[b]Yerevan, Armenia[/b]

The day was as clear as could be, the cold highland winter giving way to a pleasant day. A few gusts of wind rippled the sea of flags below, but otherwise it was calm. Assanian himself stood on a podium at the forefront of the Presidential Palace, overlooking Republican Square. In the center of the square's lawn that had been carefully landscaped to mimic the pattern of a traditional Armenian carpet, a bronze statue of a stoic Fedayeen clutching his rifle atop a defiant horse laden down with a guerrilla's equipment looked out over the crowd. Police kept a ring around the garden to keep people from trampling the flowers and climbing atop the monument, and the result to Assanian's eyes was an island in a sea of people. Just beyond police barricades were people packed as tight as could be. There had to have been hundreds of thousands of people. Almost the whole population of Yerevan, and then some. Today was Victory Day, of course. Everyone wanted the glory of the ticker-tape parade in the capital city. But that hadn't commenced quite yet. Assanian, being the "father of the Armenian state" that he was, had to give a speech worthy of the history books. It was expected - almost required - of him.

So the President of the Republic of Armenia shuffled his papers and leaned towards the microphone. "Good morning, Armenia," he began. Almost immediately, the national orchestra, on the landing below the steps, struck up the national anthem. A famed folk singer began to passionately sing. Her beautiful voice struck a defiantly optimistic tone that seemed to render the whole crowd speechless. Whereas before, chanting and singing filled the air, Assanian's quiet - almost timid - introduction was enough to stun everyone into silence. The singer kept them that way. For a few beautiful moments, Yerevan was silent. Armenia was silent. Her anthem was broadcasted throughout the country, to bars and houses and farms in towns far away from the affluent capital. Men and women stood silently with their head coverings firmly on their chest. Many tears were shed from the more enthusiastic countrymen. The singer uplifted the souls of everyone listening, radiating innocence and purity and pride. She was almost angelic in the hazy euphoria of victory. The President himself, usually a cynic to these things, had to find the strength to appear as his typical unflappable self. After all, it was not the father's duty to become emotional.

The song had finished, and the Square lapsed into an unsettling silent. The whole nation looked towards Assanian, gazing through their eyes to see a man at the helm of a nation with unmatched potential. And with the weight of the Armenian race on his shoulders, Assanian spoke.

"Men and women of Armenia, I welcome you today to a milestone in the history of our people. Two thousand, four-hundred, and ninety-two years before Jesus Christ's birth, Hayk created Armenia. He is the Father of us all. He gave his name to this land and its people - a name we still carry despite hardship, extermination, subjugation, and persecution. Where others have gone extinct - the great Mesoamerican civilizations of old who were vanquished by Spain and Portugal's [i]conquistadors[/i], for example - we have carried on. We have carried on under the boot of countless empires, from the Achaemenids to the Byzantines to the Seljuks to the Russians... the Ottomans. Many of those - the exception being our brothers in Persia - have tried to exterminate us. We were raped by the Mongols so many years ago, scapegoated by the Russians. More recently, we were denied our earned and just right for self-government when the Ottomans acted against international law and indeed, morality itself, to invade and annex in a display of military might that spared nobody. It was the most grotesque sense of the equality that they claimed their empire upheld - grandmothers were incinerated with their infant grandchildren, students with their teachers, whole families huddled in cellars. I worked as a volunteer to help rescue and aid civilian victims: I have seen firsthand the brutality of the Ottoman regime. A bomb is the ultimate equality, or at least in the eyes of the Turkish government.

And so change was desired. Change was needed. Ottoman boots soiled our ground, trampled our crops, crushed the skulls of our friends and family. Dissidents who even suggested that the regime was out of place in any way, shape, or form, were executed in public like the President of the Old Republic in 1970. I am sure that most - save the younger souls - have seen firsthand and know full well about the Ottomans. They treated us like dirt for seven whole years - seven years longer than we deserved. I am positive that the Armenian people did not want to lapse into another hundred years of colonial oppression. Hayk had proven that we were strong, independent people. The Father had created a set of hardy men and women who would continue his legacy. So we honored him when we fought back. We were the morally superior - we have seen what they did to guerrillas in the beginning before we overwhelmed them. They thought that their crimes would never have repercussions - that they could do what they pleased. They did not learn in 1977, when we pushed them to the border. I hope that they have learned now, as we have finally reclaimed our ancestral lands and destroyed their withering husk of a colonial state. Our victory was assured from the beginning - it was only just that we succeed. Surely the Biblical tales of the Jews fighting the Romans for their freedoms have parallels here. God was on our side, and he still is. We were loyal, and he rewarded us.

So the story of the Armenians enters a new chapter - one that we have dreamed of for centuries. We are free. We can spread the wings of the eagle of progress, and soar. Security, well-being... everything anyone can need. And already we have proven ourselves worthy of this victory by sharing with our neighbors in need. Georgians, Russians, Greeks, Syrians: they crossed the border in droves searching for a leader to help them through the dark night. Others would have pushed them away. But Armenians are stronger than that: we have welcomed them with open arms as brothers and sisters. They, too, are Armenians. They, too, embody the spirit of Hayk. They wish to help us, and we will help them as well. They offer us stronger arms to move our newly-created plows, shovels, and hammers. As a collective, we will rebuild from the starved era of poverty and oppression. Already, signs of recovery are emerging rapidly. Our friendships with industrial nations have given us expertise and equipment to build factories and pipelines and roads and railroads. Men returning from the war now have careers in the Recovery Administration, where they toil for days on end to serve their country in a different way. Our swords are being beaten into plowshares, where they will serve us in creating an economy that will sustain us comfortably and in security.

I urge you now to pursue responsibility for this country. The war is over, but the reconstruction has only just begun. Everything you do makes a difference. Sacrificing comforts like pots and pans for scrap metal to build machines to pave our roads - just as you did for the war. Pursue careers in the Recovery Administration - engineers, architects, scientists, economists - there is always a place. We must become the best to succeed. We must be educated, we must be resourceful, and we must persevere. The process will take some time, but we can see the light at the end of the tunnel. This celebration here today is an indication of that. Now, my fellow Armenians, the parades shall begin. Enjoy your victory - the one you fought for with your blood, your sweat, your tears, and your lives. Honor the men and women who gave their lives to make this be, and celebrate your futures. Now, I need not tell you to commence but, seeing as it is only formal for a leader to call the celebrations: let the parades begin!"

Shortly thereafter, the capital erupted into the most joyous celebration that Assanian had ever heard.

[b]Borjomi, Georgia[/b]

The night seemed to turn to day as four incendiary bombs impacted in an even row heading up a military camp on the outskirts of the small town of Borjomi. A wall of flame seemed to rise from the ground and shower down, igniting anything and everything. Seconds later, the hiss of rocket pods ensued and the weapons streaked towards the flaming buildings below. A hollow rattle from 20mm cannons completed the ensemble, explosive ammunition raking through thinly armored technicals and battle buses at a vehicle depot. A plane, barely visible as the flames' lights reflected off of its night-fighter-black paint, banked right and towards a mountain shrouded in fog. Its twin engines made a deep thrumming noise, conveying the heaviness of the ground attack craft. Down below, perched on the side of a mountain, was Mikael Gregovyen with four other operatives and a liaison from the local "governor." He watched through a pair of scratched binocular lenses, glare highlighting someone's oily fingerprint that he was mildly annoyed with. Seconds later, the radio box chirped beside him: "Ghost, Leopard. Ordinance expended on target. Seeing a lot of fire. How copy?"

Gregovyen squinted through the binoculars, observing a few men trying to put out the napalm with water - to no avail. "Looks like you clipped them pretty well, Leopard. I'd try coming back for another rocket run because I see little fucks trying to put out the flames."

"Roger, Ghost. Hold on for a minute."

Gregovyen put down the radio's handset and turned back to see the liaison leaning against a pickup truck. On the back, a 12.7mm machine gun was pointed down into the valley. The white offroad seemed to be orange in the glow of the inferno below. "We'll have to search for him manually," the operative explained. "I don't like airstrikes but it was our only option. I hope his face hasn't melted off, because I'm not in the mood to scrounge up dental records from 1969."

"It's risky," pointed out the liaison. "The Dagestanis have curried favor here."

"We'll have to make it quick."

He was interrupted by another stream of rockets and bullets flying in unison towards the camp, followed by rows of explosions where people used to be. Greogvyen reached back for his binoculars to see people being shredded to bits, their flaming limbs cartwheeling in all directions. People were attempting to escape now, headlights illuminating the ground in front of them as they maneuvered to the entrance. The Armenians had anticipated this, and an anti-materiel rifle had been brought along. Now, an NSS sharpshooter had swung down his bipod onto a rock and was tracking the engine block of a technical. The radio chirped again: "That's all I can do, Ghost. I'm all dry. Returning to base: enjoy your night, over."

"You, too, Leopard," replied Gregovyen. A split-second before he put the radio back onto the box, the sniper rifle cracked beside him. The round traveled straight and true into an old pickup truck's engine, stopping the engine immediately. It proceeded to travel, driven by a panicking driver, straight into a tree. A metallic clack accompanied the rifle's bolt action, and the sniper fired again. The cabin was pierced, and the side passenger's shoulder exploded into a thousand globules of meat and bone.

"Dammit. Missed his head," growled the marksman as he clacked another round. Down in the valley, the truck's door flew open and a bruised and bloodied driver stumbled his way out. Tripping over a rock, his upper torso disappeared with another 12.7mm round's entry.

"Sniper team," started Gregovyen before putting his binoculars down. "I want you to stay here and keep the pressure on. I'm taking everyone else down the road and into the camp to ID the leader."

"Got it," absently said the sniper while he proceeded to blast the front tire off of a second truck. It swung a hard right, flipping over in the process.

"Let's go!" called Gregovyen. The liaison nodded quickly, hopping into the bed of the truck while Gregovyen's driver started the engine. The team leader swung into the cabin as the truck began to move. The liaison had mounted the gun, racking the chamber to put a round in the barrel. "Ready, Armenians!" he shouted.

The truck gathered speed as it sped down the dirt road. In the distance, the sniper rounds could be heard cracking. Militiamen in their truck tried to disperse to avoid the sniper, and many found themselves at the mercy of a ruined tire or engine. So far, four trucks had been stopped by the massive sniper's rounds. Behind them, the compound was blazing. Many had abandoned their firefighting to search for escape. They offered no resistance as Gregovyen's technical sped through the gate: many of them either didn't notice or didn't realize that they were the enemy. That is, until the liaison began firing. His bullets cut down militiamen running out of the gates. They were unarmed, having dropped their weapons for buckets of water, and offered no resistance. Gregovyen himself fired out of the window with his semiautomatic pistol. None of his rounds hit anything, of course, but he just wanted to partake. The truck drove through to the camp, and proceeded to stop in front of the field where many had set up their bivouacs. This was where they knew the warlord's personal tent one: obviously the biggest and most elaborate. It lay at the end of this row of flaming tents, itself half on fire. "Get out!" shouted the driver, as the liaison sprayed rounds at anyone he saw. 

Gregovyen and the driver reached for their weapons - both of them were old Tsarist drum-fed submachine guns that they had bought from the border guards' confiscated stash in Tsalka. They were loaded and ready, and the driver took the first shot. He sprayed into a row of tents to make sure that nobody was inside. Confident that most of the survivors had run away, the trio sprinted towards the warlord's tent. It wasn't a very far run - only fifty meters - yet it felt like fiction. There they were, blazing through a warlord's camp while surrounded by the fiery walls of napalm that they had dropped minutes earlier. The warlord's tent was on fire: they needed to act quickly. Bursting through the door, they found themselves in the middle of an ornate living quarters. A Persian rug covered in soot was laid across the wooden floor - a luxury upon a luxury for Georgians. A burning bed had a charred corpse on it. The elaborate wood carvings meant that it could only be their target. The Dagestani warlord died, immolated, with an expression of severe pain on his face. Patches of his characteristic light hair still survived, and that was how the liaison could identify him. "That is him!" cried the liaison. "The son of a bitch died in his bed!"

"Good," breathed Gregovyen. "Now we can get out of this shithole."

And then a gun went off. The liaison was hit in the upper chest by a small-caliber pistol round. He collapsed immediately.

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"Son of a bitch!" shouted the driver, spinning around to see a burned man crawled into the corner of the tent. His bloody hand held a smoking Tsarist revolver. He pulled the trigger again, wincing in pain, yet only a click sounded. "Fucking shit," muttered the burned man in exasperation. "Fucking piece of shit."

"Holy shit!" shouted Gregovyen, sprinting across the room to push his gun into the man's face. "Goddamn you!"

"Fuckers," spat the burned man. "Did Patarava send you pigs?"

The driver was there, too, to pick up the revolver. "1895 Nagant," he muttered. "Nasty shit. Liaison is dead."

"Patarava?" asked a bewildered Gregovyen. "Who the fuck is he?"

"You have an accent," observed the burned man slyly, ignoring Gregovyen's question. "He sent you, alright. Armenian dogs."

"Who is Patarava?" repeated Gregovyen. Behind him, a flaming timber snapped and fell on top of the bed. The fire was starting to consume the floor as well, and the driver began to get worried. He looked around at the surroundings, afraid of immolation himself.

"You don't know?" cackled the burned man. "Batumi? The fuck who's trying to shimmy himself up to you so he can get rid of us?"

"I don't catch what you mean!" Gregovyen yelled, spittle coating the burned man's face.

"He wants us out, the cunt. He sent you to kill us."

"We've got to go," urged the driver. "Let's go!"

"Batumi," repeated the burned man. "Tell him to suck my huge dick when you can."

Gregovyen lowered his gun and looked back to the driver, then to the burned man. With a slick motion, he raised the submachine gun to spray a burst into the burned man's spiteful face. "Let's go," he told the driver. "We're going to Batumi to find this man. First I've ever heard of him."