the old Metro area and in the less commercial areas of Manhatten island. Or if would rather, we do still offer ownership shares of the larger ongoing projects but you would have to wait until you can make any active claim on these sites.”

“No, I would actually like something that I can work now.” Zachery insisted.

“That's fair.” Donald said, nodding, “Before I can make any offers though I will statements of your financial footing, so we know you can make the payment. Are you the holder of any debts, sir?”

Zachery nodded, “I owned a horse back home towards Buffalo and I loaned it to my neighbor, the horse died in his care and the courts charged he owes me some two-thousand five hundred dollars, and I'm owed a loan to a small free-farmer whose only paid interest on a thousand-dollar loan.”

“Do you have the record copies on these?” Donald asked.

Zachery nodded excitedly, “I do.” he said, reaching into his pocket and holding out official copies of the statements of debt. Donald looked them over and nodded approvingly.

“As an official register of properties for the Holdings Commission of New York City I can offer you a property credit of three-thousand seven hundred for these debts.” Donald said, looking at Zachery, but a little askance, a bit down perhaps to avoid the marred cheek.

“I suppose that's fair.” Zachery said, he was tempted to bargain for the full value on these debts but he was told the NYC Holding Commission doesn't barter or haggle values.

“Excellent.” said Donald coldly, “Now, ah- are there any more financial dealings I must know before moving ahead?”

“On my retirement from the service I was offered an officer's pension.” Zachery said, digging in his pocket for the copy of his note of pension.

Donald didn't take the paper but looked up at it, thought for a moment, and said: “That's fine.” and then under his breath muttered, “If wanting to own a single flat.” Zachery pretended not to hear the comment.

“Next, are you the owner of, co-owner, or otherwise the beneficiary of a financial mission that would provide you any additional funds?”

Zachery nodded proudly, “I am a quarter-shares owner in a shipping company operating out of the Niagara area. We ship food stuffs and lightly processed materials – starches, oil – up river through the great lakes region into markets in the Lake of Eerie and Ontario. These passed two financial years we have made 1.2% profit and 1.5% profit. This has allowed me to make investments in several successful small adventures. I have a summary of my portfolio on me, if you would like to see it.” Zachery offered, casually.

“I'd like to review it.” Donald insisted, holding out his hands expectantly.

Again, Zachery reached into his coat pocket and produced a roped together packet of folded and rolled papers. The agent rose a brow quizzically at it as he was handed over the financial information of this young man since the ending of the Vermont war. “I suppose last question as I go over this: for the war did you receive and bounty land and you might otherwise rent out to help subsidize your efforts in the city?”

“No sir, I didn't receive anything. Bounty land went only to Colonels and above, I was only a lieutenant.”

“Understood.” Donald said with a sigh, taking the portfolio, untying it, and going through the papers one by one while writing down the information. The process took a whole fifteen minutes, where the only question he was asked was: “I suppose your personal financial state is in order?”

The answer was “yes” and the agent nodded accordingly.

Some time went by without a word being spoken. Turning through the remainder of the portfolio the agent copied down some numbers, and ran some calculations. Standing to excuse himself, he left the office, the copied information under his arm. This left Zachery again alone to himself.

He took the time to reflect on why exactly he was here, waiting again. The clear answer he had known was that he was effectively deprived of any land inheritance on his father's passing. But that was something many in his position dealt with, and often took it in step with a cash inheritance to build something of their own as a merchant, sea captain, or even a tradesman. But either case presented Zachery a world of only irrelevancy in the grand scheme of things. True he may be able to stay attached to the broader family estate but he would be no power within it. A someone still, but a lesser someone, and depending on how his brothers acted towards him in this instance meant he stood at the edge of being just another case of the hired help.

No, he wanted to be something more than that. And he needed an estate of his own. But things were getting hard enough again in the rural countryside to find or carve a country estate of his own to fill with tenant farmers. He had to go city ward, into New York.

Outside in a distant block black smoke rose into the sky as something caught fire. He regarded it with come mild curiosity, then shrugged it off. It was far enough away it wouldn't mean anything to him. And he had seen things burn before.

There was a sound at the door as Donald stepped in again, a stack of portfolios in his hand. “Here are the available areas that you can begin your industry in, that may be affordable to you.” With a heave he dropped the stack down, the stack thumped heavily on the wooden desk and it almost collapsed by the impact, “Between you and me we can go through them, and we can begin building your holdings here in the city.”

“That's quiet a lot.” Zachery admired, looking it up and down with wide amazed eyes.

“Well there's plenty more where that came from. New York is a big place.” Donald said with a smile.

“And no one has bought these all up?” Zachery asked.

The agent shook his head, “We don't approve of that sort of thing. And we price things now just on horizontal area but vertical. This tends to add another factor that makes otherwise over-eager land barons second-guess.”

“We?”

Donald nodded, “The NYC Holding Commission.” he answered, “In conjunction with the New York Metropolitan Council, the local governing body for the entire city area, from New Jersey to the New York Republic.” there was a light of pride in his eyes as he said that, “But if you want to get into technical specifics, the Holding Commission is really a board of the broader council, that is the local landholder council for men from upstate such as yourself.”

“I see.” Zachery said, beginning to look through the stacked portfolios.

Donald nodded, “As a to-be landowner you are – as elsewhere – eligible to join the council. In fact: it is highly encouraged you do. I can not stress this enough.”

“Really now?”

“Yes, really. In fact to make it easy: you should.”

“I don't quiet understand.”

“Oh, well. We have our reasons. But I am limited in my ability to tell you. You must become a member to learn why. And not just that, but be shown to be active and interested. There's a certain... security.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Well let me suggest something bad might happen if you don't. There's been a history of that.”

Zachery didn't need it to be spelled out for him. The threat was clear behind the forced smile of the land agent. He looked back outside through the window behind him and considered. Is the black smoke billowing from the distant block a result of this failure to comply?

But if it was relevancy Zachery wanted, to be a somebody in something and to not lose power then it would be useless for him to refuse. “I guess I'll have to become a part then.”

“Excellent, I will put your name in and as soon as we're finished I can give you directions to the Bureau's local factory.”

“A factory? You mean the old world type?”

“No, not a manufactory. A house of factoring.” the agent laughed. “Oh well, I suppose you'll find out when you're there.”

[h1]New Jersey[/h1]
[h2]Long Branch[/h2]

“It's good to see you back.” a colored man said, walking forward with his hand out and a wide smile on his face.

“Allen, how are you old friend.” Alexander Crown greeted with a warm delicate smile. Allen Hawk was an old business associate and friend of Alexander since his merchant days along the Atlantic Coast. The two men plied a small coastal kingdom with outposts from New Jersey to southern Maine. And while their adventure was formally housed in the Queens Burough Factory, the adventures both had managed to build was functionally charted from northern New Jersey, where the beating heart of their efforts was mostly free from mercantile espionage.

This had also made Allen and Alexander both powerful figures in international activity on behalf of New York, despite what some would have called shaky residency in the Republic itself. Yet all the same, Allen and his partners managed and held land title to the Queens Factory; if at times Allen himself seeming to appear in two places at once for that.

“I'm doing just fine.” Allen said, taking his old friend's hand, “I have your old room here in order, you're ready to take up residency any time you like. Or would like a drink first?” Allen smiled expectantly. He wasn't a man nearly as tall as Ambassador Crown, but he made up for it with a stiff upright posture and straight-back shoulders. His heavy build and neck gave him a strong athletic air around him, and it held as well in a muscular heavy face. It was an aura at odds with the man, as he smiled with political grace with thin lips and caramel colored eyes glowed with a hoping light.

“I suppose I will.” Alexander said. Allen nodded and thumped him hard on his back. “Absolutely brilliant, I've been dying for a fucking drink all day and I needed the excuse to start.” he said with a low laugh like ocean waves against a rocky shore.

“I'd had to kill any casual tone before the evening comes in full swing,” Alexander said outwardly, “but I think I need to get a ground lay of the situation here for my mission.”

“Yea, and I can give you the best briefing there is here. Most if not all information passing through me.”

“You don't need to tell me that twice.”

The halls of the old golf clubhouse had a moldy decay of age and time's not-so-gentle passing. If the color of the walls hadn't faded to off-colors and the vibrancy of the paint faded then it had peeled back showing the bones of the building underneath. Wooden floorboards – or once carpeted plywood floors – were now bowed and bore the grooves of travel. The windows even were crusting, and a milky film of salt and mold was growing on the glass obscuring a clear image of the world outside, it also filtered the moon and star light that filtered in. further yet, the orange and green glow of lanterns and candles threw a ghostly light in the halls and rooms as they lay silent in the darkened evening.

“We'll go out on the veranda.” Allen said, then moving back to the topic: “First thing is first, the situation we hear from the south is mostly second or third hand from word of mouth. But what we can say for certain is that Federal forces are marching north from the Tuckahoe area of South Jersey.”

“So they haven't gotten that far.”

“Fuck no, it's only just begun.” Allen laughed dryly, “But they're due to move fast most likely.”

Alexander nodded. There wasn't any central government in the state anymore after their disastrous defeat at the hand of New York federal forces following the annexation of New York proper. Before his time. But merchants and informants in the area had passed along enough allegorical information to suggest that the old Atlantic City government hadn't had enough central control on its counties and regional governments prior and the stinging defeat in the war had only weakened it further. What followed was widely known to be a steady period of decay until the whole system crashed.

“There has to be old war veterans, officers still around to whip their local men together. Surely that could slow them?” Alexander suggested.

“I don't think they stayed.” Allen sighed, “Or I haven't heard of any of the big names. They must have fallen from the public eye. Sorry to say, but if you want to run manhunts in parts of the states we have no part in being in already I don't think you're going to get much from them.” he reached out for the handle of a door and with a click opened it up to a narrow porch. Alongside the door was a small table with a few bottles of liquor and shot glasses there waiting.

“I guess the south of the state is only being held together by militias then at this point.” said Alexander, sitting down.

“Afraid so.” Allen remarked, taking his own seat and popping the cork on the bottles and pouring a round for the two of them.

“So what's the status of the Boss before I got here?” asked Alexander.

“What, couldn't you tell?” Allen scoffed, laughing as he rose his shot glass for a sip.

“No, he was much to evasive about it. I tried to bring it up a few times but he kept ferrying me around all day showing me the state of the city. Pointed out all his Soul Diners.”

“Not much of an economy in those.” Allen said with a cynical bite.

“Yes, free food. Without reimbursement it's safe to say that any resources he had in any sort of armed force to go against the Federals is washed up in that.” Alexander downed his shot glass, the alcohol burned down his throat, but left a clean after taste. He pucked his lips and let out a long low sigh, “He's an idealist still, I'll give him that.”

Allen agreed, nodding slowly beside him, “Told me he believes God'll show us the path to unity once again. All that's left is to live according to his generosity. To be the brother to your neighbor, or your sister.”

“Not ideas that will win him battles.”

“Oh, I've seen him win battles while you were away!” Allen announced with feigned amazement, “Get together a motley militia in leather jackets and goes off to take the fight to bandits coming from the Trenton area. They put up a hell of a fight way I hear it. But they don't take any interested in pushing for land. But they've stopped Trenton from pushing in on them.”

“It would probably be better if Trenton had annexed the area. We'd have a more concise mission.”

“Fuck, I won't disagree with you there. And that's only knowing half your mission.” Allen smiled, finishing his glass and pouring another.

“So, did he take you on a tour of Long Branch proper?” asked Allen.

“No, he said he'll do that another day.”

Allen shrugged, “Suppose that's right.”

“Why would he?”

“He's rebuilt the area rather well since you were last here. Actually: a lot of the homes there are comparable to before the Catastrophe. It's amazing, really. Beautiful really. A lot of the people from the country-side moved into the town, he's got a rather nice coastal town going.”

“Huh, amazing.”

“Very, so you only got to see the hamlets in the ruins.”