Cent. Calendar 16/12/1639, Royal Castle, Le Brias, Altaras, 18:15
As civil unrest and efforts by the outnumbered Altaran constabularies unfold in showdowns of violence across the streets of the capital. The red-brick walls of the citadel-like compound in one corner of the city sits unperturbed, and the sleepy atmosphere that hung over the entire complex was a luxury no other place in the kingdom could afford. Guards in their combat uniforms, having ditched their ceremonial ones in preparation for any rioter daring enough to lead the mobs to the gates of this compound, made their rounds across the ramparts of the walls, some even openly sighing in boredom and lack of action. Hanging from the two massive circular turrets flanking the main gate into the compound were the royal standards of Altaran royal house, its golden star plastered over a striped pattern of alternating cyan and white gleaming immensely in the torchlight.
Inside the compound was an impressive structure built in the same rustic red bricks that adorned the complex walls and encompassed an area of roughly 75 square meters. The complex patterns that made up the red and brown domes and towering beige spires gave the already daunting appearance of this fortified complex a more formidable look, fitting for the castle that housed His Majesty, Taara XIV, his family, his retainers, and his numerous servants. The thick, multi-layered walls, meant to protect its inhabitants against even the most destructive of siege weaponry, also served another purpose: insulating the inside from the sounds of the chaotic ruckus and tumult happening outside.
The screams of people being tragically lynched in the streets and the explosions of Muish-supplied tear gas canisters were all but a distant memory inside one of the dimly lit halls of the castle, replaced by the metallic clatter of silverware against ceramic plating. Unlike many families, especially those of Parpaldian descent, tonight, the royal family was having dinner in peace. Inside the dining hall, servants in black and white flank the table where the three princesses and their father, the king, dined, ready to move to serve the royals at a moment’s notice, all while a lone violinist provided a somber backdrop to their supper. The table they ate on was long, meant for feasts and celebrations with dignitaries, local allies and ministers, and other important, noteworthy figures, but only the four chairs on one end were occupied, and their candles lit. Sitting at the end was none other than Taara, flanked on his right by eldest Semira and on his left by middle child Alila and finally the youngest, Lumies. Spaced from one another by just a bit more than an arm’s length, far enough that they couldn’t discreetly pass along dessert out of their father’s gaze, the family appeared to be having a legitimate wholesome moment with one another, but the dignified appearances and almost religious attention paid to proper etiquette was all but a telling reminder of their noble status. Blessed as they are in being able to hold such an eventless dinner with one another, there was one thing this particular scene had in common with what the rest of the kingdom was going through.
Surgically removing the freshly cooked innards of the clams dotted all across her savory, oil pasta, Lumies maneuvered her utensils with a hint of what one may describe as “machine-like.” She made sure to sprinkle in a bit of oopsies and fluid movements here and there, but she could only hide these quirks for so much; on the other hand, she fared better with her expression. Stiff, unmoving, and most of all, hungry, these were the only traits she could express on her face, hiding beneath layers of carefully balanced apathy and concerned her gripes with the recent situation. Unfortunately for her, in her almost 22 years of existence, she’s shared more than enough of them with her family that they’re able to tell–most especially and crucially of whom is her father, Taara. Always the devil’s advocate, the education she received in statecraft and her service in the Altaran military proved her an excellent counterweight to the king’s ambitions, almost to the point of hostility between them. It is during such trying times when the king makes a decision that she finds fault in whether she would act this way, but never before has she held her mouth shut for as long as she was doing.
An uneasy atmosphere hung in the room. The three sisters, well aware of what needed to be said to their father, played hot potato with the responsibility using silent glances and feigning indifference to the situation. In the end, Alila and Semira, trying to use Lumies’s natural tendency to be the devil’s advocate, ganged up on their youngest sibling, hence the status quo. Their father, meanwhile aware of the intense back and forth happening between his daughters, waited in silence for their input. He had always known that his daughters were smart and capable leaders in their own right, but as of late, they have been proving to be more obstructive than supportive of his goals. Most glaring of transgressions was when the three of them placated the Parpaldians for what he believed to be a righteous act on their part when an Altaran boat tried to harvest guano from the disputed Menda Point, a set of small rock-like islands in the strait.
“Father.”
The soft voice of Lumies cut through the tense atmosphere that had built up. Finally, they began to talk, thought Taara. Continuing to twist her pasta with her fork like before, she did not even give her father her visual attention as she spoke her next words.
“Are you really pushing forward with your intentions with Sios?”
Concise and straight to the point. As expected from their confrontational sister, thought Semira and Alila. Taara, also expecting this question, continued to consume his medium rare lamb steak indifferently.
“Yesh.”
The indifference with which their father said yes, coupled with the apparent lack of seriousness he’s taking their concerns, mildly irked Alila, but she kept her eyes on her plate and continued to display her own apathy to what was going on. Lumies, however, was rattled. The screeching of her fork against the plate became a little louder as her hand grew heavier, yet her face remained devoid of expressive emotion.
“With all due respect, Father... do you not see that what you plan to do is unreasonable?”
The king, much more focused on trying to cut and chew the leathery texture of his sauce-garnished steak, did not even lift his eyes to face her direction.
“You should know better, Lumiesh; thish ish ze only hand short of war in whisch we can forshe ze Parpaldians.”
The two sisters grew more annoyed with Alila gnashing her teeth in silence as she chewed, and Lumies began to breathe a little deeper. Semira, who was old enough to serve as a calming mother figure to her own sisters, watched with concern.
This time, Lumies upped her tone.
“The situation with which you’ve maneuvered us into is proving a little more challenging for us, Father; irritating the Siosans will do us only harm.”
There was little merit in such pointless back and forths, thought Taara as he savored the juicy taste of his lamb. If only his daughters could yield as easily as this stake. Still, he played this game, but only so his daughters would tire and give up.
“And what would you have done?”
Lumies’s eyebrows rose. She knows her father would much rather engage in piecemeal back and forths than substantially consider their input. He was just that stubborn and eggheaded, and she loved none of that. She glanced towards Alila’s way, and with a few slight movements, she informed her of what she was planning to say, something which Alila acknowledged but refused to support. To her, there was little point in what was right and wrong, especially if she wasn’t going to benefit from it. With her sister’s implicit support, Lumies breathed in, and with her exhalation came a bombshell.
“For example, I... would not have ordered Matuk and his men to rig the Barezan granary to blow and then blame it on the Parpaldians.”
Clink!
The sound of a fork landing hard against the plate echoed like a bell being rung across the room. The king froze just as he was about to put a cut piece of lamb into his mouth, his eyebrows twitching every now and then. Semira, fearing this, gently put her utensils down as she prepared to try and shut down the conversation as Alila, unfazed by Lumies’s escalation, continued to munch apathetically on her food. Before the silence could set in, Taara ceded his manners, wiping the sauce that had splattered onto his beard from his fork falling onto the plate before proceeding to lean towards Lumies’s direction, his index finger extended towards her like the barrel of a gun. His tone, however, remained composed as it was.
“I...”
He paused to swallow, but in reality, he’s run out of ideas. His daughter had a point, but there was no way he was going to concede on the Barezan incident–no, he doesn’t even regret it, no way...
“Your mother would not like the tone with which you’re speaking against your father, young woman.”
Semira and Lumies sighed; whereas the eldest held a peeve to their father bringing up the memory of their dead mother in an argument, the youngest, having no memories of their mother, fond or not, lamented the pitiful state their father is in.
“Mother isn’t here now, Father. Don’t bring her up.”
Lumies’s eyes widened as she failed to stop her mouth from running its course. She’s said too much. For the first time in this discussion, she turned her gaze to meet her father’s, but what she saw was nothing like her dear father; eyes wide open and irises agape, his breathing has become uneven and the veins on his hands almost at the point of bursting. At this point, he’s even discarded his composed tone–perhaps his self-control with it too. He lashed out like an angered lion.
“You dare set aside your mother, child?! What have I done to incur such disrespect from you?!”
Taara was now standing up, appearing like a rabid predator ready to pounce. Semira, seeing this, put her hands on the table, itching to stand up to try and get between her angered father and her sister. On the other side, Lumies, recalling the disregard with which her father has always treated their opinions, also had enough. Standing up to face her father, she pinched herself so as to try to remain reasonable, even as she was about to blow her own fuse.
“I’ve done nothing of the sort, Father! Don’t insinuate something so egregious based on anything but fallacies! If anything, you are the one tainting mother’s memory! Alienating our allies due to some nonsensical decision to coerce the Siosans in a useless bid to try to ‘get back’ at the Parpaldians?! How could you do this to Altaras?! To us, Father?!”
“That’s enough, Lumies!”
Semira, too, had had enough of it, raising her own voice against her own sister to stop the discussion in its tracks. She had a point, but she was the one escalating the mood after all. In response, Lumies shut her mouth, acutely self-aware that she herself had said too much; Taara, however, didn’t heed Semira’s attempt to stop the discussion.
Pushing aside his chair, he walked directly towards Lumies.
How dare his daughter, of his own blood, speak against him? In spite of everything–the gifts, the overseas trips to the Holy Mirishial Empire, the education he’s given her, and the values and discipline he’s instilled into her–why is she like this?! She could never hope to understand his goals–none of them do! It was the Parpaldians’ fault for destroying any hope of diplomatic amnesty between their two nations! It was the Parpaldians’ fault for undermining Altaran sovereignty and right to economic glory! It was their fault for Barezan; for the countless lives being gutted by lynch mobs in their streets and Esthirant’s; for the innocent lives incarcerated or sent to the gallows due to their spies being everywhere. For why she doesn’t have a mother to call on; for why she has to be taught a lesson this instant! How could she not see this?!
The infuriated king pulled aside Lumies’s heavy wooden chair to the side with one brush of his hand, his other hand grabbing her by the arm. He stared into her still defiant eyes, now dashed with hints of fear and sadness, as he heartlessly uttered the next words.
“I will not tolerate treasonous talk, not even from my own daughter. Smart and cunning as you are yet to fail to see the shrewdness of my plans in our struggle against Parpaldian imperialism... Your mother would have been very disappointed.”
She returned her father’s intense gaze, but she couldn’t pinch herself hard enough to prevent the chinks in her facade from leaking how truly frightened she was. Her ‘father’ before her was no longer the father she grew up with, the one who would spoil his youngest Lumy with all-expense-paid-for trips to the breathtaking museums of Runepolis. What stood before her was a man far intoxicated with his own hubris and self-righteousness, which mixed dangerously with his innate lust for ambition and Altaran superiority. She cursed herself, both for failing to curtail her own emotions and for getting herself into a situation in which none have survived, for all who dared speak against the king or his decisions were banished into obscurity and erased from existence.
“Luckily for you, I love you, so I will be lenient.”
He turned his gaze towards a couple of guards standing next to the doors, who by his gaze alone understood what they had to do. Taking the princess by her arms, who was now shaking in plain view of everyone, they carried her off and out of the room.
“Spend a night in the tower, Lumy! Maybe your hotheadedness will clear by the morning!”
As the thick, heavy doors slammed shut, Semira sank back onto her seat and planted her face in her hands, covering her watery eyes from view while Alila, having lost her appetite, simply and silently put her utensils down, stood up, and headed for the door. Just as the servants begin to clean up as if nothing had happened, the king, more frustrated at his daughter’s always being at odds with him than what he had just done, merely scratched his head as his gaze went to the ceiling.
“Why must your dearest daughters be so conceited, dear Yasmin? Goodness...”
Naha, Okinawa, Japan
Hundreds of kilometers to the east of Altaras and Sios lie the islands that make up Japan’s southwesternmost sovereign territories, the biggest of which was the island of Okinawa. It perhaps wouldn’t be an overstatement to say that these lands were alien, for it was the work of some unknown, godly force of nature that allowed these landmasses to pop out of existence in the middle of the ocean less than a year ago. In the ocean of darkness that hung over this side of Asherah, the lone islands glistened magnificently like stars in the night sky, outshining the traditional regional power centers of Esthirant and Le Brias. The chain of bright lights traces a clear line across the void as if to drive a wedge between the Empire of Parpaldia and the Japan-aligned Rodenian states–an almost ominous foreboding of the geopolitical divide threatening to set alight the powder keg.
Beyond the shining, crystalline buildings of Naha lay countless more islands of light drawing the arteries of the Okinawan capital’s cityscape–the streetlights. It was hardly past six in the evening, and the sun had already long set, a clear sign that it was already winter, but the time reserved for the vibrant nightlife of this tropical paradise was uncharacteristically quiet. This was no strange phenomenon, for they were in the midst of a time of troubles, a lightweight name that gave little justice to the almost calamitous period since the Transfer. The ghost town aura hanging over the city home to hundreds of thousands of people betrayed the sense of life coming from the shining lights.
Even then, the city was not completely dead.
“Bullocks!”
“Gah! Blast these contraptions!”
A pair of outbursts, clearly ones of frustration, reverberated across the soulless seaside street. Beyond the cowl of eye-watering white LED streetlights was another source of light emanating from a scarlet red vending machine beneath one of the light posts. Standing in front of the machine were the only two souls that populated this otherwise lifeless street.
“Are you sure you read it right?”
A breeze had swept in, prompting the men to hold onto their trusty fedora hats to prevent them from being carried off. The other man, holding a notebook with worn-out edges in his other hand, hurriedly scanned once more the almost illegible writing. Damned those translators, he thought. He didn’t know which one had the worse handwriting, the part written in his native Muish script or the alien scribbles he’d never seen before.
“I did! It says here that we should ‘twist the knob when we insert the money!’”
Yeah, right, mumbled the man as he fiddled with his mustache. They had already tried that method for the past six attempts already! His rapidly declining patience–and the lack of fluids relieving his dry throat–got him on the verge of pulling his mustache out in frustration. But instead, he opted to put things under his control.
“Hand that over!”
He commanded, yet he carried it out himself. Snatching the notebook from the other man, he had more experience with handwriting of almost neanderthal quality; thus, the code was deciphered in but a second.
“You imbecile! It said that we should click on the blasted beverages we want after inserting the money!”
There was little patience for apologizing and even less on his part for witnessing his companion’s nonexistent attempt at doing so. Klink! Click! Kachack! Kachack! In what only took a fraction of the time they read the instructions, they finally got their hands on two cans of black coffee, long coveted ever since they laid their eyes on it when they discovered the vending machine. Both men grabbed the drinks from the tray before opening them–regardless of the technological superiority the Japanese apparently had, the technology of canned consumables was something that evolved little, it seems. Instinctively finding the thin tab that would force the tear strip open, the two secured access to the aromatic contents with relative ease.
“Cheers.”
As if to wrap up a ritual of goodwill, the men lightly tapped the extended rims of their cans against each other before sending the beverage down their parched throats. They were assailed by a wave of aroma from the roasted beans that had formed the coffee they were drinking, making it feel as if the hypnotic fragrance was gripping at their nostrils while the drink passed through their throats with hardly any resistance. Almost immediately, the caffeine felt like it kicked in, blowing away fatigue that had accumulated from hours of exhausting diplomatic back and forth. They were nothing less than satisfied and reinvigorated after downing almost the entire can. The troubles felt like they were fleeting away, but the two men wanted to talk about them before letting them go.
“What a bother. I find it difficult to believe we’re dealing with people this important.”
Uttering such a statement felt as if he had lifted off something unfathomably heavy from his heart, yet he found himself no lighter after the fact.
“What were the eggheads in the ministry thinking when they decided to send us? They even had the nerve to issue the memo that we’re dealing with a Class X diplomatic mission after we were already halfway to this... god knows where we are!”
Class X was an unofficial term for a mission to a foreign country that’s to be treated with (beyond) utmost care and respect. If there was to be any indication of the seriousness of this tag: the last time a mission was tagged as such was when they first discovered the Gra Valkas Empire almost two years ago. Many in the ministry considered them an alien, technologically superior country of significant threat to the political ecosystem surrounding them; while they still enjoy an amicable friendship, their fears were proven right when the foreigners conquered their neighbor in Leifor, a strong regional power of considerable global standing, in a day (two and a half months when counting the campaign that followed). Their lax, almost unattentive attitude towards the Gra Valkans haunts their experiences to this very day. After all...
“We can’t afford to be so forgiving of potential threats, especially given...”
The two froze, not from the cold winds blowing in from the sea but from fear–fear of the words that they had read off a report issued by the Central Intelligence Directorate before leaving Esthirant. It was a comprehensive study into their target nation Japan, the very country they’re currently standing on. They had very little intelligence to go off owing to the overall lack of presence the Japanese initially played but the one time they did cause a scene they demonstrated something outright flabbergasting. In conclusion, they recall having read:
All evidence accrued surrounding the “Jin-Hark Incident” has driven the directorate to give Japan a grade of X*: they are to be considered militarily superior in all aspects even when compared to perceived future threats and have displayed the diplomatic and political capability to carry out military action with catastrophic consequences unilaterally.
The two swallowed, surmounting the fear-driven paralysis that had fallen over them. The memory of Leifor’s fall, the overwhelming dexterity and supremacy the Gra Valkans displayed in their conquest, and the depressing reports of Muish diplomats and agents about the events were still fresh. They, along with the rest of their mission, had genuine fears that their actions may accidentally drive this new nation, Japan, to another Leifor-style upending of the local order. Everything points to them being capable of crushing Parpaldia and Altaras, which if either were to fall would mean calamitous consequences to both the Third Civilized Region and the world as a whole.
“Given how it’s a complete clown show between Altaras and Parpaldia as of right now, we can’t afford to upset the delicate balance of power by pushing Japan.”
The man grumbled before emptying his can.
“We can only really pray to the gods that they’ll reciprocate our act of goodwill.”
Disposing of their empty aluminum cans, the two looked up. The bright clouds, lit up by the extensive display of lights by the Okinawan skyline, had cleared a bit, revealing the darker void that lay beyond.
“When’s the deadline again?”
“In a fortnight. We have to present the approved versions to the Japanese before then so the plans can move forward as scheduled.”
The man crossed his arms and clicked his tongue at this. Fortnight was an unreasonable deadline, but there was no surpassing how utterly preposterous were the contents that they needed approval for.
“Goodwill, my arse. I see absolutely no sense in sending His and Her Majesty this far east just to bring these... aliens to heel.”
The other man nodded his head to this. He agreed with almost unanimity. Almost.
“But you can’t really argue with His Majesty’s Word. He was the one who insisted on it.”
The man clicked his tongue again but louder. He knew his attempts at objection were futile, but when standing at some bizarre, otherworldly island literal oceans away from the halls of power in Otaheit, there was no one to chide him for it.
Embassy of the Holy Mirishial Empire in Esthirant, Parpaldia Empire
Kadunk!
A light shock ran through the room, coinciding with the muffled bass of an explosion from far away. The weakened blast waves still brought with them a thump with enough force to shake the shiny, crystalline gem-bristled chandelier hanging above the room from its inertial slumber, yet all the force it brought wasn’t enough to faze the man sitting on one of the lone chairs in this otherwise empty room. His interlocked hands, separated by a space made humid by the ceaseless perspiration oozing from his pores, were about as stiff and serene as the dangling chandelier swaying above him. He put on his best smile, an attempt at projecting some sort of unwavering composure to his would-be client–another man from a world also being shaken by the chaos that had been gripping the region.
Kaboom!
There goes off another explosion, yet this was not why the man was shaking down to the tips of his toes; what was happening outside were the Parpaldian constabularies unleashing their sedative riot control munitions, which require a mana-based catalyst to activate and diffuse, a process that often results in a bang resembling an artillery shell going off. This had been going on for some time now and one they had already expected, for they, the Holy Mirishial Empire, the greatest and most powerful of all nations on this humble planet, had just called out the Parpaldians for their hubris. It was no snap decision, but the man, Revalor, His Majesty’s appointed representative to Parpaldia, could not help but be... annoyed.
Why did it have to happen now?! Crisis after crisis... Can it all stop?!
Still wearing the smile that would probably assure no one, Revalor cursed his luck. But just as he was about to consider counting his blessings, the door to the room swung open, and in came a human whose graying hair appeared to defy the very way he carried himself into the room. His no-nonsense disposition afforded Revalor little in the way of pleasantries as the human immediately went for the seat opposite him.
“My humblest apologies for being late, Ambassador!”
His gruff, almost barbaric way of greeting set off all the ticks that would make anyone irk. Most of all, however, was the lack of shame in his movements, which were all so smooth and... comfortable. How dare he treat me like he isn’t talking to an ambassador–appointed by His Majesty, Uevareth I, himself–from the greatest empire to have ever existed on this planet?! The man sank deeper into his seat, his posture and expression evoking a sense of leisure, all while he threw his leg above the other in a cross-fixed position. Can’t he be any more lax?!
“N-No problem, Ambassador Hamakubo...!”
Why am I forgiving this barbaric buffoon?! And why am I the one stuttering?!
On top of the ruthless Parpaldians and Altarans, who, for the love of Mirish cannot play nice with one another, was another problematic nation: Japan. Appearing in their diplomatic and intelligence reports less than eight months ago, seemingly out of nowhere. This new nation made a name for itself in the region when it stopped the Parpaldian-supported Lourian attempt at hegemony in its tracks, culminating in a military action that, to this day, they couldn’t adequately explain. That or no one could believe that Japan was capable of doing something like that. In any case, all the studies and findings by their intelligence community on them pointed to Japan being a high-risk threat that may be capable of extremely destabilizing actions–not so far off from what the Gra Valkans had done with Leifor. Fortunately for them, the Japanese so far had appeared to be docile, always humble and non-aggressive in their diplomacy and hardly ever raising their fists in any meeting, even when push comes to shove. Still, his superiors, wary of another Gra Valkas rising from the east to challenge and destabilize the established world order, ordered their departments in the Third Civilized Region–including his chapter in Esthrant–to treat the Japanese with utmost respect and care. He knows very well the bolded characters these orders were presented to him, but he couldn’t help but ask if tolerating their behavior was part of it.
This Japanese diplomat, a human by the name of Hamakubo, was their ambassador to Parpaldia. Unlike any other diplomat he’s faced, including the earlier Japanese diplomat (Tanaka was it?) with whom he conversed back at the Proclamation Day ball, this man hardly carried with him a tense aura–one that anybody would bring with them whenever they were to meet with someone of the highest importance. Every single diplomat he’s faced was more nervous than even the lowest-ranked Mirishial clerk present in the room, their backs crooked to the point where they might prostrate themselves at their feet at any moment; this man, who just made himself comfortable by leaning back on the squeaky leather furnishings of his chair, exuded none of that.
If anything, it was as if he was the only one in this room truly prepared to have this meeting.
“Ambassador, if you may... I have come here for one purpose.”
Here it comes. Alarm bells echoed across the recesses of his mind in anticipation. What else could the Japanese ask of them? An economic front? An arms embargo? Perhaps an initiation into the world order? What more could they want?! Revalor listened with all intent even as the muffled explosions of riot munitions going off outside rocked the room.
“I do not mean to intrude on your government’s bureaucratic processes, but it’s already been three months since our request for formal diplomatic relations between our two nations.”
Huh?
A drop of sweat fell from his forehead right onto the back of his right hand, the chills from which reverberated across his entire body. Hamakubo brought up something he had been expecting but with which he had yet to prepare. He was right; where has their response been? He vividly remembers processing their request, sending it via mail back home, and replying to them that they would “get back to them once the request has been processed.” That was three months ago. Every day he checked the mail they were receiving to keep tabs on updates, yet he remembers not a single one addressing the Japanese concern.
Sweat rushed out of every single pore in his body as if the floodgates had been opened. He scrambled to mentally piece words together in a reply while the seconds ticked by and the awkward atmosphere festered. After a whole five seconds of him spending years thinking of a reply, he opened his mouth.
“Ah, yes. My apologies! I have not forgotten but allow me to apologize on behalf of the government for they are still processing your request at this–”
“Mmm. Is it possible to expedite it, then?”
Before he could even finish, Hamakubo cut him off and cut right to the chase. Revalor’s eyebrows twitched in annoyance, but his ridiculous self-control afforded him no more than that. He truly was no-nonsense.
“Of course! I will see to it that your request could be expedited. I ca–”
“It will be problematic if we can’t obtain the permissions for passage through Cartalpas.”
The Japanese ambassador cut him off once more. But now, his response caused him to tumble back in confusion. What exactly is the relevance of Cartalpas, one of their most developed port cities and the southernmost Mirishial metropolis? Why bother bringing it up? Revalor clarified the confusion in his expression as he looked at the ambassador with wide-open eyes and a raised eyebrow. However, he was only met with a similarly bewildered look from Hamakubo. It appears that they were not on the same page.
“Cartalpas? Ambassador, what does Cartalpas have to do with this discussion?”
“Huh? Are you not aware of what’s going to happen?”
Oh, now he’s completely in the dark? What kind of important matter concerning Cartalpas, one of their most vital cities due to commerce and diplomatic relevance, doesn’t involve him?! He’s already racked his brain more than once for any notice or directives from back home regarding this so-called “what’s going to happen” in Cartalpas. Is this an event he should not hear about, but the Japanese are bringing up? A coup?! An uprising?! An attack?!
“I apologize, Ambassador, but could you enlighten me on what’s going to happen?”
Hamakubo scratched his head, himself genuinely confused at this turn of events.
“I figured you’d be informed about this: we’re meeting with our counterparts from the United Realms and Dominions of Mu in their capital, Otaheit. They’ve already arranged the trip, but we will have to pass through Cartalpas on the way. Without any diplomatic relations with the empire and no arrangement on immigration and customs, it would be really problematic for our diplomats to enter your country.”
Revalor’s eyes bloomed as if they were going to pop out of their sockets.
This is the first time I’ve heard of this!
His hands now shook beyond his control as the ramifications of what he had just heard whizzed by his head at a breakneck pace. The Muish and the Japanese are already that close?! Since when?! Do the Muish know something about the Japanese that they don’t that would cause them to prioritize establishing diplomatic ties with them?! Are they in cahoots in this entire Parpaldia-Altaras scuffle, just like the Muish and Gra Valkans were in Leifor?! Perhaps it’s a long game to destroy Mirishial image and influence in the Third Civilized Region?! How could they not have known this?!
In the split second that he considered these things, he started formulating a reply–and a plan of action. Right now, the Japanese should be paralyzed since they will have to have a Mirishial visa to be allowed to dock at Cartalpas, even when their vessel is flying a Muish flag. But the longer they keep the Japanese waiting, the more they will lose their trust and the likelier the Japanese will move against Mirishial interests. It is also in their best interest to try and challenge the Muish for Japanese friendship. In all cases, expediting the Japanese request for diplomatic relations works in their favor. With a reply in mind, Revalor controlled his squirming and looked at his counterpart with renewed vigor. The empire will not lose to the Muish in this game.
“I see. I will personally see to it that the ministry processes your request with haste.”
Revalor stood up and extended his hand in goodwill, a gesture he wouldn’t dare make with a nation that was not of the same standing. However, if the Muish are doing everything they can to get on the good side of the Japanese, then they too must not lose–especially more so given the risks of a second Gra Valkan type of threat.
In response to his Mirishial counterpart’s gesture, Hamakubo too, extended his hand and shook Revalor’s. Unlike their first contact back at the Proclamation Ball, this was probably the first time that both Mirishial and Japan recognized each other as being on equal footing.
Prime minister’s residence, Tokyo, Japan
At the Japanese capital, the scenes of chaos, mayhem, and desolation found in the other capitals of the region played out in similar tones. Foreigners both white and not, forcefully estranged by the circumstances of the transfer event from their home countries, aired their dissatisfaction in the streets against what they felt to be a resurgent sense of Japanese ultranationalism, made worse by the scandalous nature of Operation Zanzibar and state media outlets repeating news of the findings of Imperial Japanese ruins in Quila and Qua-Toyne. Joining these disgruntled foreigners were Japanese from all walks of life, equally thrown into slumps by the economic recession brought by the transfer event. Riots and protests of varying degrees of violence, turnover, and reasoning from the reinstatement of rationing to a major disagreement with government actions gripped the nation but nowhere was it more apparent than the capital Tokyo. Police and ambulance sirens wailed to the tune of protesters chanting “enough is enough” as pressurized weapons firing tear gas canisters and water cannons either broke or amplified their spirits. Above them towered the glistening skyscrapers reminiscent of better times, their ghastly lights nothing more than a shell of the economic powerhouse status Japan once hosted; from time to time, entire buildings would turn dark as rotating power outages took effect.
In the midst of it, all glimmered a building of which the lights never flickered nor turned off due to electricity rationing outages: the kantei, or the residence of the prime minister. This time of the night, things should be slow and quiet, at least back on Earth. Now, there’s always some sort of crisis, whether it be a generation plant shouldering the load of most of Kanto having to shut down due to extensive wear and lack of spare parts or an upset foreign power clamoring to get a better deal out of what was already considerably fair and justified, and it just pulls all sorts of agencies and ministers in and out of the residence for meetings with the prime minister. This time, however, he was alone in his office, but he wasn’t done with work.
“Yes, yes... I’m well aware of that fact.”
Sitting on his office chair, the leather of which has gone considerably worn due to excessive squirming from the countless, headache-inducing meetings since the transfer, was Takamori Hideaki, the poor man to hold the title of the prime minister of this country. One hand held the desk phone to his ear while the other was on the table; the position he took had him on the verge of doing a dogeza, kowtowing to no one in particular.
“I’ll be sure to take your word and communicate it to the rest of my cabinet, Mr. President.”
The man he was talking to was Francis Woods, the former Ambassador of the United States and currently the acting President of an interim American government, while the one in Washington was still beyond contact. They were friends even before the transfer phenomenon while Takamori was still a cabinet minister, but the unforgiving circumstances of the transfer proved to be beyond what their friendship could surmount.
“I can’t stress this enough, Takamori... I know we’re badly indebted to you for your administration’s continued adamantine support of us and our forces, but I hope you understand that there are... limits.”
Now there’s the signature threatening undertone in Woods’s gruff voice. It was probably an American quirk, thought Takamori, who’s also handled some strong-arming by the United States in past dealings, but it may have also been out of being fed up with them.
“I already told you that there’s only so much we could do at this moment. Some forces at play against us are just beyond our control.”
Takamori tried to be reasonable, but not for the sake of it; he just knew that he could not hope to suffer whatever consequences awaited his next decision should he heed Woods. Unsurprisingly, he heard a loud, deep sigh from the other end of the call.
“You’re sitting on a powder keg, Takamori, and you’re only fanning the flames that would set alight the fuse.”
“I’m well aware of the dangers my citizens present–”
“No, I’m afraid that’s not what I’m referring to.”
Takamori blinked twice. He had a remote idea as to what Woods was trying to talk about, but he inwardly insisted that that wasn’t what it was about. It mustn’t be...
“What you did with Zanzibar, and now the almost daily broadcast of NHK specials on the Imperial Japanese Army remnants you found in Rodenius isn’t helping anyone.”
“Care to expound?”
“Do I really need to, Takamori?”
He stayed still and kept his lips shut, feigning ignorance of the topic, much to Woods’s audible dismay.
“After the decommissioning ceremony of the USS Lake Champlain, we received a tip, the nature of which has me right here right now urging you to exercise caution with arming the kind of people you’d absolutely never want to arm with confidence–confidence that emboldens them to do something dangerous and drastic.”
“I understand and acknowledge your concern, but what is this tip?”
“I’m afraid that’s all I could tell you, Mr. Prime Minister. Have a good evening.”
“Ah, you t–”
Before he could say his parting remarks and get more information, Woods hung up the call, and his voice was replaced with a consistent, monotonous beep.
“Goddammit...”
Gently placing the phone back on the receiver, he leaned back on his office chair and sighed. He’s more than aware of the malign societal elements spurred on by their actions, but with his intelligence apparatuses running in circles trying to catch their own tails, he’s out of luck. Whatever leads they had have disappeared into the quagmire of social unrest now plaguing every corner of Japanese society. Caught between advancing Japanese interests abroad, securing lifelines for his country, placating the various interest groups, foreign powers both earthly and of this world, and keeping in check the disgruntled extremist political factions of both the far left and far right, he’s had enough of this shit, for lack of a more appropriate descriptor.
Planting his coarse, wrinkled palms on his face, he remembers standing against the wishes of the Diet and his people to resign after Zanzibar. In spite of the initial understanding the populace had of his goals in securing Japan’s all too important lifelines, his administration’s failure to move forward with key economic deals–most especially with the Parpaldians and now the Muish–and the setback from their decision to replace Japanese overseas deployments with that of the USFJ caused his approval ratings to dip. His own party and cabinet are behaving in a way that distances themselves from him, all while the attrition of resources continues to whittle away at their rapidly degrading energy infrastructure. The more promises and assurances they make, the more the situation is worsened as they can’t firmly press their interests abroad due to the allergy their society has to strong-arm. As of this moment, they’ve made endeavors to reach out to far-flung lands with a high likelihood of underdeveloped natural resources to exploit, such as Topa, Riem, the Mirishials, and so on but have received not a single reply. All of this while the Parpaldians and the Altarans are sabers rattling with their massive armies, threatening to send the greater region into conflict.
“Gods... I just want to sleep and never wake up.”
Dragging himself off his office chair, Takamori began to curse his luck for every second that passed. How he wished he could retire from this mess and be done with it.
