Saint Helene

Lèoslàv could not stop staring at the paper he held in his hands. He had no idea how it got there, buried in his breast pocket, right next to his silver gilded pocketwatch. Yet, there it was, tangible as tangible could be. The message printed on it gave him chills every time he saw it.

“BUDEŚJ VJ POMÒŹOT”
Cs. Kazanòva 115/04
1600 Cśevàljsk, Ter. Kàpjtala
17:30 – EJOPÒZNAVÀTAJ

“We will help you. Don’t be late,” he read aloud. He knew that address. That was Vàrda Korùja, on the far side of the city. It wasn’t one of the greatest parts of the National Capital Territory. Still, it made the gleaming jewel of the nation sparkle in its own way. Why on earth did he have this address in his pocket? What did it all mean?

The pawprint on the back made it no less enigmatic. Was it something from the Leopardistanis? From the Tshetics? Even some of the Savodsk had a pawprint like that. A chill ran down his spine as he realised that the paw might not even be feline. Alone he stood in the hallway with a card given to him by the Canineians. The jet black pen markings stood muted against the lights in the hallway. Each stroke was embossed. Each stroke was deliberate. This was not written in a hurry.

Someone had to know about this. Someone close to him.

The card held steadfast in his pocket as he raced down the halls. Every time he bumped into someone, he held his eyes shut. “Important business! Sorry!” was all he said, unsure of who at this point was KSB, CSB, or Coworker. He made his way up the stairs to the fourth floor of parliament, and rounded the corner to perhaps his favourite place in parliament, and…

The lights were off in Vejnààr’s office. Lèoslàv nearly crumpled to the floor in a sad heaving heap. He peeked inside through the blinds. The office was well and truly deserted. Papers were strewn all over the office. His prized photo of his Auntie was snatched from its shrine on top of his filing cabinet. Had they taken him? Lèoslàv could only guess. He was now well and truly alone.

Who could he tell? In times like these, he had to puff himself up. Lèoslàv took a deep breath in and stuck his chest out. He was in the parliament for a reason. He was given his first term for a reason. He was chosen… by a man attempting to blackmail an entire nation who was now invading his territory, but he was still chosen. What would a good leader do in this situation?

By 4 PM sharp, his office was locked, and he was out the door.

The screams reached his ears before the smell of smoke hit his nose. Lèoslàv had to press his way past a sea of terrified workers running the opposite way. The front windows of the parliament building were stained orange from the light of the flames. He could barely see through the crowd of carnage that was spilling from the mouth of the metro station entrance. He kicked himself; there went the easiest way to Korùja. Buses were likely out of the question as well, at least until he could get some fair distance away.

Out the side door, the young minister slipped into the evening fog, effortlessly blending with the frightened faces fleeing the violence. A taxicab pulled straight over on the wave of his hand, and he barely had time to leap in as a police cruiser came flying the opposite way.

Captain Valerjèv was by no means a wolf. When it came to his work, however, he meant business. Standing in front of him was the biggest business he had ever seen in his life. With a hand steady and an expression of stone, he raised his finger towards the protesting crowd. “Alright, men!” he shouted to the officers behind him. “Get in there, quell the riot. Separate, isolate, disarm, pacify. Everybody go, go go go.” And off they went.

Foxes and horses in the crowd were pushed back by heavy plastic riot shields. Their muzzles smooshed against the barriers with each step back they took. Little by little, man and mer were segregated, split into isolated groups, then dragged down as individuals. The moment someone was pulled from the mass, they were slammed to the cobblestones and cuffed. Methodically and robotically afterward, the officers moved to the next person.

Many attempted to fight back. One officer stumbled to the ground after receiving the mother of all headbutts from an angered Konjecsev. A kick to his side from their foxen friend joined the physical torment. Rioters were tackled into the dirt; emerald-green uniforms caught fire from thrown petrol. Within ten minutes, the officers had exhausted their supply of zip-ties and cuffs.

The first shots rang out two minutes later. A human who made a desperate grab for an officer’s holster buckled forward, his shirt blossoming red. Only then did the roar of the crowd collapse into a chorus of screams.

Lèoslàv was far away from the noise by the time his taxi arrived. The buzzing of the car’s motor fell off into the distance. His footsteps echoed through the shadow-cloaked alleyway. Save for a drip of water or a scurry of a rat, they were the only sounds that graced his surroundings. After a few seconds of exploring, a heavily accented voice forced its way into the soundscape.

“Bendźamjn Narjmanjèv Lèoslàv?” it asked simply, a cigarette lighting a deceptively human-like face.

The Minister stood tall. He squared his shoulders. The flame reflected in his glasses. “Who are you?”

The same question swam through the shadows. “Bendźamjn Narjmanjèv Lèoslàv?”

“Yes,” he scoffed. “Who are you? Why am I here?”

“Close enough,” the voice answered in Common. Goosebumps traveled up Lèoslàv’s arms. He picked up the subtle yet unmistakable rumble of a van’s engine. The shadow-cloaked figure stepped out the alleyway and twitched his bright grey canine ears. “Ceart go leor, isteach sa veain é!”

Very roughly, the minister was grabbed on both sides by a strong pair of hands. All light was blocked from his vision. His lips caught the feel of smooth, velvety fabric. The hood over his head fit snug.

“Hey! Let me go! Abduction of a cabinet minister! Abduction of a cabinet minister! Anyone! Help!”

The minister couldn’t hear through his panicked screams a deep sigh sail across the breeze. “Tá sé róglorach, cuir gobán air.” Lèoslàv didn’t understand what that sentence meant. Soon, however, he didn’t have to. His jaws were forced apart by a large rubber gag. Wordless now were his screams. Muffled now were his expressions. “Cúramach, bí cúramach. Tabhair aire do do cheann,” one of the captors said to his side. His head smacked the floor of the van.

The grey-haired CSB agent climbed into the front seat of his inconspicuous grey van. Lèoslàv was propped up against the firewall. The side door slammed shut with a heavy thunk. The tyres screeched and smoked against the bitumen. His centre of gravity shifted forwards. As the van sped away into the distance, Lèoslàv knew he was well and truly

–

“GONE?! HE’S GONE?!”

Surrounded by a pod of operatives stood Vjktòrjèv. His face was contorted and twisted beyond all repair. His cheeks glowed a radioactive red. “What do you mean he’s GONE?!”

"Well, sir.” An officer close to him scratched his neck awkwardly. “His office is empty. The lights are off. CCTV from the first floor saw him blend into a crowd of employees fleeing the metro station. He must have slipped out the side door.”

“And you let him?!” Vjktòrjèv roared.

“What were we supposed to do?” scoffed another officer. “Split the crowd like the Red Sea and yank him out by his necktie?”

“YES! You make sure he stays put, you worthless sons of–” And he caught himself. The words lodged in the back of his throat. He put his fist right to his larynx and coughed them loose. Vjktòrjèv straightened his necktie. His shoulders rolled back perfectly clockwise. He looked straight ahead with a loose, detached look. His voice was low, buttery smooth. “Do you know how much this tiny little miracle of political science PhDs matters to our operation? Eh? Anyone?” No one dared to answer him now.

“That’s a shame. Maybe that’s why this all happened. Let me educate you all. If he gets out, we have no Dylan Greenrock under our thumb. We have no Canineian Tunnel Project to strangle the nation. We have no political leverage. We have nothing. Chieftain Growler sends his flea-ridden dogs into our nation. As soon as he cripples the capital, well, just one teenie tiny thing, no real significance–

“YOUR HEADS WILL BE CHOPPED CLEAN OFF YOUR NECKS, AND I WILL BE THE ONE TO DO IT BEFORE THEY CUT OFF MY OWN, BECAUSE THAT MEANS YOU ALL HAVE FAILED!”

Every KSB in the room shrank in absolute terror. Vjktòrjèv swept his eyes from left to right and rolled his eyes, clearing his throat.

“Which means that now, until we get him back, we need a Plan B. So, let’s see… Eenie meenie miney… You! You there! Whatever your name is.” The unfortunate man to whom Vjktòrjèv pointed instead pointed to himself. Their fingers sank into his stomach, and it dropped fifty feet. “Yes you,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Congratulations. You’re the new acting Minister of Transportation.”

“But Sir Minister,” the newly-crowned official stammered, “I know nothing about public transit!”

Vjktòrjèv was ready with a counter. “Did you ride the subway today?” And when the Minister nodded his head, Vjktòrjèv grinned. “Right. So you’re already qualified for this position. It’s easy. So easy. All you have to do is do exactly what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it or you’re fired. Got it?”

The Minister nodded his head. “I think… I think I got it.” He was shut clean up when Vjktòrjèv raised his hand toward him.

“Why are you still here? Go! Get out of here! Go hang photos of trains on your wall or something. And while you’re at it, go steal a plane ticket from someone because you’re going to meet Dylan Greenrock in two days, and I do not want you coming back until you’ve made us the deal.”

“W-Wh-Who’s Dylan Greenrock?” the Minister asked.

“GO!” was Vjktòrjèv’s only reply. The Minister scurried away with a shriek.

“The rest of you, synchronise your watches. Tell Group A that in five minutes I want the parliament locked down and crews running up and down these halls. I want Lèoslàv here. I want Vejnààr here. I want Ruuvaro here. Nobody leaves this building without my permission. Tell Group B to take all of our Hùndjashòvnjks and send them to Canineia. Send them all. Now. Everyone goes in with their current instructions.”

Vjktòrjèv looked out the window at the smoke filling the sky. “I know they’re the ones behind this today. If they want a war, they’ll get a war. Make no mistake, gentlemen.

“We. Will. Castrate. Them.”

A chorus of cheers erupted from the room around him. Vjktòrjèv nodded and straightened his tie once more. “Now, go.”

–

“Go, go, go,” the officers outside Ruuvaro’s office called to themselves. The leopardine minister could barely keep her head on straight. With the activity close to her own inner sanctum, all she could do was hang her head in her hands and breathe as shallow and raggedly as she could. She took a singular deep breath in through a mouth barely parted. The fur on the top of her head rustled and a thump was heard right on top of the precious mahogany furniture. Ruuvaro shot up like a rocket.

Sitting on the desk, upon further inspection, was a deep blue canvas bag. Ruuvaro’s breath hitched in her throat. Inside was the KSB uniform she had returned to Jeff just that morning, and a hastily-scrawled note on top.

“N O T D O N E Y E T”

The air vent swung shut above her with a rusty creak. The stomp of boots raged outside her door. Ruuvaro’s pupils shrank to slits. Her claws grabbed the beige fabric with haste. Stepping into the hallway, the leopardess pulled the brim of her hat down over her eyes. She began speedwalking in the only direction she could: out. She had barely descended the stairs to the first floor of the building and forced the door open when she was stopped dead in her tracks.

“Hey there!” a KSB captain yelled out. “Just where do you think you’re going? You’re supposed to be protecting the west wing!”

Her fur was matted with sweat. Her whole body was shivering. She clutched the fake badge on her uniform and turned to face the captain. A deep breath filled her lungs.

“I, um, I… I am going out for a smoke break.”

“We don’t pay you to smoke on your time, rookie,” the captain clapped back. Ruuvaro puffed up her chest and ran her tongue around her fangs.

“Yeah? Do you pay me to tear that dumb beige hat in pieces? You have a stressed-out leopard here. What happens if she doesn’t get her cigarettes?!”

The captain frowned. “She gets back to work.”

Ruuvaro snarled and flicked a single claw out. The captain held his head back as the claw was pressed to his neck. “She gets back to work, and she flips her lid. That’s how people die, captain. So I say this again, let me take my god damn smoke break.”

The radio on the captain's belt burst to life with static and screeching feedback.

“Security Team to Floor Four! Security Team to Floor Four! We have a Code J! Code J!”

“Hell,” the captain said with a blink of his eyes. “I need to take this.” He paused for a minute as he reached for the radio. Ruuvaro was flashed the barest hint of a smirk. “I like you. Take your smoke break.” And with that, he held the radio to his mouth and ran away. Ruuvaro collapsed as soon as he was gone, crumpling to a heap on the floor. Her breaths were ragged and shaky, barely there. She sounded like she had been punched clear in the stomach. She picked herself up. This was no time to stop. She had to make it out the front door.

The fresh air she gulped down as she threw the doors open was divine. Freedom. For a leopard, a den was a home. Now, free of the invaders that threatened her personal space, she had nearly everywhere to run.

This time, however, she had a direction. Right on the other side of Cs. Vlàda, rising cold and monolithic into the smog, stood the stark gray concrete spire of the KSB Directorate. Somewhere in the infinite annexes of that tower, her three lead researchers were locked in isolation under Vjktòrjèv’s heavy guard. They had her data, her life's work, and her team.

A low, dangerous rumble hummed in her chest as she pulled her cap low. It was her turn to invade the den of her enemies.

–

Vejnààr was already on the platforms of Cśevaljsk Central Station by the time the metro had stopped. He saw the smoke pouring out into the open air near the parliament and bit his dry lips. He hoped Lèoslàv was safe, wherever he was. A gentle five-tone chime foreshadowed the departure of his train out of town. As it turned out, a parliamentary salary gave Vejnààr the money to take the express train anyway. All he hoped was that Vjktòrjèv would take the bait and search the regional services instead.

His train began rolling promptly when it was supposed to. There was minimal delay, minimal deviation. Quickly the train picked up speed, soaring on elevated tracks across the densely-packed city. “There are a lot of planes taking off from Hùndjashòva today, I hear,” someone said from behind him. His ears flicked. He looked up from his newspaper to glance through the seat-back gaps. Another voice, a feminine one, joined in. “Yeah, I know. They’re all full, too. My sister just got taken off of one.”

“Tell me, now,” the first voice sighed. “How do they overbook flights that weren’t even full?”

“Beats me. She can’t even get another flight. Every single one is full.”

“To the other cities?”

“Uh huh. Everywhere. Zeneljuv is full, Konyair is full, O!Wing is full, nothing’s available…”

Vejnààr at this point spoke up.

“Pardon me, I am sorry for interrupting… She can take the Gammur High Speed train over into Princeborough and try flying from there. The Gammur is cheap, even for Green Class tickets. In my opinion, it’s better than flying.”

The woman at the window seat brightened a bit. “Yeah, the Gammur. She can do that. I’ll text her. Hopefully she can catch one.”

Leaning back in his seat and facing forward again, Vejnààr felt a deep pit in his stomach. Every single flight out of Hundjasdòvj District was booked solid. No seats available. This seemed oddly familiar to the horse. It could be just a coincidence. He took a sip of the tea in his thermos.

“No good, honey. The Gammur is booked solid too.”

Vejnààr clutched his throat and choked. Across the aisle, a coat-cladded man took a sideways glance at the horse and wrote something down in a notebook. As Vejnààr got up to clean himself off in the train’s toilets, so too did the man.

–

Lèoslàv tried to make sense of where he was in space. He could feel the ground rumble underneath him through the vibration of the tyres. He could feel his body sway as the van leaned left and right. He could sense, then, with his near encyclopaedic knowledge of the city and its roads, that he was on the C-204 Peripheral. They were traveling clockwise… perhaps… The lean to the left told him he was going anticlockwise. Perfectly near kilometre stone 87.

For an ordinary commuter, kilometre stone 87 was a pointless wayside milestone. For him, however, it meant that in three seconds, he needed to brace himself. Three. Two. SMACK! And his head hit the firewall as the van stomped on its brakes. He couldn’t see what had happened through his hood, but the flash was captured perfectly in his own mind.

“Fuair an ceamara luais diabhal sin mé arís!”

Right on cue, he heard the driver’s frustrated cries. Much to the annoyance and bewilderment of his captors, his lips curled up into a smile, and a quiet laugh managed to slip past his gag. He never stopped laughing until the sun set.

–

Vejnààr bumped into the man as he left the lavatory. All he could give was a tired side-glance and a soft mutter. “Sorry, did you need to use–” and he stopped. A KSB badge caught the light underneath the long dark jacket. Vejnààr felt cold as the world closed in around him. The man made a grab for his hands, and Vejnààr responded nearly instantly. A sharp neigh masked the screams as the stun baton was driven hard into the man’s stomach.

He propped the undercover agent on the toilet and jammed the door shut, giving it a sharp kick for good measure. His heart pounded through his chest. He looked around the train car’s hallway. His ears twitched and he leaped back toward the wall. His pager was ringing.

He glanced down at the message printed in seven-segment across its face.

“YOU FUСKED UP - OV”

Vejnààr’s breathing quickened, and quickened, catching up with the train. He weighed his options for a single half-second, and dove for the Emergency Brake.

–

“How long will you spend in Canidae Harbour?” the border guard groaned without looking up from the passport.

The Canineian on the other side of the desk gave a warm, neutral smile. “As long as I can, a chara.”

“What is the purpose of your visit?” the guard asked for the seven-hundredth time that day.

The Canineian concealed a set of KSB-branded papers in his trousers pocket and met the border guard eye-to-eye.

“I’m coming home.”

A tv turns on in a nicely decorated and comforted home. A large L shaped couch is set not far from the TV and a father sits down to enjoy a show he has been watching for months. His right arm is comforting his wife and his left a bag of popcorn. In the background you hear kids playing sounding like they are upstairs. The Show starts and a EAS system starts on the tv but quietly. In red words with a black background has sequenced "It is to in our greatest despair to share this sad news to our people that His Imperial Majesty King David Tupou XVI has passed away"

The Wife sat up and the husband change the channel. They both yelled at their childeren to come down "This is really important for you both" she yelled

this kids ran down and asked what was happening one of the daughters asked "mom i dont know why yall called us down here but i actually need to g...." then she stoped mid sentence to watch the tv because her mom pointed frantically they both sat down on the floor one after the other and they looked in confusion

then the TV broadcasting went to a special broadcast of the Tongan Broadcasting Service. TBS Anchor Angel Soifua sits in her seat and holds papers in her hand to stabilize herself. "Good evening I am Angel Soifua, With great sadness Ma'afu Palace has announced that His Imperial Majesty King David Tupou XVII has passed away "

The mother started to sob. "He had been my king my whole life" she said speaking between sobs.

The father looked at the tv with that look most fathers do when their deep in thought.

The Kids were looking with pity but didnt think much of it because they had other things to do.

"at the age of 75. Thank you for giving us your time to give you this information"

Her Majesty gently takes her hand away from the cold hands of her father. She ultimately knows now that it is her duty and responsibility to be the next direct leader to the Greater Tongan Empire ant its relm and subjects. She feels that weight and understands what she needs to do. The dominoes are in place for her coronation to the crown.

she looks at her fathers cold body calmly and warmly states "It is my time to use your teachings"

To the shock and glee of the globalist economic world, the Fylkirate of Svipjoth has not only permitted the first imports of foreign goods into the country, but additionally the establishment of franchises from foreign businesses.

Shortly after Fylkir Beinlaus’ ascension to the throne and the Fylkirate’s subsequent exit from its over two-hundred year isolationist policies, the government established a series of agencies that indicated to the rest of Strangereal a further opening of their country: the Foreign Export Bureau, and more critically, the Foreign Import Bureau.

Established in line with the Svipish economic preference for autarky, the Foreign Import Bureau limits all imports to those deemed non-essential. The purpose of this limitation, as cited from the Svipish Advisor of Economics, Starkadr Gnupsson, is to safeguard the country from any form of importation that could jeopardise the national economy.

In a historic first for the Fylkirate, the Foreign Import Bureau has published its first decree of approved imports. These include:

- Kaiju Express, from the Republic of Lungha: A Pan-Asian fast food restaurant that serves a variety of locally-sourced (whenever possible) meals, from chicken chow mein and takoyaki to pad thai and bubble waffle.
- Burrito Baron, from the Kingdom of Cridsaoghail: A Mexican-adjacent fast food restaurant that serves burritos, tacos, enchiladas, and other cuisine (Editor’s note: any combination of tortilla, cheese, and protein qualifies as a menu item).

Negotiations are on-going with other foreign companies, including numerous bids from various soft drink companies in Lungha. It remains to be seen when the first international stores will open across Svipjoth and what products they will offer.