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Chapter I: String

The ocean air was cool and clear, free from the pollutants of the cities. A merciless sun granted no clemency to the inhabitants of the sky- that the sea should fear a ball of gas!- but they paid no attention: the fliers were heading south for the winter, away from the freezing temperatures and snow of the north, and thus basked in the glorious light. Flocks of birds that numbered in the thousands flew in the sky, forming a shadow larger than any cloud could conjure.

Under one such cloud, ripples tormented the still sea. They were soft, at first, and barely disturbed the pure surface. However, time proved the sea's enemy, and the ripples turned into waves, all emanating from a central point. Within the minute, the Soviet Navy had established its presence: the newest Borei-class ballistic missile submarine, the Lenin, remained hidden from prowling eyes under hundreds of scores of migratory birds.

Water poured off of the submarine, and, as it slowed to a trickle, a small hatch on the tip of the sail opened its eyes to the vast world before it. From the hatch, however, two figures appeared, each capped with a traditional ushanka. In stark contrast from the traditional head wears, the modern ones featured a gleaming red star in the center, sickle and hammer combined.

"A cold day, Comrade Captain, despite the sun." Observed executive officer Sergei Andreyev to his senior officer.

"Da, Comrade." Captain Pyotr Ivanov noticed with unusual terseness. Only one week ago, his regular patrol had been interrupted with urgent orders to proceed to his now-current location. But he breathed in and out the fresh sea air, and allowed a moment of brief escapism from the harsh reality of the East.

"Sergei, please inform Command that we have arrived at the designated coordinates." After a silent nod, the captain remained alone above the surface. Several deep breaths rid him of the stale air below deck, and gave him a renewed feeling of vigor.

But, still, his thoughts could not be kept off of his- inadequate, perhaps?- orders. It was standard practice for Soviet missile submarines to hide near or under the Arctic Circle, away from straying American submarines, and in areas that were best for defense: finding a submarine under a pack of moving and scraping, crashing ice was much harder than in the flow of the ocean.

These orders, however, had been blunt: 'Rendezvous with Akula-class submarines [the names had not been specified, Captain Ivanov noted with a perplexed gaze) and await further orders. Radio Command when location reached. It left much to the imagination, contrary to Soviet doctrine.

Taking a last gaze at the horizon, Pyotr focused on the rising sun. He sighed inwardly, knowing that he would not witness nature's beauty for too long a time.

Outwardly, the Soviet captain was stoic.

* * *

To an outside viewer, all that would be seen was but a blur where, actually, a train sped along at speeds in excess of two hundred forty kilometers per hour. Of course, the sun had long since set, and thus a certain peace had settled over the region, with the crescent moon shining like a sliver of some precious jewel over the silent desert valley.

Another advantage of traveling at night, the few inhabitants of the train noted separately, was the privacy: during rush hours, the cars were crammed with people to the point that oxygen itself became a scarcity!

The fact that less than two dozen people were riding a train whose maximum capacity was nearly one thousand was a source of much amusement to Jordan Fear, who was the only occupant of one of the many cars in the hazy moonlight procession.

The young man had spread out across a multitude of seats, holding a manila envelope only inches from his face in an attempt to read the tiny Chinese characters on one page, and Russian on the other. No matter how hard he squinted, however, the symbols on either page refused to cooperate with his mind, and the delicate waltz that was necessary for inter-language comprehension was destroyed by forty eight hours without sleep.

'Screw it,' He thought as the characters began to blur into magical, twirling figures. 'You can't keep pulling all-nighters. But, as he was fully aware of, he couldn't relax until the right people knew. This type of information...

Sitting up, the intelligence officer rubbed his eyes, triple checking his work. 'Russian boomers scrambling from their home port to the four corners of the earth. Transports massing in Vladivostok along with multiple armored and infantry divisions. Chinese naval activity flaring- the nation's two supercarriers had been relocated back to their home port, and complete transfer of armed personnel to their southern front (perhaps to escape the eyes of spying satellites?) had taken place only hours before. Transfer of reserve forces to a higher state of readiness in both nations.'

What was worse, however, was the nauseous threat of ignorance. Jordan, himself, had only come across the information about the Russian Navy during lunch with a colleague, and hunting down the rest had taken nearly two days straight.

Staring blankly out the window at the now-inactive gargantuan solar farms, Fear realized that the train was nearing his destination: one of Washington's many suburban 'villages.' He quietly organized the slew of classified papers into a manila envelope, which he slid into his jacket.

Winter had descended upon America, and, despite being surrounded by a desert, the temperatures had dropped phenomenally. Thus, when the train ended its semi-circular journey from the city to the suburb, Fear shivered almost uncontrollably.

Hopping quickly down the station's staircase, the intelligence officer quickly recalled childhood visits to the city. The contrast between then- the screaming and cheering people on a hot summer day and- now- quiet streets and freezing temperatures, devoid of life.

The only sign of life which betrayed the image of a zombie city was a taxi cab that diligently awaited passengers. Money and a series of instructions were passed, and the car sped to life, making use of the open roadways and few people on the streets.

As dozens of apartment buildings gave way to singular houses, and the sand of the desert to grass and trees, Fear wavered at the boldness of his actions, and, before he could present his case, the man had called his own resolution into question. 'Why the hell am I actually doing this? He's the head of freaking CIA. If he doesn't know this, then the country's screwed.

But, as before, the threat of ignorance assailed Fear's mental defenses: 'But what if he doesn't know? That means that the Commies might be making a move against AIMPA, and if we're caught unprepared...

The stress from such a decision- as if it were stressful!- was tiring, and all the more so from a two-day bout without sleep. Thus, it was fortunate that the taxi cab had reached its destination, deep in Washington suburbia.

Filled with trees and shrubs- certainly a stark contrast from the desert only miles away!- Fear walked the stone pathway to the front door. The house was a modest, two-story house, and fit well the five humans and three dogs that called it 'home.' Barely five steps into the uneven path, two burly men emerged from shadows cast by trees dozens of meters tall.

Jordan Fear halted not out of fear or worry, but rather to search for his identification card that clearly labeled his name and position. The exchange with the guards was brief and, after a quick dialogue about his purpose, they accompanied him to the door.

But one knock was needed before the guards inside opened the door for him, having been previously informed of the newest guest. Ushered in by all too rough guards, Fear found himself immediately staring at a poker table!

Five casually dressed men sat at a round table. On top of green felt lay chips and cards, along with ashtrays for cigars and crystalline glasses full of expensive and colorful liquor. Of the current hand, only two men were still playing, both of whom Fear recognized: CIA Director Adam Mitchell and Secretary of the Navy David Arthur. Only one was not to be recognized by Fear- Commander-in-Chief, Atlantic, Admiral Ryan McConnell, and Army General Pierce Redasta were both known- but it was not a primary concern of the exhausted man.

"Gonna play, Mitch, or are ya gonna just sit there and stare at your cards?" Taunted Admiral McConnell, green eyes twinkling with desirable combination of anticipation and hope.

Ignoring the comment, Director McConnell turned in his seat, laying his cards face down on the table. Rubbing his own eyes out of habit, he had no need- or want- for social niceties. "What the hell are you, and what the hell do you want at this time of night?"

Butterflies threatened the calmness of Fear's stomach, and a frog had suddenly found itself lodged in his throat. It was a miracle to Jordan, but common courtesy to Admiral McConnell. "Aw, cut the kid some slack, Adam. Just 'cause you're losin' doesn't mean that you've gotta take it out on him." Gesturing to the intelligence officer, "Go on, kid. Whaddya got that's so important?"

As the butterflies and frog joined their extinct cousins, Fear's composure was regained, and his senses returned to him. Clearing his throat with a cough, "Gentlemen, I'm not sure if you're aware, but, in the past forty eight hours, the Communists have mobilized the entirety of their military. The Soviet Navy has scrambled all of its ballistic missile submarines, and the remainder of their navy has been grouping in Vladivostok, along with an extraordinary amount of transports and troops.

"In China, their two supercarriers have been mobilized along with the majority of their navy, and are planning to sail within the week. Their transports are conveniently heading south to their major port, Shanghai, and their troops are massing in the surrounding area."

Out of breath, Fear allowed the assorted reports and pictures that he had brought along, further evidencing his assessment. As the members of the table poured over the documents, McConnell eyes switched between four Russkie missile submarines- boomers, in military slang- departing their home port and the newcomer. "What's your name, kid?"

Though he was normally a stone in a torrential river, the intelligence officer shifted on his feet from the presence of the multitude of stars. "Fear, sir. Jordan Fear."

"Any relation?"

"Yessir." This drew a longer stare from the senior officer. The rest of the table was engaged in a series of soft whispers, hiding their thoughts from sight, discussing the photographs and information.

The only response that was elicited from the Admiral was an impressed, "Mmm."

After a grand total of thirty seconds more whispering- hours, to Fear- the response was unanimous: nods of respect from the general and admirals, an appreciative nod from Director. The only stoic face was that of the unknown man, who only stared at Fear, seeing who would flinch first.

When the murmurs had died down, the two men returned to their game, ignoring the newcomer. "All in, Mitchell. All in."

The intelligence director matched the bet before returning his attention to Fear. Without turning around in his chair, "I wonder, Mr. Fear, if you think us ignorant. The president was briefed on these exercises this morning. They're exercises, and nothing more. My agents would've caught something, if it were in the motion. I appreciate your actions, but they're in vain. Go home, get some sleep, and get back to work tomorrow morning."

Turning back to his game, the Director showed his cards: on the table rested one king, one ace, two tens, and a nine, and, combined with the king and ten in his hand, formed a full house, a nearly impervious hand, considering the cards on the table. "Deal with it, McConnell," he announced, scooping the winnings into one massive heap.

"You should know better than anyone, Adam, that there's always a better hand." Displayed for all to see in McConnell's hand was a single ace and the final ten: aces beat kings, after all.

Simultaneously, Fear was turning to leave on the verge of breakdown: two days of intense study and research had resulted in a tongue lashing from the Director, and a prelude to war was being passed off as an exercise. A freaking exercise!

Sidestepping the guard, Jordan moved towards the door, twisting the knob and unlocking the world outside. Jumping up from his seat and ignoring the hundreds of dollars in spoils, Admiral Ryan McConnell bounded out the door and onto the stone path, blocking the path of the retreating intel officer.

The discouragement resonating Fear could not be ignored. Thus, "Hey, kid, ignore Mitch; he' a royal prick. As for the intel, you did a helluva thing. Info like that's gotta come from all over the intelligence community, and I'm sure you had to pull in all of your favors.

"I agree with Adam that this is probably just an exercise, but General Bradly and I've agreed to begin mobilizing some forces to intercept. We've got two Fleets en route to Israel for deterrence, and we're moving to DEFCON 4 and preparing strategic assets. But the Soviets aren't stupid, kid. They're not going to start a war just for the hell of it."

The admiral looked side to side, as though expecting someone to emerge from the cover of dark. Looking down, he sighed. "As I see it, you just blew your chances at working with the CIA for the long term, and, if memory serves, you were an officer in the Navy for quite some time before transferring to civilian life."

A nod gave truth to the statements. "Well, I'm heading out with the Fifth Fleet in one week. The Fourth and Sixth are moving out into the Atlantic, and the Fifth'll be backing 'em up until everything cools down. I'm down an intel officer- nasty car accident. Guess the trains'll get even more popular, eh?- and I could use someone who thinks. I'll have someone call you in the next week, alright?"

Fear nodded silently. This stood out as the weirdest day in his life, and his father had been-

"Good. Now, go home, get some sleep, and enjoy the next week. If things take a turn south, you'll need it."

With the conversation closed, the Admiral patted the 'kid' on the back before returning inside to collect his spoils.

*wildly applauds* Congratulations, Litofsky--another smashing victory in the CEC!

Technical note (yay, my first one!)--When I read that the Soviet captain's name was Pyotr Ivanovich, I instantly wondered, "Pyotr Ivanovich WHAT?" In Russian, Ivanovich is what is called the "otchestvo", or "father's name". This tells me that Pyotr's father's name was Ivan, but I do not know his family name. "Andreyev" is an example of a family name. The captain could be "Pyotr Ivanovich Ivanov," for example, as the "-ov" ending, as the "-ev", denotes a family name.

Great story, and please continue! :)

Egads, Tysy, thanks! I'll get that fixed right a way.

Excellent work, Litofsky!! You do really well on these type of 'Modern' fics!! I especially like the beginning sequence with the Soviets, and the amount of detail poured into the entire first chapter kept me going with great enthusiasm! For a minute, I thought I was reading a Tom Clancy novel, so excellent work once again, Litofsky!

No corrections as of now, only...post the next chapter soon!:D

Chapter II: Plans

Three Weeks Ago

The large office overlooked the Moskva River, whose dirtied tides now drew only closed curtains. Inside the office lay a number of beautiful furniture pieces, in sharp contrast to the disgusting city that lay just outside: a bureau of maple wood and a chair partially composed of ancient oak were two of the inhabitant's favorite pieces.

The room's stunning velvet curtains held the Secretary General's gaze, his thoughts lost in its intrinsic depth and beauty. He was violently awakened from his gentle reality by the raspy voice of the KGB's chairman, and the perceived threat of imminent violence.

Attempting to dull the incessant pain of the ostensible intelligence briefing, pouring a tall glass of vodka to ease into the morning. His personal doctor had advised against such acts, but his western-imported doctor wasn't exactly the Secretary General of the Soviet Union, now was he?

After years of consuming the harsh liquid, his throat had grown accustomed- and now craved!- the alcohol: it calmed his nerves and steadied his hand. Swiveling in his chair, the Soviet politician stared down his Defense Minister and the head of the KGB. Both returned the gaze with the same ferocity that allowed them to attain their present rankings.

Without digression, "Comrade General Secretary, the political dissolution of the Soviet Union is inevitable."

In the chilled silence that followed, it was appropriate that the only sound that could be heard was the hard breathing of the Soviet Union's leader, . He poured himself another glass of vodka, and quietly swiveled in his chair. "Comrades, would you care for vodka?"

Neither responded. Their hesitance was not born of a lack of thirst- on the contrary, they were parched! No, their refusal to respond was the direct result of their leader's voice: the terms 'icy' and 'freezing' were terms too warm to describe it.

In actuality, the political disintegration of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics had begun nearly one year prior, first with the disaster at an unspecified series of mines in southern tip of the nation: Siberia (democratic terrorists had been suspected, but a dedicated investigation had turned up little remnants of said organization). As a direct result, the strategic minerals market had been crippled to what had seemed like an irreparable state.

That had been an annoyance, but a tolerable one, so far as such things were concerned: the mines could be rebuilt in a matter of months, and resulting anger could easily be manipulated or redirected. The economy would take time to heal, but it would, nonetheless.

However, it was the resulting events- events that even the Party could not controll!- that began the schism of an empire held together only by blood and bayonet. Immediately after the destruction of the northern Siberian mines, nationalist movements flared up in the southern provinces, their denizens furious at the dearth of consumer goods. Most of the southern provinces had been captured from the Germans in the Great War, and had only been called 'Soviets' for the past fifty years.

Perhaps the cries for 'freedom' would not be as severe if not for the Warsaw Riots just two years ago. As with now, a severe lack of material and consumer goods had led, at first, to anti-Party whisperings. Nothing out of the ordinary, the KGB had concluded: not everyone served their Party faithfully, and they that didn't would be dealt with.

However, as the discontent evolved- devolved, even?- into resentment, crowds numbering in the thousands had taken to the streets, demanding freedom from the Soviet 'liberators.' Reprisal had been hours later, and the fifty crushed civilians from the tank parade dispersed the riots. But violence begets only more violence.

The cries for independence and capitalist democracy- capitalism, the scourge of the East, the mortal enemy of Communism! Dare those fools think that capitalism could possibly be better than Communism? The Soviet Union's history was not a long one, especially when one looked upon the millennia-old United States or China, but did not they realize the importance of it all; that capitalism was but the first step into a moral decay that would lead any civilization to the despondent doorstep of anarchy?

Idiocy and capitalism (were not they the same thing, the Secretary General wondered?) aside, popularity was at an all time low for the Soviet government, and a guerrilla force had sprung up in the far-reaching provinces.

Returning his gaze to the Defense Minister from his introspective thoughts, the sitting Soviet quietly motioned for the man to speak. The younger man in charge of his nation's wellbeing cleared his throat, before presenting the only plausible solution to his nation's survival.

"Comrade Secretary General, Comrade Zaremba and I have concluded that only Operation: Borodino can hope to-" he chose his next words carefully- "fuse our fractured republic."

The response was crude, but, in the way only such words can be, effective. "Der'mo. Have we no other options?"

Both men shook their heads in the negative. "Nyet. The only way the destruction of our glorious nation is avoidable is through some sort of unifying event. War, Comrade, is the only option."

The Secretary Generals' own heart was pounding, though not of anticipation- he might have considered his two Comrade's hearts, both of which were pounding harder than his ever could! His whole life he had pledged to avoid war, or anything that might splinter his- the people's!- Soviet Union!

But this was the ultimate irony- that in order to save the worthiest nation on the planet, in order to prevent a failure that would echo throughout the ages, he would put the very existence of the Soviet People in danger.

"Proch! I must think on this, Comrades."

The two guests nodded respectively. At this particular moment, neither wished to be the Secretary General of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

"Do svidaniya, Comrade," the Defense Minister quietly whispered. And, for the love of God, make the right decision.



Present Time

The sun was not shining as much, this time, Captain Ivanov noticed with slight dissatisfaction. It was a calm day for the ocean, and she was treating the Lenin well: her gentle tides had, with the power of the on-board nuclear reactor, propelled them to within fifty kilometers of the Israeli coast.

Quite a feat, he had thought, especially considering their modest anti-submarine warfare force. To surface within firing range of their country was the greatest insult of all. Nearly one week ago, the Lenin had rendezvoused with her three escorts, all of which were the coveted Akula-class, one of the most advanced attack submarines in the Russian arsenal.

But the reasons had clicked into place with the transmission of their sortie's orders. Ivanov held them in his hand tightly, partially because the wind was blowing with the rocking waves at such an intensity that the Lenin swayed. More so, however, he was incredulously reading and rereading his orders.

"The Lenin to launch full complement of non-nuclear missiles-" When previously docked, Ivanov's command had had half of its nuclear stockpile removed, instead traded for conventional guided missiles- "and head north to specified coordinates. After arriving at specified coordinates, radio to command for further orders."

There was no mistake, Ivanov saw: the proper authorization codes confirmed it. No longer could Pyotr fight his stomach. The resulting vomit splattered the hull of the Lenin, painting it the colors of breakfast.

His nerves calmed, the Captain of the Soviet Navy crumpled up his the paper and threw them into the depths of the sea. The current slowly carried it, distorting the clearly printed Cyrillic into running ink that dissipated into the sea. Ivanov had his orders, and would follow them to the letter.

Read

One word: Otlichno! Excellent! :)

Wow, this is a really gripping tale. Your description and attention to detail is superb.

Excellent work, Litofsky! This next chapter was a bit shorter then the last one, but in no way had lost any of the compelling detail or grip that the first chapter had! It was excellent indeed!:D

As Proleteriat, I demand that you post the next chapter soon!:D

Now then, corrections, none major, but you do need to proofread to catch the little things, just making sure everything is grammatically correct

Hail, all! Before posting the next chapter, I need to provide the link (clicky) (http://lucasforums.com/showpost.php?p=2655466&postcount=21) to a map of said universe (I bet it was a bit confusing, wasn't it? :p) The locations are the same in both chapter two and three. If you couldn't tell already, this story is set in an 'alternate reality,' albeit with familiar countries. As a further side note, just keep in mind that the history might not be the same- in fact, count on it.

Thus, without further adu,

Chapter Three: Linear

Two Weeks Ago

It was a quiet, solemn thing. The deliberations had taken place in a secure room, with stoic guards resembling automatons guarding wooden doors capable of withstanding sustained automatic rifle fire. The 'discussion,' if it could so be called, had been spirited, to say the least. It was the aftermath that was the worst: the inevitable decision that had been made by a majority, yet that would doom all.

The men sat at a rectangular wood table, with the Secretary General and KGB Chairman at the heads, other members noted with smug disdain. A defiant Deputy Defense Minister had prolonged the debate through the entire night, trading sleep for strongly worded arguments, and even stronger vodka.

Alas, the decision had already been made before the Politburo had convened the previous afternoon, and the gears and wheels of the Soviet bureaucracy had already begun to turn and grind. Units that had been training for the past months were being rushed to their nearest ports, and reservists that had not seen a gun in years were being recalled to camps all around the nation, all in the grim expectation of an armed conflict.

It had been silent for nearly thirty minutes, each man in the room contemplating the results of their country's declaration. Some sipped alcohol, others smoked cigars imported from their Communist brothers in Havana. All were silent, but only few fret- truly worried for their country.

Chief among these concerned was the Deputy Defense Minister, Dmitry Trotsky. He considered himself a Good Communist, having faithfully served his country in the military- fighting the Fascists in the Great Patriotic War, becoming a Hero of the Soviet Union in the process!- for twenty years before accepting the post as Deputy Defense Minister, a post he had held for another decade.

But others were far more cynical, and viewed Trotsky's rise from a farming proletariat to a voting member of the Politburo as a serious threat to their way of life. Not surprisingly, they did not often stop to think about the best for the common Soviet, and often involved the capitalistic, parasitic thought of making money. The two stark contrasts bred undeserved suspicion and animosity.

However, Dmitry thought not of his colleagues opinions of him- the leers from his direct superior and the Secretary General for not lending his support (not that he Trotsky could have made a difference, but dissidence was never appreciated) were carefully cataloged and ignored. Instead, his thoughts revolved around the war like their planet around the sun.

As silence began to become uncomfortable, the KGB Director stood, seeking to solidify the Politburo on the irrevocable course. "Comrades, the West has been dying slowly; the decadent and sycophantic capitalistic system will be their inevitable downfall. Inflation has racked their markets for years, and the current depression dwarfs any in history."

A faint smile teetered on the spy's lips, but he suppressed the desire and instead continued on, purposefully establishing eye contact with all members in the room. He hadn't made it to this post being a terrible speaker. "Comrades, all that is required is one, final, spectacular push! When our plan comes to fruition, when the capitalists fall from their pedestal, the world will tremble at the might of Communism! We shall attack the capitalists at their heart, cut their economic base from beneath them, and establish a foothold for Communism in the West."

He returned to his seat, just as the room returned to silence. Adjacent from the Director of Committee for State Security, Trotsky glared silently at the man, sipping vodka to ease the pain. The spy returned the glare, and the room's temperature dropped exorbitantly.


* * *

Present

The apartment's size was cozy, to say the least. There was one bedroom and bathroom and a rather large 'open' lounge that connected with the kitchen. It was a myriad of colors, with several potted plants in the midst of blooming, their green leaves dancing in a desperate attempt to absorb the golden-orange light of the Washington sunset.

The inhabitants could have had a larger apartment, if they had so wished, but the view from their current home was breathtaking (quite literally, as either could have testified!): the Potomac River that had, millennia ago, breathed life into a desolate city in the middle of a desert now framed the picture of a lifetime as it poured out its soul into the ocean. All captured by a few windows in an apartment.

Jordan Fear's attention, however, was captivated not with the golden rays of light that touched gently upon the flowing water, nor upon the keys rattling in the door signifying another's arrival. Instead, his gaze was fixed upon a dozen of the latest satellite photos of the Sino-Soviet fleet that was heading in the director of Israel. Several of the dozen images were focused exclusively in on the two supercarriers of the fleet, detailing everything that could possibly be seen from the stars without penetrating the hull, while the rest focused on the other ships, from the dozens of transports to the missile cruisers and picket frigates.

'Exercise, my ass.' Fear's recall papers from his reservist state had come two days prior (his encounter with the brass had been two days prior to that), which had stated, more or less, that for three glorious months, he would be recalled to the Navy and serve aboard the Nimitz-class carrier USS Fear. Life certainly had a sense of irony.

For longer than a moment, the designated Lieutenant wished that this all just was an exercise, just another attempt by the Commies to show that they weren't doing as terribly as many of his colleagues had predicted. Fear sincerely hoped that this was just another pissing match, and not the prelude to somethi-

"Idiots, they're all idiots!" Quite a way to greet one who was heading to war. Lillia Mallard stormed through the door, dropping her purse and school books and rushing through into the bedroom. Fear didn't raise his head in time to see his girlfriend, but he heard her voice. Gorram, did he love that accent.

Lily was one of the hundreds of teachers 'imported' from foreign counties (in this case, the neighboring United Kingdom) per the Education Reform Act, set forth by one of the previous American presidents, which raised the standards for teachers past any previously set barrier. Currently the teacher of a Western History (which included a near entire history of America and the United Kingdom), she often returned home frustrated at the sheer stupidity of her students. Then again, there weren't many people left that placed a high value on education.

"What did they forget this time?" Fear queried with genuine yearning.

Still in the bedroom, the response was that of incredulity. "The name of America's first monarch! As if anyone could forget the name of King Americo Patriarchus! Bloody morons."

The United States of America and the United Kingdom's histories' were separate for nearly two thousand of their respective years of existence. In America, the Empire had begun in the sands of the Washington, safely nestled between the branches and tributaries of the fertile Potomac River, which stood as a luminescent emerald jewel in a boundless sea of sand.

From there, the population had exploded, and a centralized monarchy had been established in approximately 1050 BCE. As the government established its control, it slowly expanded beyond the desert and pushed north and east; to the south and west were the oceans that they had yet to tame.

Invariably, however, as the Empire expanded, it encountered other, less... civilized peoples. It was first the Delaware that the Americans encountered and subsequently conquered. The process had repeated itself over four dozen times, the Empire growing to encompass the two main, crescent-shaped islands. The process had taken another millennia; in fact, the world's dating system was now based off of American Unification.

Meanwhile, just a short distance across the 'pond,' three centralized states had developed across the numerous islands: Ireland, Scotland, and England. At first, there had been no conflict, as there had been ample amounts of land and resources. But as each state expanded, armed conflict ensued, and nearly one hundred years of constant warfare had left a once-fertile land marred with the corpses of generation after generation of youth.

However, the war of attrition had taken its toll on the country, and bred a generation of pacifists that had formed the Act of Union, formally ending the warfare and establishing the United Kingdom.

In 231 CE, contact was first establish between the American and British. Who might imagine that a simple meeting between merchantmen off of the American coast would begin a period of intellectual and social advances, the foremost being the creation of a universal language adopted by each nation, more commonly known as English.

As time had gone on, however, the American monarchy began adopting a more Machiavellian view of ruling, and instituted a series of unpopular reforms that made the monarchy almost unanimously detested. As time progressed, public opinion waned, and resentment evolved into rebellion and outright revolution.

For seven years, a group of independence fighters formed the Continental Army and initiated a series of guerrilla strikes against the monarchy. As the public slowly turned on the monarch, it was his eventual abdication that ended the American Revolution- or perhaps it was the sword to his neck that did the trick.

To Lily, it was surprising how little the average student knew about his or her country's history. Not that it was much better in her home country, but to not know the namesake of your homeland? It was almost disgraceful. Alas, honor had long since passed from the public eye.

"Did you expect any better, Lil? A first-person shooter is far more appealing than who won the Battle of Houston a thousand years ago."

Awaiting her response, Fear stared out the window, past the balcony, and into the sea beyond. He could see the Potomac Delta from here, and beyond an ocean illuminated by a setting sun. From his vantage point, he could just gleam the setting sun upon the ocean, its fiery, silver rays illuminating the deep blue water below.

"I know something else that's far more appealing than the Battle of Houston."

Jordan's neck whipped around at the sound of her voice, his heart pounding with anticipation at the tone she had used. Leaning against the wall, Lillia was undoing her pony tail that kept her auburn hair out of her face. Throwing the scrunchy behind her playfully, she sauntered over to the couch where Fear sat, wearing only her mischievous grin.

'Yes, he thought, 'the view from here is certainly magnificent.'

良好的工作，到目前為止， Litofsky ，我國政府批准這一奇妙的寫作！

良好的工作，到目前為止， Litofsky ，我國政府批准這一奇妙的寫作！

Glad that you liked it, Sabre. :p I don't plan for the next chapter to be as long, so it should be out relatively soon.