[b]Madrid, Spain[/b]

Deep within the heart of the Halls of the Republic, Alfonso Sotelo had resumed his seat within his office following the troubling unveiling of the statue on the complex grounds, and immediately attempted to forget the affair. But as the leader of Spain and the the most powerful man in the West, he knew full well that nothing could simply be forgotten. His paralyzing fear had been captured in a thousand photographs that would find their way to newsreels and publications by that very evening. Within the week, the entire world would be privy to that embarrassing ordeal at the foot of the statue, and he feared that the incident would result in yet another of the insidious rumors about him. Alfonso went to great lengths to brand himself as the assertive socialite at the nexus of Spain's upper society, but after four years the fabrication was coming apart at the seams. Murmurs among those who worked directly underneath Spain's eccentric Prime Minister told of a lonely and perpetually irate monster. Some claimed that Sotelo had no real friends to speak of, and worse still, others hinted that his weight had fallen since taking upon the mantle of Spain's [i]Presidente de Gobierno[/i] due to an aggressive dependency upon cocaine. These scathing whispers comprised the penultimate concern on his unending list of fears; not in and of themselves, but because they were true. Sotelo's public facade, however well-constructed it may have been, was slowly being chipped away. The bright, confident veneer he had fashioned for himself was [i]not[/i] impenetrable. If these things could come to light, then it might come to pass one day that Alfonso's Sotelo's deepest secret be known and his greatest fear realized: that the world might discover the plot that had allowed Alfonso Sotelo to rule the West.

For Alfonso, the statue of himself paired with his predecessor was a reminder of that dark reality waiting to make itself known. For as long as he was Prime Minister of Spain, the monument would taunt him from just beyond his office. He wished it could simply be torn down and the man who wrought such a poignant reminder hanged for tormenting him so. His mind swirled with a volatile mixture of anxiety and rage which manifested itself as a violent trembling of his bony arms. The fury coiling within his limbs released with little warning and his arm swung into a sizable stack of documents. A flurry of papers scattered through the air and tumbled clumsily into a mess across the black marble desk and the tiles below. His chest puffed and fell as he tried to regain a sensible rate of breathing. If the statue was to remain outside his office, Sotelo knew he would need help if he was to continue functioning.

From within one of the drawers of his black marble desk, the Prime Minister produced a vacuum-sealed bag filled to capacity with a snow white substance. Purchased anonymously from a producer in southeastern Ecuador, it was the purest coca that could be bought. Sotelo pierced the top of the bag with a sharp letter opener and sprinkled a smallish pile onto the polished surface of his desk where it glowed with pure whiteness against the black marble. With the same letter opener, he tapped the pile into a suitably-long row before hovering his left nostril over the line and inhaled it all in a long snort.

His eyes rolled back into his head and he threw himself against the padded backing of his chair as a familiar wave of ecstasy coursed through his brain. The myriad of problems pitted against him seemed surmountable - paltry even. Certainty took hold where despair gnawed just moments before.

Sotelo's euphoria was interrupted by a soft beeping. The red LED of a console carved into the side of the desk blinked intermittently, informing the Prime Minister that he was being hailed for a telecall. He pressed the appropriate button to accept the transmission, which allowed him ample time to hide the baggy of white powder in the confines of a drawer. From the ceiling directly in front of the desk, an electric motor whined with a soft, high pitch as a large projection-screen television descended gradually from the ceiling. A flickering rainbow of colored bands glowed warmly on the giant screen, directly above which was a camera tethered to a telephone cable that ran up into the ceiling.

For some time, telecalls had left the realm of cutting-edge technology; the technology to conduct live calls in which both parties traded video and audio had existed for the better part of a decade. Even so, the cost of the equipment and infrastructure - coupled with its unreliability - made it far too expensive and problematic for anyone but large corporate entities and the governments and militaries of wealthy nations to bother with it. But for those who possessed the capability to conduct these futuristic video-integrated calls, the convenience of holding meetings from anywhere at any time was tremendously valuable.

The band of quivering static on the television screen blinked and was replaced instantaneously with the bust of a dapper young man clad in an olive green jacket whose breast was decorated with a dense band of medals. Curled tufts of black hair squirmed out from underneath his general's cap and sharp hazel eyes stared forward through the screen underneath thick black brows.

"General Ponferrada. It is a pleasure to speak with you once again."

"Equally so, your Excellency." The young general responded after a brief lag, bowing his head slightly.

"And how has Malta treated you thus far, General?"

"The Maltese have been accommodating enough to myself and the 3rd Mechanized. If they have any qualms with our invocation of the Ibiza Treaty, they've kept them amongst themselves - as they rightly should."

During the final weeks of the Ottoman Empire, elements of the [i]Spanish Ejercito[/i] based in Algeria moved across the border into the Turkish holdings along the North African coast and seized Tunis and Sfax unopposed, doing so for the sake of "maintaining regional stability". Additionally, and unbeknownst to the majority of the world - transfixed upon the collapse of the Sultan's dominion as it was - two Spanish armies had been placed on the island of Malta. Officially, these forces had been assigned to Malta - a client state of the Ibiza Treaty - for the purpose of providing stability to the region for those few who were aware of the mobilization. The actual role of the 3rd Mechanized Division in the aftermath of the Sultan's fall would prove far more sinister.

"Forgive my curtness, Excellency, but I'd like to move ahead to purpose of my contacting you. The Levant War has come to a close and my forces sit idly by as Ethiopia rebuilds. Our single best opportunity in delivering the fatal blow to the Yaqob's regime is rapidly slipping from our grasp. Every day we bide our time, their military regroups and replenishes itself. The Pan-African Empire will only get stronger-"

"I know these things already, General."

"Then why have you not acted?" Ponferrada spat. Thanks to the advances of modern technology, the general could see in real time as an irritated Alfonso Sotelo rose up from his seat.

"What did you tell me?" Sotelo growled.

"I spoke out of turn, Excellency. I did not mean-"

"I did not ask you to apologize. I told you to repeat what you said."

"Why have you not acted... Excellency?" General Ponferrada recited shamefully. The Prime Minister resumed his seat.

"Remember whom you are speaking with, General." Sotelo bridged his fingers upon the desk as he assumed a more comfortable posture. "I will remind you that I am charged with overseeing every aspect of the Republic. I am afraid that there were extenuating circumstances at play elsewhere that prevented our engaging against Ethiopia and Brazil in the past month. You will, however, be pleased to know that this situation has since resolved itself. To my knowledge, I only await the departure of Admiral Santin's battlegroup from Cadiz to issue my ultimatum to Claro and Yaqob. After the 10th, you are to keep your forces alert and prepared for combat at all times."

"Very well, Excellency. You have addressed all my concerns."

"Then I have nothing more to discuss." Concluded Sotelo. "Until we speak again." Alfonso pressed the button on the console built into the desk once again and the live feed cut to the same twitching band of colors as the screen and mounted camera retracted back into the ceiling. The hidden compartment in the ceiling for the telecall equipment shut with a mechanical whine. Silence fell upon the office yet again, but only briefly. A second interruption came - this time in the form of a knock on the doors.

"Permission to enter, your Excellency?" Asked a monotoned bodyguard from behind the doors.

"Let them in." The Prime Minister sighed.

As permitted, the doors of the office creaked open and allowed entry to one of the nondescript suit-donning goons that populated the Halls of the Republic, flanked on either side by two musclebound bodyguards. They closed the doors behind them and escorted the man to the foot of Sotelo's desk. He cast a curious glance to the papers scattered about the floor before redirecting his attention to Prime Minister Sotelo.

"Good afternoon, Excellency. I represent the Oficina de Inteligencia Militar, and I wish to bring to your attention a matter that we thought might be of interest to you."

"Proceed."

"Certainly. Now, do you happen to remember Julio Zuraban? The senator who disappeared before he was charged with Disloyalty?"

"Senator Zuraban..." Sotelo mumbled thoughtfully to himself. "Yes, I remember quite well. What of him?"

"Our associates in Egypt discovered him in Ottoman possession several weeks before the collapse of the imperial government. He is in our custody now, en-route to Bajaras Airport and due to arrive later this evening. We thought it might suit you to... 'catch up' with him."

"Catch up?" Sotelo remarked with a malign grin. "I would love to."