“In fact, thanks for pointing that out - I’ll have to draft a tax relief incentive for those who keep arms and lend them out to the militia.”
“But… Surely, there should be some sort of regulation as to what weaponry independent citizens are allowed to own. Guilds and organizations with the proper documentation sure, but we can’t have people without the proper backing just buying personal tanks!” said the Grekurian with an assured chuckle, clearly considering the mere idea of civilians owning heavy military machinery to be farcical. His countenance was snuffed out when his counterpart stared him down with a steely gaze, removing the cigarette from his mouth and placing his other hand on his shoulder.
His voice became cold and angry as he spoke: “If I hear so much as a whisper about you pushing for something like that, I will personally draft the counter-referendum and ensure every soul in Willowdale hears of it in turn. Such an unconstitutional thing would be reasonable justification to invoke the Old Law. Do you understand? This isn’t Grekuria. We are public servants, not rulers - if you wish to rule, feel free to request a transfer back home. I’m sure you own enough land to play kingdom of dirt.”
Zel decided to pay the two bureaucrats no more of her attention and moved on, entering the city hall. As she walked through the suspiciously quiet building, she noticed a particular door was ajar, and thus she could hear the conversation going on at the other side as clearly as a bell, three voices all speaking inhumanly fast. It quickly became clear what was being discussed: Money.
More specifically, the inherent problems in using the Grekurian Gelt without easy access to the sub-copper denominations. She also heard suggestions of using the Ikesian Mark to fill the low-value gap, with the bureaucrat who suggested this arguing that while the currency had been severely devalued, it had been stabilized since the ousting of the old Minister of Finance. For some reason, Zel found herself slowing down to listen to the conversation, a macabre curiosity rising alongside her distaste for bureaus, almost like watching a trainwreck. She just couldn’t tear her attention away.
She also overheard something about some pricing regulations, though the suggestion was rebuked with, “It’s already balancing itself out, even Quincy has had to raise his prices lately. If we step in now and show that we’re willing to take political action over things that do not break the law and should rightfully be allowed to resolve themselves we will be on track to corruption and people of interest influencing governance all over again.”
Apparently, the value of even one quarter of a gelt was far too high even now that the currency was stabilizing somewhat, and thus far too inflexible - an issue that had apparently been known and tolerated for the several months that the Gelt was in use as Willowdale’s semi-official currency, but now that the city-state’s economy was well on its way to full recovery, the issue had to be solved lest it grow insurmountable. Zel had had just about enough eavesdropping when the conversation turned to the impending ordinance that would set the Ikesian Mark to fill the lowest-value gap in the economy by allowing people to freely have Gelt exchanged for Marks and vice versa. As she finally went up the stairs and got out of earshot, the last thing she caught was the other voice arguing that marks were still controlled by the federal government and therefore a compromised currency that would be used against Willowdale in some manner if - and when - the city-state came into opposition to the feds.
Arriving at the second floor, she was met with a pair of tankmen at the end of the hallway, their suits painted ominous black, their helmets a mixture of an Ikesian combat helmet, a gas mask, and glowing-red eyes. On their shoulders, Willowdale’s coat of arms was emblazoned, but all that intimidation factor was undermined by the fact they grasped sparklock boar-killer spears and wore sparklocks on their belts. Even in their suits, unflinching, she still towered over them. The one on the left raised their arm, stiffly demanding: “Name and purpose of visit.”
It was a woman - filtered, distorted, and deepened through the tank suit’s machinery, but a woman.
Zel decided to play along, smiling innocently, “Zelsys Newman, the governor sent a missive asking me to visit.”
The two exchanged looks, only to freeze solid as an irate Crovacus could be heard from the other side of the door: “Stop playing tough and let her in, you fucking clowns!”
While the left-hand tankman just obeyed and reached for the door handle, the right-hand one lurched forward awkwardly, the suit locking up before she could fall forward in a way that made her look like a marionette hanging on loose strings. A moment later, the tankwoman matched her counterpart in reaching for the door handle, the two opening the door for Zelsys as she approached. Already, she saw small personalizations on either soldier’s tank suit - how long had they had those, a week at most maybe? The possibility of a tankman bonding to their tank the way a swordsman bonds to his blade crossed her mind, before it was washed away by the governor’s surprisingly healthy-looking face looking up at her from his luxurious and ever-messy writing desk.
As ever, a cigar sat comfortably clenched ‘twixt his stark-white teeth, and his piercingly intelligent eyes still carried the outlines of bags that, though gone, had carved themselves into his face. On his desk sat the familiar articles, but one addition as well - a wooden, old-looking box.
“Take a seat, we’ve got some things to discuss,” he said, and she did as asked, dropping into the seat without regard for its well-being and kicking her feet up on his table in the same manner. He nodded, and turned on the sound ward generator.
“As you might’ve surmised, it’s about Ubul - more specifically, the state’s involvement in your dealing with him,” the governor began, picking up an open folder while taking the cigar from his mouth.
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