Author Topic: Welcome to Izhitsa  (Read 3350 times)

0 Members and 1 Guest are viewing this topic.

Offline Izhitsa

  • Basically New Zealand
  • **
  • Posts: 162
    • View Profile
  • Your Nation: Izhitsa
Welcome to Izhitsa
« on: February 05, 2020, 10:26:26 PM »
This is the thread for Izhitsan vignettes. Table of contents arriving once there's actually a reason to add a table of contents.

Offline Izhitsa

  • Basically New Zealand
  • **
  • Posts: 162
    • View Profile
  • Your Nation: Izhitsa
The Izhitsan Tourist Board - Welcome to Izhitsa
« Reply #1 on: February 05, 2020, 10:29:29 PM »
5 February 2020 --- 8:30 AM --- An office above a grocery store

The room, lit by sunlight, held rows of desks in various states of decay. At one time, this would've been a loud unproductive mess of an office, filled with the sound of a dozen people trying to work despite the smell of Ondrey's fish, the noise of Yana's incessant pen-clicking, and the sheer mind-numbing boredom.
Today, only the boredom remained, combined with the sound of one keyboard, tapping away on a state-of-the-art microcomputer from 1996.

Welcome to Izhitsa, a land of peace, prosperity, and

And lying through our teeth, thought Karla. Well, it's a job, of sorts. And it came with extra rations, too, for all the good the tourism board could apparently bring the nation. Well, they said tourism board. But three people hardly make up a board. Maybe a tourism stick.

Welcome to Izhitsa, a land of peace, prosperity, and brotherhood where you never step on a landmine and end up a crippled wreck in a moldy office!

Hm. Perhaps that came on a little strong. How about...

Welcome to Izhitsa, a land of rolling hills, smiling faces, and verdant seas!

Not that she knew anyone who ever swam in the sea. The water was incredibly cold, and on top of that, there was supposed to be sea-mines all along the coast. No one could agree who had put them there. Anyway, the point was that there was, technically, a sea.

From skiing in the mountains of Smrk to biking through Ved Forest, Izhitsa has something for every adventurer!

Emphasis on adventurer. We wouldn't want regular tourists here. Their families might complain if they die.

Visit historical monuments in Hrabohrada, swim through coral reefs in Mbruk, or go on a traditional wine-tasting tour around Tsestovani Tsitron!

‘Wine-tasting tour’ sounds fancier than ‘pub crawl’, right?

It’s all within your grasp when you visit Izhitsa!

She gritted her teeth. Good God. It was going to rain today. She always knew when it was going to rain, a superpower which never compensated for the intense pain in what was left of her leg. She swallowed a painkiller and waited for the throbbing to subside.
The door creaked open. “Hey, Karla! How are you this fine morning?”
“Not fine for long, Rado,” said Karla. “And what brings you here so late?”
“Oh, you know,” said Radovan, knowing full well she didn’t. “It’s my day to buy gas, so I figured I’d get in line early.”
“Along with 30 or 40 other people who thought the same thing.”
“It's better than the afternoon lines. Say, speaking of being late, where's Pavla?”
"She's off trying to convince some Vanoran airline executive to offer flights to Izhitsa." Karla reached into a folder and pulled out a card. "She left contact info if you need her for anything."
"No, thank you," said Radovan. "All she would do is ask me why I'm talking to her instead of working on the website. Anyway, what are you working on?"
“You know that video which is supposed to play when you enter the website?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m writing the script for it and Pavla will have your head if you’re not ready to put it in when we’re done filming.”
“You want any feedback?” asked Radovan, pulling up a chair.
“I’ve just been throwing out ideas. It’s only a few lines so far. You’re not going to get that much of a delay out of it,” replied Karla.
“It’s worth a shot.”
Karla read it to him.
“Seriously?” said Radovan. “You want them to visit Hrabohrada?”
“Well, I suspect people are going to want to look at the only Izhitsan city with an international airport, no?” said Karla. “Especially after they fly in?”
“Seems you ought to warn them, at least.”
“Come on, Rado. It’s not like people are shooting each other here anymore.”
There was an awkward silence.
“I’m going to work on adding video functionality to the website,” said Radovan, getting up.
“That sounds like a good idea.”

Hah. Very funny, thought Karla. Warning people about visiting Izhitsa. We’re a tourism board, not a foreign consulate. Although…
She opened a new document.

Welcome to Izhitsa, a formerly peaceful, prosperous land ravaged by years of war.  From the foxholes carved into the mountains of Smrk, to the vast reaches of Ved forest burnt down by incendiary bombs, civil war has violated the Izhitsan nation in every conceivable way. Visit the bullet-scarred monuments of Hrabohrada, swim around sea-mines in Mbruk, and see the homeless steal grapes from the vineyards of Tsestovani Tsitron. See the awful consequences of nationalism when you visit Izhitsa!

Okay, maybe it wasn’t exactly a traditional pitch, but she’d met a couple Achkaerinese once who’d be enthralled by the idea. She’d hated people like that during the war, those unfeeling bastards, but if they were willing to come here and pay, well, that was business.
« Last Edit: March 05, 2020, 10:24:54 PM by Izhitsa »

Offline Izhitsa

  • Basically New Zealand
  • **
  • Posts: 162
    • View Profile
  • Your Nation: Izhitsa
The Knight and the Bard - The SeaTowers Speech
« Reply #2 on: February 07, 2020, 04:43:43 AM »
6 February 2020 --- 2:05 PM --- A Stage Outside the Former King’s Palace in Hrabohrada

Antek Dzhavid and Matvey Karamovo stepped off the stage, keeping their gloomy looks centered on the ground in front of them. They reached the road east of the former king’s palace, and, ignoring the flying questions from the swarm of pressmen, squeezed into Matvey Karamovo’s personal car, a VVV Type 3. It was an ancient, battered thing. Matvey’s father had taught him how to drive in it, and he was determined never to replace it until he had run it into the ground. That was 18 years ago, and, despite the addition of armor plating and replacement of most of its engine, it was still going strong.
It was Antek who broke the silence. “God. What a mess that whole business was.”
“Yes,” said Matvey. He started the car.
“Have I told you how my parents died?” said Antek.
“No,” lied Matvey. He had known Antek ever since Yach and Izhitska Ednota had begun collaborating against the nationalists. He didn’t know anyone who was comfortable challenging the High Lord when he was like this.
“Gassed by the nationalists in the massacre at Okray,” said Antek. “But not all at once, no.” Antek sniffled. “That would’ve been too easy. They took every Yachese they could find, and gave them just enough gas to hurt them, but not kill them. Then they revived them and found a different gas to poison them with. And they did this until there were no more Yachese left in Okray.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Matvey, monotone. He hated to admit it, but he often felt the only reason the nationalists had lost was because of stupid wastes of resources like that. He worried that a second uprising wouldn’t be so imprudent. “Where am I driving you to?”
“Hrada Central station,” said Antek.
“You took a bus here all the way from Yach? How did you get to the palace?”
“I walked. I want to reconnect more with the people. The war kept me too far away.”
Ah, yes, thought Matvey. The bourgeois poet wants to reconnect with the hungry, tired workers. I’m sure that went smashingly.
“It went smashingly,” said Antek. “I met several interesting people on the way.”
Matvey frowned. He had a question burning in his mind. “Lord Dzhavid, you told me that you wanted to bring back Izhitsa’s reputation on the global stage. Was this what you had in mind?”
“What do you mean?”
Matvey glared at the road. “Publicly challenging a global power before we’ve even put together a new constitution? Or even established normal diplomatic relations with, well, let’s be honest, anyone?”
Antek frowned. “It’s a matter of moral standing. You agreed to this, Chairman.”
What I agreed to, thought Matvey, was simply acknowledging the facts before a silent international community. Not accusing King David of planning war crimes. Not equating the deaths of nine terrorists with the murder of thousands. And certainly not your moralising.
“I didn’t think you would say it like that,” said Matvey.
“Then you don’t know me well enough.”
They drove in silence for a while. While there weren’t that many vehicles on the road, there was still a fair amount of debris left from the siege of Hrabohrada. The city, never very well-planned, had become a maze of detours and bypasses. Antek contemplated the debris from the car window. He watched bits of Embassy Row, pieces of Hrada High Street, and chunks of Zhludum Bridge being shipped off to landfills or reused to pave roads. He saw piles of history drift by, beloved no longer by the new Izhitsa. It hurt him to see so much beauty destroyed in the last seven years, and it hurt to see people treat it as nothing but common refuse material. But somehow, it felt better to see that humanity was as it has always been: striving to be something better.
“This is your stop,” said Matvey. “Hey, before you go, I need you to tell me something.”
“Yes?” said Antek, stepping out of the car.
“About rationing in the Yach Administrative Zone. Did you make a decision?”
Antek squatted down so that he could see Matvey. “Yes. I decided…” he sighed.
“What did you decide?”
“I decided that your heart was in the right place.” Antek closed the door and left for the ticket center.
Matvey watched him walk in. Jumped-up bourgeois bastard, he thought.
« Last Edit: March 05, 2020, 10:25:30 PM by Izhitsa »

Offline Izhitsa

  • Basically New Zealand
  • **
  • Posts: 162
    • View Profile
  • Your Nation: Izhitsa
The Izhitsan Tourist Board - The Commercial
« Reply #3 on: March 05, 2020, 10:24:20 PM »
5 March 2020 --- 8:42 AM --- An office above a grocery store

In the years leading to the civil war, the businesses of Hrabohrada valued open offices for their ability to increase productivity by stuff as many people as possible into cramped space where everyone could hear everything everyone else did, but not the conversation they were having at their desk. They would occasionally receive a manager who had their own room, who would bark a motivational speech and some vague orders before going back upstairs. This was called “thought leadership”, apparently because the managers had thought about leadership and then decided against it.

Today, most of these offices were abandoned, or, like this one, nationalised for the new military administrations imposed on the city at the end of the war.

Pavla announced her entrance to the Izhitsan Tourist Board, as she always did, by kicking the door open, slamming it against the wall. “Alright, ladies, let’s get to work for once!”

“Pavla!” said Karla, feigning an expression of offense. “How could you be so rude, lumping me in with Rado over ther-…”

“Hey, I do work! I did some yesterday, as a matter of fact!” said Radovan. Nearly three hours’ worth. And he picked up Pavla’s shopping, which wasn’t in the job description at all. “Oh, Pavla, I nearly forgot, here are the rations I got for you yesterday.”

Pavla took the bag and frowned slightly. “Isn’t there usually more?”

Radovan shrugged. “It’s the same as what I got.”

“Same here,” said Karla. “By the way, how was Nya Aland? Were you able to get Izhitsa Air a gate at the airport?”

“It was awful!” said Pavla, slumping into a chair. “A two-week trip to their country, and what gratitude do they show? An ‘I’ll look into it.’”

“I… don’t think that’s exactly how it works, Pavla,” said Karla. She knew it was useless to try to interrupt one of Pavla’s rants, but she felt an obligation to try.

“And that country doesn’t even have proper telephone service! I tried to call you on the satellite phone the other day, but all I got was dead air! Not even a dial tone!”

Radovan and Karla continued their work while Pavla ranted. Today, they were going to film that commercial they’d been planning for so long. The plan was to have Pavla give Karla’s carefully drafted speech on the wonders of visiting Izhitsa, while footage of Izhitsa’s finest tourist attractions showed behind her. One of Karla’s friends used to be an amateur film producer before the war, and taught her how to do all the editing. They even had a green screen set up in one of the halls outside the office. Well, a green blanket, anyway. And the brown stain near the corner somewhat detracted from the effect.

Pavla was nearly reaching an end to her speech. “... and that’s what’s wrong with Alanders. They’re all like ‘look at me, I believe in peace and brotherhood until someone moves in on some boats a couple hundred miles from me!’” She collected herself. “Anyway, are we ready to begin filming now?”


5 March 2020 --- 8:55 AM --- A hall above a grocery store

Pavla stood in front of the camera and read off the cue cards. “Hello. My name is Pavla Malkova, and on behalf of all of us I welcome you to the Izhitsan Federation.”

Radovan watched unimpressed. “Do you think you could try smiling a bit more?”

“Or least looking like you actually want tourists to be here?” said Karla.

“Fine,” grunted Pavla. She put up her best grimace.

“Oh,” said Radovan, feeling rather perturbed. “I don’t suppose you have anything less… how do I say this?”

“Something that looks less like you’re about to eat the viewer,” said Karla.

Pavla threw her hands up in frustration. “This is a normal smile for normal people! People smile like this all the time! See?” She grimaced again.

“Oh good God, Pavla!” shouted Karla. “Try not to blind us!”

“Okay,” said Pavla, “If you don’t like my smile, then you do the video!”

“Seriously? You want people’s first impression of Izhitsa to be a woman missing a leg?”

“Okay, then we’ll have Rado do it.”

“So their first impression will be a boy who can’t speak English?”

“Hey,” said Radovan, “I’m right here, you know?”

“Rado,” said Pavla, “If we taught you how to say all the words in the script, could you do the video?”

“I suppose so,” said Radovan, who was beginning to feel incredibly uncomfortable with the new direction this conversation was taking.

“Alright, then, it’s settled,” said Pavla. “Time for your first English lesson.”


5 March 2020 --- 12:04 PM --- An office above a grocery store

Karla began watching the video they pulled from the camera. She felt a tap on her shoulder.

“How does it sound?” asked Radovan. Karla paused the video.

“Like a Morelander pirate with a cold,” said Karla. “But it’s good enough. Thanks, Rado.”

“Now, it would have been nice if Pavla had taught me what all the words meant.”

“Wait, what?” said Karla.

Radovan shrugged. “She just told me to sound bubbly and happy the whole time.”

“Even during the part about the Great War memorial?”

“What Great War memorial?”

Karla facepalmed. “Pavla! We need to run it again! And tell Rado what he’s actually saying this time!”
« Last Edit: March 06, 2020, 04:28:55 AM by Izhitsa »

Offline Izhitsa

  • Basically New Zealand
  • **
  • Posts: 162
    • View Profile
  • Your Nation: Izhitsa
Re: Welcome to Izhitsa
« Reply #4 on: April 07, 2020, 04:57:22 AM »
6 April 2020 --- 10:03 AM --- An office adjoining the Izhitska Ednota Headquarters in Kherhorod

Anton Brazda’s office was sparsely decorated, as befitted the proper socialist. He had a desk, a picture of his family, and a map. He didn’t need such fripperies as paintings, or carpet, or lamps. Well, technically, he did sort of need a lamp, but the old one broke and there wasn’t any money for a new one, so he had decided to move his desk in front of the window.
One advantage of this was that he always appeared to visitors to be surrounded by light.
He heard a buzz from the phone. He pushed a green button. “Yes, Mr. Maresh?” he said.
“There’s a lady here to see you,” croaked the phone. “Your 10 AM meeting with the leader of the Social Democrats.”
“Send her in.”
Anton had thought it was odd that the Social Democrats would be reaching out to Izhitska Ednota, considering they’d refused to join their coalition five years ago during the civil war. What were their exact words, again? Ah, yes. We cannot join what is at its core a revolutionary group. We need to build up the world, not tear it down and start over. Bourgeois tosh for “We only want leftism when it is easy.” When he’d got that letter he nearly ripped it up without a second thought.
The door creaked open timidly. A woman stepped in. “Anton Brazda, I presume?”
Tadar Hamady? What the hell are you doing here?” said Anton. “Get out. I have a meeting with the Social Democrats and--- Oh. I see what’s happened.”
“Yes, Mr. Brazda. A slight deception on my part, but you’ll understand why it was necessary,” said Tadar.
“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t call security right now.”
“I have an offer for you.” She shut the door.
Anton was taken aback. “An offer?” He faked a laugh. “An offer? Seriously? From the woman who, well, let’s see, what was the exact quote?” He opened a drawer and started shuffling through it.”
“You actually kept a copy of my review of your book for 14 years?” said Tadar.
“Ah, yes!” Anton pulled out a scrap of laminated paper and read from it. “‘Modern Solutions to Ancient Problems is a unique tome of economic thought. In the first half, Brazda manages to correctly identify everything wrong with the state of Izhitsa today. In the second, he lays out all of the best ways to drive Izhitsa’s already stagnant economy down a well. Mr. Brazda’s unusual parody of economics has well earned its place next to my Saturnin novels and will provide hours of entertainment for years to come.’”
Tadar smirked. She hadn’t remembered writing that bit. “I suppose I did come off a little strong. In my defense, I still keep your book next to my Saturnin novels.”
“Well, I’m glad you drove here all the way from Assif Ushaa to tell me about the state of your bookshelves. Now, if you’ll excuse me---”
“Tell me, what is the role of the Chairman in Izhitska Ednota?” She pulled up a chair and sat down in front of Anton’s desk.
Anton frowned. “The Chairman sets the agenda for the First Committee, signs off on resolutions, and acts as a figurehead for the Committee.”
“And the role of the High Lord of Yach is much the same,” said Tadar. “They set agendas, they act as representatives to Izhitsa and the world, but they don’t write policy. Well, they’re not supposed to, anyway.”
“What’s your point?”
Tadar attempted to dramatically stare into Anton’s eyes, but the light from the window blinded her and she was forced to look away. “When was the last time the Chairman listened to you, Mr. Brazda?”
“Well---”
“When was the last time the Chairman consulted the First Committee on a policy decision, Mr. Brazda?”
“Look---”
“Rationing was entirely his idea, wasn’t it? Planned by him, written by him, signed off by him? And what about the business with East Moreland? Or Tamora?” Tadar looked at the map on Anton’s wall. “How about his decision to divide Izhitsa between Izhitska Ednota and Yach? Did he even ask for a debate in the First Committee? Or did he just expect you to rubber-stamp his ideas?”
Anton huffed in frustration. “Why do you care about any of this?”
“Because our governments have been hijacked. Yours by a loose cannon general who barely knows what communism is, and mine by a jumped-up national poet who can’t keep his damned mouth shut. Tell me that isn’t true.”
“Well---”
“Wouldn’t it be better to find more capable leadership?”
Anton paused before answering. “You’re saying you want to replace Lord Dzhavid and Chairman Karamovo.”
“Yes.”
“With ourselves.”
“Yes. If half of Izhitsa must be governed by a communist, I want them to be a smart communist.”
“And if half of Izhitsa must be governed by a stuck-up bourgeois liberal, I want them to be a smart stuck-up bourgeois liberal,” said Anton.
Tadar ignored the slight. “Are you agreed?”
Anton rested his head on his fist as if he was thinking.
Tadar cleared her throat. “Why is it that you let Karamovo be Chairman anyway? Your ideas made the Izhitsan Left what it is today. You would’ve been a shoo-in for the Chairmanship if you hadn’t supported him. Why would you let a general take your thunder?”
Anton frowned and said nothing. What was he supposed to say? That he thought he could control him? That he underestimated Karamovo’s popularity? “Let me answer one unfair question with another. How do you think you’ll be able to oust the two most popular men in Izhitsa?”
There was a pause. Tadar got up from her chair. “Well, Mr. Brazda, I suppose I shouldn’t keep you. You have your meeting with the Social Democrats, remember?” She opened the door. “Oh, by the way, I must say, even though I whole-heartedly disagree with your economics, I must say there is one thing I deeply respect about you. You don’t care about scoring ideological points. You care about what works. You care about what’s best for Izhitsa.” She turned to leave.
“Mrs. Hamady,” said Anton.
“Yes?”
“Call me when you have a plan.”
« Last Edit: April 07, 2020, 05:14:43 AM by Izhitsa »

Offline Izhitsa

  • Basically New Zealand
  • **
  • Posts: 162
    • View Profile
  • Your Nation: Izhitsa
The Izhitsan Tourist Board - Get What You Get
« Reply #5 on: May 02, 2020, 06:57:10 AM »
2 May 2020 --- 6:30 PM --- A grocery store

“What do you have for me today, Roland?” Pavla approached the grocery store counter. She used to tease Roland, the grocer, by looking around at the empty shelves, examining invisible jars and checking invisible fruits for blemishes. That got old after Roland threatened to report her for stealing invisible bread.
“Well, in this bag, I have some potatoes,” Roland said.
“Right. What do you have in the other bag?”
“Sweet potatoes.”
“Right,” said Pavla. “Pardon me for asking, but what the hell happened to your stock?”
Roland sighed. This wasn’t the first time he’d had this conversation today. “Look, Pavla, I don’t set the rations. That all comes from some bureaucrat in Izhitska Ednota. And hey, that’s not all that’s in there. Take a look.”
Pavla dug through the two bags in front of her. “A jar of pickled cabbage and a couple sausages,” she said, a sardonic smile on her face. “Yippee. You’ve single-handedly saved my family dinner.” Her face darkened. “Seriously, what in the name of the Lord of Heaven am I supposed to do with this?”
“Well—”
“You men always think cooking is so easy.”
“I was planning to—”
“You just think, ‘oh, you just splash a little oil here, put some pepper in here, and hey presto!’ Well, I’ll tell you what I think.” Pavla pointed her finger in Roland’s face. He was too nervous to back away.
“Actually, all I wanted to—”
“I could be the greatest chef in the world, but I can’t do anything with this trash food they give us!” At this Pavla turned away in a huff.
Roland sheepishly spoke. “I was going to say that I planned to make vodka with part of my ration.”
“Vodka, are you crazy? You don’t know the first thing about distilling. Don’t you remember what happened to Milosh Yanevich? You’ll make some poisoned moonshine and go blind.”
“At least it’ll take my mind off the potatoes.”
“That’s true,” Pavla said, frowning. “It’s just that I was hoping to bake my son a cake. It’s his birthday in a couple days, and he just hasn’t been the same since—well, where to begin? I have some butter left, and I guess I can use the sweet potatoes as sweetener, but I need flour if I’m going to approach anything edible.”
“Can’t you use potato flour?”
“Ah, yes, and my son will enjoy his sticky pile of sweet-potato-flavored mush,” said Pavla. “No, we’re just going to do without this year.”
Roland smiled. “I have some flour. They gave me some two weeks ago but I only used a few cups.”
“Really? How much do you want for it?”
“Well, I suppose we could discuss that downstairs in my r—”
“No, Roland.”
“You don’t even know what I was about to say!”
“I know exactly what you were going to say, Roland, because you say it every time you have an opportunity, and the next time you finish a remark like that I’m going to get your party membership revoked.”
“Sorry,” said Roland. “In that case, I’ll trade you your pickled cabbage.”
“What!” Pavla was genuinely indignant now. “You want to take away the only thing in this bag with flavor?”
“Sorry, Pavla, I don’t like sausages.”
Pavla frowned. She looked at the delicious cabbage sitting in the jar. She thought about the prospect of eating nothing but potatoes and sausages for a full week. She wondered whether it would really be possible to make the cake work. She thought about her son, who told her that she didn’t need to go to so much trouble just to get a cake. He’d already had nine perfectly good birthday cakes, and it was okay if she couldn’t get one this year. “Fine,” said Pavla. “Have your cabbage. I hope you choke.”

Offline Izhitsa

  • Basically New Zealand
  • **
  • Posts: 162
    • View Profile
  • Your Nation: Izhitsa
Re: Welcome to Izhitsa
« Reply #6 on: June 12, 2020, 07:07:58 PM »
8 Jun 2020 --- 10:28 PM --- A club in Tilhuitnah

Tadar Hamady sipped her drink. She had been teetotal since 1991, when she vowed before God to give up drink if she managed to pass her dissertation defense while severely hungover and missing her glasses. She preferred not to let it on, though, which meant she’d gotten to know the bartenders of Tilhuitnah and Assif Ushaa well enough to let her keep her own special bottles of “beer”, “wine”, and “absinthe” behind the bar. Right now she was drinking a green-colored anise-lemongrass tea and waiting for an important appointment.
Anton Brazda walked into the club. He had to admit, this band was… well, he knew a band called “Fatima Spar and the Freedom Fries” was never going to be to his taste, but he could see why people liked it. The players certainly had talent, though for some of them that talent was probably something like cup stacking or crazy golf. He spotted Tadar at a table and walked over. “I can see why you chose this place,” he said. “These people are loud.”
“I take it you don’t like the music, then?” Tadar said. “Fatima Spar’s been a regular here since before the war. A lot of the Yachese Republicans come here because they can’t be overheard.” Anton glanced around. Most of Yach’s entire rogues’ gallery of agitators and revolutionaries were gathered throughout the club. He felt less out of place. There was Areksim Brabets, Delina Idris, and—hang on!
“Isn’t that Buzed Hadi? The terrorist?” said Anton.
“Don’t say that too loudly,” said Tadar. “They might kick you out.”
“They’ve been looking for that man for eleven years, Mrs. Hamady! He killed 20 people! We should call the police.”
“Right, Mr. Brazda, let’s just think this one through. A notorious terrorist happens to be living out in the public in one of Izhitsa’s largest cities, and nobody’s bothered to take him in? Don’t you think there’s a slight chance that the local police are either corrupt or filled with sympathisers?”
“Well—”
“Incidentally, it’s both.”
Anton sighed. “Let’s just get down to business, okay? It’s been a long day.”
“Right,” said Tadar. “First, let me apologise for bringing you all the way down here. It’s the only way I could know that there’s no one listening in on us.”
“Don’t worry about it, I had business in Tilhuitnah anyway,” said Anton, wincing at the screech of a saxophone doing things that God had never intended for it. “A few of the leftists down here are trying to get Izhitska Ednota on the Yachese ballot.”
“In a way, that’s what I called you down here for.”
“Go on.”
"If we want to take down Karamovo and Dzhavid, we'll have to take it in phases." Anton listened intently to what she had to say. It was devious, artful, and in some parts quite nearly treasonous, but it seemed like it just might work. There was just one thing left contributing to that knot in his stomach.
“And the pretender, Kamil Yanoshek?” said Anton. “How do you plan to keep him out of the picture?”
“You don’t seriously think he has any support for the throne, Mr. Brazda?” said Tadar, smiling to herself as she took another sip. “A casually racist chef from upper Ved can hardly be thought of as the best-bred of men.”
Anton paused before answering. He had known plenty of people like Yanoshek growing up in Khorska Pevnot. They were the people who propped up people like the nationalists. They weren’t bad people. They weren’t the mass-murderers or torturers that actually took up arms against the state. They just felt like they were under attack by forces as inscrutable as they were insidious. "You never know," he said. "We should at least be careful."


9 Jun 2020 --- 9:00 AM --- An office in the former king’s palace in Hrabohrada

“Ey, Matko.” Anton let himself into Matvey’s office. Formerly the Prime Minister’s office, it was unabashedly bourgeois. The room was well lit, with imported mahogany furniture and keenly decorated floral wallpaper. On a second look, it was clear that the wallpaper was originally white, but the combination of the incandescent lightbulbs and 150 years made it a dull yellow.
“Ey, Tony! I didn’t know you had an appointment today,” said Matvey. He was sitting behind a desk riddled with bullet holes. The nationalists had thought that shooting the Prime Minister dead in his own chair would make for dramatic photo op.
“I don’t. I didn’t think I should alert people to— Hang on, since when did you work by appointments? Where did Mad Matvey of Kherhorod go?”
“Crushed to death by meetings and paperwork,” said Matvey. “Surely you of all people know what that’s like.”
“Yes, I’m afraid I do,” said Anton glumly.
“Oh, but forget all that, man, I haven’t seen you in ages!”
“That’s because you spend all your time here, Matko. Why did you move down here anyway?”
“I’m trying to build support down here, Tony, you know that. A lot of the people in Ved don’t like the idea of being ruled from Kherhorod.”
“Have you found a good leader for the Hrada Soviet yet?”
“I’m interviewing a few candidates today,” said Matvey. “Would you like to take a look at the list?” He opened a filing cabinet. “There are some really good people here.”
“Actually,” said Anton, pulling up a chair, “There’s something else I need to talk to you about. It's rationing.”
“Always the rationing, Tony. How many times do I have to tell you? We need it to prevent the shortages like they have in Yach. Besides, it worked fine for our military men for seven years.”
“Sure, Mata, but if you take a look at these charts, we really have a serious problem.” Anton opened his briefcase and explained everything.
It took a long time for Matvey to come to terms with what he was seeing. “How long do we have on current rations?" he asked.
"5 months," said Anton.
"What if we only cared about minimum healthy caloric intake?"
"7 months, tops."
"And if we tried to meet minimum nutritional requirements as well?"
"3 months."
"That's less than what we're doing now."
"I know. We don’t have the money, and we don’t have the production,” said Anton. He saw Matvey frown, dejected, at the space in front of him. It was time to introduce the idea. “On top of that, we have 150000 people sitting in POW camps because we can’t decide what to do about them. We can’t sustain this, Matko."
Matvey slumped over in his chair. “What if we… put them to work?” he said.
“Mata, you’d better not be proposing that you make slaves of these people,” said Anton.
“No, not slaves, it’ll all be voluntary,” said Matvey, quietly. “They just… won’t have as much to eat if they don’t.”
“Is that legal?”
“It… might be?: Matvey frowned and slammed the desk. “Anyway, what choice do we have? We can’t buy food from Yach because they’re having their own shortage, and we can’t buy food from overseas because they won’t take our money. Look, Anton, I’ll draw up the proposal. It’s my program, so it’s my responsibility. I’ll see if I can bypass the First Committee. You know it’ll take ages to get through there, and if we’re going to plant thousands of acres of food we’ll need to be quick about it.”
Anton left the room a little more worried than when he went in. He’d done his part. He wasn’t sure what would anger people more: the knowledge that their family and friends were being forced to farm for the state, or the knowledge that Izhitska Ednota was rapidly losing the ability to feed its people. In any case, he knew that as soon as he tipped off the Kherhorod Truth there would be no turning back.


9 Jun 2020 --- 10:30 AM --- Lbrlaman, the Yachese Parliament building


Tadar always felt that the hallway to the High Lord’s office was specially designed to intimidate. The walls, covered with paintings of former High Lords, stared you down, silently judging. The pale blue carpet seemed designed to alienate and discomfit. Also, nothing else would explain why the builders had made the hallway slightly widen at the end, to give the impression that it was longer than it was.
She knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
“Lord Dzhavid,” she said, closing the door behind her, “thank you for meeting me on such short notice.”
“You said it was important, Mrs. Hamady.”
“And it is,” said Tadar. “I have a policy decision I need to ask you about.”
“Of course,” said Antek. “Always happy to guide another member of the party.”
“It’s about the election. There are a number of electoral issues I’d like to solve before December. I’m sure they’ve been on your mind too.”
“Like what?”
She listed her concerns. There was no way to guarantee public safety, she said, especially with Yachese police and troops stretched so thin. Plus, with the new Izhitsan constitution being drafted, there was no guarantee that the election results from December would be valid in January. Couldn’t this have an impact on how people vote? And what if the rest of the Yachese administrative zone demanded representation?
Antek grunted, as if in thought. “That’s true,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about the election a lot lately.” Ah, thought Tadar. That’s the cue to plant the idea.
“It’s almost not worth having the election at all,” she said.
“You know, Mrs. Hamady, it’s funny you should say that,” said Antek. “You know, of course, that the Yachese Constitution gives Parliament the ability to postpone elections up to one year for public safety reasons.”
“You’d need to conjure up a two-thirds majority from somewhere, though,” said Tadar. “And you’d need confirmation from the Governor of Yach.”
“That’s true, but when there is no Governor, his duties fall to the High Lord,” said Antek, deep in thought. “And no new Governor has been confirmed since the royal family was killed.”
“You’re not seriously considering—”
“What choice do I have? We can’t be sure that there aren’t nationalist fighters already planning attacks on our election. I mean, there are hundreds of thousands of potential militants just missing! What else are we supposed to do?”


9 Jun 2020 --- 10:50 AM --- An office adjoining the Izhitska Ednota Headquarters in Kherhorod

The phone rang. Anton picked it up. “Ahoy?”
“Ah, Mr. Brazda.” It was Tadar. “I just wanted to let you know that the bard is willing to play. What about the knight?”
“Absolutely,” said Anton. They’d adopted code words for Dzhavid and Karamovo to be able to speak more freely on unsecured channels. “I think he’s rather a bit too enthusiastic, to be perfectly honest. I guess we’ll hear about it soon.”
“Some people are just incredibly trusting, I suppose. Better for us.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Anton. Tadar hung up the phone. Anton shut off the recording device. Yes, he thought, some people are incredibly trusting. This scheme might not turn out to be everything he hoped for, but his habit of recording his conversations had borne some interesting fruit. A recording of a prime minister admitting to knowing the whereabouts of a known terrorist was sure to be a fine bargaining chip later down the line.


12 Jun 2020 --- 8 PM --- Tibor Tower, Kherhorod Truth headquarters

Yulia Tancheva didn’t usually stay in town this late, but when you confirm a story like this you don’t just leave it hanging. “Burning the midnight oil, Yulia?” It was her editor, Amalie Tsitrova.
“Those tips we got on Tuesday check out,” said Yulia. I’ve got confirmation that nationalist POWs are being relocated to farm camps in Shta and that the Yach People’s Party is finding supporters for a vote to delay the Yachese elections.”
“That’s kind of insane. Can they do that?”
“Apparently so, because that’s what they are doing.”
“Well, I guess that’s the front page news for Sunday and Monday taken care of,” said Amalia. Good work, Yulia. We really needed something like this.”

Offline Izhitsa

  • Basically New Zealand
  • **
  • Posts: 162
    • View Profile
  • Your Nation: Izhitsa
Writing Wrongs - Svatopluk
« Reply #7 on: November 23, 2020, 01:26:37 AM »
22 November 2020 --- 6:54 PM --- A bus stop outside Tibor Tower, Kherhorod

Svatopluk Yaroshovo took another sip from his flask. He didn’t mean to do it, but then again, he hadn’t meant the last sixteen sips either. Where was that damned bus?

If his last article had any insights to offer, it would probably suggest that civil unrest had delayed it, possibly blocking the roads, or even, God forbid, overturning it, for no reason besides the will of the mob. He bit his lip. No reason to think about that, now. What’s done is done. He looked at his watch.
 
He heard footsteps behind him. He didn’t bother to look. He stared down the road again, compulsively taking a look at his watch again, before taking a sip. He didn’t see Amalie Tsitrova, his editor, heading to her car.

Amalie heard the quiet twisting of the cap on the flask, and, looking toward the bus shelter, noticed Svatopluk checking his watch again. That was odd, she thought. Didn’t he leave about thirty minutes ago? She decided to walk over.

Svatopluk felt warmth coming from the seat beside him and noticed that it had now been claimed by his editor. “Leaving work early, Amalie?”

“Well, your article was the last thing we needed for tomorrow’s edition, so I decided to give myself a little break.”

“You know you’ve got to stop working here so late. It’s not good for you.”

“You mean like gin isn’t good for you?”

Svatopluk hadn’t noticed that he’d taken a sip. He decided to set the flask back on his hip. “Point taken.” He frowned. “I thought you took your car today.”

“And I thought you’d have gotten on the bus by now.”

“I’d thought that too.”

“And, there was something else.” Amalie coughed. “Mr. Otsel asked me to talk to you about your article.”

Here we go. That so-called political officer had been a thorn in his side ever since the communists had sent him over. “What about it?”

“I’d like you to guess.”

Svatopluk sighed. He knew exactly what he was talking about. “Oh, I don’t know. Too much information? Too little glorification of the Party? A rude smudge mark?”

“You wrote ‘Mr. Otsel is a wanker’ twenty-four times in the middle of the article.”

Svatopluk smiled. “I never write anything that isn’t true.”

“Svatopluk, you realise that that man has the power to go to Izhitska Ednota and have us shut down?”

He chuckled. “I’d like to see him try. No one would stand for it. Izhitsa’s greatest newspaper? Even the Devil himself couldn’t do it. But I repeat myself.”

“Or worse, he can turn us into an actual party mouthpiece.” Amalie looked him straight in the eyes. “Svatopluk, listen to me. I’m going to say this in words of one syllable so you can understand. You can’t fight this. If they think they don’t have us in their control, they will shut us down, you will have no job. Is that clear?”

Svatopluk sighed, then stared again down the road. “Sway, not control. Two syllables.”

“Svatopluk, this is serious!”

He frowned. “And you know what else is serious? Yulia! We haven’t seen or heard from her since Kamil Yanoshek’s sorry excuse for a coronation, yet every time we ask Mr. Otsel—and what is that man’s first name, anyway?—every time we ask that man if the police know anything new, he just says ‘that investigation is still ongoing.’ And that man insists on butchering my words, me beautiful words, and calls it ‘proletarian’. It’s Orwellian, more like.”

“Svatopluk, Yulia’s dead. There’s no way she can’t be by now.”

“But why? I just need to know why, don’t you understand? There’s something here, and just like in everything else, Mr. Otsel doesn’t want anyone to know about it.”

“Svato—”

“You know I interviewed twenty-four people for that article? Mr. Otsel told me I couldn’t use any of the material.”

“Svatopluk, seriously—”

“You know the article says we couldn’t get confirmation of the Inquirer article? That’s because Mr. Otsel wouldn’t let me.”

“Svatopluk, I know, but—”

“The official killed in Dozortse? He’d ordered his men to fire on peaceful protestors. They fired on him instead.”

“Svatopluk, listen to me—”

“You know, I bet that fire in the former king’s palace was set by someone inside, too. It doesn’t make sense any other way.”

“Svatopluk—”

He let out a shriek of anger. “What?”

“Svatopluk, you just missed your bus.”

“Damn.”

Amalie sighed. “You know what, if you want, I can drive you home. No use sitting around all night like this anyway.”

Svatopluk accepted her invitation. His mood brightened as he approached his apartment. They talked about small things. Amalie raved about the latest history book out from some Shtan aristocrat, he complained about his feeble attempts at growing carrots in his back garden, and they both made guesses about Mr. Otsel’s first name. Svatopluk was pretty sure it had to be something like 'Anna' for it to be such an important secret.

It got worse when he got to the door. He remembered the article again. And then he remembered all the people he failed in writing it. I never write anything that isn't true, he thought, but that sure doesn’t stop me from lying.
« Last Edit: November 23, 2020, 03:23:21 AM by Izhitsa »

Offline Izhitsa

  • Basically New Zealand
  • **
  • Posts: 162
    • View Profile
  • Your Nation: Izhitsa
Loose Threads
« Reply #8 on: August 17, 2021, 04:30:45 AM »
16 August 2021 --- 2:39 AM --- Zapadni Pokhod, Shta
The local commissars turned off the streetlights after 11 every night. They said it was an energy-saving measure, to ensure that there was always fuel left in emergencies. And after all, it’s not as if anyone would be out so late at night anyway. Not when it was so dark.
Aflis Alanovich leaned on the outside wall of a precinct station, lighter in one hand, bottle in the other. He looked up at the stars, mouthed a silent prayer, tensed his fingers, and…
What was that? Not shouting, exactly. Just the sound of people, around the corner, knowing they won’t be heard. Aflis ducked into an alleyway. Three figures in the dark approached from down the road.
"See? No one's out." That was the tall one speaking. "We could just waltz right in and torch it."
"We could," said one of the others, idly swinging a stick, "or we could have a bit of fun first."
"Shut it, you two." That third one spoke with an accent Aflis didn't recognize. "Do you want the whole neighborhood to hear you?" Certainly not Yachese or Izhitsan. At least, not entirely.
The voices drew closer and Aflis realised his alley had no exit. They were going to pass right by him. He stuck the lighter into his pocket, tiptoed behind a dumpster and waited.
"Can you really believe we're finally seeing more action after all this time?"
"Yeah, to be honest I thought they'd just forgotten about us."
"Me too. But hey, here we are. And I'm told there's more work coming our way."
"I said shut it!"
They were just about to pass the alley now. If Aflis just took a little peek, maybe he could see what they looked like...
Damn! "Oh, hello, little man," said the tall one. The trio was clad all in black, balaclavas masking their faces. Aflis's heart pounded as they began to surround him. "Well now, someone's trying to spy on us. Yonash, what happens to people who spy?"
The one with the stick, which up close began to look much more like a sledgehammer, approached with a gleam in his eye. He raised it up. Aflis tensed…
And kicked him in the crotch. The yelp of pain echoed through the street as Aflis ran, swinging his bottle wildly and bashing the tall one in the stomach. As he rounded the corner, he heard the third one groan. "Damn it, Yonash, the whole city probably heard that bloody scream of yours. Just torch the place and get the hell out of here. You're lucky no one saw your face."
Aflis didn't stop running until he got back to his apartment. It wasn't supposed to be like this. All he had to do was toss a bottle bomb into the precinct house when the officer on duty went to the bathroom. It was a simple job.
And not only had he failed, but someone else had done it for him.

16 August 2021 ---  7:48 AM --- The streets of Hrabohrada

Tadar Hamady was in town for a meeting with the Yachese delegation to the Federal Assembly. She only had a few minutes to chat before she would be expected elsewhere. "I don't understand why you wanted to meet today, Mr. Brazda.
Anton Brazda, walking beside, stirred the cream in his coffee. It had come out lumpy and sour-smelling, but he wasn't in a mood to complain. "I'll cut to the chase. Karamovo and Dzhavid are untouchable. Ever since the blackouts last July there's been no question of who holds the real control here, and they're not going away."
Brazda and Hamady had spent the last year gathering allies, leaking stories to the press, and doing everything in their power to convince the public that Karamovo and Dzhavid were dangerous men, hell-bent on centering power amongst themselves and too naive to use it properly. Yet despite everything they tried, nothing seemed to stick.
"I should have known after the blackouts last July," said Brazda. "There was just no turning back. Everyone seemed to think letting them do whatever they wanted was safer than letting anarchy rule."
Hamady kept walking in silence.
"Don't you understand, Mrs. Hamady? We've lost."
Hamady began to smile, and then she chuckled. Brazda looked at her quizzically, and she said, "You've lost."
Brazda spat out his coffee. "What?"
"You've lost. I'm doing fine. Yach has its autonomy, hell, it even has a path to independence, which should go well at the October elections. Oh," she chuckled, "those aren't announced yet. But they'll happen. And the new constitution will last us a while. Possibly long enough for a Yachese Prime Minister to find herself nominated for Minister of Trade."
Brazda stopped, mouth agape. "But you—what—"
"Goodness, Mr. Brazda," she said, turning, "you really are just as naive as you were 15 years ago. You seriously thought I would try to sabotage the country in order to take power? Well, I may have considered it, at the beginning. But as you say, after July last year it was just so hard. So, I figured, why not use my network to help the constitution along, score points for Shaab Yach—"
"You betrayed me!"
"Come now, seriously? I'd hardly call it a betrayal. I haven't even told Karamovo what you tried to do. And I won't, I give you my word. You'll have enough fires to put out trying to run as a democratic party."
"Why, I ought to—"
"Ought to what, Mr. Brazda, and do consider seriously, because any dirt you think you have on me reflects just as poorly on you, and I will make sure it reflects. I'm sorry you had to find out this way, but to be honest I thought you would have figured it out by now. Now," Hamady said, resuming her walk, "I've got a breakfast meeting to get to, but I hope you have a good day. Ar tufat!"
Brazda stood there, unable to process what had just happened. He stood there, watching Hamady walk away, then finally shouted, "Ar tufat to you too, you bastard!" and threw his coffee as hard as he could at a nearby newspaper rack. And then he saw the headline. Three assailants, one policeman critically injured? Has Karamovo seen this? He shoved several coins into the machine, grabbed a paper, and ran to the former king's palace.

16 August 2021 --- 11:10 AM --- A cabin outside Zapadni Pokhod, Shta
Dobroslav Pavlovich had spent the last year organizing a collection of decentralized cells to forward the good work. The day cells mostly did innocuous things like distribute smuggled food from Tamora and identify possible recruits. The night cells did the more dangerous work, such as posting propaganda and surveillance jobs, but nothing more threatening than that. So when Stana Dushanka, the leader of one of the largest night cells, said she wanted to think bigger, he had been sceptical. They weren't terrorists, he had said. But her logic made sense. After all, the key was to degrade confidence in the provisional government. They had to ensure that people knew that bickering bureaucrats and populist warlords couldn't save them. So, she had said, it's not a terror attack, it's a directed strike against the morale of the other side.
And now she was saying she wanted to… what?
"We need to stop the bombing campaign," she said. "It's too dangerous."
"Of course it's dangerous, it's not as if you're handing out carrots. Hell, that's what you told me, two weeks ago, when we planned the job. What's going on?"
"The bombing didn't go as planned."
"What do you mean," said Dobroslav. "Of course it did. I mean, look at this article in the Truth." He brought out a copy from a drawer in his desk. "Front page. They have no idea who did it. It happened right in front of the policeman on duty and they don't even have the right number of people! Hang on, you're not saying—"
"No, it's not that. It's just—look, it's hard to explain—"
"Just spit it out already!"
"That wasn't us, okay?"
There was an awful, uncomfortable silence. Finally Dobroslav said, "Explain."
Stana had debriefed Aflis that morning. She explained to Dobroslav everything he saw and heard that night.
Dobroslav was concerned. "So when they say they're looking for three culprits—"
"That's because there were three bombers. Three successful bombers. Three successful bombers who, by the way, saw my agent's face and might be able to identify him. At the very least, we need to get him and his family outside Zapadni Pokhod."
"Yes, absolutely."
"And we need to set up a team to try to identify these people."
"You're not serious?"
"What do you mean I'm not serious? These people are loose ends, sir! If they see more of our agents and put two and two together it could blow our operation apart!"
"And we're going to find them how, exactly? All we know, literally all we know, is that one of them is tall, one of them has an accent, and one of them screams when they're kicked in the balls. That doesn't exactly narrow down the suspect list, does it? Should I call up the police and say, 'Oh, I've got your man, you'll find he's got a sledgehammer and he's holding his crotch!'"
Stana sighed, and spoke in a low voice. "With all due respect, sir, I do know one way we can get more information."
"Yes?"
"We keep up the attacks."
"What? But you said—"
"I know what I said. I've changed my mind. Look, if these people are doing the same thing we are, trying to undermine faith in the government, then they're going to attack the same targets we are. And if we start burning down valuable targets, they might be more likely to keep up their own attacks because they'll have cover. More attacks means more chances to meet and gather information."
Dobroslav considered for a minute. "It'll be dangerous."
"As you say, sir. But as you said before, we're not handing out carrots anymore. If we want to get ahead, we need more information."
"Yes." Dobroslav sighed. "Yes, we do. But if we're doing this, I think we need to split your crew off from the regular night cell."
"My crew, sir?"
"Oh, yes, Stana. Your crew."

16 August 2021 --- 4:56 PM --- Tibor Tower, Kherhorod
Tadeush Marek packed up his things as he prepared to go home. It had been quite a long day. The office had received an anonymous tip the previous night that something big would happen in Zapadni Pokhod that morning, and, despite the doubts of his fellow writers, he actually went to check it out. And lo and behold! Mystery, politics, violence, all in one article! He’d had to dictate his article over the phone in order to get it out for the morning edition, but out it was, and he had a story to investigate for the rest of the week too.
For once, he had a story that even went up on the foreign edition. That made him proud.
“Mr. Marek, a word.” Ah. Mr. Otsel, the wet blanket with legs, had arrived.
“What do you need, Mr. Otsel?”
“I just wanted to congratulate you on how early you managed to get your story out today.” Mr. Otsel smiled mirthlessly.
“Yes, I received an anonymous tip. Lucky thing, that.”
“Yes, lucky. Just try to make sure that’s all it is, Mr. Marek.”
“I assure you, Mr. Otsel, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s true. But for argument’s sake, if I knew a young, eager reporter who received anonymous tips about arson attacks, I would probably tell them to do their civic duty and call up the Kontrazvedka. Like a good citizen. You know.”
“Yes, Mr. Otsel. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I hope so, for your sake.”