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12 mos ago
Current I think it's about time I get back into forum RP.
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Eeeghflebrgh.
2 yrs ago
Happeh birfday to me~
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2 yrs ago
I don't even...
2 yrs ago
Howdy.

Bio

I always knew, deep in my kokoro, that I was a big baka. I, of course, place the blame on kami-sama for not giving me a good senpai.

Most Recent Posts

Moscow

Dark clouds loomed on the horizon as a storm prepared to batter Russia. New men had arrived all along Moscow's border with the remnants of the Russian Empire, finally giving them the strength to consider a move on their strongest enemy. Further East in the capital city itself, machines of war that had not been touched in years were being prepared for the move North, while citizens were being gathered in droves, and men and women alike were being prepared for the possibility of having to fight for their Tsar. At the heart of all of this, Tsar Wrangel sat drawing up battle plans with her best generals, for all possibilities. Whether Moscow sat triumphant, or was reduced to rubble, this would be the war to settle everything in Russia. Whoever won this war would win the right to call themselves Tsar of all of Russia, and Wrangel was determined to take it.

However, not everyone was in a frenzy at the prospect of “settling everything.” In a small camp along the Imperial border, one soldier was expecting the worst, and had no intention of sticking around for it.

“Shit shit shit!” muttered a short soldier bearing the Muscovite crest on his jacket. “Where the hell did I put it? I can't leave without it.”

The soldier began to dig through a trunk at the end of a small, ratty cot, with a look of fear on his face so intense, you'd think the entire camp was about to be bombed.

“There it is!” He shouted a bit too loud, as he grabbed a framed photo and stuffed it into a knapsack at his feet. “Now all I need is my gun.” he said as he turned for the entrance to the tent, only to see another soldier staring in at him. He froze, like a deer in the headlights, as the other soldier eyed him up and down, before finally opening his mouth to speak.

“Vasily... What are you doing? Going for a hike?” he asked, crossing his arms and moving to block the exit entirely.

“Shut up, Adrian. Now's not the time, so can you please go be a dick to somebody else?” pleaded Vasily, sounding exhausted. “I really need to get going.”

Adrian frowned, his heavy brow furrowing at his comrade's words. “Where are you going, Vasily. We're not supposed to go anywhere, until we get new orders. You know that.”

“Yes, yes! I know. I...” Vasily looked around, staring at a pair of shadows moving along the side of the tent, beofre continuing in a hushed voice. “I'm getting out of here, Adrian. I only took this stupid job because it paid well, and I was told I'd be stationed in the city to help with relief efforts. I never wanted to head to the front lines, let alone fight! If it were Austrians, sure, those bastards killed my grandpa, but Russians? Something about it doesn't sit right with me... Me and Niko were going to steal a car... Head down South to Rostov. Word is the people there are just riding this whole thing out, so we wanted to go there and do the same.”

The following silence was long and tense, and Vasily couldn't bring himself to look up at Adrian the entire time. When his friend finally inhaled to speak, he flinched, expecting the worst. “Vasily...” Adrian said in a hushed tone. “Help me pack my bag. I want in.”

Yaroslavl

“Welcome, welcome, friends of Moscow! Haha! Come, come!” a man shouted from a market stall as the first of the vehicles from Arkhangelsk made their way into Moscuvite territory from the now-open border, for the first time in years. “Please! All the foods you've missed! All the latest fashions! Whatever you are looking for, Viktor has it! Come, come!”

All along the main road, the scene was the same. People from Yaroslavl welcoming old friends and ally's into the nation. Families reuniting for the first time in years. People waving flags, whether it be Archangelsk's, Moscow's, or even the old Russian flag. Soldiers from both sides talking like old friends catching up at the border checkpoint, while music filled the air for miles, some would swear.

“Uncle? Uncle Andrei, is that you?” a woman with a mess of curly hair said, tapping the back of an older man who was looking lost. “Oh, Uncle Andrei, it is you! Come with me, mama will be so excited to see you again!” Clasping the old man's hand, the woman began to scurry off, accidentally stepping on the foot of somebody who was leaning against a nearby building, smoking. “Oh, sorry, sir.”

“No, no, it's fine. Go, enjoy your day. Do not worry about it.” the man said, putting the cigarette out, and watching the woman disappear into the crowds. He then turned, walking inside of the building, letting out a sigh of relief as the outside sounds faded with the closing door. Looking around, he spotted three other men sitting at a table, playing cards. When they noticed him walking over, one of them shouted out to him.

“Lev! How are the festivities? Are you going to go jump around like a little girl?” laughed a man who looked like he had been hit with a train, bombed, and then struck by lighting, and survived.

“Shut it, Igor. I just needed some fresh air. I really don't care about the festivities. In fact... Going out there ruined my shoe.” replied Lev, an annoyed twitch showing in his left eye. “So, shall we continue?” he said pulling up a seat and dropping into it.

“Yes, let's.” said a greying man with shaggy hair and a pointed beard. “Oh, and, eat it, Igor.” he said displaying a Royal Flush, and pulling a pile of money towards himself.

“Fuck!” shouted Igor, hands clawing at what hair he had left. “I'll get you next time Pyotr, you bastard!”

“Yes, yes, I'm sure you will Igor. Now, can you calm down so we can talk?” Pyotr said calmly, though the smug smile said something else entirely. Once Igor had finally ended his fit, Pyotr put a hand on the arm of the large, bald man who had been quiet the entire time. “Go ahead, Sergei. Let them in on the plan.”

With a loud screech, Sergei pushed back on his chair, and stood up, papers in hand, like a gradeschooler prepared to give a book report. “Hello gentlemen. As you know, things have been hard for us lately. We lost our route from Smolensk, and Nizhny has their border locked down tight. With no way to export or import, we have been preparing for the worst, but no more! The Tsar has done good for us with this deal! With access to Arkhangelsk comes access to ports! Because of this, Pyotr has scraped together all of our remaining funds, so that we can buy a boat, and sail for better shores.”

“No, no!” cut in Pyotr. “That is not what we are doing! I bought us a smuggler, who owns a boat, so that we have a new way to smuggle into and out of Moscow! All we have to do is give them a fair cut, and they will set us up to start making big money again. Especially with war on the horizon, people will pay big to get those foreign foods, and especially for those Western drugs. There have been so many complaints lately about quality that I was beginning to think people were realizing how little they were actually getting. Well, not anymore! This is going to have us swimming in money boys. Even if Moscow burns, we'll be sitting pretty.”

With a maniacal chuckle, Igor rubbed his hands together like a rat, nearly slobbering at the prospect. “Oh Pyotr, I could kiss you right now. This is fantastic! No, this is beyond fantastic! How soon until we get our first payment, huh?”

“Not for a couple months.” Pyotr replied calmly, which was quickly contrasted by the tantrum Igor erupted into.

“A couple months? Are you fucking kidding me, Pyotr?!? The money I have left won't last me a couple weeks! Are you trying to kill me, is that it???” Igor shouted, throwing himself from his chair and stomping off into an adjacent room. “Why do we follow you, when you are so dumb! His voice echoed from a distant location.

Stifling a laugh, Lev looked to Pyotr, who leaned in, and in a hushed tone said “His share, at least. We'll see ours within a fortnight. I know the rat has been taking a cut of the top of all of his sales. He's lucky he's a good salesmen, or I'd have big Sergei drown him in a well, or... Or cut off his squirmy little hands.”

“You could always set him on fire, see if he survives that, too. Maybe he's actually a cockroach disguised as a rat. You have to have survived some crazy shit to end up looking like him.” Lev replied with a chuckle.

“Okay, Pyotr!.” came Igor's voice as he reentered the room. “Okay. I get it. You're holding onto the money, waiting for a big payoff, right? You want to treat us good, give us a nice paycheck first thing, right? I get it! So let me say, thank you. I won't disappoint you. In fact, I'll go get you some money right now. If you would give me some of the product, I'll head out this moment.”

“Well, Igor, there is no product. That's why we have to wait.” Pyotr said, and watched with glee as the large vein in Igor's forehead nearly burst, before the little ratty man stormed out of the building, muttering profanities. Once he was gone, Pyotr looked to Lev once more. “Meet me in Moscow in three days. I have a job for you and Segei to do in the meantime. Oh and, here.” he said, digging into his coat and pulling out some money. “Buy yourself some new shoes.”
I'll update the map once our two new Russkies get the stamp of approval.
Yastreby, Russia

"It's Vyazma, right?"

"No, no. Vyazma was taken over, we're Muscovite's now."

"No, that's not right. It was those democratic folks in Smolensk, they freed us from that tyrant."

"Are you sure? I thought it was the Tsar."

"Yes, the Tsar in Moscow."

"No, no. Not that pretender, I mean the real one, up in St Petersburg."

"What, no, their borders are way too far... Right?"

"I don't care... As far as I'm concerned, they're all Russian. Eventually one of them will kill the others, and Russia will finally fix itself."

"So you don't care if we end up being stuck under another tyrant?"

"At this point, I just want a reliable meal every day. I couldn't care less who provides it."

"Ah, yeah... I can understand that. I miss those imported snacks from England... They were my favorites."

"Does England still exist? I thought something like this happened over there, too."

"I heard the Germans rule all of Western Europe now."

"Oh, come now, that's ridiculous."

"No, really. The Germans took over Europe, and the African's have united."
"You need to lay off the alcohol, man. There's no way that's true."

"Yeah, next thing you're going to tell us is that Siberia is Chinese, and that the Byzantines rule Greece again."

"I mean, it could. For all we know, the world ended, you know what I'm saying? We don't even know what country we live in anymore. Who knows what's going on in the rest of the world."

"Yeah... I suppose you've got me there."

"… God, I miss those English snacks."



Moscow

The Tsar sat in a dusty old office, her feet up on the desk, as she read through a stack of letters that had piled up over the last week.

"Hmm... Smolensk is demanding we surrender, again. The St Petersburg front is requesting more men... Oh, what's this?"

Sitting up, she read over the parcel in her hands once more and burst out laughing.

"Oh, that's rich. That old crone wants to make a deal. How does he expect to pay for this venture of his? Muscovite money, or Ukrainian? Then he has the nerve to invite those bastards in Smolensk? Oh, that's rich. He expects us to make a truce so he can have a line to his sponsor. Fantastic!"

Letter clutched in her hand, she stood, and walked out of the room, heading towards another office in the building, and opening the door. The man on the other side seemed startled by the sudden entry but straightened up upon seeing who it was.
"Yes, my Tsar?" He asked.

"Yulian, take a look at this, and tell me it's a joke." The Tsar said, passing the letter off.

After reading it over, and then rereading it for clarity, he looked up at her, confused. "No, my Tsar. This looks to be official. Maybe even written by Yukarev himself. I..."

"So, what do you think? Is he just getting senile, or is he really trying to scam us so he can get some oil?"

"I... Sadly, think he's being quite serious. He invited Smolensk, as well. Does he have nog rasp of the political situation outside of his snow and trees?" Asked Yulian, incredulously.

"That's what I thought, exactly. He might as well have invited the boy up North, honestly. My God..." Wiping a small tear from the corner of her eye, the Tsar let out a sigh. "Well, that said... I got a letter from the men on the northern border. They need more bodies if they want to make any progress. Can we spare anybody?"

"I... No, I don't think we can, unless you want to pull some from the Nizhny front. We do have a truce with them, after all." Replied Yulian, looking a bit flustered by the tone change.

"No, we shouldn't. We have a truce, not peace. If they see us pulling away, they'll strike. It seems that old man is the only one who doesn't want to sit in Moscow-" the Tsar said with a sudden stop, looking at Yulian, who had the same look in his eyes as she had in hers. "Yulian... Prepare to have our men on the Cold Front prepare to move to St. Petersburg. I'm going to write a response to Yukarev. These plans of his will take some time to even kick in. If we can make the old dog sit at our heels for a while, perhaps we can actually move on the St. Petersburg front. While we have Yukarev bending over for access through our territory and begging for our funds, the soldiers we take from his border will prove more than enough to reinforce St Petersburg. If we can take the Jewel while playing him a false hand, we will become the strongest players in this shattered country. Then, when St Petersburg falls, we can take him up on his offer. Our soldiers will walk to his office and greet him cordially. I doubt Anastasiya would mind much if we cut out the old dog and gave her a much bigger cut."

"Wonderfully put, my Tsar. I'll relay the orders at once." Yulian said, rushing out of his office.

Sitting down in Yulian's desk, the Tsar picked up a small picture frame with his family portrait in it. She specifically focused on teenage boy smiling awkwardly, and smirked.

"Looks like the game is finally beginning. All I have to do now is crush the boy-king, and all the other pieces will fall into place. Once we establish an alliance with Ukraine, Smolensk, too, will fall. After that, it's a straight shot East- No more need to watch our backs.



With a smile, the Tsar looked out a nearby window, facing the North, and threw Yukarev's letter in a garbage can.

"Rossiya prinadlezhit mne, poetomu ya voz'mu yeye. Vse, kto protiv menya, upadut."
The Streets of Moscow

As the sun settled into the center of the sky, droves of people flocked around a large, square building in the center of Moscow. The sign overhead read "Bank", but the building had since been repurposed. Inside was where all the food shipments to the city were kept, under careful eye of armed guards. Every day, people lined up outside the building at noon, sacks in hand, waiting to get their grain ration for the day. Among the hundreds of hungry mouths stood a small child, no older than twelve, though looking about half that age, with an old pillow case draped over their bony shoulder. Their hair was long and wild, and as dark as the dirt caked to their skin.

When the line finally progressed enough for it to be the child's turn, they raised the bag, blue eyes looking at the soldiers expectantly. When the soldier dumped only one scoop of grain in the bag, the child looked confused, and raised it once more.

"I'm sorry. This week's shipment was raided by those damned bastards in Smolensk. Everyone must suffer this week because of them. I'm sorry, little girl."

After a small, lingering stare, the child lowered their bag, clenching it around the top, and began to walk away, dragging it behind them. Not soon after, they heard footsteps approaching, and turned to see a tall man without hair, head covered in tattoos. Instinctively, they dropped their bag, cowering, ready for the worst. Instead, they heard a pouring sound. As they opened their eyes, they saw the man pouring his own grain into their sack.

"Moscow needs you fit as can be, little one. We may be the ones fighting now, but the future belongs to you. Now hurry home. Not all who longer in these streets are so kind."

With a quick nod, and a quiet "Thank You!", the child turned around, sack slung over their shoulder, and ran home as fast as possible. The man simply watched as they ran, letting out a small chuckle.

"Was that really wise?" Came a voice from behind him, as a woman with a rifle slung over her back stepped out of the shadows.

"Wise, I don't know. But you saw that child. If they do not eat well, they won't make it to next year." The bald man said with a frown.

"If we don't eat, we won't make it to next year, Alexei." The woman replied with a grimmace.

"Yes, Katerina, but there's a hidden beauty you are not seeing. The woods are full of creatures that we can track down and kill, in order to have a bounty of meat that will last us through the spring!" Alexei said with a chuckle.

"Yes, BUT-" Katerina objected. "You forget, hunting is strictly forbidden to all but the army. Food must be divided equally. Tsars orders."

With that, a long smile slowly crept across Alexei's face. "Yes, my dear, but you forget… The forests to the North are not we'll guarded, as well as not out of bounds. Even if we get caught, we can just act as if we are Arkhangelsk residents, and go about our merry way. There are many ways around the law these days. We might as well make the best out of them as we can, no?"

"Alexei, you cunning fox." Katerina laughed. "You better get a move on. I'm not eating moldy hardtack again if I can help it."

"As you command." Alexei said with a bow, before turning, and heading down an alleyway, with Katerina in tow.

Inside the Kremlin, Moscow

Heavy footfalls echoed throughout the building, as the steel toed boots of the Tsar met the tiled floors of the hallway she sped down. A gaggle of advisors followed closely in tow, the chorus of a hundred pencils, all writing at once announcing their presence.

"Now tell me, how is the food situation in the city this week?" Came the stern voice of Moscow and Tsar from a face that didn't quite seem to match it. "I know those damn Smolensk bastards raided us again."

"Y-yes ma'am!" Stuttered a reply from a boy that looked to be half the Tsars age. "If the reports are right… It's going to b-be another rough week.

The Tsar stopped short, turning to the boy and making him cower instinctively. "Well, don't we have any more food in reserves that we can give out??"

"N-no ma'am. We're a-all out. This is the sixth raid this month. Th-the generals say it will only get worse, and that we should take action if w-we want to stop it."

"Yes, and I've told those old fucks time and time again. If we divert men to fight Smolensk, then we risk losing the St Petersburg front! The last thing we need is the "proper Tsar" sending his armies at at while our backs are turned. We just don't have the capacity to fight two fronts right now."

"Well, ma'am." Came a different voice from the back. "There is always the Ruthenia Plan."

The Tsar stopped, her hawkish eyes softening for a moment as she pondered the thought. "Yes…" she finally replied. "If we were to ally with Ukraine, we certainly would stop seeing such horrendous good shortages. Though it would mean losing them as a territory once we win the war…"

"With all due respect, ma'am." Came the same voice. "If we keep having these food shortages, the only way we'll win this war is if our enemies all freeze to death in the winter. The Hetman only asks for recognition of her people's independence. If you do that, then Moscow will have all the food it needs. The Ukrainians guard their trade shipments well."

After a long silence, the Tsar finally spoke. "Fine. Nervous boy, prepare my study. I need to write a letter to the Hetman post haste. You, confident woman. Find the chief of radio. I'm going to broadcast my formal recognition of the Hetman and her government. I know most of our own people will not hear it but… the rest of Russia needs to know. Moscow will do what need to be done to win this war."

"Yes ma'am!" The two said in unison, before splitting off in different directions. The Tsar watched them go as well as she could, before taking a seaton a small bench,and looking out a window.

"Ukraine, hm? Who would have thought." She muttered as she watched a pair of birds fly in front of her.
@Letter Bee
Nah. It just makes her a human character. She's not perfect, which makes her better.

It's alive. IT'S ALIIIVE!!!
I apologize for my inactivity, but I've learned the hard way it's really difficult to immerse yourself in writing when the muscle on your side was torn away from your ribcage. Even more so when the pharmacy and your insurance keep fighting, and you can't get your medication. *two thumbs up*
Hamburg, Germany


The city was singing with the songs of civilization as the warmth of the summer sun poured over Hamburg. The men and women, dressed in fine clothing, chartered as they walked in groups down the street. The children played in their parks, running, shouting, and crying, while the older folks sat off to the side, enjoying games of chess, and reading their newspapers.

"Gertrud recommends Pellkartoffel mit Quark as this week's 'Wonderful German' meal of the week." Read the headline on the front page. "How to show your patriotism as a Pole, Russian, or other immigrant." Followed close after.

"Hmph. As usual, it's just fluff." Said an old man, crumpling the paper, and tossing it in the garbage. "I miss the good old days when there was substance to the stories. The state treats us like children now!" He shouted, as parents began to herd their children, and a couple ran off, towards the closest Sicheres Münztelefon, in order to call the Gedankenpolizei.

As the old man continued to rant and rave, a younger woman, average as could be, approached him, and gently tapped him to get his attention.

"What? Are you going to tell me to be quiet? Well, I won't! That's how we got into this mess! We all stayed quiet while Wilhelm… whatever number this one is! While he slowly stripped away our humanity! While he replaced our books with propaganda! While he-!"

The old man was cut off as a whistle sounded in the distance. The telltale sign that the Gedankenpolizei where on their way to silence a troublemaker.

"Sir…" muttered the woman, making sure to keep a safe distance from his flailing arms. "Sir, you should probably leave."

"What? Leave?? Why??? If I leave, they win! If I leave, I'm written off as some old crack! Well I won't have it! I fought in the war, you know! They have to treat me with respect! If it weren't for me, they would be eating baguettes and cheese, and call each other comrade! I should be marching up to the Kaiser is what I should be doing!"

With a swing of his arms, he turned around, and began to march away, in as dignified a manner as he could muster with a bad back and wobbly knees.

The woman just watched, a defeated look on her face. One second, he was marching away, full of pride. The next, he was being tackled to the ground, and being beaten with a little plastic baton while a child probably a quarter of his age recited a script to him.

"The Kaiser provides for everybody. Dissent will not be tolerated. Disturbing the peace with mad rants will not be tolerated. Siding with the enemy will not be tolerated. …"

The list goes on and on, hand tailored to the individual, but scripted responses nonetheless. Unable to do anything else for the man, the woman straightened her blouse, tucked a stray section of brown hair behind her, and moved on to a more quiet location.

As she walked down the street, she stared blankly at all the new billboards.

"Need a new car? Raising a family? Gertrud recommends her 1958 Handwerker Familienwagen. A van for the average German family."

"Tired of cooking every morning? Try some Vorsprung Zuckerkugeln! These sweet balls of grain will provide your family with everything needed to get the day started. Family preferred, Mutti approved."

"Tired of your job? Still in your 20's? Head over to your nearest Armeecenter, pick up a gun, and fight for your country! The top candidates from each group will get to fly to Berlin, and dine with the Kaiser when they finish their training!"

'Always the same. The old man wasn't wrong. Our country treats us like stupid cattle. But what can we do?' the woman found herself thinking. 'Even if we were to speak up, we'd all end up like that man. Or worse.'

Shaking the thoughts away, she continued down the street, keeping her head down as she passed a group of Gedankenpolizei who looked to be starting their shift. Just as she was almost through, one of them grabbed her by the shoulder, and turned her around. As they did, her face went pale.

"Hello, sweetheart." Said the youngest looking one with a pug face and toothy smile. "Why the long face?"

Doing her best to avoid eye contact, she caught herself replying without meaning to. "I… I just saw a disturbing scene at the park." The words flooded out of her mouth like a river. "An old man. A veteran. He was talking crazy, and scaring the children. He started to get violent, but some of your people came.and stopped him. I was standing close when it happened. It was just starting, that's all."

Catching her breath, the woman watched for a response on the boys face, and thought the same thing she usually did when speaking in public these days.

'Those weren't my words. They came out of my mouth, but they weren't mine.'

"Oh, well. Don't you worry. I'll keep you safe from villains like that man!" The pug boy said, placing one hand on his pistol, and the other around her shoulder. She stifled her cringe as best she could.

"Oh, thank you, but… I'm sure I will be fine. I see such things often enough."

'Shit. Wrong words.' she thought, but it was too late. The boy was already grinning.

"If you see things like that often, then my escort is all the more needed! Most people would see it only now and again. But if you see it often, then you are either unlucky, or you spend time in dangerous areas. To me, both options scream 'protect me!'"

Sighing, the woman gave up. There was no winning. "We'll, if you insist." She said as short as she could. "I was going to head to the market."

"The one next to the Einheitswand?" He asked, tightening his grip on her shoulder. "You really do like scary places. The Einheitswand is a place for criminals to make their penance with the state. Of course, not all of them really mean it…"

"It has the best fruit." She said, ignoring his other comments. "The one close to the school is safer, but their fruits are almost always bad."

"Suit yourself." The officer said, as they began to walk to the city center. After about a minute of silence, the officer spoke. "So, does the beauty under my arm have a name?"

"Sofie." She replied. "Sofie Bohn."

The officer took a long, deep inhale off the top of her head, sending a shiver down her spine. "Ahhhh. Sofie. Like a beautiful spring flower."

"It means wise." She said curtly, as the meaning of her name was something she took pride in. "Not that it's my name you are interested in."

'Wrong.' she thought, as the officer tensed up, and stopped.

"And, sweet, charming Sophie. What is it that I want, then?"

The look on his face made her gag. She wanted nothing more than to get away from him, but knew it was impossible if she didn't play along.

"You want to do your Civic duty, and escort me to the supermarket so that I do not run into any more shady characters." She replied, holding back the quivering in her voice.

"Well, yes." He said, smiling a smile nearly as disturbing as that of prince Wilhelm. "But why is it I am doing that, miss Bohn?"

"Be- Because it is your duty, and you must-" she was cut off as he moved in to try to kiss her, forcing her to dodge and, instinctively, punch the disgusting sleezeball right in the face.

As he staggered backwards clutching his face, Sophie froze. The crowd around them froze. Then officers eyes began to burn.

"You bitch!" He shouted, fumbling for his gun. "You disgusting, awful, traitorous bitch! Who do you think I am?"

Whether it was out of habit, fear, or a mix of both, Sophie began talking before she could stop herself once more.

"You? I think you are a worm! A sleazy, no good worm who is taking advantage of his position to take advantage of me. You aren't trying to protect the German people! You are trying to violate them, in a way even worse than the state already is! You are no hero of the people! You're just a tiny man, with a fragile ego, who needs to be in a position of power to feel any self worth! You should be shoving that gun down your throat before you even dare point it at me!"

Blinking, Sophie processed what came out of her mouth, and immediately became terrified as the officer finished taking his gun from the holster. As he raised it to her, she shut her eyes tight, preparing for the worst. But instead of a gunshot, she heard the crunch of bone breaking.

Opening her eyes, she saw the officer on the ground, and a larger man standing over him, fist bloodied. Before the officer could do anything, the man's boot found itself in his side, making another loud crack.

"H-help!" Shouted the officer, but not before another person joined in, stomping their foot down on his head. "Hel" the officer tried again, but not before a third boot landed in his mouth, shattering his teeth.

Before Sophie could even blink, the crowd had turned into a riot, feet taking out their anger on the downed officer in any way they could. What surprised Sophie even more was looking down, and seeing herself joining in. It was something she wanted to do; and she was actually doing it. She wasn't suppressing it and watching somebody else do it for once. She was actually taking part. She wasn't even sure the bloody mess below her was even alive anymore, but she didn't care. She wasn't kicking just for her at this point. She was kicking for every person she had sat by and watched get kicked by the Gedankenpolizei. She was kicking for her grandparents, who watched their country turn into something worse than communist, after they had given their all to save it. She was kicking for her country.

Just as soon as it started, however, it was brought to an abrupt end. Whistles were sounding from all directions as the Gedankenpolizei were rushing to their position. Sophie expected to see the crowd shatter, but… They didn't. Instead, they began to link arms, forming a human wall. Sophie found herself joining in, stepping away from the mangled corpse at her feet, and finally getting a good look at everyone she was with. A fireman, a baker, a few factory workers, some people in fancy dress clothes… This wasn't just the lower class fighting back. It was Germans of all walls of life, standing together as one against the oppression of the state. Sophie couldn't believe it. Though, what happened next surprised her the most.

"This Germany is not my Fatherland. This Germany is a prison." She shouted, eyes going wide. "I refuse to stand by as the state treats us like cattle! Germany is my home, and it is sick. The only way to cure it is to stand together, and tell the Kaiser that his people are sick and tired of this oppression! The only thing it's going to do is make the people turn against him. Starting with us. Germany for the Germans!"

"Germany for the Germans! Germany for the Germans!" The crowd began to chant, as the Gedankenpolizei arrived on the scene, and immediately started to try tearing people away from the line.

"Germany for the Germans!" Continued the crowd, even when the Gedankenpolizei began to pull out their bludgeons. "Germany for the Germans!" They continued, as people began to get beaten down. "Germany for the Germans!" They shouted to the sky, even as the first shot was fired.

"Germany for the-" shouted Sophie, being cut off as a seating pain flooded out from her torso. She looked down, and saw red pooling out, devouring the white of her blouse. Tears rolling down her face, she snapped her head back up, and shouted as loud as she could, before everything went black.

"GERMANY FOR THE GERMANS!"
Consider this draft #1, unless it actually turned out well. I need to get to sleep, and will edit it further tomorrow. Discord me any detail's you want elaborated/changed/nix'd, Mihn.

Name of Nation:
Rafinid Technocracy

Nation Characteristics:
The Rafinid's sold their knowledge, skills, and, most importantly, Phoenix Gas, to the Cindorayi in exchange for protection from any other nations looking to get their hands on said gas. This protection is something they have enjoyed for quite some time, and work hard to contribute as much to the Cindorayi as possible, so as to not lose it.

History:
Before the Rafinid's pled to the Cindorayi for protection, they enjoyed their natural utopia. Free from predator's, and saved from outsider's by the cloud of gas that covered their home, they were able to shut themselves in and enjoy doing what they did best – invent, learn, and discuss. Being unable to fight physical battles, disagreements in their past were solved by competing in complex puzzle & mind games, which is also how they have always decided who among them is fit to lead the rest.

Culture:
In order to be respected in Rafinid culture, you have to be smart enough to hold a conversation with one. Anybody who solves issues with brute force is seen as weak, and shamed. In the past, the Rafinid's would send the weak-minded and violent out to sea without remorse, knowing full well they would die the second they passed beyond the cloud of Phoenix Gas. However, they now try to focus on educating and calming these individuals in a way that will at least make them able to contribute, even if minimally.

Off-shore Rafinid's don't share every belief with mainlander's, however, as they have seen other species, their cultures, and their value. They still won't go near weapons or any other sorts of violence if they can prevent it, though, and do try to solve diplomatically first in every circumstance. This has, of course, led a good few Rafinid's to their untimely ends.

Religion:
In the past, the Rafinid's worshiped the Jam'ra volcano as their God. However, around the Rafinid renaissance era, they began to become the agnostic species they are today.

Nation Location:
The central island, though there are small pocket communities within Cindorayi territories.

Nation Initial Population:
7.5 million

Species Name:
Rafinid's

Species Characteristics:
Tall, slender, amphibian-like humanoids, with eyes in shades of blue and pink. Depending on where they are raised, their skin with either be a pale taupe (If raised on their home island), or an ashy grey (If raised in another civilization.) They share a special attribute with all living things on their island – they can survive the Phoenix gas emissions that come from the bowels of the Jam'ra volcano. However, this also has a drawback for them, as they cannot survive in normal environments; whenever they are not on their home island, they cannot spend more than five minutes outside of their special environmental suits. These suits also make it so the only distinguishing features between various Rafinid's outside of their home are their voice, height, and suit design.

As a species, they posses superior intellect, to make up for what they lack in physical capability. A Rafinid should pray to never find itself in a physical confrontation with another species – nearly all others could probably snap them in half with their bare hands.

Side Chosen in Void War:
Cindorayi

Technological Level:
The Rafinid's dominate the biological and medical fields, already fielding portable life-support suits that nobody else can rival. They are also impressive engineers - though they have minimal technological advancements when it comes to a military, and have to rely on the Cindorayi's protection.

Space Presence
The Rafinid's mainly populate Cindorayi stations, however, they do have a couple orbital research station's of their own, as well as a small lunar colony that exists solely for purposes of mining, research and development.

Special Resource:
Phoenix Gas – A special gas that is only present on the home island of the Rafinid's. If condensed into a solid form, it can be used as a superior rocket fuel, lasting nearly five times longer than traditional sources of the same amount, and providing double the speed and power. The unique makeup of the volcano which the gas brews in means that supplies of the gas should last about as long as the sun stays burning. The gas can only travel so far from it's source before it becomes too thin, and breaks apart, which is what has kept it from flooding the world. The only way to transport it is by condensing it. However, it has proven, both through the course of the island's history, and in one accident, to be an extremely deadly chemical weapon.
BERLIN, GERMANY

The night of the European Conference

As his father took to the skies for his "European Concert", prince Friederich took to the streets of Berlin in his black Königswahl Gepard. As the sports car glided effortlessly through the streets, Freddy occasionally caught camera flashes out of the corner of his eye. Stifling a laugh, he shook his head.
'Not even five minutes out and they've already noticed me. Oh well. I'll lose them after the next alley.'

With a quick, precise turn that only a Gepard is capable of, Freddy glided down the alleyway, hearing the screech of the paparazzi's tires followed by the telltale thud of a collision, and finally, angry Italian yelling. Smiling to himself, he flicked on the radio, to finish his drive in peace.

"That was Damen von Swing with their hit song, 'Am die Steilabfall.' Next up on Schwingradio Deutschland is Spinnende Netze by your favorite young man out of Switzerland, Julien Schmidt!"

As the voice faded and the upbeat swing music started, Freddy lost himself in the music, time speeding along with the fast beats, until he finally arrived at a small pub off the beaten path; The Dicke Frau. It was out of the way enough that the paparazzi never found it, yet easy enough to get to that Freddy could enjoy a drink with his less than noble friends.

"Are ye serious?" Came a voice from behind him speaking English. "Me mates back home won't believe it!"

When Freddy turned around, he saw a dark haired Scottish man, kilt and all, fumbling to pull out a camera.

"Oy, you there!" He said in German, oblivious to who he was talking to. "Can you get a picture of me under the sign?"

Smiling, Freddy obliged, taking the small camera from the Scots hands, and snapping a couple pictures of him making lewd gestures underneath the sign, as well as a more proper one, supposedly for his family scrapbook.

"Thanks, I owe you one! In fact, first ones on me!" Said the jovial man, slapping his arm around Freddy's back. "Who, may I inquire, am I buying for?"

"Friederich." Replied Freddy, trying to keep casual. "And who is purchasing for me?"

"My name's Lewis! Lewis MacLean!" Replied the Scots as they marched inside.

"MEINE PRINZ!" Shouted the patrons the second they saw Freddy walk in.

"MEINE LEUTE!" Came Freddy's bombastic reply, as the bar spring to life, almost as if it had been waiting silently for him to come along. Within seconds, the rusty jukebox began to play the same radio Freddy had running in his car, and people began to get up and dance.

Navigating through the crowd, Freddy and Lewis made their way to the bar itself.

"Meine Prinz! Good to see you again! Who's your friend?" Asked the fat, balding old man standing behind the counter.

"Ah! This is Lewis! He'll be treating me, so… Bring a couple bottles of Rote Hütte for us!"

" Sure thing!" replied the bartender, retreating into a back room.

"Rote Hütte? What's that?" Asked Lewis.

"What's Rote Hütte?" Freddy asked incredulously. "Only the best beer you'll find in all of Deutschland, No, in all of Europe!"

"Well, I guess I'll be the judge of that!" Lewis snapped sarcastically. "There's some stuff back home that I'd bet my mother's couch on!"

"Is that so?" Freddy said with a smile. "We'll, Sigmund here carried drinks from all around the world, so let's see about that, why don't we? In fact, why don't we make it a challenge?"

With a wry smile, the Scots jutted his hand out toward Freddy, who met it with a hearty shake. Just then, Sigmund came back out, bottles in hand, and smiled.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it looks like the Prinz has a new challenger!"

A cheer from half the patrons followed, and people began to line up at the counter, rifling through their wallets, as Sigmund grabbed an old, ratty hat from a nearby doorknob, and a pencil and pad of paper.

"Get your bets in before it's too late!"

-----------------
Berlin, later that evening


Prinz Wilhelm sat in a recliner, reading a book titled "The Art of Manipulation." As his dark eyes glided over the pages, his lips donned a smile that would look innocent on anybody else, but made him look like a villain out of a horror film.

"Interesting." He muttered to himself, writing a small note in an even smaller journal at his side.

Just as he went to turn the page, the phone next to him began to ring. Normally, he would wait for a maid to get it, but this time, he decided to pick it up personally.

"Hello, Wilhelm speaking." He said into the reciever.

"… Yes. Okay. Yes, I understand. Yes, thank you." He said, before putting the phone down with a sigh.

"And the younger brother ruins a pleasant evening once again. I swear, if we were not family..."

Putting his book aside, Wilhelm stood up, and made his way to the door of his study, opening it.

"Dear, I'm going out for a while." He shouted into the empty hallway.

"Alright, don't get into trouble!" Came a reply from somewhere else in the house.

"You know me, darling. I'm only ever the one fixing trouble…" Wilhelm numbed, as he out his shoes on, and made his way to hair garage.

Inside sat a Falke, by Handwerker. A sportscar made by a rival company to Köningswahl, that supposedly controls better than the Gepard, and is after, to boot.

Wilhelm pressed a button next to the door, and within seconds, a pair of agents came from inside the house, ready to escort the German heir wherever he was going. As they all piled into the car, one of them asked the most obvious question first.

"Freddy?"

Nodding, Wilhelm brought them up to speed about how his younger brother drank too much, and got into a fistfight with some drunkard named Louise. Freddy, if course, was fine, but the other man was carried out on a stretcher. The only reason Wilhelm was sbihered at all was because Freddy passed out immediately after, and nobody was able to get him to move.

Upon arriving at the bar, gaudily named "The Dicke Frau", which Wilhelm was sure was a joke in English disguised as a play on words in German, the eldest prince swing open the doors, secret service agents in tow. Sure enough, the first thing they saw upon walking in was the massive form of Freddy sprawled on the floor, with some blood on his shirt and a bottle of Röte Hutte in the other.

"You" Wilhelm said to the bartender. "Help me get him upright. I'll take his left, you take his right."

Nodding, the ugly, balding man waddled over to the princes, and did as Wilhelm instructed. With a great effort, they got Freddy propped upright against a table, his eyes slowly opening.

"Hey, look at me." Demanded Wilhelm. "And let go of that shit beer, for God's sake."

Freddy, who's eyes still were barely open, growled, and threw out an arm towards his older brother, hitting him square in the chest. Wilhelm, not expecting this response, fell backwards, putting an arm out to catch himself, only to have it catch a table, and bend backwards. The elder prince let out a hell of pain, and immediately cradled the injured arm with his good one.

"You fucking idiot! I think you broke my arm, you fucking giant idiot!" Spat Wilhelm angrily. "Get up, you imbecile. I need to get to a hospital, and I can't leave you here, as much as I want to!"

"Mmmhm." Replied Freddy, as he stumbled to his feet, while Wilhelm's guards helped him to his.

"You, take the idiots car, and get him home. The last thing Father will need is a scandal on his hands." Hissed Wilhelm. "Again."

Nodding, the agent moved away, steering Freddy to the car while also grabbing the princes keys from. His pocket. Once the younger prince was in, they drove off into the night, to the sound of loud swing.

Gritting his teeth, Wilhelm got into the back seat of his son vehicle, as the calming sounds of classical music came on. Without a second to lose, the white sportscar pulled out of the bar, and headed back into the busy night in Berlin, as a cigarette butt fell from the sky, landing in the garbage behind the Dicke Frau.
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