Pls sir, may I have just a drop of cowboy cummies? @Yam I Am
Jeddaven
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Dragons and such
1 yr ago
- Last Seen: 2 days ago
- Joined: 10 yrs ago
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- Jeddaven 10 yrs ago
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Dragons and such
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Bio
she/her pronouns. I'm interested in a wide variety of roleplays, but I tend toward prefering High Fantasy and High Sci Fi settings (think Elder Scrolls or Warhammer 40k). Whether it's a Nation Roleplay (I love digging into fictional politics) something on a smaller, individual scale, or something in between, there's a good chance I might be interested! I especially enjoy fantasy setting with weird, esoteric fluff - up to and including the nonsense that happens in Elder Scrolls, or, occasionally, Age of Sigmar.
Fave settings /period/ are Warcraft, and Golarion. WH40k and AoS are close.
Fave settings /period/ are Warcraft, and Golarion. WH40k and AoS are close.
Most Recent Posts
Can I play a woman with some serious schmeat?
The Outskirts of São Paulo, Brazil. January 16th, 1:25AM UTC-3.
"Wake up! Wake up! Something's on the radio!"
Antoine groaned, roused from his sleep by the sound of his wife's voice - and the sensation of her frantically trying to shake him awake.
"...Grngh..." He groaned, forcing his eyelids open.
What time was it? He wondered, glancing over at his alarm clock.
3:00AM, it read.
"Hurry! The Deacon said it's-"
Antoine leapt up from his bed with a start, scrambling to force his legs into a pair of pants. Wise as he was, the was a demanding man, though he'd certained earned the privilege, far more learned in the ways of the Thousand Eyes than Antoine or his wife.
Rushing outside of his shared room with his wife, Antoine atumbled into the common room - and a gaggle of fellow believers crowded around a single, antiquated radio set. The voice coming from it, laden with static as it was, was unmistakable - the São Paulo state police chief, clearly just as tired as they. One of Antoine's companions gestured for him to come closer, and so he did, listening closely.
"...apologizes for the sudden inconvenience, but, however, the curfew will remain in effect for at least the next twelve hours due to an potential release of highly toxic chemicals at a nearby pesticide production plant. All residents are required by law to remain indoors for this period, and should keep all windows and doors tightly sealed. Any persons found outside during this period by police will be apprehended for their own safety and delivered to the nearest available hospital for prompt examination. The potential release, if confirmed, would consist primarily of Methyl Isocyanate, which is highly toxic to humans and-"
Suddenly, the voice dimmed as the deacon turned the volume knob, a look of consternation on his wrinkled face.
"...We can't just stay inside! We have an important shipment of NLCs to retrieve today." He said, turning to face the rest of the gathered brothers and sisters.
"Brother Antoine - you and your wife used to work with industrial chemicals, yes? What sort of equipment would we need?"
Antoine froze, unused to the attention - especially at such a pivotal time. He was eager to help the cause, though, despite his nervousness - and the possible danger of exposing himself.
"MIC is primarily absorbed through the upper respiratory tract, but we'd need full-body protection to be completely safe. I-"
"We have the equipment you need. You and your wife will suit up and head out in our truck to collect the shipment."
"How soon, sir?" His wife asked, though Antoine could barely manage to pay attention to her words between the opportunity ahead of him and the dull thumping sound in his ears. His beating heart, perhaps. He wasn't certain, but it hardly mattered.
"Immediately. Chemical leak or not, we can't afford to leave our brothers and sisters out in the cold."
"Of course, sir! Should we-"
The sound was getting louder. Closer, maybe?
"- bring anyone with us?"
The Deacon nodded slowly. "Yes. You will have a few of our warriors with you, in case the heathens attempt to apprehend you. No matter what, you can't allow them to capture the NLC! It's of vital importance that-"
Louder. He could barely even hear the noise of crickets outside now.
"Hey!" Sister Alexandra said, peering out a nearby window. "Is that a helicopter?"
Without so much as thinking, Antoine rushed over to the window, then...
A rush of a series of rapid, thunderous cracks filled his ears, and his world became pain. Glancing to the left, he saw what looked like the mangled remains of his leg - to his front, the shredded corpse of Sister Alexandra as high-caliber shells ripped holes in the wall next to him. He looked to his Deacon for guidance, finding little more than one of his tentacled limbs writing helplessly on the ground, no sign of his body remaining beneath a scorched, blackened spot. Everywhere, there was gore and blood, his wife nowhere to be found. Glancing outside, he was finally able to resolve the emblem of the Brazilian army on the helicopter's tail - and a rocket speeding toward him, a plume of black smoke following closely behind.
"Target confirmed killed. Going around for a second sweep, over." Ana said, tightly clutching the joystick in her hands.
São Paulo, Brazil. January 16th, 1:30AM UTC-3.
“Affirm - sniper team is in position.” A voice echoed in João's radio. Briefly tearing his gaze away from the large, black explosive charged strapped to the nearby wall, he glanced over to a tall office building several streets over. In his brief moment of distraction, his squad filed up behind him, taking their positions - and João frowned, clutching the strange, metallic contraption in his hands. A strange time to live-fire test an experimental weapons system, to be sure - but he supposed there must've been a reason for it.
"Operation 'Clean Sweep' is a go. Initiate breach, over."
"Wilco. Initiating breach, over and out." João whispered back, offering another of his soldiers a small, curt nod. The woman nodded back, depressed a trigger in her hands, and...
Boom.
A series of sharp cracks filled his ears as the charges detonated, both his and elsewhere along the massive structure, brick walls collapsing inward in clouds of dust. Without so much as a word uttered between the members of his ten-man team, João stormed inside, taking the briefest of moments to scan the scene before him as he moved. Dozens of bunk beds, men and women lying across them all in various states of wakefulness. Some were easily identifiable as humans, others more akin to hybrid mutants pulled from all manner of conservative conspiracy rag - but none of them were fully awake.
Gunshots rang out from behind João, punching holes through the handful of cultists grabbing for their handguns in quick succession. Already, his team was piling in through the same entryway he'd passed through mercilessly executing the room's occupants, one-by-one. Not once did any of them stop moving, João included.
He, of course, was doing his own work - aiming the barrel of his weapon at the head of a huge, muscular hulk of a woman, he pulled the trigger. An invisible beam crossed the space between them, followed by...
Zzzzzzap! Zzzzap!
A nearly solid rod of lightning followed the trail of ionized gas created by the laser, making contact with the woman's forehead. Her eyes shot wide open, closing again, followed by nearly every muscle in her body exploding into a fit of spasms - and by the time she was done, the air around her was filled with the stench of overcooked meat, her organs scorched black while still inside of her body by the electrical shock shooting through her. João cursed, a stray fork of electrical power sending a violent shock of pain through his body - but he proceeded after a brief moment of hesitation, slaughtering another cultist in a shower of sparks and veins of lightning.
Few words passed between the members of the team as they went about their grim work. Mariana, the giant of a woman she was, only hesitated long enough to bring her shotgun to bear on a foe before painting their beds and the floor beneath in a shower of gore.
Adalberto barely slowed at all between each blast of flesh-rending flechettes he unleashed, leaving a trail of ragged corpses in his wake.
Adao busied himself dragging a twitching, gibbering mass of mutant flesh from its beg, glancing sidelong at João for confirmation.
João simply shook his head - not the man they were looking for. Turning towards the barrack's exit, his ears were filled with the sound of gunfire and brains splattering across the floor.
Wordlessly, the team proceed, executing the few remaining survivors on their way out and into the hall. Left, right... Both ways were clear, aside from the sounds of panicked screams and the ratta-tat of gunfire all around them. Turning left, João headed toward a staircase descending into the darkness. He passed by an open door on his right, eyes briefly falling upon a single man wielding a shotgun inside - only for him to abruptly collapse, his heart punctured by a shot from one of the snipers across the street.
"Bravo team!" He barked into his radio. "VIP isn't in the barracks - any luck?"
"Negative." Aoi responded, pointing the barrel of her shotgun at the handle of the door ahead of her. Squeezing the trigger, she blasted the lock free in a cloud of dust and shattered metal. Quickly slinging it back over her shoulder, she extracted her PDW - a small, sleek little thing - and waited as one of her squadmates tossed a flashbang inside.
*BANG!*
The room was awash with white light and she charged inside, loosing a burst of bullets on the first thing she saw - a human silhouette, quickly dropping to the ground. A sharp *crack* from behind her saw another body fall, then another - and still she advanced, stopping over a desk behind which a gibbering mass of flesh scrambled for bulky pistol.
"Ayubu!" She snapped.
A sharp pop followed as her squadmate opened fire, sending the mutant spiralling to the floor with a resounding *pop*.
"Wake up! Wake up! Something's on the radio!"
Antoine groaned, roused from his sleep by the sound of his wife's voice - and the sensation of her frantically trying to shake him awake.
"...Grngh..." He groaned, forcing his eyelids open.
What time was it? He wondered, glancing over at his alarm clock.
3:00AM, it read.
"Hurry! The Deacon said it's-"
Antoine leapt up from his bed with a start, scrambling to force his legs into a pair of pants. Wise as he was, the was a demanding man, though he'd certained earned the privilege, far more learned in the ways of the Thousand Eyes than Antoine or his wife.
Rushing outside of his shared room with his wife, Antoine atumbled into the common room - and a gaggle of fellow believers crowded around a single, antiquated radio set. The voice coming from it, laden with static as it was, was unmistakable - the São Paulo state police chief, clearly just as tired as they. One of Antoine's companions gestured for him to come closer, and so he did, listening closely.
"...apologizes for the sudden inconvenience, but, however, the curfew will remain in effect for at least the next twelve hours due to an potential release of highly toxic chemicals at a nearby pesticide production plant. All residents are required by law to remain indoors for this period, and should keep all windows and doors tightly sealed. Any persons found outside during this period by police will be apprehended for their own safety and delivered to the nearest available hospital for prompt examination. The potential release, if confirmed, would consist primarily of Methyl Isocyanate, which is highly toxic to humans and-"
Suddenly, the voice dimmed as the deacon turned the volume knob, a look of consternation on his wrinkled face.
"...We can't just stay inside! We have an important shipment of NLCs to retrieve today." He said, turning to face the rest of the gathered brothers and sisters.
"Brother Antoine - you and your wife used to work with industrial chemicals, yes? What sort of equipment would we need?"
Antoine froze, unused to the attention - especially at such a pivotal time. He was eager to help the cause, though, despite his nervousness - and the possible danger of exposing himself.
"MIC is primarily absorbed through the upper respiratory tract, but we'd need full-body protection to be completely safe. I-"
"We have the equipment you need. You and your wife will suit up and head out in our truck to collect the shipment."
"How soon, sir?" His wife asked, though Antoine could barely manage to pay attention to her words between the opportunity ahead of him and the dull thumping sound in his ears. His beating heart, perhaps. He wasn't certain, but it hardly mattered.
"Immediately. Chemical leak or not, we can't afford to leave our brothers and sisters out in the cold."
"Of course, sir! Should we-"
The sound was getting louder. Closer, maybe?
"- bring anyone with us?"
The Deacon nodded slowly. "Yes. You will have a few of our warriors with you, in case the heathens attempt to apprehend you. No matter what, you can't allow them to capture the NLC! It's of vital importance that-"
Louder. He could barely even hear the noise of crickets outside now.
"Hey!" Sister Alexandra said, peering out a nearby window. "Is that a helicopter?"
Without so much as thinking, Antoine rushed over to the window, then...
A rush of a series of rapid, thunderous cracks filled his ears, and his world became pain. Glancing to the left, he saw what looked like the mangled remains of his leg - to his front, the shredded corpse of Sister Alexandra as high-caliber shells ripped holes in the wall next to him. He looked to his Deacon for guidance, finding little more than one of his tentacled limbs writing helplessly on the ground, no sign of his body remaining beneath a scorched, blackened spot. Everywhere, there was gore and blood, his wife nowhere to be found. Glancing outside, he was finally able to resolve the emblem of the Brazilian army on the helicopter's tail - and a rocket speeding toward him, a plume of black smoke following closely behind.
"Target confirmed killed. Going around for a second sweep, over." Ana said, tightly clutching the joystick in her hands.
São Paulo, Brazil. January 16th, 1:30AM UTC-3.
“Affirm - sniper team is in position.” A voice echoed in João's radio. Briefly tearing his gaze away from the large, black explosive charged strapped to the nearby wall, he glanced over to a tall office building several streets over. In his brief moment of distraction, his squad filed up behind him, taking their positions - and João frowned, clutching the strange, metallic contraption in his hands. A strange time to live-fire test an experimental weapons system, to be sure - but he supposed there must've been a reason for it.
"Operation 'Clean Sweep' is a go. Initiate breach, over."
"Wilco. Initiating breach, over and out." João whispered back, offering another of his soldiers a small, curt nod. The woman nodded back, depressed a trigger in her hands, and...
Boom.
A series of sharp cracks filled his ears as the charges detonated, both his and elsewhere along the massive structure, brick walls collapsing inward in clouds of dust. Without so much as a word uttered between the members of his ten-man team, João stormed inside, taking the briefest of moments to scan the scene before him as he moved. Dozens of bunk beds, men and women lying across them all in various states of wakefulness. Some were easily identifiable as humans, others more akin to hybrid mutants pulled from all manner of conservative conspiracy rag - but none of them were fully awake.
Gunshots rang out from behind João, punching holes through the handful of cultists grabbing for their handguns in quick succession. Already, his team was piling in through the same entryway he'd passed through mercilessly executing the room's occupants, one-by-one. Not once did any of them stop moving, João included.
He, of course, was doing his own work - aiming the barrel of his weapon at the head of a huge, muscular hulk of a woman, he pulled the trigger. An invisible beam crossed the space between them, followed by...
Zzzzzzap! Zzzzap!
A nearly solid rod of lightning followed the trail of ionized gas created by the laser, making contact with the woman's forehead. Her eyes shot wide open, closing again, followed by nearly every muscle in her body exploding into a fit of spasms - and by the time she was done, the air around her was filled with the stench of overcooked meat, her organs scorched black while still inside of her body by the electrical shock shooting through her. João cursed, a stray fork of electrical power sending a violent shock of pain through his body - but he proceeded after a brief moment of hesitation, slaughtering another cultist in a shower of sparks and veins of lightning.
Few words passed between the members of the team as they went about their grim work. Mariana, the giant of a woman she was, only hesitated long enough to bring her shotgun to bear on a foe before painting their beds and the floor beneath in a shower of gore.
Adalberto barely slowed at all between each blast of flesh-rending flechettes he unleashed, leaving a trail of ragged corpses in his wake.
Adao busied himself dragging a twitching, gibbering mass of mutant flesh from its beg, glancing sidelong at João for confirmation.
João simply shook his head - not the man they were looking for. Turning towards the barrack's exit, his ears were filled with the sound of gunfire and brains splattering across the floor.
Wordlessly, the team proceed, executing the few remaining survivors on their way out and into the hall. Left, right... Both ways were clear, aside from the sounds of panicked screams and the ratta-tat of gunfire all around them. Turning left, João headed toward a staircase descending into the darkness. He passed by an open door on his right, eyes briefly falling upon a single man wielding a shotgun inside - only for him to abruptly collapse, his heart punctured by a shot from one of the snipers across the street.
"Bravo team!" He barked into his radio. "VIP isn't in the barracks - any luck?"
"Negative." Aoi responded, pointing the barrel of her shotgun at the handle of the door ahead of her. Squeezing the trigger, she blasted the lock free in a cloud of dust and shattered metal. Quickly slinging it back over her shoulder, she extracted her PDW - a small, sleek little thing - and waited as one of her squadmates tossed a flashbang inside.
*BANG!*
The room was awash with white light and she charged inside, loosing a burst of bullets on the first thing she saw - a human silhouette, quickly dropping to the ground. A sharp *crack* from behind her saw another body fall, then another - and still she advanced, stopping over a desk behind which a gibbering mass of flesh scrambled for bulky pistol.
"Ayubu!" She snapped.
A sharp pop followed as her squadmate opened fire, sending the mutant spiralling to the floor with a resounding *pop*.
Identity: The Death that Wends, The Wailing Wolf, The Reaper of the Ashmonts, The Greatwood Beast, She Who Rends Their Bones, Eater of Trolls, Greenwrath
Type: Rogue Being
Myth:
Type: Rogue Being
Myth:
@Oraculumthanks for the response, and my apologies for the inconsistencies - I wrote some of that content late at night (when I probably shouldn't have) I'll get to work on the requested changes.
Identity: The Death that Wends, The Wailing Wolf, The Reaper of the Ashmonts, The Greatwood Beast, She Who Rends Their Bones, Eater of Trolls, the Greenwrath
Type: Rogue Being
Myth:
Type: Rogue Being
Myth:
A Collaboration between @Jeddaven and @Mao Mao
To say Evelyn was terrified of what was about to happen wasn't entirely accurate - anxious, perhaps, but bureaucratic meetings tended to be just that. Wrinkled, lecherous old men rambling on about anything under the sun, occasionally tossing an unwelcome remark her way, and otherwise doing a whole lot of jack-shit. Sure, sometimes something important was said - but the more she participated in the machinery of government, the more she thought that starry-eyed little blonde, blue-eyed girl from Kentucky was an absolute idiot for thinking she'd ever be able to do something important as a politician. She was young, beautiful, even, with decades of life ahead of her - and yet she felt like she was accomplishing little but wasting away through years of absolutely grueling hard work.
Maybe I'm dead. Maybe this is hell, she thought, quickly flipping through the sheaf of papers in her hand. Still, at least she had a way to do something important every once in a while. Her handlers assured her of that much, and all she needed to do was pay attention to what was going on around her, stay diligent, and do hee job well - just not in the way she was expected to. When she'd told the Polish woman that'd approached her all those months ago about a mysterious, classified meeting in the Department of Labour building, they almost immediately fixed her with a hidden microphone and recorder and sent her on her way, arming her with a single pill hidden in a serviceably pretty locket they'd given her. "Just in case," she said. "You don't want to find out what they do to people like us."
Evelyn hoped not, but she couldn't help but think the handler was telling her the truth. She'd heard what'd been done to so many activists in the country, after all, but it was better to do something and risk getting hurt than wallow in pity for the rest of her life.
Suddenly, the telltale tip-tap-tip-tap of dress shoes against a thinly carpeted floor echoed in from the hallways, and Evelyn quickly righted herself, ensuring everything was in place. For the briefest of moments in that lifeless room, she felt her heart tighten in her chest. Briefly forgetting herself, she almost failed to remember the state of her outfit; glancing down at the simple, whitish blouse she wore, she smoothed out a handle of creases, then her thin, grey skirt - and pulled out a notepad and pen.
One of the men noticed the young woman's uniform and gave a rather cruel sexual remark. The Secretary of Labor, Jonathan Saunders, didn't pay any mind as another man joined in by whistling at her. Jonathan was tired of being in a room mostly full of boys. He should've retired years ago. He should've to enjoy his remaining years with his grandchildren in Nashville. Instead, he was called to serve the President of the United States once again. In all honesty, he should've said no.
But, the country was still in despair and he was needed.
And after sixteen years of hard work and determination, a reliable solution was going to be presented. Jonathan didn't know much besides the basics of this supposed government jobs program. The Office of Management and Budget invited him and a few other secretaries (Commerce and the Treasury) to attend a classified meeting on the matter. It was unusual to him, but if there was a way out of the Great Depression, he would listen to their offer despite being left in the dark. So, he had to endure the immaturity of the men that were still harassing the aide until the director was ready to start the meeting.
“Director, Sir!” Evelyn perked up, immediately glad for the brief relief she was offered by the presence of the Budget Director. For the most part, she did her best to ignore unwelcome comments about her figure, the occasional dog-whistle - but it still tended towards the uncomfortable and aggravating. “I’ve prepared all the budget papers you’ve requested in advance, and a few additional sheets I thought might’ve been useful - I was able to get a hold on unemployment numbers over the past several years, and a handful of other points.” She said, ignoring a particularly ugly comment about her curves as she set a pile of papers down in front of him. “Is there anything else I can help you with before the meeting starts?”
Director Herbert Simons rolled his eyes upon listening to one of his aides talking before dismissing her. “No. You should go before you distract anyone else with your… “‘looks.’”
“She isn’t that distracting.” a familiar voice echoed across the room, which caught everyone off-guard. And upon finding out who said it, they stood up from their seats as a sign of respect. Herbert looked to his side and realized that it wasn’t an ordinary man. No, it was President Charles Lindbergh. Immediately, he got up from his seat and greeted the President. “I-It’s an honor for you to be here, President Lindbergh.”
“And I am honored. Please take your seats.” Lindbergh gestured at everyone and then turned to the aide with that carefree smile. “You too, lady. If you value your loved ones.”
"...Of course, sir. I'm sorry for-" Evelyn froze, not even bothering to finish her sentence. The moment she recognized Lindbergh's voice, in fact, it was as if she froze - whether in reverence or fear, she wasn't sure, but it probably didn't matter. The President was here - she had a job to do, and it was even more important than she thought.
"Yessir, Mr. President!" She replied, immediately finding herself an unoccupied seat. She was instantly rapt at attention.
Lindbergh nodded and then turned towards the director. “I assume you know why we are here today.”
“Of course. I read what you sent me and it was… a rather interesting proposal your team managed to put together.” Director Herbert chuckled. “But I have my concerns with it on ethical grounds. Besides being a violation of the Thirteenth Amendment, forcing a majority of Americans to work as servants is immoral.”
“Director, respectfully, did you actually read it? Because your concerns are completely wrong. Nowhere within that pile of paperwork states that Americans will be forced to work under the program. In fact, it’s completely optional!” Secretary of Commerce Ronald Barton dismissed his concerns and then reached for the projector to turn it on. Jonathan rolled his eyes at Ronald’s attempt to ease the director. He took a deep breath and then tried to calm the director down in his own way.
“Look, it’s understandable to be worried about the program. But, you have to remember, anyone that joins will be paid sixty-seven cents per hour and free housing—if they wish to live under their employer’s household.”
“And not to mention,” Secretary of Treasury Milton Stuart joined in the conversation. “our enemies need to know that the days of the depression are behind the United States. Ensuring that every American is guaranteed a job is that way.”
The projector was displaying the gradual decline of the unemployment rate, going from twenty-five percent at the height of the depression to ten percent. Then, a chart showed how much farmers from the states affected by the Dust Bowl were forced to abandon their farms. And then, another chart showed off how much crime activities increased on the East Coast and the estimated number of civilians joining crime families rising at an alarming rate.
Director Herbert was still unsure about it even after seeing the charts. “Believe me, I read every page that you provided to me. I know that there are Americans that still need work, but there has to be another way that can be achieved.”
President Lindbergh seemingly nodded in agreement and then stood up from the chair provided to him. “I see that you are conflicted on giving starving Americans the chance to rebuild their lives. Last week, I went down to a Hooverville in Cleveland that had been established almost twenty years ago. I remember talking to an older woman, who was ill for years of living in unclean conditions. She allowed me into her home, which only contained a dirty mattress and a broken board for her children so they had a place to do their homework.”
Lindbergh started to slowly make his way over to Herbert as he kept on talking. “I asked where the dining table was. The tables were too big for their hut. Then, I noticed that there wasn’t enough room for a bathroom. So I asked where they went if they wished to take a bath or use the toilet. She told me that they used a bucket as a toilet and went to a nearby bathhouse to get clean.”
Then, Lindbergh placed a hand on Herbert’s shoulder and began squeezing it. “Now, think about what would happen to that woman and her children if she found work under our program. Try to imagine doing the right thing. Instead, you’re letting your faith get in the way of progress.”
“M-my faith has nothing to do-” Herbert tried to speak up but was quickly shut down by the President.
“As someone who attends church every Sunday, don’t even think of lying to me, Herbert.” Lindbergh stared at him for a few more seconds before turning to everyone else. “Does anyone wish to tell Mr. Simons about the pain you and your loved ones suffered during that dark period in our lives?”
Evelyn's breath caught in her throat. She couldn't help but agree with the Budget Director's concerns, if she didn't say anything, she worried she might draw suspicion to herself. That was one of the few benefits of being a woman in her position, she supposed - she was expected to stay quiet and be demure in most situations except when spoken to. That was all she did in these meetings, for the most part - listen, take notes, and speak when spoken to. To question a man, however, never mind the President, was unthinkable to society, as much as some small part of her wished the entire building would simply collapse atop the gathering's heads. She couldn't help but think that the Polish agents listening in on the meeting were thinking the same thing. She wanted to say how Lindbergh’s plan was misguided at best, how she could think of work programs far more effective and humane in her sleep - but she stifled those thoughts, paying them no mind.
Lindbergh was disappointed with everyone in the room and understood their silence. Yet, Herbert still needed to understand his point. So, he looked at the young aide and went over to her. “What’s your story, Miss…?”
"...Harding, Sir! Evelyn Harding." She nodded, doing her best to maintain her composure in the sudden face of being the center of attention. "I was lucky not to see the worst of the dustbowl, but... My family's always lived in Kentucky. We saw a lot of the worst of it - one room schoolhouses, barely enough food to survive day by day... My father couldn't find a job after the coal mines closed. I wanted to help make things better, so... I got involved in politics. That's the short version."
“You see.” Lindbergh turned away for Evelyn and started directly at the director again. “Her parents struggled to allow their daughter to be here. They were determined to ensure their child had a better life than them. And look at her now, talking directly to me—the President of the United States! Sadly, that can’t be said for everyone. Even now, her father still struggles to find work! Think how much his life would improve if you help us out with the program. Have a heart for the common man. Or did wealth corrupt it?”
Herbert looked down while everyone else was staring at him with disgust. Jonathan, on the other hand, was too old to be spiteful and knew that petty insults were going to get them nowhere. He turned to the director and said, “I know how conflicted you are about this. Why don’t we give you some time to think about it and-”
Lindbergh put his hand up to interrupt the secretary. “We’ve been waiting for far too long. Herbert needs to make a choice today. I don’t know… wait. Why don’t we let Miss Harding talk some sense to him?”
“Are you sure that’s wise, Mr. President?” Milton asked with a grin on his face while turning to have a look at the woman.
“Of course! After all, she had some experience in politics. Maybe she has a better shot at convincing Mr. Herbert to make his mind up.” Lindbergh answered. Everyone was now staring at Miss Harding, waiting for her to speak. Most of the men were expecting her to embarrass herself while Lindbergh and Jonathan watched with interest.
As much as it pained her, Evelyn recognized that this was an opportunity for her to act. Mr. Herbert knew her well - she could only hope that he'd see that she felt pressured by the circumstances, but, nonetheless, she was being handed a chance to ingratiate herself with the President on a silver platter. "If I may be so bold, then... It's absolutely essential that something is done about unemployment. As many strides as the country has made in recovering from the Great Depression, there are still thousands of families in the country without work, without food, and, in many cases, without homes, as a visit to the homeless camps would tell anyone. If we have to create jobs to give to people, then so be it - it'd be wrong for us not to act." Evelyn explained, though her expression remained entirely neutral throughout her speech, her voice even and measured. "It's difficult for me to completely evaluate this plan right now, since I know so little about it, but... That's my opinion."
Lindbergh was rather impressed by the answer that came out of the mouth of an assistant nevertheless a woman. “You shouldn’t have given up on politics, Miss Harding, because I would’ve voted for you in a heartbeat.”
Then, he placed his hand on her shoulder and turned back to the director. “I hope that hearing another point-of-view on the matter sped up your decision, director.”
Herbert didn’t even try to hide his death stare at her, signaling that she was in big trouble for embarrassing him like that, before giving a response. “Mr. President, respectfully, I don’t need to hear my assistant’s thoughts on this or any matters whatsoever. Especially when I can clearly form my own opinion on the issue at hand. Please give me more time to think about it.”
“I am afraid that you already wasted enough of my time.” Lindbergh let go and then signaled to one of his bodyguards, who pulled out a folder and placed it in front of the director. “It’s unfortunate that I had to get my hands dirty. But your stubbornness made it necessary..”
Herbert looked through the folder and his expression immediately changed from confident to timid. He quickly closed it before someone else had the chance to look at the content and then stared at the President of the United States. “How?”
“I’m afraid that’s classified unless you’re fine with telling everyone that you like to-”
“Wait!” Herbert interrupted Lindbergh before he had the chance to reveal whatever was inside that folder. “I-It seems that I was too… harsh on my criticisms. If you are positive that it won’t violate the people’s rights, then.. I will support the program.”
“Good.” Lindbergh walked towards the director and extended his hand out in good faith, but Herbert avoided it and turned his sights on his aide. He was ready to shame her for humiliating him in front of his friends and the President of the United States. And then, if that wasn’t enough, fire her on the spot. However, the President stopped him before he had the chance. “Actually, let me have a minute alone with her.”
“... Fine.” Herbert grunted and then went to tell everyone to clean out of the room but Evelyn. In fact, he said something to her. “Not you. You and I have a lot to talk about after this.”
Evelyn was uncomfortable, so much so that she found herself practically paralyzed - but it'd have been stupid to not leap at the chance to ingratiate herself with the President,especially now. She wondered what her handlers were thinking, listening in on and recording their conversation - where were they, she thought? They told her they'd be monitoring the meeting, but not how or from where. All for the best, she supposed, in the event she should be discovered.
"...Yes Sir, Director." Evelyn sighed, clutching a binder full of files to her chest.
When they were alone, Lindbergh approached the aide with his hands in his pockets. “Well, he doesn’t look happy at you. It’s a shame that he doesn’t appropriate your thoughts because you’re a woman.”
“It is, but I’m... Used to it, frankly, Mister President, Sir.” Evelyn admitted, silently shrugging her shoulders. “I do my best to ignore it. It’s difficult when they get handsy, though.”
“Then, you should be at a place that respects you. I know of a place.” Lindbergh pulled out a business card and handed it to Evelyn. It had the symbol of the White House and a phone number on it. “Just call this number and you will have a brand new job as soon as the following day. Hopefully, I will be seeing you, Miss Evelyn.”
President Lindbergh smiled and then winked at Evelyn before he departed from the room, leaving her alone.
Evelyn blinked, staring down at the business card with what could only be described as abject shock - an emotion that, considering the circumstances, didn’t require her to make use of her High School theatre chops.
Her handlers would definitely want to hear this.
Washington, D.C. Department of Labor.
To say Evelyn was terrified of what was about to happen wasn't entirely accurate - anxious, perhaps, but bureaucratic meetings tended to be just that. Wrinkled, lecherous old men rambling on about anything under the sun, occasionally tossing an unwelcome remark her way, and otherwise doing a whole lot of jack-shit. Sure, sometimes something important was said - but the more she participated in the machinery of government, the more she thought that starry-eyed little blonde, blue-eyed girl from Kentucky was an absolute idiot for thinking she'd ever be able to do something important as a politician. She was young, beautiful, even, with decades of life ahead of her - and yet she felt like she was accomplishing little but wasting away through years of absolutely grueling hard work.
Maybe I'm dead. Maybe this is hell, she thought, quickly flipping through the sheaf of papers in her hand. Still, at least she had a way to do something important every once in a while. Her handlers assured her of that much, and all she needed to do was pay attention to what was going on around her, stay diligent, and do hee job well - just not in the way she was expected to. When she'd told the Polish woman that'd approached her all those months ago about a mysterious, classified meeting in the Department of Labour building, they almost immediately fixed her with a hidden microphone and recorder and sent her on her way, arming her with a single pill hidden in a serviceably pretty locket they'd given her. "Just in case," she said. "You don't want to find out what they do to people like us."
Evelyn hoped not, but she couldn't help but think the handler was telling her the truth. She'd heard what'd been done to so many activists in the country, after all, but it was better to do something and risk getting hurt than wallow in pity for the rest of her life.
Suddenly, the telltale tip-tap-tip-tap of dress shoes against a thinly carpeted floor echoed in from the hallways, and Evelyn quickly righted herself, ensuring everything was in place. For the briefest of moments in that lifeless room, she felt her heart tighten in her chest. Briefly forgetting herself, she almost failed to remember the state of her outfit; glancing down at the simple, whitish blouse she wore, she smoothed out a handle of creases, then her thin, grey skirt - and pulled out a notepad and pen.
One of the men noticed the young woman's uniform and gave a rather cruel sexual remark. The Secretary of Labor, Jonathan Saunders, didn't pay any mind as another man joined in by whistling at her. Jonathan was tired of being in a room mostly full of boys. He should've retired years ago. He should've to enjoy his remaining years with his grandchildren in Nashville. Instead, he was called to serve the President of the United States once again. In all honesty, he should've said no.
But, the country was still in despair and he was needed.
And after sixteen years of hard work and determination, a reliable solution was going to be presented. Jonathan didn't know much besides the basics of this supposed government jobs program. The Office of Management and Budget invited him and a few other secretaries (Commerce and the Treasury) to attend a classified meeting on the matter. It was unusual to him, but if there was a way out of the Great Depression, he would listen to their offer despite being left in the dark. So, he had to endure the immaturity of the men that were still harassing the aide until the director was ready to start the meeting.
“Director, Sir!” Evelyn perked up, immediately glad for the brief relief she was offered by the presence of the Budget Director. For the most part, she did her best to ignore unwelcome comments about her figure, the occasional dog-whistle - but it still tended towards the uncomfortable and aggravating. “I’ve prepared all the budget papers you’ve requested in advance, and a few additional sheets I thought might’ve been useful - I was able to get a hold on unemployment numbers over the past several years, and a handful of other points.” She said, ignoring a particularly ugly comment about her curves as she set a pile of papers down in front of him. “Is there anything else I can help you with before the meeting starts?”
Director Herbert Simons rolled his eyes upon listening to one of his aides talking before dismissing her. “No. You should go before you distract anyone else with your… “‘looks.’”
“She isn’t that distracting.” a familiar voice echoed across the room, which caught everyone off-guard. And upon finding out who said it, they stood up from their seats as a sign of respect. Herbert looked to his side and realized that it wasn’t an ordinary man. No, it was President Charles Lindbergh. Immediately, he got up from his seat and greeted the President. “I-It’s an honor for you to be here, President Lindbergh.”
“And I am honored. Please take your seats.” Lindbergh gestured at everyone and then turned to the aide with that carefree smile. “You too, lady. If you value your loved ones.”
"...Of course, sir. I'm sorry for-" Evelyn froze, not even bothering to finish her sentence. The moment she recognized Lindbergh's voice, in fact, it was as if she froze - whether in reverence or fear, she wasn't sure, but it probably didn't matter. The President was here - she had a job to do, and it was even more important than she thought.
"Yessir, Mr. President!" She replied, immediately finding herself an unoccupied seat. She was instantly rapt at attention.
Lindbergh nodded and then turned towards the director. “I assume you know why we are here today.”
“Of course. I read what you sent me and it was… a rather interesting proposal your team managed to put together.” Director Herbert chuckled. “But I have my concerns with it on ethical grounds. Besides being a violation of the Thirteenth Amendment, forcing a majority of Americans to work as servants is immoral.”
“Director, respectfully, did you actually read it? Because your concerns are completely wrong. Nowhere within that pile of paperwork states that Americans will be forced to work under the program. In fact, it’s completely optional!” Secretary of Commerce Ronald Barton dismissed his concerns and then reached for the projector to turn it on. Jonathan rolled his eyes at Ronald’s attempt to ease the director. He took a deep breath and then tried to calm the director down in his own way.
“Look, it’s understandable to be worried about the program. But, you have to remember, anyone that joins will be paid sixty-seven cents per hour and free housing—if they wish to live under their employer’s household.”
“And not to mention,” Secretary of Treasury Milton Stuart joined in the conversation. “our enemies need to know that the days of the depression are behind the United States. Ensuring that every American is guaranteed a job is that way.”
The projector was displaying the gradual decline of the unemployment rate, going from twenty-five percent at the height of the depression to ten percent. Then, a chart showed how much farmers from the states affected by the Dust Bowl were forced to abandon their farms. And then, another chart showed off how much crime activities increased on the East Coast and the estimated number of civilians joining crime families rising at an alarming rate.
Director Herbert was still unsure about it even after seeing the charts. “Believe me, I read every page that you provided to me. I know that there are Americans that still need work, but there has to be another way that can be achieved.”
President Lindbergh seemingly nodded in agreement and then stood up from the chair provided to him. “I see that you are conflicted on giving starving Americans the chance to rebuild their lives. Last week, I went down to a Hooverville in Cleveland that had been established almost twenty years ago. I remember talking to an older woman, who was ill for years of living in unclean conditions. She allowed me into her home, which only contained a dirty mattress and a broken board for her children so they had a place to do their homework.”
Lindbergh started to slowly make his way over to Herbert as he kept on talking. “I asked where the dining table was. The tables were too big for their hut. Then, I noticed that there wasn’t enough room for a bathroom. So I asked where they went if they wished to take a bath or use the toilet. She told me that they used a bucket as a toilet and went to a nearby bathhouse to get clean.”
Then, Lindbergh placed a hand on Herbert’s shoulder and began squeezing it. “Now, think about what would happen to that woman and her children if she found work under our program. Try to imagine doing the right thing. Instead, you’re letting your faith get in the way of progress.”
“M-my faith has nothing to do-” Herbert tried to speak up but was quickly shut down by the President.
“As someone who attends church every Sunday, don’t even think of lying to me, Herbert.” Lindbergh stared at him for a few more seconds before turning to everyone else. “Does anyone wish to tell Mr. Simons about the pain you and your loved ones suffered during that dark period in our lives?”
Evelyn's breath caught in her throat. She couldn't help but agree with the Budget Director's concerns, if she didn't say anything, she worried she might draw suspicion to herself. That was one of the few benefits of being a woman in her position, she supposed - she was expected to stay quiet and be demure in most situations except when spoken to. That was all she did in these meetings, for the most part - listen, take notes, and speak when spoken to. To question a man, however, never mind the President, was unthinkable to society, as much as some small part of her wished the entire building would simply collapse atop the gathering's heads. She couldn't help but think that the Polish agents listening in on the meeting were thinking the same thing. She wanted to say how Lindbergh’s plan was misguided at best, how she could think of work programs far more effective and humane in her sleep - but she stifled those thoughts, paying them no mind.
Lindbergh was disappointed with everyone in the room and understood their silence. Yet, Herbert still needed to understand his point. So, he looked at the young aide and went over to her. “What’s your story, Miss…?”
"...Harding, Sir! Evelyn Harding." She nodded, doing her best to maintain her composure in the sudden face of being the center of attention. "I was lucky not to see the worst of the dustbowl, but... My family's always lived in Kentucky. We saw a lot of the worst of it - one room schoolhouses, barely enough food to survive day by day... My father couldn't find a job after the coal mines closed. I wanted to help make things better, so... I got involved in politics. That's the short version."
“You see.” Lindbergh turned away for Evelyn and started directly at the director again. “Her parents struggled to allow their daughter to be here. They were determined to ensure their child had a better life than them. And look at her now, talking directly to me—the President of the United States! Sadly, that can’t be said for everyone. Even now, her father still struggles to find work! Think how much his life would improve if you help us out with the program. Have a heart for the common man. Or did wealth corrupt it?”
Herbert looked down while everyone else was staring at him with disgust. Jonathan, on the other hand, was too old to be spiteful and knew that petty insults were going to get them nowhere. He turned to the director and said, “I know how conflicted you are about this. Why don’t we give you some time to think about it and-”
Lindbergh put his hand up to interrupt the secretary. “We’ve been waiting for far too long. Herbert needs to make a choice today. I don’t know… wait. Why don’t we let Miss Harding talk some sense to him?”
“Are you sure that’s wise, Mr. President?” Milton asked with a grin on his face while turning to have a look at the woman.
“Of course! After all, she had some experience in politics. Maybe she has a better shot at convincing Mr. Herbert to make his mind up.” Lindbergh answered. Everyone was now staring at Miss Harding, waiting for her to speak. Most of the men were expecting her to embarrass herself while Lindbergh and Jonathan watched with interest.
As much as it pained her, Evelyn recognized that this was an opportunity for her to act. Mr. Herbert knew her well - she could only hope that he'd see that she felt pressured by the circumstances, but, nonetheless, she was being handed a chance to ingratiate herself with the President on a silver platter. "If I may be so bold, then... It's absolutely essential that something is done about unemployment. As many strides as the country has made in recovering from the Great Depression, there are still thousands of families in the country without work, without food, and, in many cases, without homes, as a visit to the homeless camps would tell anyone. If we have to create jobs to give to people, then so be it - it'd be wrong for us not to act." Evelyn explained, though her expression remained entirely neutral throughout her speech, her voice even and measured. "It's difficult for me to completely evaluate this plan right now, since I know so little about it, but... That's my opinion."
Lindbergh was rather impressed by the answer that came out of the mouth of an assistant nevertheless a woman. “You shouldn’t have given up on politics, Miss Harding, because I would’ve voted for you in a heartbeat.”
Then, he placed his hand on her shoulder and turned back to the director. “I hope that hearing another point-of-view on the matter sped up your decision, director.”
Herbert didn’t even try to hide his death stare at her, signaling that she was in big trouble for embarrassing him like that, before giving a response. “Mr. President, respectfully, I don’t need to hear my assistant’s thoughts on this or any matters whatsoever. Especially when I can clearly form my own opinion on the issue at hand. Please give me more time to think about it.”
“I am afraid that you already wasted enough of my time.” Lindbergh let go and then signaled to one of his bodyguards, who pulled out a folder and placed it in front of the director. “It’s unfortunate that I had to get my hands dirty. But your stubbornness made it necessary..”
Herbert looked through the folder and his expression immediately changed from confident to timid. He quickly closed it before someone else had the chance to look at the content and then stared at the President of the United States. “How?”
“I’m afraid that’s classified unless you’re fine with telling everyone that you like to-”
“Wait!” Herbert interrupted Lindbergh before he had the chance to reveal whatever was inside that folder. “I-It seems that I was too… harsh on my criticisms. If you are positive that it won’t violate the people’s rights, then.. I will support the program.”
“Good.” Lindbergh walked towards the director and extended his hand out in good faith, but Herbert avoided it and turned his sights on his aide. He was ready to shame her for humiliating him in front of his friends and the President of the United States. And then, if that wasn’t enough, fire her on the spot. However, the President stopped him before he had the chance. “Actually, let me have a minute alone with her.”
“... Fine.” Herbert grunted and then went to tell everyone to clean out of the room but Evelyn. In fact, he said something to her. “Not you. You and I have a lot to talk about after this.”
Evelyn was uncomfortable, so much so that she found herself practically paralyzed - but it'd have been stupid to not leap at the chance to ingratiate herself with the President,especially now. She wondered what her handlers were thinking, listening in on and recording their conversation - where were they, she thought? They told her they'd be monitoring the meeting, but not how or from where. All for the best, she supposed, in the event she should be discovered.
"...Yes Sir, Director." Evelyn sighed, clutching a binder full of files to her chest.
When they were alone, Lindbergh approached the aide with his hands in his pockets. “Well, he doesn’t look happy at you. It’s a shame that he doesn’t appropriate your thoughts because you’re a woman.”
“It is, but I’m... Used to it, frankly, Mister President, Sir.” Evelyn admitted, silently shrugging her shoulders. “I do my best to ignore it. It’s difficult when they get handsy, though.”
“Then, you should be at a place that respects you. I know of a place.” Lindbergh pulled out a business card and handed it to Evelyn. It had the symbol of the White House and a phone number on it. “Just call this number and you will have a brand new job as soon as the following day. Hopefully, I will be seeing you, Miss Evelyn.”
President Lindbergh smiled and then winked at Evelyn before he departed from the room, leaving her alone.
Evelyn blinked, staring down at the business card with what could only be described as abject shock - an emotion that, considering the circumstances, didn’t require her to make use of her High School theatre chops.
Her handlers would definitely want to hear this.
Added part two onto my post.
Brasilia
Another day, another nightmare.
All around Conceicao, Brasilia was burning. Her honour guard was dead, mutant corpses strewn about the palace grounds. To the East, Paranoá Lake was clogged with the wreckage of thousands of tiny boats and millions of floating, bloated corpses. To the West, the city burned, the deafening roar of the inferno's flames narrowly failing to drown out the screams of so many innocent people. Jets screamed overhead, seeking to fight off some unseen attacker, only to be rendered unto heaps of flaming wreckage in the blink of an eye. Tanks and armoured cars littered the streets in every direction.
Brazil was helpless. Her nation had thrown everything against the enemy, every piece of military hardware, every last-ditch weapon, every man and woman able to carry and fire a rifle... And it all amounted to nothing. Worse than nothing, perhaps. If they hadn't fought back, then they could have at least survived on their-
"President Conceicao?" A voice whispered, so impossibly gentle that it couldn't have been human. In mere moments, however, the voice brought the listless President back to the world of the living, leaving her to jolt upward in her chair. Her eyes darted from one side to the other - left, then right - only to finally settle on the gently smiling face of a kind young man, dressed in the finest of suits, beaming at her from across the table.
"...Filipe." Conceicao groaned, rubbing her eyes with a furred, wickedly clawed hand. "How long was I out for this time?"
"Only a few moments, President Conceicao. You haven't missed anything just yet. Are you sure you are well?" The young man asked, canting his head to one side. A tongue, partway reptilian in nature, slipped out from beneath his teeth, idly flicking at the air.
Conceicao gave him a dismissive wave, carefully straightening her custom-made suit, noting the slight twinkle in his eyes as a nictitating membrane slid over each of the bright, blue, shining orbs. "I'm fine," she groaned, forcing a wicked, fanged smile onto her discoloured face as she idly scratched at a splotch of bright green scales. "I will be, once the day is done. The others - are they here?"
The boy nodded. She nodded back. Behind Apolônia, the door buzzed, swinging open - and in came a parade of Brazilian Ministers, diplomats, and generals, each dressed in practical, if well-made uniforms, sparsely decorated by medals. One-by-one, they took their seats at the table, a handful muttering greetings in Portuguese or one of the many languages native to pre-colonial Brazil. For the first time in days, a genuine smile graced Apolônia's features as she nodded to her aide, a pair of television screens unfolding from the scene at either end of the table.
"Ladies, gentlemen... You all know why I have called you here today." Conceicao began, taking in a deep breath. "Today, Brazil is more powerful than it ever has been, enough to nearly challenge the hegemony of the world's great powers on its own... But she is still vulnerable. Her armies are strong, but so are her people. Her people, however, are merely mortal. Morale alone cannot protect us - not against the American fascists, not against the communists should they decide to turn against us, and certainly not against the visitors, who we still know so little about. The Americans and Russians could flatten our cities with nuclear hellfire and weapons that hang high above our head, and... Well, even I do not understand what the visitors are truly capable of. Today, we show the world that Brazil will defend its soil to the very last breath." She continued, giving Filipe a sidelong nod. The screens, each and every one, flickered to life. The feed they seemed to depict a rapidly approaching metal speck shook violently, as if rocked by an earthquake, and all across the room, a handful of eyes widened in shock, others simply displaying their quiet assent.
"Some of you realize what I speak of, I think. Ahead of us, you will see the Stella Maris - the largest space station Brazil has put in orbit, and enough to rival both the Soviets and Americans in size - though not in number. She is a state-of-the-art construction, equipped with the finest telescopes and sensing devices, all pointed throughout the solar system to watch for Visitor activity. That is what all of you know of her. There is, however, much that some of you do not know."
Apolônia cleared her throat, gesturing toward the speck as it grew larger, finally visible to the naked eye as a large, slowly spinning cylindrical space station, thick metal rings situated at various points along its length.
"She is much more than that, however. The Americans and Russians will not like it, but the Stella Maris is more than just a research station. She is a protector - a platform studded with state of the art KEM launching systems, advanced pint defense technology, and a custodial weak artificial intelligence that helps the station's crew manage the station's functions." Conceicao paused, allowing her ministers and generals a few moments to process the information before abruptly continuing.
"As of this moment, you are the ones to know this, but that is about to change. Tomorrow, once the second of the station's railguns are armed, I will announce the true purpose of Stella Maris to the international community. I do not enjoy keeping secrets from so many of you, but in this case, it was necessary in order to prevent the station from being compromised, but that is not important. Was is important, however, is that Brazil is now more prepared than ever for any threat - she can strike unavoidably anywhere in the world with just over twelve megatons of energy, far more precisely focused than any nuclear blast - and, hopefully, the first step along the path to bringing ourselves into parity with the Visitors." She said, briefly scanning over the ministers arrayed before her. Some exchanged glances, some nervous, other enthusiastic - but none dared open their mouths to question their revered leader.
"Filipe," she continued, settling back into her seat. "Our next matter of business concerns Angola, I believe?"
UN General Assembly Chambers
Wayorá loved his country - Brazil - or at least the miracle President Conceicao had brought to it. There was, truth be told, little he could say hadn't been vastly improved, from the state of its developing economy to the way the average person was treated by the government. He, if nobody else, could say that much - a scant few decades ago, he'd been living in an ailing, dilapidated aboriginal village, struggling to stay sustainable due to near-constant exploitation by previous Brazilian governments. Bow, he was Brazil's representative to the world, its UN ambassador, but even he couldn't help but occasionally hate his job. What else were you supposed to think, after all, when you were staring down the barrel of hundreds of diplomatic guns, explaining to said diplomats that you had at least two enormous weapons pointed at all of their heads. Still, even with wrinkles already appeared on his newly aged face, he had a job to do.
"Ladies, gentlemen, friends of the world..." He began, quietly clearing his throat to grab the Assembly's attention. "Thirty years ago, the paradigm of human existence was forever changed. I won't bore you with the details, as I'm sure most of you remember the very events I refer to, and all of us have different stories. Different thoughts - a rainbow of opinions, one might say. Some of us were excited, terrified, simply awestruck, or any number of emotional states in between... But what we can all agree on, I think, is that none of us liked how helpless, vulnerable, and unprepared the Visitation made us feel. What, after all, could we hope to do?" He said, gesturing across the entire chamber, arrayed before him.
"Even now thirty years later, we are still struggling tooth and nail to survive in this strange new world. We've all made great progress, I'm sure you can all agree, in so many different ways, whether that be through human ingenuity or sheer refusal to lie down and let these anomalies take our beautiful blue marble from us. Today..." He paused, though only for the briefest of moments. When Wayorá wrote the speech, he thought it was only for dramatic effect, but now, alone in his thoughts, it seemed so much more like fear. That meant he needed to move on quickly, of course - and so he did, relaxing his muscles into a more friendly, laid back posture.
"Today, I am proud to announce that Brazil has taken another step in protecting our planet from hostile extraterrestrials. The Stella Maris, a state-of-the-art telescope array and research station, joins the ranks of the great powers prepared to defend our planet with arms placed in orbit." He said, promptly continuing before the chamber had a chance to erupt into an uproar, even as murmuring broke out within the General Assembly, spreading like wildfire. "Now, I assure you, that is the sole purpose of the Stella Maris: to study and protect, and nothing more."
In the brief moment of silence that followed, the chamber erupted into furious debate.
Inwardly, all Wayorá could think to do was wonder what else the government had been hiding from him.
Another day, another nightmare.
All around Conceicao, Brasilia was burning. Her honour guard was dead, mutant corpses strewn about the palace grounds. To the East, Paranoá Lake was clogged with the wreckage of thousands of tiny boats and millions of floating, bloated corpses. To the West, the city burned, the deafening roar of the inferno's flames narrowly failing to drown out the screams of so many innocent people. Jets screamed overhead, seeking to fight off some unseen attacker, only to be rendered unto heaps of flaming wreckage in the blink of an eye. Tanks and armoured cars littered the streets in every direction.
Brazil was helpless. Her nation had thrown everything against the enemy, every piece of military hardware, every last-ditch weapon, every man and woman able to carry and fire a rifle... And it all amounted to nothing. Worse than nothing, perhaps. If they hadn't fought back, then they could have at least survived on their-
"President Conceicao?" A voice whispered, so impossibly gentle that it couldn't have been human. In mere moments, however, the voice brought the listless President back to the world of the living, leaving her to jolt upward in her chair. Her eyes darted from one side to the other - left, then right - only to finally settle on the gently smiling face of a kind young man, dressed in the finest of suits, beaming at her from across the table.
"...Filipe." Conceicao groaned, rubbing her eyes with a furred, wickedly clawed hand. "How long was I out for this time?"
"Only a few moments, President Conceicao. You haven't missed anything just yet. Are you sure you are well?" The young man asked, canting his head to one side. A tongue, partway reptilian in nature, slipped out from beneath his teeth, idly flicking at the air.
Conceicao gave him a dismissive wave, carefully straightening her custom-made suit, noting the slight twinkle in his eyes as a nictitating membrane slid over each of the bright, blue, shining orbs. "I'm fine," she groaned, forcing a wicked, fanged smile onto her discoloured face as she idly scratched at a splotch of bright green scales. "I will be, once the day is done. The others - are they here?"
The boy nodded. She nodded back. Behind Apolônia, the door buzzed, swinging open - and in came a parade of Brazilian Ministers, diplomats, and generals, each dressed in practical, if well-made uniforms, sparsely decorated by medals. One-by-one, they took their seats at the table, a handful muttering greetings in Portuguese or one of the many languages native to pre-colonial Brazil. For the first time in days, a genuine smile graced Apolônia's features as she nodded to her aide, a pair of television screens unfolding from the scene at either end of the table.
"Ladies, gentlemen... You all know why I have called you here today." Conceicao began, taking in a deep breath. "Today, Brazil is more powerful than it ever has been, enough to nearly challenge the hegemony of the world's great powers on its own... But she is still vulnerable. Her armies are strong, but so are her people. Her people, however, are merely mortal. Morale alone cannot protect us - not against the American fascists, not against the communists should they decide to turn against us, and certainly not against the visitors, who we still know so little about. The Americans and Russians could flatten our cities with nuclear hellfire and weapons that hang high above our head, and... Well, even I do not understand what the visitors are truly capable of. Today, we show the world that Brazil will defend its soil to the very last breath." She continued, giving Filipe a sidelong nod. The screens, each and every one, flickered to life. The feed they seemed to depict a rapidly approaching metal speck shook violently, as if rocked by an earthquake, and all across the room, a handful of eyes widened in shock, others simply displaying their quiet assent.
"Some of you realize what I speak of, I think. Ahead of us, you will see the Stella Maris - the largest space station Brazil has put in orbit, and enough to rival both the Soviets and Americans in size - though not in number. She is a state-of-the-art construction, equipped with the finest telescopes and sensing devices, all pointed throughout the solar system to watch for Visitor activity. That is what all of you know of her. There is, however, much that some of you do not know."
Apolônia cleared her throat, gesturing toward the speck as it grew larger, finally visible to the naked eye as a large, slowly spinning cylindrical space station, thick metal rings situated at various points along its length.
"She is much more than that, however. The Americans and Russians will not like it, but the Stella Maris is more than just a research station. She is a protector - a platform studded with state of the art KEM launching systems, advanced pint defense technology, and a custodial weak artificial intelligence that helps the station's crew manage the station's functions." Conceicao paused, allowing her ministers and generals a few moments to process the information before abruptly continuing.
"As of this moment, you are the ones to know this, but that is about to change. Tomorrow, once the second of the station's railguns are armed, I will announce the true purpose of Stella Maris to the international community. I do not enjoy keeping secrets from so many of you, but in this case, it was necessary in order to prevent the station from being compromised, but that is not important. Was is important, however, is that Brazil is now more prepared than ever for any threat - she can strike unavoidably anywhere in the world with just over twelve megatons of energy, far more precisely focused than any nuclear blast - and, hopefully, the first step along the path to bringing ourselves into parity with the Visitors." She said, briefly scanning over the ministers arrayed before her. Some exchanged glances, some nervous, other enthusiastic - but none dared open their mouths to question their revered leader.
"Filipe," she continued, settling back into her seat. "Our next matter of business concerns Angola, I believe?"
UN General Assembly Chambers
Wayorá loved his country - Brazil - or at least the miracle President Conceicao had brought to it. There was, truth be told, little he could say hadn't been vastly improved, from the state of its developing economy to the way the average person was treated by the government. He, if nobody else, could say that much - a scant few decades ago, he'd been living in an ailing, dilapidated aboriginal village, struggling to stay sustainable due to near-constant exploitation by previous Brazilian governments. Bow, he was Brazil's representative to the world, its UN ambassador, but even he couldn't help but occasionally hate his job. What else were you supposed to think, after all, when you were staring down the barrel of hundreds of diplomatic guns, explaining to said diplomats that you had at least two enormous weapons pointed at all of their heads. Still, even with wrinkles already appeared on his newly aged face, he had a job to do.
"Ladies, gentlemen, friends of the world..." He began, quietly clearing his throat to grab the Assembly's attention. "Thirty years ago, the paradigm of human existence was forever changed. I won't bore you with the details, as I'm sure most of you remember the very events I refer to, and all of us have different stories. Different thoughts - a rainbow of opinions, one might say. Some of us were excited, terrified, simply awestruck, or any number of emotional states in between... But what we can all agree on, I think, is that none of us liked how helpless, vulnerable, and unprepared the Visitation made us feel. What, after all, could we hope to do?" He said, gesturing across the entire chamber, arrayed before him.
"Even now thirty years later, we are still struggling tooth and nail to survive in this strange new world. We've all made great progress, I'm sure you can all agree, in so many different ways, whether that be through human ingenuity or sheer refusal to lie down and let these anomalies take our beautiful blue marble from us. Today..." He paused, though only for the briefest of moments. When Wayorá wrote the speech, he thought it was only for dramatic effect, but now, alone in his thoughts, it seemed so much more like fear. That meant he needed to move on quickly, of course - and so he did, relaxing his muscles into a more friendly, laid back posture.
"Today, I am proud to announce that Brazil has taken another step in protecting our planet from hostile extraterrestrials. The Stella Maris, a state-of-the-art telescope array and research station, joins the ranks of the great powers prepared to defend our planet with arms placed in orbit." He said, promptly continuing before the chamber had a chance to erupt into an uproar, even as murmuring broke out within the General Assembly, spreading like wildfire. "Now, I assure you, that is the sole purpose of the Stella Maris: to study and protect, and nothing more."
In the brief moment of silence that followed, the chamber erupted into furious debate.
Inwardly, all Wayorá could think to do was wonder what else the government had been hiding from him.
@Flagg, due to illusory chicanery by Arane in Nergthron, outrageous rumors of Callidus appearing in Nergthron and kicking up a fuss are going to start circulating around. They may take a while to actually spread very far, but I imagine the Pale King has ears in far places.
'Chicanery' is one way to put it.
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