[b]Yerevan, Armenia[/b]

The cheering crowds were unlike anything that Corporal Haroud Abbasian had ever seen before. Ticker tape fluttered from buildings vaguely like a snowstorm, while a parade marched down the street. Armenian flags hung from windows, streamers decorated every lamppost. The date was April 24th, 1980: Victory Day. Abbasian remembered it all, beginning from the moment he stepped off the sturdy ramp of the Polish-made cargo plane at Zvartnots International Airport early that morning. Military policemen - reservists, mostly - stood by idly while civilians crammed the tarmac to find their loved ones. Tears of joy seemed to flood the airport as more planes arrived on the far runway, bringing with them more and more troops. Elsewhere in the city, train stations brought back more men from the front to equally-sized crowds of friends and family. A band played patriotic music composed for the event, while several important general officers waded into the crowd to shake hands with their peons. Camera crews from every news outlet in the nation were there, and there was even a television camera pointed right at the plane. Abbasian had never even seen a television before, much less appeared on the airwaves. He waved a sheepish hello to the cameraman as he walked briskly by, unsure of what to do with himself.

Abbasian clutched his duffel bag and watched his friends run to their children and loved ones. They shook his hand and patted his back as they walked by, and he did the same. A young Private in his company approached, carrying a goat off of the plane. The goat was fitted with a cutesy little uniform made from a dyed sack, with a peaked cap perched atop his diminutive horns. On his uniform were several rows of ribbons and medals pilfered from some personnel office's award storeroom, giving the appearance of a distinguished officer. The goat's name was Herbert - company mascot for Abbasian's artillery unit -, and an embroidered nametape requisitioned by the troops was stuck alongside the ribbons while the regimental logo was sown to the sleeve of his forelegs. Abbasian's smile grew wider as a group of young men went in to pet the animal and feed it little scraps of food from their pockets. The Private - an incredibly tall sixteen year old boy who had lied about his age to join, and was therefore the youngest in the Regiment - was voted to keep him. Herbert would go back to the boy's farm to be with the other goats and become the undisputed champion of whatever ranch he was put in. Herbert would be with the pride of having participated in the Armenian War for the rest of his life, if only because a bored and slightly drunk optics calibration expert put a helmet on him and strapped a gun to his back to replace the company's dog that had run out and stepped on an antipersonnel mine.

After he had fought through the crowd of elderly grandmothers waiting for their sons and grandsons to appear from the mass of jubilant people at the airport's tarmac, Abbasian managed to crawl through a window - the door was blocked by the sheer volume of spectators - to find the adjutant who would let him go for the weekend. Luckily, Victory Day fell on a Friday - not that he expected to have a job in the military for much longer, since his conscription contract was almost up. This gave plenty of time for celebratory drinking and whoring on Saturday, after a nice lunch with his mother and sister. Wandering through the halls dazedly for five minutes, Abbasian turned a corner and swung his duffel bag straight into the face of a WAC holding a stack of leave paperwork that was almost a foot tall. She stumbled backwards from the impact, barely keeping hold of her forms while Abbasian rushed to see if she was alright. "Sorry, ma'am!" he cried, seeing the Sergeant stripes on her sleeve. "I'm looking for the adjutant!"

"I'm the adjutant's adjutant," explained the WAC as she brushed strands of her black hair back behind her hairband. "So basically I fill out all the shit that he's too busy to do. And you just smacked me in the face, Corporal."

"Sorry... Eh, that was an accident."

"Fine. Looking to get off the hook for the weekend?" she asked duly.

"Yeah. Got my paperwo-"

The personnel Sergeant snatched the folder out of his hands and put it on top of the file. "Abbasian, Haroud K. - Corporal, Armenian Army," she read off of the header. "Go and enjoy your weekend while I spend mine signing off on your fucking leave requests. I don't even give a shit: we just won the war."

"You got it!" exclaimed a jubilant Abbasian, springing off of the ground. The WAC eyed him suspiciously as he sprinted off to find another window to jump out of. He was free at last - the previous time he had been on leave was almost nine months ago after artillery school. Now he was free to enjoy the fruits of civilization. But first, his family awaited.

Unable to find exits on the first floor, Abbasian had ran up the stairs to find an open window letting in the new spring breeze. Checking first to make sure that it was safe - a bush at the bottom would break his fall -, the Corporal straddled the windowsill and swung his legs out to fall face-first into a shrubbery. Rolling out of the bush with only mild cuts and scrapes, Abbasian tore off through the airport's terminal's garden to go to the main building and find his mother and sister. They had promised to be at Zvartnots for his return and were probably anxiously awaiting. Scaling a wall to the airport's courtyard, he attracted the view of a security guard who evidently thought nothing of it. Abbasian smiled, flashed a thumbs-up to the guard who did the same. Then he ran off into the building's waiting room, which was also packed with people. They held flags, posters, and pieces of cardboard with the names of soldiers. Abbasian scanned the crowd - an easy task, owing to his height - to find one that had his name on it. Unfortunately, it had seemed that his mother hadn't thought to do that. Without any indication of where his family may be, Abbasian seemed content to wander around and hope that he bumped into them. Fifteen minutes later, he heard a familiar voice shout: "Haroud! There you are!"

Abbasian turned to face his mother running through the crowd with flowers and a box of candies, his twelve-year-old sister tagging along. The son grinned wildly at the sight of his mother trying to run in her ankle-length skirt, the loose ends of her hijab fluttering about. She almost plowed into Abbasian, tossing the box to his sister to give him a bone-crushing bear hug that seemed to be outside the realm of possibility for such a frail woman. "Oh, Haroud!" she cooed, "I missed you so much!"

"Thanks, mother," Abbasian replied, returning the hug. "I missed you guys, too."

"How was the war?" chimed in Abbasian's sister, looking up at him with her piercing blue eyes.

"The war was fine," Abbasian shrugged. "I mostly just sat and watched stuff blow up."

"Cool! Did you shoot things?"

"No, no," laughed Assanian, even if that was kind of a lie. "I'll tell you all about it later."

His mother smiled and gave him the box of candy: "I was saving it for when you got back."

Abbasian took the box and shifted the duffel bag off onto one arm. He opened the top and stuffed the box inside, right over his spare battledress. "It's cool that they didn't give me a dress uniform," he noted. "I can fit so much stuff in here without that frilly crap."

"Now that you're home you might have to spend all your time in a service uniform," his mother noted. She began to walk towards the exit while Abbasian followed her. "When your uncle worked as a... what is it called? Deals with people?"

"Personnel staff member," the son corrected.

"Yes. One of those. Well, he wore his fancy uniform all the time. Not like what you have now." She gestured to his battledress, sleeves rolled up and shirt open one button past the technical regulation, showing the worn telnyashka underneath.

"This is comfortable though. It feels like pajamas," contended Abbasian, pushing the door open for his mother.

"So you ran around in the desert for nine months wearing pajamas?" asked his mother.

"Pretty much."

"Oh! When did war loose its charm! I remember hearing my grandfather talk about his grand old experiences with uniforms back when he served," his mother said nostalgically.

"I assume they got rid of them when people wanted to be comfortable," perceived the son. He held open the second set of doors, and they had reached the boulevard leading to the roundabout and parking at the front of the airport. "Is this all new?" he exclaimed. "When I flew out last time I didn't see this."

"Apparently so, yes. It's marvelous," his mother agreed.

"Oh well. Let's get ready for lunch. I'll hail a taxi," Abbasian said before gazing around to see if any were free. One was, and he went to go flag it down for his mother. Like with the rest of the soldiers, it felt good to finally be home.

[b]Yerevan, Armenia[/b]

Elsewhere in the city, President Hasmik Assanian celebrated initially with his cabinet. Drinking from the seemingly indepletable reserve of alcohol from his desk, they recounted various stories with laughs and smiles. Joseph Pollundrian told them about how he had once caught the janitor having sex with the maid in the closet, encouraging uproarious laughter from the various ministers. Jordan Ivakon recounted how he had seen a soldier trip, fall, and roll down a steep hill during an exercise that he was attending. The dizzy soldier had started projectile vomiting in the direction of his squad leader. Assanian remembered a particularly slapstick event that he watched from the window of his office where an elderly woman smacked down a would-be thief with her handbag. Toasts were all around, to any number of things. To Armenia, to the Armenians; to the Persians, the Poles; and to their fine military. For now, it was time for joyousness. The Ottomans had collapsed, and they had won. Now was the time to focus on nationbuilding instead of simple security. Now was the time to truly expand.

The morning drinking eventually wound down after a few cabinet members scurried off to attend to their own affairs. By noon, only Assanian, Pollundrian, and Ivakon remained sipping cognac from glass bottles that seemed to come from nowhere. Ivakon puffed on a cigar in between shots. Outside the closed shutters of Assanian's window, crowds were gathering in Republican Square below. They chanted "Hayestan!" - Armenia - over and over, whistling and screaming. Cars drove by with men waving flags from the window, honking at the crowds as they went. People kissed under flags, posing in hope that the newspapers would recognize them and shoot a memorable photograph that would go in the history books. Assanian was to make a speech soon, which he had totally neglected until the previous day when he woke up and realized that it was something that needed to get done. On his desk was the first and final draft: just like how he used to write school papers. At least victory speeches were easy, because all he had to do was praise Armenia and its hardworking, industrious people. They had fought the just fight that the Armenians would inevitably win. The parade would be kicked off by the speech, which was to be broadcasted across the radio and rare television channels, and was one of the single most important speeches that he had ever done. But as he drank another shot of the alcohol, he didn't worry at all. It was standard fare to do these a little bit drunk.

Rising from his chair, Hasmik Assanian tossed the bottle away. It landed expertly with a clatter in the wastebin next to his desk: an ordinary accomplishment for a professional drinker like he. Bidding farewell to his Defense Minister and urging Pollundrian to follow, Assanian snatched up his papers and burst through his office's double-door. His next stop: the speech podium that faced Republican Square. There, a crowd had gathered to await the President's speech. Already, the parade was forming - a fantastical thing that was kept a surprise even from Assanian himself, even if the organizer assured him that it would be perfect. These were good for the country's spirit. At long last, they had something to be proud of. They had a state, free from control. They had defeated the enemy that was bent on total extermination. They had kicked it down and made sure that it wouldn't come back to hurt them again. They were the child getting revenge on the schoolyard bully, freeing the rest of the class from his wrath as well. Times were finally looking up for the small country of seven million people. The future was bright: the sky the limit. Safe from immediate danger, Assanian was confident that the Armenians would secure their permanent place in the world.