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Post by Ventica on Oct 22, 2021 5:51:09 GMT
An Appeal to the Mighty (I)
General Armani looked at the status report in front of him, lightly sipping his wine and tapping his fingers on the desk in contemplation as he did so. While one could otherwise think that this was merely a routine assessment of the Directorate's army's performance, Armani could tell it was anything but. The report confirmed what Directorate intelligence had concluded earlier in the week - the Anacodian government was now regularly arming the treacherous Council to the east; their divisions now making considerable progress against what had previously been securely defended Directorate positions.
...and what could he do to put an end to their advances, he thought; silence filling his old office. The Anacodians were highly scientifically advanced - they even had created a robot to lead them, for Christ's sake - and their weaponry accordingly greatly outclassed much of anything the Directorate, still relying on largely pre-civil-war equipment designs, could make themselves. What was he to do? Now wasn't the time to focus on emergency weapon development; even with the Jesian supply drop, the Directorate's factories could only barely pump out enough weapons to arm the military's loyal soldiers, much less enough to perform effective weapons tests with. Could he instead, perhaps, rely on the backing of another, stronger power to pull out a victory, like the leftists had done with Anacodia? It was certainly a possibility, though he would likely have to keep it under wraps until his government could spin it in a way that would still retain his honor and respectability; it would cast a regrettable image to the remainder of the Ventican public still within Directorate-held territory if he was thought to rely too much on foreign powers to help Ventica's rightful government achieve victories it should otherwise be able to attain by itself. Saying that, however, what were even the possibilities? Jesia was too unpredictable to call upon for effective aid, the National Republic across the sea to the southwest was likely to be more sympathetic to that oh-so-despised Democratic Front, and Anacodia had already predictably and decisively thrown its metaphorical hat in with the All-Ventican People's Council. If those states wouldn't do, and if most others were too far away or too unstable in their own right to be of much help, who was left?
Now looking through one of his myriad of document folders, each largely indistinguishable from the next if it weren't for a small numbered tag upon their manila tabs, it hit him as he took out a recent diplomatic correspondence his administration had received. Of course, the Krimeran Federation! While they weren't perhaps the most ideal partner, he figured, their support would be better than nothing, and, from what he could assume through the wording of their "Supreme Leader's" invitation, they were likely to be most aligned with the Directorate's nature over any of the other four main opposing Ventican factions.
As he prepared his typewriter to respond to Kruschev's proposition, he could only hope that his desperate faith in the Krimeran government would be returned in kind.
“There are no ethical problems for a desperate man. Believe it or not, a desperate man tries harder than a disciplined man.”
-Sarvesh Jain
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Post by Ventica on Oct 24, 2021 5:49:05 GMT
The Chieftain and the Knight
Elvio Vitti felt the cool, foggy Tedine air against his face as he took a moment to collect his thoughts. It felt nice, he thought; being refreshing without also chilling him too much.
"What do you think?" Antonio Rossi asked as the two continued their walk along Tedine's lengthy riverside park; a locale commonly used by Council politicians to get away from the bustle and chaos of political debate and scheming.
"...of Anacodia?" Vitti replied.
"Yes... of Anacodia." Rossi replied, taking a small folder out of his bag and handing it to his assistant. "Look through that; those sets of highly detailed military plans and logistics questions were sent to us by Anacodian high command. While I cannot deny their usefulness..."
"...you worry that they may be involving themselves too directly in Ventican affairs, sir?", Vitti replied without looking up, already aware of what his superior was likely to say.
"Exactly, Elvio. On one hand, their assistance in dealing with the hated anti-revolutionaries is greatly appreciated. On the other, however... I do fear that their influence in the Council's affairs has been growing recently at too exponential a rate. What does this tell the Ventican laborer fighting for us, then? That they - that we - should then turn and bow to the whims of a government across the seas once this war has ended and serve their geopolitical purposes; that we should jump whole-heartedly to their side because they "helped us in achieving true socialism"? I must say... have you heard the tale of the chieftain and knight before?"
Vitti shook his head.
"...ah, alright." Rossi continued; "see, in this story, the heroic chieftain must save his maiden from the clutches of a rival tribe. One day, while contemplating how to beat said enemy tribe, a knight from a foreign land comes and says he will assist the chief in his journey. Though he contemplates deeply, he eventually refuses the knight's assistance, and, though it is difficult, is still eventually able to come out on top over his rivals and save his maiden, becoming much stronger as a result of the trials and tribulations as a result. Some time later, the knight returns, but this time with a war party of hostile foes; his real purpose had been to betray the chieftain and take both his enemies' and his own land to expand the knight's foreign empire. Only due to the strength the chieftain attained through his difficult, personal journey was he able to beat back the new foe and save his homeland from the clutches of the knight and his men... well, it goes something like that, anyway; it's been a while since I've heard it properly retold. Still, though, I worry that Ventica and her loyal workers and tradesmen - represented in this case, of course, by the chieftain in the tale - will lack the personal growth and strength built by fighting their own battles as said chief had - instead relying too much on the knight, Anacodia, and his weapons and aid - and when Anacodia may come knocking in the future to seize Ventica for herself, the people of this country may lack the determination and fortitude to, well, stand up for themselves as a result. While I understand that I may simply just be worrying about this too much, I just... can't shake the feeling from my head; it comes up again and again as such a terribly negative thought in my dreams."
Though he didn't know exactly what to say to the man's words, Vitti sensed that he might begin to feel the same way over the next number of weeks, ones likely to be quite politically tumultuous indeed in nature.
"The transparency of a metaphor displays the glint of truth. But if a metaphor is taken for a reality, it then becomes dense and masks the truth it is meant to display."
-Said Nursi
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Post by Ventica on Oct 26, 2021 2:36:37 GMT
An Appeal to the Mighty (II)
As Ermete Castilogo took to the stage in front of him, he once again beheld the politically diverse collection of politicians that had gathered today in the Front's Legislative Hall. Though a purely provisional administrative construct by nature, it, to Ermete, still represented all the beautiful things he cherished about democracy; how people affiliated with a wide range of views could speak together on equal terms in an effort to fairly govern their country, how words - not just brutal, autocratic rule - could lead a country to prosperity... even how, in the midst of chaos and war, level-headed individuals could still orderly meet and discuss how to end the crisis that so plagued their nation. He loved all these things about the political system to which he had found himself caught up within after Ventica had fallen into chaos, and he was determined to do what he could to continue its righteous march across the country.
...or so he told himself, anyway. While he still vowed to work diligently for the Front's continuation, recent insights he had uncovered - both regarding the corruption present among many of his colleagues across the political spectrum and related to likely Jesian involvement in some of the democrats' recent military successes - had sullied his outlook somewhat. What the Ventican Democratic Front needed was not help from sources highly untrustworthy in nature, nor from corruption; that so-unfortunately-commonly-present sort of stain on what may otherwise be a healthily run society. No, what they needed was to ally with a country that shared their principles, their moral standards, their respect for the will of man; and to support such a view was, in fact, the reason he had asked Ginevra Malleforda, the Front's current effective prime minister, to speak today.
"Representatives of the Ventican People!" he began, his voice echoing across the room, "I am in front of you today not to beg for your co-operation, but to ask for your understanding. Today, this Democratic Front of ours faces a great list of challenges; Anacodia has begun to directly support the communistic Council, made up of those who, as you are all aware, betrayed our cause all those years ago. The Directorate in turn, then, is feared to be seeking support from the ideologically similar state of Krimera to our north; that autocratic regime that is said to never let down a good opportunity to spread its morally toxic influence across peoples and lands to the detriment of all except itself. Let us not forget the Nationalists or that esoteric Cult either - though they lack the same level of direct foreign support that the Council and Directorate have received or are likely to receive, their men are passionate for their respectively twisted causes, and, if left unchecked, could still pose a notable threat to our own. Last in turn, but certainly not least, the corruption that plagues our very own administration leaves us weaker and more vulnerable than we rightfully ought to be; it causes us to be unenviably prone to all manner of underground parasite or secretive double-agent wishing to tear down our Front from the inside out!"
The other politicians in the hall were largely silent; their own previous mutterings and conversations now drowned out by Ermete's impassioned speech. As the speaker took a moment to pause and drink out of his water glass, all in the room waited to see what he would say next.
"The Front is not all-vulnerable, however, for there sits across the sea a proud nation, one steeped in democratic tradition, who would be willing to hear and bolster our cause! We must work with them, with New Nationale Einheit, in order to secure our victory over those in our own land who would wish for our downfall, for the downfall of those all-collective longings for liberty and democracy which we stand for and hold dear! I ask you, men of the Front, how far can a trailblazer progress without the assistance of his coach, his mentor, his family? How far, then, can we advance our righteous cause without those of our own who would stand up for us in support? I implore you - keep these thoughts in mind as we debate our next, momentous steps in this era of chaos within which we live. For the Front! For Freedom!"
As he finished, roars of applause and cheers erupted from all corners of the hall; fervent ones which refused to die down quickly. Now, Ermete figured, he would just have to dutifully await the Nationale Republik's response to these great shows of spirit and dedication that he had taken it upon himself to stoke, ones which now cried out for the liberation of all Ventican men under the Front's virtuous cause.
"Either we are all free, or we fail; democracy must belong to all of us."
-Dennis Chávez
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Post by Ventica on Oct 28, 2021 1:49:07 GMT
Firm Determination
"Our road ahead is fraught with danger, yet we must prevail"
Celso saw these words everyday; it was Quaste's city motto, and the office building within which he worked was located just up the street from the city's centre - the place where the phrase had, before the war, been emblazoned onto a massive metallic decorative piece. Today, however, they had a different meaning to him; instead of telling him to pursue a false, backwards, and destructive path, they now meant he should endure the jeers and horrid cries of those around them and journey down a road true to his original ideals, one focused on restoring livelihoods instead of tearing them down in a terrible display of "national honour".
Today, he had decided that, by any means, that all-so-miserable tyrant, that duce of death, must be overthrown, and that he would do his best to carry out the task. Vincente Algochiro had strayed from his initial path too much for the intelligence minister's conscious to tolerate; instead of the Organization standing for the principles of Ventican pride and cultural rebirth it had once professed, it now led many score of honest men to their deaths each day; either in the chaos of battle, as a result of those regrettable tools of statesmanship known as political purges, or due to the fallout from the chemical weapons it now employed against enemy lines - gasses do not tend to stay in one place, after all. What was he to do, then? Though there would surely be other dissidents within the higher ranks of the OVN's leadership, it was hard to guess exactly who was sympathetic to who, and he would surely be purged himself if he made the wrong person aware of what he planned to carry out. Furthermore, what would happen to the Nationalists' territory when the man who had brutally led his men to conquer the region lie dead? Would he push for them to realign themselves with the Directorate, the faction they had originally fought alongside, the Democrats, whose views Celso personally now had an affinity for, the Council, who, though it was socialist in nature, still possessed a notable nationalist faction of their own who the Organization's men could likely be swayed to follow, or should they continue to chart their own path? Whatever the final decision would be, however, Celso knew he had to act quickly - leftist forces now prepared for a direct assault upon Quaste's defenses, acts of civilian sabotage had recently worsened within many of the nationalists' rural communities and factories, and Algochiro still seemed to focus most on how best to fill enemies' lungs with sulfur mustard instead of any of the other ills plaguing his administration. If the nationalists' grip on their territory were to collapse to any one of these issues instead of as a result of calculated, precise efforts from the inside, their corner of Ventica, their figurative hellscape-upon-Earth, would be likely to collapse into further strife and warlord conflict.
An outcome that he would be determined to prevent; Celso thought to himself as he climbed the stairs to his workplace. If nothing else, he knew that, today, he would have things to plan, people to call, and contacts to reach out to.
After all, he was the Organization's Minister of Intelligence, and the fate of all Ventica now lay upon his shoulders.
"I understand everybody in this country doesn't agree with the decisions I've made. And I made some tough decisions. But people know where I stand."
-George W. Bush
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Post by Ventica on Oct 29, 2021 21:22:14 GMT
Holy Eventide
Iscariot longingly looked into the night sky from his wide bedroom window. While Montertici winters were often cold, its nights, when the weather was clear, were famously beautiful; the city was remotely located and, despite being a fairly large city in its own right, lacked the same level of rampant light pollution that the other major cities of Ventica were plagued with. It was sometimes said, even, that a man in Montertici could learn more from the stars and sky in one year than one in Altasena could attain in his entire lifetime, and Iscariot, in his present state of thought, figured that such an assessment was not far from the truth.
His ponderings were eventually interrupted, however, as he heard the door behind him open. Though he was not looking at it, the reflection of the guest in the window betrayed her identity; Evena had come with a nightly offering of light pastries and coffee to provide him with.
"Thinking of anything in particular, my saint?", she said, somewhat reservedly. He could tell right away that there was something else on her mind.
"Nothing too much, Evena" he began, "just those terrible memories that continue to make themselves known within my head; those horrific images of death and terror. Why have I, a supposed saint, been cursed with such things? Why, in all the greatness and love bestowed upon me by my faithful, do I bear the sights of children dying for no just cause, their parents eternally scarred by the act? They're cursed things, really, and yet I cannot seem to shake myself of them; they repeat themselves in my nightmares and during periods of mindless thought over and over, like some sort of danse macabre. I just wish... I just wish I could free myself of their hold on my mind, but yet alas..."
Evena placed the tray of food on a nearby desk and came over to sit next to Iscariot, her footsteps graceful and nigh-silent as they went across the floor.
"Evena, who am I, really? Am I really some sort of saint, as you and my other disciples claim me to be? Or am I merely a fraud, some sort of past murderer... a past son of Satan who doesn't deserve to hold a title anywhere close to saintdom? Regardless of my true nature, I do not wish to be the reason all those who believe in my just-ness are let down, but, still, I... I cannot take it, these conflictions of mine."
The woman, now stroking his hair and back, softly responded. "You are today what you are today; a holy harbinger believed in by many score of your faithful, not some sort of child-killer or spawn of the Devil. Those horrific visions you behold are merely tests sent to you by God, echoes of all the many sins of humanity, and you must be prepared to take in many more before the country - the world - can reach its true salvation; that state of utopia proving its triumph over evil and moral wrongdoing. Saying that, however, I believe in your ability to overcome such trials and achieve your deserved destiny; your ability to become a true, modern-day saint for humanity. After all, who could possibly have the ability, the force of will to free mankind from its cycles of war, of pain, of suffering? No normal man or sentient machine, wracked by feelings of self-interest, desire, and greedy want, possess such capabilities; only a blessed, reborn saint such as yourself can... must..."
Evena trailed off in her thoughts, though continued to comfort Iscariot with her touch. After the pair had sat in silence for several minutes, Iscariot spoke up, a sense of exhaustion present in his face.
"Evena, could you... stay the night? Here? With me? I fear I may have yet another night of tiring, restless sleep if those terrible, terrible visions of mine are not comforted further by your.. presence."
The woman waited several moments further, lost in her own ponderings, before embracing the man and responding; "Yes, Iscariot... that so holy man of mine".
"Faith makes all things possible... love makes all things easy."
-Dwight L. Moody
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Post by Jesia on Oct 29, 2021 21:26:35 GMT
OOC: Horry... its beautiful...
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Post by Ventica on Nov 13, 2021 1:09:46 GMT
Fang of a Snake
General Armani sat deep within the Altasena Central Library, deeply engaged in his work. Only a week had passed since his meeting with the Krimeran government, and already he was planning his next one, a visit to Straona; the Directorate's cause could use all the support it could get, after all, or so at least he told himself. It was admittedly drab work - setting up how the agreements made with Krimera would be implemented, what path he could use to most safely travel to Straona, what new propaganda and speeches could be presented to the populace to bolster support of these deals - but someone had to do them, after all, and it was good to take a break from the always-tense tasks surrounding military planning. As he leaned in once again to observe a map of the mountainous Ventican northwest he had laid out, his attention to the document prevented him from noticing another individual walk up behind him.
"...greetings, sir", the person said, startling the general as he rushed to turn around. Melchiorre, recently promoted to Brigadier General, stood there, examining a book he had picked up along his way through the library.
"Melchiorre, what are you doing away from your post... and why are you even here, anyway?" the general unprofessionally outburst. He was not used in the least to others interrupting him while he was in the middle of his studies; and even less so to someone so quietly reaching his side. Before Melchiorre could respond, Armani swore to himself that he'd soon look into increasing his security detail.
"I have merely come to provide you a status update, sir", the man responded; slightly annoyed at his superior's unexpected break in his usual professional demeanor. "Know that, while you still carry plenty of respect among the military's men, including myself, of course, your recent overtures towards... cooperation with the all-too dictatorial Krimeran Federation have been taken with hesitancy by many of the same individuals. The Directorate, while a military state, represents order and justice to those within our wedge of Ventica, not excess tyranny and foreign puppetry; take care that it remains as such."
"Melchiorre, you understand as well as I do that such words carry with them a bitter, treasonous taste. Knowing the consequences, then, why do you utter them straight to my face, to your superior, to the face of the man you supposedly respect so much? I will certainly be having my assistants look into this further, you know-"
Cutting off the general's protests with a dismissive nod, Melchiorre placed the book he had held down atop the map on Armani's table. "As you've said in the past, "the collaborator doesn't know the extent of his treachery's fallout until the police come knocking on his door". I will only say that it would be wise to keep your own past words in mind as you consider your future actions; both concerning this conversation and also in regards to your dealings with the northern tyrants."
Armani was left speechless at this blatant act of perfidy by who he had considered previously to be one of his most stalwart officers. As Melchiorre stepped away, and began to return to the library entrance, the general could do little more than look at the title of the book that had been dropped upon his workplace.
"Silent Turns the Night - Falls from Grace in the Ventican Middle Ages"
"All men should have a drop of treason in their veins, if nations are not to go soft like so many sleepy pears."
-Rebecca West
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Post by Ventica on Nov 14, 2021 21:52:52 GMT
The Culture of the Artist
Elettra Endellia sat upon her couch in the gallery room, a small canvas held in one hand and her paintbrush in another. Tedine Palace, once the home of a local branch of Ventican nobility, had been converted into her base of operations upon its seizure by Tradizionalisti forces aligned with the Council, a fitting home for the woman known as the "Red Duchess". She had a fond affection for the finer elements of Ventican culture - painting, for instance, or the old Ventican royal family - and she regularly hosted events and festivities within the palace to both bolster her traditionalists' fervor and to celebrate such things.
Events such as the one that was being held currently.
Around her, the room carried throughout it scenes of hectic excitement; a young artist placing the finishing touches on a new propaganda poster of hers, two engineers adjusting the design of a farming implement they had come up with, a man snapping new photographs for later display in the media. All were, as with everything expected within Tradizionalisti culture, both visually refined and designed for efficiency; the propaganda poster, for instance, appeared to be among the forefront of a new, more attention-grabbing style that had formed amongst the Council's factions as of late, and the individuals the man was taking pictures of were members of the group of "young labour-pioneers" that had been devised as a way to incentivize younger minors to take up certain, low risk jobs in the workplace in order to aid the Council's war efforts. The idea of "culture", as Elettra had promoted it throughout her faction's ideologues, was a thing that could be utilized to promote desired mindsets among a given populace - concepts such as "self-sacrifice", "resilience", and "reverence for one's cultural history", for instance - and the traditionalists were now one of the foremost promoters of this conception of "culture" in general throughout AVPC-held territory. Much had been sacrificed to get to this point, she thought, and yet more had to be done in the future before the faction could truly stand as the most influential of the four within the Council as a whole; further resources and factories from the "self-decadent, culture-starved capitalists" in enemy territory had to be seized, more expansive waves of propaganda had to be delivered, new men and women had to be recruited for the Tradizionalisti cause...
Her musings were interrupted, however, as two of her men noisily opened the room's front door, carrying with them an iron cage. While one couldn't see inside the object from most directions, its front, the side that faced Elettra as it was pulled in front of her, had a grate along much of its height that one could see inside with.
"I trust that he is to your liking, Ma'am?", asked one of the two deliverers, a student of journalism with a faded, mahogany-coloured cap.
The Tradizionalisti head peered at the man trapped inside the cage. Though he was chained and emaciated, she could still recognize him as having been the owner of what had been a large, pre-war Ventican corporation - one that had been in the news multiple times due to worryingly unsafe business practices and labour rights violations.
"Yes; thank you, Gian. He should certainly make a fine specimen for my next piece... perhaps titled "The Magnate's Mortality"? What do you think?"
"I think it is a fine name, Mrs. Endellia", Gian replied.
"Hah, thank you again" the woman replied, her eyes now turning to the imprisoned ex-businessman. "Now, what colours will be best to capture that look of pitiless desperation upon your face, I wonder?"
"An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly, but he must also never be afraid to do what he might choose."
-Langston Hughes
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Post by Ventica on Nov 18, 2021 2:40:39 GMT
Turning of the Tides
Stella Averzani let out a barrage towards an entrenched White Orchid position before once again ducking behind cover. As a return volley whizzed past her position, she mentally recounted the number of enemy screams she had just heard; 1... 2..., all in all, it seemed to her that three or four foes had been hurt or killed by her attack. While she didn't enjoy killing, especially when it involved her ending the lives of her countrymen, she had figured that, if she had to be on the front lines, she may as well fight as efficiently as she could will herself to; after all, a promotion to a position with less direct battlefield duties would mean she could fight less people, right?
This idea, and others like it, floated through her mind as she reloaded her rifle. Her boyfriend - she was planning to propose to him once she had a chance to return to Rhobria; what might he say if she was wounded or killed here? Her parents, too; they owned a small café in the city, and had already expressed feelings of worry about her situation; what might they do if the wear and tear of combat got to her before she was able to inherit their store? They were all saddening things to think about, yet they gave her the determination to press onward with her mission; she didn't wish for this to be the day that all their worries about her would come true.
"Stella!", she heard; someone calling her from her right. Looking towards the speaker, she could see that it was her friend, Noemi. Somehow, despite her previous injuries, she had been allowed to come back to active combat - perhaps they hadn't been as severe as the doctor's initial reports had suggested them to be.
"How're you holding up?" Stella responded, being forced to yell as a result of the noise around them.
"Well enough, I suppose. And you?" Noemi yelled back, her dark brown hair and smooth, youthful face covered in a sweat-like sheen.
"I'm doing good myself, I'd say." she replied, letting off another round of shots into enemy-held territory. "Actually, on that note, as you've been gone for a while, have you noticed anything about the rate of our advances?"
Her friend thought for a moment before lightly shaking her head and replying. "Not really; if anything, they do seem to be progressing quicker than they used to, but that's..."
"Exactly", Stella noted, interrupting Noemi. "But, having been on the front the whole time you've been gone, I can tell you that it hasn't been a gradual process; one day, the amount of progress we were making each day just... suddenly began to significantly increase, and the amount of enemy attacks that have gotten dangerously close to putting me out of commission have decreased, to boot. You've been in Rhobria, right? Have they been testing out any new weaponry there or gotten any major deals struck with the powers that be that may be causing this shift in the power balance?"
Noemi shook her head, a slightly confused expression upon her face.
Closing her eyes in thought, Stella continued. "Hmm... if that's the case, what could be the cause of this, then? Unless I've missed some vital news, the situation here really shouldn't be changing at the rate it has been as of late. Might something have happened on the cult's side, possibly...?
"My wife was as much of a soldier as I was."
-Zachary Taylor
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Post by Ventica on Nov 20, 2021 5:49:39 GMT
Red in the Dark
Celso Bianchi tenderly opened the old door; its worn rusted hinges squealing as he did so. He dearly hoped this was the right place; the place that his contact in the Organization's security service had promised to meet up with him at. While he was the Duce's experienced intelligence minister, perhaps even he had gotten too over his head in this business of treason? He still had a chance to leave, return back to his house, and pretend that this whole affair never happened, or at least so he thought. Truthfully, however, he knew deep down that, if he did return to his previous life of relative normalcy, it would only be a matter of time before other elements of the government - his own men, members of the military, or even possibly the Duce himself - would come to question his string of erratic actions; bureaucratic routine was a hallmark of the Nationalists' administration, and he had taken too many sick days, had given too many excuses to be let off without a hitch if this whole operation were to prematurely end.
Now in the building's front waiting room, he pressed the buzzer and waited for someone to lead him to his contact. He was surprised at the locale's secrecy; though it had previously been one of Quaste's many high-end restaurants in the city's northern district and a popular meeting spot for local intelligentsia, it had been closed in the wake of the civil war's outbreak, only falling further into disrepair as the Organization had enforced its rule over the city. Somehow, it had evaded his past searches for subversives' hideouts; perhaps the result of past tiredness or oversight, the efforts of a secretly anti-Nationalist official, or simple secretiveness. Whatever the case may have been, he was certainly now glad that he had not been more exhaustive in his previous, Organization-loyal efforts. Though he waited long enough to find himself sitting down and leafing through his notebook, one of the contact's assistants soon enough came through the interior door-way before him; pamphlet in hand. She handed it to him before speaking.
"Oh dear. Judging by how much he's been secretive about you, I had figured you'd be someone quite important indeed, but for "Gharial" to actually be the damned Celso Bianchi, of all people? I swear, if you betray him... if you so much as lay a finger on him-"
"You don't have to worry" Celso tiredly responded, looking at the pamphlet; "The Eight Tenets of the Quaste Revolutionary Brigade", it read, a clear sign of this group's true ideals. While he didn't like socialists, he reasoned that working with them for at least a time would at least be better than suffering under Algochiro's controlling hand any longer. "Truth be told, this is actually my second visit to a counter-Nationalist group this day; no brawling broke out at the first meeting, at least, heh".
While his comments were met with a disapproving groan from the woman, she eventually motioned for him to follow her down into the building's lower floors. The Brigade's cell, he noted, had an impressive number of men and women for being within the centre of what would be to them enemy territory. He considered taking a closer look at some to see if he could recognize any from his past investigations, though he believed it unwise to draw more attention to himself than necessary. It had taken a lot of convincing and... diplomacy, he considered it, for his contact to even let the location of this group be known to him, and as he drew closer to the man's office, the thought of needlessly forfeiting the chance to meet him became more and more of an appalling one in his head. If he was to tear down the Organization's unjust rule over western Ventica, he would need all the help he could muster.
And help he would be mustering; as the assistant opened up the office door, Celso could hardly believe his eyes. The identity of his mysterious, seemingly socialist contact was none other than the Questore of Quaste's Police Department, Annibale Almiforzo.
"If you shut up truth, and bury it underground, it will but grow."
-Emile Zola
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Post by Ventica on Nov 22, 2021 21:53:53 GMT
The Civilian
A siren's faint shrill could be heard echoing through the valley as Pasquale continued his nightly walk through his corner of Montertici. He had seen much in his six decades of life, the fall of a united Ventica, it's collapse into further and further warring factions..., and yet he was still at a loss about how to properly describe it all. Was the country of his childhood even still there in some form; if Ventica reunited in his lifetime, would he recognize it for the proud pre-war nation of his youth? He wondered these things and more each time he went walking with his dog, Mela, but he had never been able to come up with a proper, satisfactory answer to any of them.
War, especially civil war, was a curse, he thought; a curse on a country that made its wholeness degrade, its people kill each other, remnants of its ancient culture blown to bits. What good was there with such sorts of conflicts, really? What benefits came from one side's victory, when they declared such a triumph in the blood of their enemies' endless, dead corpses? How many families had to die for the socialists to truly declare their victory over "reactionaries", or for the esoteric, unexplainable cultists who controlled the city so dear to him to proclaim a final victory for their confusing religious beliefs? He didn't care much, himself, for the ideals of socialism, the teachings of pseudo-religious lunatics, or the strong-arm governance of the old military regime; he simply wished for a peaceful country, one where he could live out a peaceful life with his wife, children, and dog. He couldn't even blame the new generation for why Ventica had fallen as it did; for as much as he'd rather tell himself otherwise, he knew deep-down that the blame largely rested on his own kin - a generation that, in a sense, fought too greedily or too extremely for which-ever position they may have held, and nearly lost it all as a result.
As Pasquale reached the front doors of the neighborhood night-market - his typical destination most nights he went out - he turned to look at Mela before placing her in the care of the small dog park's manager; there was a no-pets-allowed policy in the market itself, and so he had come to trust the neighboring dog park as a safe refuge to leave her in the care of before shopping. The dog, too, was getting on in years as he was, her coat of once luscious red-brown fur having slowly worn over time, and yet she still carried with her a certain sense of self-reliance and capability. Perhaps all beings of Ventica, humans and dogs alike, were like that, he thought.
After all, the ravages of war change everything in their path in some inescapable ways, do they not?
"There is nothing that war has ever achieved that we could not better achieve without it."
-Havelock Ellis
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