Prussia - A Kaliningrad Story (Post WWII USSR Timeline)

[Remitonov]

You thought this was dead? You thought wrong!

____________________________​

Enroute to Langenbeck-Virchow-Haus, Luisenstraße, East Berlin
German Democratic Republic
14th November, 1956

“...earlier this afternoon, Hungarian police has announced the arrest of an additional four thousand subversives for taking part in the unrest of October 23rd. New Hungarian chairman János Kádár, has already stated his intention to see justice delivered. However, the new leader has also expressed a desire to unite and support ordinary Hungarians, and forgive those misled by reactionary agitators during the riots. In his own words, reconciliation, not revenge, should be the order of the day...”

The winter chill was fast approaching in Berlin, and the scars of the Great Patriotic War was as prominent as ever. Bombed out ruins of the old fascist regime still stood throughout the shattered capital, the facade of the decrepit Reichstag standing just a few meters within the Western zone. As a lone sedan rode past the open grounds of Marx-Engels-Platz [1], one can see the socialist reality being brought to life. But despite the rise of gleaming apartments to advertise the bright future offered by communism, few were blind to the growing disparity between the two Berlins, and the two Germanies as a whole.

“You didn't have to take the job, Captain,” an old commander spoke as he sat on the back of the sedan, his familiar black uniform easily mistaken for the sinister SS before them. His officer cap on his lap, he appeared embittered and war-weary, his wrinkles ageing his far beyond his real rage as it intermingled with his scars. Combing his greying hair, he spoke to the stranger beside him, “I only wanted my son to do something useful, rather than spend his time clubbing prisoners like a Neanderthal. Fucking boy doesn't know subtlety if he were sitting on it for a dump. Sometimes, I think his mother had spoiled him too much. I wish he were as sensible as you.”

“I wouldn't consider myself sensible, major general,” the woman curtly expressed, “I'm no older than him. I would not dare to pretend that I have your experience, Sir. I just felt someone had to do it, if not him.”

Captain Arnhild Weiss, just twenty-four years of age, appeared the part of the talented heir. Her father, Dr. Ulrich Weiss, had been a valued appartchik, a German communist who fled suppression by the Nazi authorities and helped rebuild East Germany along socialist lines. Arnhild herself had stellar credentials, a former youth leader in the Ernst Thälmann Pioneer Organisation before joining the Stasi itself. The fact that she was of equal rank and similar age to the major general's son – someone who had considerable help climbing the ladder – spoke a lot about her abilities. Had he had a choice, the elder would not have preferred a better daughter over him.

“Don't sell yourself short,” he told her, “I'm sure your father is very proud of you, adopted or not. Your birth parents, too, hopefully, if you ever find them. The war had broken up many families. Must be hard for you.”

“I try not to think about it,” Arnhild quickly answered, almost on reflex as her tone dropped at the idea, “Dr Weiss is my father now, and always. Nothing will change that fact.”

But behind the curt reply was a woman far less assured of her place as a Weiss. While she could not remember a time before her adoptive family, Arnhild could not help but dread a return of her birth family. She dread not find out why. She had no reason to listen to excuses. And with her position and status, she knew there were many who eyed her seat. Glancing at the senior general, she could almost hear the cackles of his son right now, at any mention of Arnhild's dubious origins.

​

Langenbeck-Virchow-Haus [1], the current headquarters of the East German parliament. The home of many scientific and medical associations in the past, the building was gutted by Soviet looters during the war of its painting and furniture at the end of the war. Now re-purposed as the site of nascent communist government, the Haus der Volkshammer, it was a natural, if only meeting place for the mysterious Soviet delegation arriving with their latest, perhaps most ambitious project yet. Their request for aid from the Warsaw Pact appeared questionable, if not sinister.

Stepping into a conference room with the major general. It was not hard for the officer to spot the Russians among the officials gathered. In the middle of the table, a tall, sleek-haired blonde man in a Soviet officer uniform was standing beside the rotund, balding leader of the GDR himself, Wilhelm Pieck, as the Russian carefully detailed each document in his hand. Other ministers and politburo members, too, were busy examining the plans, as Arnhild scanned the room briefly for personalities. Off the bat, she counted Walter Ulbricht, with his signature Lenin-style beard, and the unassuming, bureaucratic Erich Honecker [2]. But one face in the crowd almost made her cringe. Among the elderly and middle aged men in stiff suits and uniforms was the eerie brown coif of a significantly younger woman, still in her late twenties. And she knew Arnhild too well, given her position in the Young Pioneers.

“Sirs,” she spoke, as she and the major general saluted the delegates looking up at them.

“Weiss,” Margot Honecker squealed gingerly like a grandmother seeing her ward after a long absence, stepping forward to usher in the young girl in front of the folks [3], “what a surprise! I wasn't expecting you. But it's a nice surprise regardless. Nice, very nice.”

“Major General Scherer,” Ulbricht addressed the senior, “I thought you said you wished to appoint your son on the Soviet project. What happened?”

“Ah, yes...” the hapless general tried to respond, “my son is... preoccupied with more important duties at the moment. I am afraid I am not able to bring him on board. Captain Weiss, however, has generously volunteered for the task. A bit menial for someone of her caliber, but she feels she is up to the task.”

“Yes, we've all heard of Captain Weiss' caliber,” Honecker stated, “my wife wouldn't shut up about her. Wanted to recommend her for the job. Guess she got her wish. In any case,” remarked the protege, introducing the Soviet officer, “this is Colonel Vladimir Petrovich Tonchev, KGB political officer and Soviet air force adviser. His protege has filed a project to the Soviet politburo on a major resettlement project on E-... Kaliningrad Military Oblast. He has requested for support from the members of the Warsaw Pact, including funding and infrastructure. That, surprisingly, includes us.”

“Request,” Arnhild blurted, raising an eyebrow at the Russian, “pardon me for asking, but shouldn't this be the task of their foreign ministry?”

Before Honecker could speak, the Soviet officer quietly raised a hand to stop him, declaring in a calm baritone and crisp German, “the foreign ministry has empowered me to make arrangements with the respective governments independently, with their support, of course. I felt it is necessary to get my message through personally, in hopes for the success of our resettlement project. If all goes well, the new Kaliningrad will be the envy of the world. A world without hate, bigotry or malice. Is that not the dream of the world?”

Glaring at the composed Russian, Arnhild tried hard not to grimace at the words. It reeked of bland Soviet rhetoric, and in all honesty, she had spent her life listening to that, when West Berlin was proving their words to be utter nonsense. Something bode ill about his plans, and the team of cabinet ministers present indicated a great deal of interest. It was not hard for Arnhild to tell the DDR leadership wanted to hear him out. The question was, why?

“Pardon if I am being too blunt, sir,” Arnhild queried, seemingly in disbelief, “but our country is bleeding men to the West as it is. We are not in the position to devote more migrants eastwards. If our brightest minds leave, who will be left?”

It was a daring question, not the least in the presence of the cabinet. Hushed whispers befell the room as the minsters nervously spoke among themselves. A dangerous move that could easily upend a promising officer's career, Arnhild could tell the ministers were discomforted. As the Soviet officer peered back, the cabinet could only dither at a response. Even the major general was starting to panic.

“Please, gentlemen,” Margot spoke out to the cabinet, her Stepford smile wavering a bit as she tried to calm them, “she is young; idealistic. She's merely as worried about the emigrations as we are. Aren't you, Miss Weiss.”

“Of course,” Arnhild stated, electing not to speak further as she observed the apprehension of her seniors, “I mean no disrespect, I-”

“I understand your concerns, Captain. I understand...” grunted the unnerved president, wiping the sweat off his balding head, “rest assured, your superiors have that thought out, is that not, Mr Honecker?”

“Umm... Yes, Comrade President,” Honecker sharply announced, “rest assured, Captain Weiss. Our country will not forfeit more of our future to the capitalists. We need only to divert the migrations east, as the good colonel kindly suggested to us. Kaliningrad will be the pearl of the socialist future. It is then only the matter of convincing the doubtful of that future, after which they are free to return here to emulate it, rather than, as you clearly dread, escape west. Is that fine with you, Colonel?”

“Absolutely, sir," Vladimir graciously replied, "it's not our policy to restrict their right of return to their homelands. How you intend to meet our population quotas is up to you, minister. We are only here to manage the city. We need only your support.”

Eyeing the two as she bowed her head, it was not hard for Arnhild to guess what they meant. Her crude query, at the risk of offence, was merely to confirm what she suspected at first. The 'resettlement' project, just several years after the Soviets explicitly expelled a German community that had lived in Kaliningrad since the time of the Teutonic Knights, was not something that was expected to be advertised to the East German regime. For them to ask the Eastern Bloc for migrants was even more so, when the vast Soviet population was more than enough to fill the city. But for every question answered, several more quickly reared their ugly heads. What were they planning for Kaliningrad, if not just a simple reeducation camp? Something just seemed amiss.

Arnhild may yet face more surprises...

Cold War Exhibition, National Museum
Kyonigsberg, Prussia
23 January, 2016

“...The program, as Vladimir advertised, was a stark contrast to the harmonious society Yevgeny was aiming for,” Professor Vorarlberg explained to the class, “envisioning a model Soviet city, Kaliningrad was intended, above all else, as a territory-wide 'reeducation facility'. Pouring the best resources the Soviet bloc could muster, Tonchev sought to advertise the 'ideal' Soviet model to dissatisfied elements of the Eastern Bloc, while concentrating surveillance by the KGB and Eastern Bloc agencies in the territory. It was, in all respects, a correctional facility in all but name, with travel to and from Kaliningrad restricted under closed city rules. It was this contrasting views that was to become the source of strife between Yevgeny and his mentor in the formation of the SSR, and one that would carry on far into the fall of the Soviet Union and beyond.”

“But the story of the West Baltic is not just of repression and leaders, but the lives of those who has been irreversibly changed by the experiences in the country,” he elaborated, picking up the boxes of coloured table tennis balls as he handed them to their teachers, “your grandparents, your parents... their lives are all intricately weaved into the story of this land, and are still shaping the identity of modern-day Prussia. That is what you're here to find out about, and what you learn in the story of the West Baltic's rise will prove useful in learning about its end. For without the framework built by the committee, Prussia would just be another province of a much larger country in Eastern Europe, such is the reality of nations.”

“Anyway,” he remarked, “it's currently about 10.30 am. You are free to look around the exhibition until 11.30 am, after which we will assemble at the main lobby and your teachers will debrief and dismiss you. Try to get as much info as you can here, and then, if you want, you can look at the other exhibits around. Remember, you got a group assignment to work on, so I suggest focusing on the ethnic group you're working on. And if you have time, look at the last exhibition in the next room for your second and final one. I won't give out details yet, but it will give you an idea of what to expect when we go through Prussia's independence. I'll see you all in an hour then.”

Sitting back down on a bench as he dismissed the class, Roman could feel the energy draining from his body. He felt tired for some reason, having mustered every bit of his nerves not to feel intimidated, but for some reason, he managed, even as time seemingly slowed to a crawl to prolong his agony. It was not easy dealing with the privileged. While he could trust public schools to have a more sensible education, private institutions appeared to have become too heavily politicised for his liking. He could not fault them, though. However he disagreed with their views, they were still entitled to them. It was not as if he was not complicit in a government effort to impress their version of events on the masses, such was the nature of politics.

“I'd rather wear a hard hat right now,” he remarked to himself, thinking over his other assignment at Königsberg Castle [3]. The restorations and excavations now seemed far less daunting than school children with the 'commissars' now breathing down his neck. He could only hope he would not see them again, and pity the person assigned to lecture them.
​

Part 5​

OOC Notes:

1. The Palace of the Republic, the seat of the Volkshammer from 1976 to 1990, wasn't built yet, though the Berlin City Palace had already been demolished in 1950. At the time, the space was known as Marx-Engel-Plafz. Only a portal from a balcony, where Karl Liebknecht declared the German Socialist Republic, was preserved.
2. Stretching it a bit, I suppose, since he wasn't due to return until 1958. I suppose Vlad may have called him in to put in a good word for his mentor. Let's put it at that.
3. I needed a Stepford smiler. Enough said.
4. Auf Wiedersehen, sowjetischen Roboter

Cast:

• Historical
  • Wilhelm Pieck - State president of the German Democratic Republic
  • Walter Ulbricht - General Secretary of the SED Central Committee
  • Erich Honecker - Ulbricht's protege
  • Margot Honecker (nee Feist) - Head of the Ernst Thälmann Pioneer Organisation
• Fictional
  • Colonel Vladimir Petrovich Tonchev - KGB Officer, former air force pilot, Yevgeny's mentor and Valeriy's elder brother
  • Captain Arnhild Weiss - Stasi Officer, Waifu

 

[Remitonov]

Anyway, because I'm a total idiot, I've just discovered that Pillau can be written in Cyrillic. For that reason, I'm ratifying all the names. Sorry. ._.

Also, new post!

Revolution Exhibition, National Museum
Kyonigsberg, Prussia
23 January, 2016

The Singing Revolution. That was the name of the movement that restored the independence of the Baltic republics. For the original three nation-states of Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia, their fight was one of restoration, not separation. Their existence within the Soviet Union was one of occupation and force, powerless victims of Stalin's land grab against its immediate neighbours at a time when greater evils force the Western democracies to unite with him. Therefore, Gorbachev's intentions, however well-meaning, could never hide the reality of their unwelcome arrival and invited only revolt once their silence was broken.

The same could not be said for Prussia.

Unlike the rest of the republics, the West Baltic was a state created without a nationality in mind. With the trust vested into Chairman Valeriy Tonchev, there was little doubt in Moscow of the republic's loyalties, even when the complex ethnographic that Yevgeny had tried to set up had seemingly failed to create a separate 'geographic nationality'. With many of its inhabitants returning to their home countries to encourage revolution or for better lives, the West Baltic's population plunged dramatically. Almost a quarter of the West Baltic's population would leave, including most of those removed from satellite states and the Baltics. Its Jewish population would vanish almost instantly, and Armenians and Azeris alike would take up arms to fight to redraw their homelands' borders in their favour. Those that remain, most of them Russophones and Central Asians, were the least likely to join the rest in revolt. And yet, they too joined the revolution, and succeeded in breaking free of Soviet rule with the sister republics.

Looking through the bright, post-modernist room beyond the drab Cold War décor of the last exhibit, the holed flags of the West Baltic and its post-Soviet successor draped alongside the portraits of the revolutionaries who fought for a Baltic future. The dove symbol of New Prussia, the West Baltic's independence movement, spoke volumes of the non-violent resistance it undertook against the Soviet authorities.[1] The scenes and mock-ups of those turbulent years, the barricades and protests that sapped the will of the Soviet garrison, told of a story of a country that most believed was never meant to be. But when everyone else doubted, a few persevered, and Prussia's present was vindication of their actions, a future seized from the abyss.

Looking through the portraits and photographs of the period, Sonya was starting to realize just how strongly her special neighbour felt of her parentage, and her antagonism against her father's political rivals. The kind of passion put into an uncertain future outside Russia was immense, and there were many who rejected them, unwilling to take the chance. Their leader, a simple brown-haired Estonian Swede from Yantarny (today's Palmniken), personified Moscow's very worst fears. The towering Nord and 'white Shah' who championed for Prussia's freedom, there was still much the world failed to understand about Henrik Abraham Gram. For many, Gram embodied Prussia, someone who defied the boundaries of ethnicity and religion that the Soviet Union so categorically divided the land into. As inter-ethnic civil war seized Yugoslavia and the former Soviet Union, it was Gram's new government that would break the odds, stifling its spread to the vulnerable nation-state. And yet, too many saw only his identity card, rather than his actions in Prussia. Whether a Baltic agitator, a Germanic revanchist or even a Sunni Muslim fanatic, much of Gram's fame or infamy came simply from others' perceptions of his identity than his actual ability at governance.

“Your father's a handsome man, Farah,” mused Sonya, stepping beside her neighbour as she stared longingly at her father's ornate portrait, “how often do you see him?”

“Not much,” Farah admitted solemnly, “he's always so busy, running around the world. He believed in hope, even when the world of late had become so hopeless. I always wondered if I could match up to him.”

“You don't have to, Farah,” Sonya quipped, “just do what you want to do. No one's asking you to be PM. No need to take it too hard on yourself.”

“I know that,” griped the girl, tensing up at the thought, “I know that... It's just...”

Farah, of all people, doubted Sonya's words the most. However hard she tried to step out of her father's shadow, a strange burden nonetheless hung on her like a lead weight. She could not deny she wanted to follow in her father's footsteps, but everyone around her seemed to expect the same sort of charisma and mysticism Gram had from her. After all, her maternal relatives, the Gilanis, were no less tied to Gram's legacy than she was. Nasrin, Javaneh, and her mother Farzaneh... It seemed like a morbid joke that the there's a tradition in the family of female politicians.

“...they really do look like you, Tarana, Maria!”

“It's not something to be proud of, crazy girl. Our mothers nearly died there.”

Peering over to the other side of the room, Farah could not help but purse her lips at the sight. She had tried to avoid seeing Vasilka and her friends, but no matter how hard she tried, it seemed as if God was eager to toy with them. Looking over one of the exhibits, the blue blazer-wearing girls were examining one of Prussia's darkest moments. A dated, grainy colour photograph among exhibits of riot gear and newspaper cuttings, the scene depicted a pair of girls running behind a police cordon, an Azeri girl, seemingly identical to Tarana, hiding her redhead Armenian classmate under a veil. Taken in the aftermath of the Sumgait pogroms in 1988, the West Baltic race riots, pitting Armenians against Azeris over the fate of Nagorno-Karabakh, devolved in sectarian violence as Muslims and Christians alike were caught in the crossfire. While Stolypin's strict housing policies ensured that while no single ethnicity dominated and formed an enclave in any district, its relaxation under his successor resulted in religious divisions forming within the cities and counties. With no clear enclaves to target, marauding Azeris and Armenians took to attacking the mixed districts with impunity. It was against the backdrop of sectarian hatred that Gram was able to fill the void to mediate an end to the violence, turning anger against the Kremlin and advocating reconciliation in a fractured nation.

But the tragedy was not just an opportunity for New Prussia to win support and divert blame onto the decrepit Soviet administration. It was also a chance for Valeriy's son, Viktor, to showcase the efficiency and incorruptibility of the West Baltic's KGB branch under his control. Pinning down the riots and imposing martial law without Moscow's authorization, the younger Tonchev would prove both an ally and rival to Gram in determining the future of Prussia. While Gram supporting the dissemination of civil and political rights denied by Moscow, Tonchev championed law and order at a time when chaos and decadence was consuming the rest of the former USSR. He hit back at the unconditional acceptance of Bosnian refugees. He damned the European Union as a hive of moral degeneration and godlessness. He championed the resurgence of Christendom in the home of the Northern Crusade. And worst of all, he appealed for the restoration of ties with the very regime Prussia broke away from. That Tonchev – the 'prince' of the old political dynasty – would win over parliament and threaten to turn Prussia into his personal fiefdom was a bitter pill to swallow for Farahnaz. She could not imagine how anyone could justify Tonchev's actions, not the least Vasilka.

“Those were scary times,” Maria mused, “my mother had to cut through waves of angry mobs to get to safety. She might not have made it if not for Tarana's mother.”

“Same here,” Tarana stated, “hiding goes both ways. Do you know what people would do to a pair of girls in those days?”

“But, Vasilka's uncle managed to act very quickly then, didn't he,” Ludmilla said, “even though he knew he was going rogue.”

“My uncle answered to the my granduncle, and he, as chairman of the SSR, gave the clear,” Vasilka stated, “there was nothing 'rogue' about his actions. People were dying back then. Do you think it would have been right for him to just stand and watch? He said so himself... he wasn't going to waste time waiting for people to talk nice while lynch mobs are roaming the streets.”

Glancing at Farah, Sonya could tell she was feeling provoked. Holding her hand as she blocked her way, she blurted, “let's go look around~! Let them talk all they want. It's not your business what they think... I mean, it is a very sad episode...”

“Then was it right for him to start shooting people,” Farah growled bitterly, gripping Sonya's hand as if trying to force the anger out of her, “those rioters were being goaded! How can anyone explain that shooting someone's son is justified!? There could have been another way!”

“Farah,” Sonya pleaded, gripping her arms as she gave her a serious stare, “calm down. They're not trying to provoke you. No need to take the fight to them. I'm sure your father did his best. No need to explain to them about it. It'll only tire yourself out, ok?”

It was too hard for Farah. She hated being dissuaded from her views, much less by her own friends. Whether it was a strong sense of self-justice or a great ego, she was not one to back down from a fight. But she could tell she was being unreasonable, trying to force her views on those who disagreed with her. As tears start to form, she hurriedly tried to wipe them off. She getting frustrated, and greatly so.

“Alright...” she said, “I won't get mad... I won't... I...”

Resting her head on her bosoms, Sonya felt unsure at what to do. She could tell how strongly Farah believed in her father, and his beliefs in non-violence. Despite the fiery persona of the freedom fighter portrayed in the media, Gram was not an advocate of violent insurrection, but non-violent resistance. Tonchev, in contrast, appeared ruthless and cold, viewing force as a means to an end, and all too willing to use it on anyone who opposes his vision and control. Sighing, she quietly led her back to her waiting classmates as she tried to gain distance from the nine. For her, the history course was digging up far too many wounds for comfort, and future ones were about to do more.

“What are you looking at,” Ausra spoke to Vasilka, as the blonde's clear blue eyes peered at the departing duo, “that girl again?”

“Ah, no...” Vasilka merely denied, “it's nothing.”

The legacy of modern Prussia appeared no closer to leaving them alone.

OOC Notes

1. Enjoy my crappy pixel art. ._.

Cast

• Singenwaldhang Girls High School (from left to right)
  • Aušra Švedaitė (CV: 高坂 穂乃果)
  • Ritva Pajari (CV: 園田 海未)
  • Mariyne Mugu (CV: 南 ことり)
  • Maria Hayrapetyan (CV: 西木野 真姫)
  • Tarana Irevani (CV: 矢澤 にこ)
  • Vasilka Lyobomirova Toncheva (CV: 絢瀬 絵里)
  • Ludmilla Aleksandrovna von Ungern-Sternberg (CV: 東條 希)
  • Leila Pääsuke (CV: 小泉 花陽)
  • Zisel Kaufmann (CV: 星空 凛)
• Blühenderwald High School
  • Farahnaz Gram/Farahnaz Ibrahimi (CV: 指南 ショーコ)
• Trostnika Public High School
  • Sonya Makarovna Chaykovskaya (CV: 雪染 菊理)

 

[Remitonov]

Main Atrium, National Museum
Kyonigsberg, Prussia
23 January, 2016

"Let us choose? Why?"

It was late morning in the National Museum, and the crowds of visitors were starting to stream in for the weekend. With the mob of students breaking up for their project work, the museum guards could only stand and watch as the room began to choke in a human wave. Roman himself appeared to have vanished, eager to escape his charges for a breath of fresh air. And Oosthuizen, too, had taken off for the exhibition's exit, the unlucky yokel sent to take care of their school idols on his precious weekend.

"Yea..." the hapless lad tried to explain to the nine girls he was looking out for, opening the lid of his box, "I know the professor preferred to make it random, but I'll be honest, I'm just going to let you pick who you like to work on. I already asked, he just said to do what I feel is best.

"Kind of unfair," Ritva mused, her arms crossed as she gleaned over the coloured ping-pong balls, "if we picked a subject we're more familiar with, it might affect the others' grades adversely."

"Don't be silly," Tarana whined, "the grades will be moderated by our teachers, not the professor. He only gives the grade and lets the school decide whether to push it up or down. Nothing wrong with that. Besides, who knows who else would be trying that stunt? I need to worry about my grades, you know!"

"Since when do you care about your grades," Maria interjected snidely, "you were freaking out in study sessions back in our mid-terms."

"That's because the boob monster was at me," Tarana snapped back, pointing at a coy Ludmilla defensively, "you saw her."

"I felt you needed some motivation back then, Tarana," Ludmilla answered, her smile showing a veener of mischief, "if you're not going to make the effort, you definitely need some punishment for that~."

"How dare you," blasted the Azeri in anger, covering her dainty chest over her words.

"Ok, settle down, settle down," Daniel tried to calm the girls, "let's focus on these. The prof already told you what to look for, so which group do you want to work on?"

Pausing for a moment as they stared into the box, none of the girls seemed to have much of a clue. None seemed to afford a significant advantage for any of them, and in all honesty, their knowledge on the subject is somewhat bare. Before long, however, a hand reached in to pick up a ping-pong ball with a greenish-hue. It was Vasilka, her expression as calm as always, and her choice was hardly uncommon, much to some of the girls' dismay.

"Russians, huh," Ausra mused, "not for nothing, but aren't they well known as it is?"

"Russian settlement in East Prussia isn't as well known as you think, Ausra," she told the Lithuanian, "much of the exhibition focused on settlement of minorities that weren't in Kaliningrad in significant numbers prior to Stolypin's reforms. Not much is actually said on what he had done for his own people who were already there. Besides, my granduncle was part of the committee, and in charge of everyday affairs for the ethnic Russian community. We can ask him if you want."

"Yea, I guess," Ausra admitted with a sigh.

Peering around nervously, Mariyne questioned, "mh... but isn't your granduncle.. you know..."

"He's not dead," Tarana snapped, "he's just suffering from a stroke and paralyzed from waist down."

"Subtle," Maria grunted sarcastically, frowning over the dwarf's lack of tact, "but would your granduncle even be able to tell us anything? I mean, like Tarana said, he's quite ill, and not very talkative of late."

Gripping the ball, the blonde Russian replied in a solemn tone, "I know... he doesn't like to talk about the past. My father said there was a lot of stuff that happened back then that made my granduncle regret a lot. I didn't want to believe the rumours to be true - that he and my grandfather colluded to remove Stolypin and gain the premiership of the West Baltic. But the more I found out, the more I started to doubt myself... Even he doesn't seem to deny that. I could tell he felt guilty for something."

"So you want to prove everyone wrong," Ludmilla surmised, "especially that girl."

"This has nothing to do with her," Vasilka denied, shaken by Ludmilla's speculation as she tried not to look her in the eye, "I just..."

Watching her cut her tongue as she tried to refute in vain, Ausra could tell she wanted this more than any of them. She could not hope to imagine why, but she could tell Vasilka wanted more than anyone to clear her family name. Exchanging glances with her friends, they too nodded in agreement. They had heard enough, and they did not want to press Vasilka further.

"It's ok," Ausra assured her, holding her hands as they clasped the ball within, "we'll go with your idea. To be honest, we don't know which to do either. You seem to have an idea, so let's go with yours."

"Everyone..." Vasilka blurted, looking around in bewilderment. As the girls give their approving smiles, the blue-eyed blonde muttered in apology, "sorry... thank you... I-"

"No need to say any more," Ludmilla confirmed with her, "we got work to do. The museum may not have much, but it's a start." Picking up the ball from Vasilka to show the teacher, she said, "we'll pick this then, Mr Oosthuizen. Is that ok?"

"Of course..." Daniel blurted awkwardly, a bit unnerved by the unfolding drama, "I'll just note it down."

Thus, with a drop of the ping-pong back in the box, the girls set back into the exhibition from its exit, the warm messages of 'One People, Many Lands' in its myriad tongues came back into view. Among the many faces on the walls bidding approaching visitors goodbye, the images of a Russian man and woman in traditional clothing stood prominently among the mural. The story of the Russian community in Prussia was one of a people contending with its position as the numerically and politically dominant group of the Soviet Union. Under the rule of the 'self-hating Russian', many would find fault with Yevgeny as he sought to convert his fellows to his unorthodox ideals, and dismantle the hegemony that had survived the Tsarist downfall.

Russian Exhibition, Cold War Exhibition, National Museum
Kyonigsberg, Prussia
23 January, 2016

Playing: Introduction to the Russian community in West Baltic SSR[1]​

“I don't believe he was a self-hating Russian; he took a lot of pride in his background, and made a lot of effort to promote Russian cultural activities, even the Orthodox church. But Stolypin believed that, at the core of his policy, was a fundamental need to move away from what he termed as the 'Tsarist mentality' of majority rule. He detested the notion that just because one ethnic group held numerical and political superiority, that group should seek to force the minorities to accept its way of life and assimilate. He doesn't dispute the effectiveness of Russification – he had recognized how harder it is to try to create a multicultural society than to simply absorb non-Russians into the fold. But he had always been opposed the idea on moral grounds – he felt the Russian people should be better than that, and as such, the union itself.”

- Video excerpt from Professor Vsevolod Churkin, Department of Modern History, Immanuel Kant State University of Kyonigsberg

New Year's Eve in a Russian family in the village of Lulino, Gvardeysky District (Present day Sanditten, Taipausky District)[2]
​

The Russian presence in East Prussia dates back to the mid 18th Century, when Russia first occupied the region during the Seven Years' War against Prussia from 1758 to 1764. However, the end of the Second World War and the expulsion of the centuries-old German population led to the definitive change in demographics, flooding the empty cities and villages with settlers from across the Soviet Union. The very first, the Eastern Slavs, arrived as workers to rebuild the ruined region, and until the founding of the Committee of Resettlement under Yevgeny Stolypin, made up the virtual entirety of Kaliningrad Oblast's population.

However, Stolypin's resettlement plans had proven dramatic in tilting the demographics against the Russian population. While most recognize his attempts to create a 'more balanced society' as a failure (with East Slavs retaining the overall majority), few disputed the waning numerical advantage of the Russian populous. The 1959 census, taken in the same year as the West Baltic SSR's creation, placed the Russian population at about 463,168, 65.17% of a total population of 710,657. As many as 35,000 were estimated to have switched nationalities, most of whom to closely related groups such as Ukrainians and Belarusians, whose numbers had correspondingly risen to the decline in Russians). In fact, by 1963 – the year of Stolypin's removal as Chairman – it was estimated that Russian nationals had fallen to 442,000 out of an approximate 890,000, putting the Russian population below the 50% mark for the first time. This trend would continue with subsequent censuses, with the Russian population hovering at 43.19% by 1970. It would not be until the 1990s that the Russians regain overall majority in Prussia, with Russians amounting to 55.49% of the population in 1989, as minorities began emigrating back to their home countries and to the West.[3]

Regardless of the demographic changes, Stolypin's reforms had brought mixed feelings among the Russian population. His prioritization of minority rights to areas such as language, welfare, employment and housing, had led to considerable resentment among the Russian settlers. Many viewed him as a self-hating Russian, or at least too desperate to achieve his population quotas to truly care about them. Others became the so-called 'false nationalities', using their mixed heritage or just sheer guile to obtain privileges reserved for the minorities. But Stolypin never neglected the interests of his fellow people. Indeed, his attempts to promote Russian cultural heritage and personal welfare had not gone unnoticed. But the myth of the 'anti-Russian Russian' persisted well into the present day. And Stolypin's impatience and anger over the 'Tsarist mentality', undoubtedly, only served to feed to that image.

- Information text on the Russian community in the West Baltic SSR, Russian community exhibit

Part 1​

OOC Notes:

1. Source for picture: 'Deer Hunter,' 'Close Encounters' cinematographer dies at 85 - Daily Mail
2. Source for picture: S Novym Godom! In pictures, how the USSR marked the happy times at New Year - Siberian Times
3. Like OTL, the Soviet census was taken in 1959 and 1970, with modifications made based on the numbers here. 1963 numbers are merely estimates, calculated from my spreadsheet.

Spoiler: Cast

• Singenwaldhang Girls High School (from left to right)
  • Students
    • Aušra Švedaitė (CV: 高坂 穂乃果)
    • Ritva Pajari (CV: 園田 海未)
    • Mariyne Mugu (CV: 南 ことり)
    • Maria Hayrapetyan (CV: 西木野 真姫)
    • Tarana Irevani (CV: 矢澤 にこ)
    • Vasilka Lyobomirova Toncheva (CV: 絢瀬 絵里)
    • Ludmilla Aleksandrovna von Ungern-Sternberg (CV: 東條 希)
    • Leila Pääsuke (CV: 小泉 花陽)
    • Zisel Kaufmann (CV: 星空 凛)
  • Teachers
    • Daniël Oosthuizen (CV: 和泉 三月)
• Others
  • Professor Vsevolod Churkin (CV: Vilmos Zsigmond) - Pictured in 'video'

______________________________________​

Sorry if it looks like I'm just jamming numbers in. My calculations aren't really that complex. Anyway, is new post. :3

 

[Remitonov]

Sweet! Take your time to restart, though. Don't rush everything.

On a sidenote question: What are the flags of Prussia? (From 1945 to 2016/2017)

Here you go. :3

Spoiler: West Baltic SSR

Flag of the West Baltic SSR (1959-1991)

Spoiler: Prussian Revolution

Flag used in pro-independence rallies in the Prussian Revolution of 1989-1991

Spoiler: Independent West Baltic-Prussia

Flag of West Baltic-Prussia (1991-1993)

Spoiler: Present Flag

Flag of West Baltic-Prussia/Prussia (1993-Present) - by @Neoteros

 

[Remitonov]

Lenin Avenue (Leninskiy Prospekt), Kaliningrad, Kaliningrad Military Oblast, USSR
4th January, 1957 C.E.
Valeriy Tonchev

The Orthodox new year was approaching, and the usual Christmas cheer was dawning on the city of Kaliningrad. Driving in a military car dressed in a thick coat, Valeriy Tonchev was fighting the bitter winter cold. Peering out, he could see the skeletons of the cookie-cutter Khrushchyovka springing up all around him. And soon, all of that that will be filled with people – people he and Yevgeny would be beckoning to a new future.

Peering at the ice-choked window, Valeriy could barely hide his anticipation. In all honesty, he would have preferred to spend time with his ailing father back in Odessa. But with his new tasks, the young man found himself on his desk for days on end. He was not sure why, but the mere thought of exciting his brother and colleagues with his new project had left him fairly sleepless.

Stepping out towards a gaudy, grey cuboid of a building, it was not hard for Valeriy to tell this was Soviet-made. Most of old Königsberg was in ruins and demolished anyway, with landmarks still awaiting deliberation from the capital on their fates. But Valeriy still had some measure of pride, and he had hoped Yevgeny would have repurposed an old Prussian landmark for their use. In his own honesty, he felt a bit ashamed to be setting up an important administration in a place this indistinguishable from a residential block.

“Not many choices, I suppose,” he remarked, sighing as he stepped out of his car with his documents, “hope I can get back by Christmas.”

However, something else weighed heavily in his heart, as he gripped the files on hand. In them contained a draft for the city's future, a careful delination of districts into segregated zones to be presented to his superior. It was straightforward, and seemingly idiotproof, and most importantly, tried and tested. A planned city where each nationality would have their own areas... besides the benefit of easy census-taking and surveillance, it made perfectly sure the communities do not run into conflict with each other.

At least, he hoped so.

Arriving on the steps, however, a familiar sight quickly caught his eye. It was a young blonde in a white coat and fur hat, her thick eyebrows unmistakable.

“Ah,” blurted the startled young man, spotting Margit climbing up the steps with a bespectacled assistant, “you!?”

OOC Notes:

• In case you're wondering where I got the image from.

Cast:

• Committee for Resettlement
  • Jr. Lt. (2nd Lt.) Valeriy Petrovich Tonchev (CV: グレミー・トト)
  • Margit Haraszti (CV: 琴吹 紬)

 

[Remitonov]

Office for the Committee for Resettlement
Lenin Avenue (Leninskiy Prospekt), Kaliningrad, Kaliningrad Military Oblast, USSR
4th January, 1957 C.E.
Valeriy Tonchev

Margit Haraszti, Stalin's pianist. Some said she was an illegitimate daughter of the deposed Hungarian leader Mátyás Rákosi. Others claim that she was of noble blood, or the daughter of Admiral Horthy. With a position as high as hers at such a young age, it was hard not to think her current position within the state's domestic intelligence was just out of pure skill. If anything, her unknown parentage – raised by a single mother – only fuelled speculation, an heiress with enough personal connections to live a life of a party boss.

However, for all the speculation Valeriy had read of her, one thing was certain since the Hungarian episode. She was scary, a vixen wearing a sheep's mask. Her ginger smile proved more than enough to deceive the most paranoid of men, yet able to let slip a bolt of fear when needed.

“So...” blurted the cadet, following her and her assistant along, “what brings you to Kaliningrad, Miss Haraszti?”

Her eyes virtually closed in her veiled smile, Haraszti spoke, “yes, why am I here?... I suppose my handling of the insurrection had attracted some attention from the new administration. They felt I was too... blunt with my approach. So I arranged for a transfer here to prove to them otherwise. Besides... something about your senior seemed... interesting...”

“'Interesting'?...” Valeriy queried, “wait, I thought your bosses were the ones who reassign you, not the other way around.”

Giggling a bit, the girl simply kept mum, peering at the young man with dubious glee as she quietly shifted the topic. Opening Valeriy's file for a glance, she remarked, “you don't seem to know much about the world, do you, Mr Tonchev? Your brother is playing it too... the game of life. We all like to think that we are very different from the old age of kings and courts. But humanity is, if anything, forgetful... The more distant the memories of our past, the easier it becomes for us to repeat them. This is the game of life. The Kremlin is the palace and we are but the courtiers. And as of now, this is our little keep.”

“Ah...” uttered the dumbfounded lad, unable to absorb the words, “you're a very poetic woman, Miss Haraszti. Anyway, about the plan I'm showing you... what do you think?”

“What do I think...” mused the officer, her smile fading a bit, “it's quite... typical.”

“Typical,” blurted Valeriy, peering over at his documents, “in what way?”

Inside, a neatly segmented map of the oblast featured at the page, along with its major cities and towns. Neatly segmented, it was the plan he and Yevgeny agreed upon before the Hungarian Uprising, though much of it was done under his brother as an overseer. But part of him sensed Stolypin's reluctance throughout it all, even though the town plans were made simply to keep 'distrustful' groups away from each other and to allow for easier administration. He recalled a word he put in regarding the Tonchevs' proposals – 'segregation'.

“Segregating the districts and cities...” she commented, “it's nothing new, I can tell you. Colonial administrators have done that in the past, as do kings. While tried and tested, it feels rather... unoriginal. It works for a divide and conquer plan, but it's rather... dull.”

“Uhh... Well, we're not aiming for job satisfaction, Miss Haraszti,” Valeriy quipped nervously, growing confused at her words, “you know how slow bureaucracy can be. I just thought this would make things easier. Besides, it's not like we're not doing it at a national level. The SSRs, autonomous oblasts... all of them are meant to give a place to minorities within the Soviet Union.”

“'Voice to the minorities'...” the blonde chimed, “is that how you see it? Where do you live, Valeriy?”

“Odessa,” Valeriy answered, “my parents were from Aydemir, in Bulgaria. We moved to the Ukrainian SSR so my father can receive medical treatment. We have a villa in Vilkovo. It's an Old Believers village, so it's a lot like home.”[1]

“Old Believers, huh,” she mused, thumbing her chin in a quick thought, “you don't strike me as a god-fearing person..."

“Hm,” went Valeriy, raising an eyebrow at the comment. Waving him off, she assured him, “it's nothing,” dropping the matter again. As they reached the door to the conference room, the Hungarian returned his file as she proceeded inside first. A peek inside, Valeriy felt a bit unnerved meeting the eyes of so many drab-looking strangers. Despite their myriad appearances, they all looked virtually the same. Given the drab, similar-looking suits and uniforms, it seemed a bit hard to tell them apart. Even their expressions were dour and serious, though in context, it made perfect sense to be, in a meeting. The only noticeable smile in the crowd was a senior man in a shirt and tie, with cleanly combed hair and a pair of spectacles, likely in a well-respected profession.

“Uhh... Valeriy? Hello...” an awkward voice spoke behind him as he jumped. Looking back, he saw Yevgeny giving a small wave and smile, speaking, “no need to be so awed. You're making me nervous too, you know.”

“Ah, sorry...” Valeriy yelped, “you're here, Sir. Sorry.” Holding up the file in his hand to Yevgeny, he said, “oh ya, here. The town plans.”

“Town plans,” the senior blurted, pausing for a moment, “oh... Oh yea, those! Shit, I knew I forgot something... I wanted to contact you, but I kind of forgot amidst all the work... We won't be needing them, Valeriy. Sorry~.”

“'Won't be... needing them',” Tonchev questioned, a bit surprised by the statement, “what'd you mean? You have new arrangements?”

“Yea... I guess,” he replied coyly, raising his own documents on hand, “it's a surprise. You're going to love it. Just take a seat while I prepare.”

“A-Ah...” the hapless aide went, bewildered by his statement. Stepping back to let the senior in, Valeriy could only peer down at his own work. He had no idea how to react. While he trusted Yevgeny to have done better work on the settlement plans, he could not help but feel... dejected. He had spent a fair bit on time on them, and his superior simply brushed it aside without as much as a single look. But Valeriy knew better than to think more on them. As far as he felt, such things happen, not the least with his own brother.

Valeriy was to change his mind...

Cold War Exhibition, National Museum
Burse Street/Börsenstraße/Birzha ul., Kyonigsberg, Prussia[2]
23 January, 2016

Staring at Valeriy's town plans in the exhibits, Vasilka was unsure at how to feel. On them, the handwriting and marker shading was still prominently featured, all with her granduncle's handiwork. It seemed very meticulous, true to her granduncle's nature and skill. He had, after all, spent a lifetime as the administrative heart of the republic. It, therefore, seemed a pity that they were ultimately abandoned.

But there was something more evident in the papers that she felt deeply of. The maps, they appear, were somewhat crumpled, even slightly torn. A raw anger had been etched on it, an impulse to destroy its work. She had no idea when this could have happened; whether it was right after their rejection or years after. Regardless, she could never hope to think that she could understand him then, how he felt.

“'On loan from Lyubomir Vladimirovich Tonchev',” she read the placard below, gleaning through her granduncle's personal effects. Spotting an Orthodox cross, Vasilka grimaced a bit at the sight of it. The Old Believers, like all religious groups, suffered greatly under Stalin's rule, and tightly controlled by subsequent Soviet governments. It made no sense that her grandfather and granduncle could make it that far up the hierarchy without publicly abandoning their faith. This was more true for Vladimir, the wartime ace. There appeared to be things about her family that she still did not even know of.

"...the Old Believers of the West Baltic was previously recognized under the Soviet census of 1959 as a separate ethnoreligious community," a commentary played beside her, as a little girl spied on the religious icons on display, “of the 14,000 members registered Old Believers then, only 40 were estimated to be adherents to the church, including the head of the southern Slavic resettlement plan, and future chairman of the SSR, Valeriy Tonchev. Remarkably, when the status was remove in the 1970 census, some 1,200 Old Believers remain, greatly multiplying the number of adherents. Today, some 22,000 Old Believers are registered with various communions, the largest of which...”

“We're going to need some books,” she mused, stepping away from the exhibit.

But Vasilka could not help but think she might need resort to interviews instead. No matter how she tried to look at it, her family was still at the centre of it all, a key witness and actor in the founding of Prussia. She could only pray she would not have to resort to interrogating an old man for this.

Part 2​

OOC Notes:

1. Old Believers. Most of those in the Danube live in Romania, but there are communities in Ukraine and Bulgaria too, thanks to current post-WWII borders.
2. Street names are, to a large extent, based on maps of old Königsberg with street names. But the great differences in the roads in Soviet Kaliningrad made renaming many roads difficult.

Cast:

• 1957 - Committee for Resettlement
  • Cpt. Yevgeny Mikhailovich Stolypin (CV: ユルゲン・ベルンハルト)
  • Jr. Lt. (2nd Lt.) Valeriy Petrovich Tonchev (CV: グレミー・トト)
  • Margit Haraszti (CV: 琴吹 紬)
• 2016 - Singenwaldhang Girls High School
  • Vasilka Lyobomirova Toncheva (CV: 絢瀬 絵里)

Anyway, here's the full chapter. In addition, I've put a post on the Alt-AFV thread on a Prussian-made tank. Thought you might find it interesting.

 

[Remitonov]

Economics post is out. Not much, honestly, but I thought it's good to share.

Quarter-Centennial Exhibition, Main Atrium, National Museum
Burse Street/Börsenstraße/Birzha ul., Kyonigsberg, Prussia
23 January, 2016

Sitting outside the main exhibition hall, the atrium appeared stacked with other events for the day. As with other venues, the museum is running a special Quarter-Centennial Exhibition, a welcome start to a year of national festivities for the 25th Independence Day celebrations. Lined up were the various aspects of Prussia's modern system. Its economy, transport, military, education... While the permanent exhibition was a story of Prussia's past, the special event-based one is a story of Prussia's present.

Examining the amber gems on display inside the cases, a group of students in black sailor uniforms and red scarfs were looking through the exhibits. At first sight, they seemed no different from the other teenagers inside the main hall, especially their schoolmates. However, while their fellow girls in Vernost were able to enter the main exhibition, some are mysteriously locked out of the gantry, instead taking to the atrium's free roam exhibits.

"Pretty~," blurted an oddly blue-haired girl, her long hair dyed and tied in a distinctive knot as she marvelled at the ancient butterfly encased within its amber tomb, "no wonder they call this the 'Amber Republic'."

"Eww...," a short, black haired girl with a braid and cat-like fringes replied with a cringe, her eyes fixed on a prehistoric lizard in a similar grave, "are you sure?"

"And all this is from Palmniken," mused a black-haired senior with short hair and dusky eyes, "you'd think the mine owners would be free to fix the prices."

Amber deposit mine in Palmniken (German: Palmnicken), Palmniken City/Gorod
​

Palmniken, as the exhibit description detailed, is the heart of Prussia's amber mining operations. With over 90% of the world's amber deposits located in the Sambian coast, Prussia's monopoly on the precious stone is all but guaranteed.[1] Controlled by a conglomerate of state-owned and private enterprises, a large portion of Prussia's wealth is derived from amber mining and refining alone. It was thus little surprise that amber mining companies outside Prussia were forced to compete on uneven ground, though European Union and local regulations still applied to ensure fair competition.

"'...since the time of the Teutonic Knights, amber mining has been an essential part of the local economy'," the cool-headed girl read the description, "'control over the Sambian coast has granted rulers a complete monopoly over the amber trade, from the Prussian Hohenzollern domain to the Soviet West Baltic republic. Under Soviet rule, the Yantarny mines, as it was known then, produced approximately 600 tonnes under the management of Baltiysky Yantar.[2] However, the post Cold War situation led to the closure and sale of the company over illegal mining operations and corruption charges.[3] Now run under the watch of the Ministry of Trade and Industry's Amber Regulatory Commission, strict mining regulations have been put into effect to ensure environmental protection and fair practices in mining operations.'"

"My dad works in Palmniken," the junior remarked, "he always comes late at night. I hardly see him, even on weekends. These days, he's just trying to hold on to the job."

The Vernost girls were not Prussian citizens. They and their parents were post-Soviet migrants from Russia and other post-Soviet states in the east. As the economic situation deteriorated during the Yeltsin years, many took to emigration as an answer. Some exploited the right of return granted by Germany or Israel to flee to better pastures. Others have simply straight out left for other parts of Western Europe. But those too poor to dream of the facade of Lady Liberty or Big Ben used family ties in the emergent Prussian republic for better opportunities. But even they were slowly being squeezed out, as work permits began to dry up in the face of EU migrations within, and a looming 'second Cold War' abound.

"Sounds tough. I don't think I'd spend my life in the mines," the blue-haired girl commented, peering at some of the other displays, "I prefer theatre."

Raushen (German: Rauschen) Beach, Raushensky District/Raion

Königreich Süßenburg Amusement Park, Pilava, Pilavsky District/Raion​

Peering through the collection of displays, Prussia's economic landscape proved far more diverse. While heavy industries such as manufacturing and shipbuilding had been present in Prussia since the Soviet period, much of it laid in shambles in the immediate post-Soviet years, with the Prussian state desperate to keep them afloat. Faced with the difficult choice of shock treatment and gradual reforms, Gram's new government opted for the latter, preferring not to sacrifice the livelihoods of ordinary citizens and local businesses in the name of progress. As Tonchev's Fatherland Front swept into power, so too came the promise of radical economic reform. As trade barriers lowered and foreign investments flooded the country, local and multinational conglomerates such as Machabeli cemented its control. From its original focus on heavy industries, Prussia began to expand its scope on other fields. Finances, electronics, and tourism were just some of its more valuable sectors today. While amber exports were never truly eclipsed, much of Prussia's wealth was no longer dug from the ground.

"You're not thinking of joining that circus, are you, Mikaela," the short-haired classmate grunted.

"It's not a circus, it's an amusement park; a permanent fixture," the blue-haired girl snapped back, "besides... I'm not a very smart person... and I like acting..."

"That 'Pregola' was bad, and you know it," the senior sneered back in a tease.

Peeved at her friend's tone, the fan retorted, "how dare you," shaking her down in defence of her idol's name.

Machabeli Avtotor factory in Kyonigsberg[4]​

Unbeknownst to the tussling exchange students, a similarly-aged girl with grey hair and princess curls was overlooking the scene, her arms crossed as she glares at the trio. Dressed in a black, western-style uniform with a grey bow-tie, she had no qualms showing her status as a St Elisabeth student. Shifting her eyes back to the car on display, she tried to ignore the noise. Burying herself in the exhibit's descriptions, she silently read the English descriptions over the Cyrillic one.

'...some of the key industries of the post-Soviet era are manufacturing and shipbuilding,' she read mentally, 'amidst the collapse of the Soviet command economy, local conglomerates like Machabeli were formed to fill the void left by the bankruptcy of state-owned enterprises. Today, Machabeli ranks one of the largest European companies by revenue, with branches extended into fields like automobiles, electronics, and... defence.'

Machabeli Defence tank factory in Taipau[5]​

This was the masterpiece of Prime Minister Tonchev's economic revival. While the revival and expansion of Prussia's moribund industries had long been a priority, the development of its defence industries had raised more than a few eyebrows. Building the country's defensive capability from scratch, he enlisted the help of his former KGB deputy, Georgi Machabeli, to exploit and re-utilize the crumbling state of the Soviet Union's defence firms. Entire factories and weapons were transported back to Prussia as they sought to reverse-engineer Eastern Bloc designs and develop an indigenous base with Western technology. It seemed an effort in redundancy - there were few weapons Machabeli could have made at the time that could not be obtained at a better standard and cost overseas. But from indigenous modifications and tests came experience. And as the country reached its quarter-centennial, the company that had grown in reputation and revenue, exporting its products across the world as one of the world's foremost defence giants.

"T-93PM," she read off the last line of the description, the designation for Prussia's latest upcoming Main Battle Tank. Unlike the Vernost exchange students, she was a very different kind of migrant. There was a term for people like her; ethnic German returnees to what was once East Prussia. But she was no Baltic German, or Russian Mennonite from the remote countryside. She was a Junker, the Prussian noble class that had once held great sway over the old Prussia and unified Germany. Many families like hers had actively invested in the fledgling country's economy in its formative years, and in the years since the Prussian economic miracle, settled back in the former estates of their forefathers. But not everyone was willing to adapt to the new Prussia. For some Junkers, there is only one definition for Prussia - the old one. The Slavic-dominated institutions of the present were, at best, tolerated, but since their inclusion into the European system, there can only be one path - restoration.

"Rochelle," a voice spoke to her, "what're you doing here? You're not in the NE (National Education) program."

Yelping at the sudden words, the grey-haired noble stepped back as she spotted a pair of gold eyes from a blonde bearing down on her. Confronted with a trio of schoolmates, the girl refuted vainly, "silly girl. I am as much a slave to fate as all. I've been called to a dark presence in these halls. It is just sad I am unable to enter the keeper's toll."

"You know," grunted one of the girls, a calm-looking lass with long black hair, "if you've said you were part of our group, the receptionist would have given you a free pass too. It's not like anyone would be able to tell the difference."

"A-Are you crazy," snapped the grey-haired student, finally breaking character over the suggestion, "they'll throw me out!"

"If you're going to tell the whole building about it, of course, they'll throw you out," the hair-loop-wearing blonde remarked, "if you're that worried, you could have just bought a ticket~"

"In any case," the last brunette told her, "lesson's over. We're heading downtown for some lunch. You must be tired waiting around."

"Ngh," gushed the girl, shrinking under her collar, "sure..."

Prussia's economic miracle laid at the foundations of earlier developments, from the age-old stones within the soil to the factories of Soviet-era West Baltic. But much more could be credited to the minds and hands of many who made it possible; the workers, the investors and the thinkers. But one thing is certain. There is no Prussia without its people. Where worse nations dig their wealth from the ground, Prussia's was earned by its people. Whether it was an altruistic drive to benefit the common folk, or a utilitarian need for an educated working class, Prussia's first world status could not be possible without the men and women who call it home, citizen and not.

Cast:

• Vernost Stolypinskaya Girls School
  • Mikaela Danilovna Remitonova (CV: 桂浦 香具耶)
  • Aliya Mustafaevna Nasretdinova (CV: 七咲 逢)
  • Vlada Nikolaievna Kuznetsova (CV: 時雨)
• St Elisabeth of Thuringia Catholic Girls Academy
  • Rochelle Beatrix von Fünflinden (CV: 神崎 蘭子)
  • Emma van Hoek (CV: 小原 鞠莉)
  • Khertek Kuular (CV: 渋谷 凜)
  • Alsu İlgizova (CV: 新田 美波)

TL Notes:

1. OTL.
2. OTL, and the company was known as Russky Yantar OTL.
3. Still a problem IOTL.
4. Photo taken from OTL's Avtotor factory in Kaliningrad.
5. Photo taken from OTL's Kharkiv tank factory. Source: Al-Jazeera

OTL Locations Names:

• Palmniken/Palmnicken, Palmniken Gorod - Yantarny, Yantarny Urban Okrug
• Raushen/Rauschen, Raushensky Raion - Svetlogorsk, Svetlogorsky Raion
• Pilava/Pillau, Pilavsky Raion - Baltiysk, Baltiysky Raion
• Kyonigsberg/Königsberg, Capital City Area - Kaliningrad, Kaliningrad Urban Okrug
• Taipau, Taipausky Raion - Gvardeysk, Gvardeysky Raion

 

[Remitonov]

Steindamm Church, Steindamm Avenue (formerly Lenin Avenue), Kyonigsberg
26th January, 2016 C.E.

Steindamm Church, Tuesday.

One of the oldest churches in Königsberg, Steindamm Church in its present form mimics its last known appearance before the end of the Second World War. Once a mere wooden Catholic chapel, the Polish church had changed much, transitioning into Lutheranism as it catered to the thriving community in the city. However, in the rise of the Prussian-led German Empire, services in the Polish language declined with a lack of demand. By the end of the Second World War, Steindamm Church had narrowly avoided destruction by Allied bombing, only to be levelled by Soviet artillery in the city's siege.[1]

Its current site, adjacent to its original location, is a chilling reminder of that fate. Reconstructed after the Prussian revolution, the new authorities simply did not have the will to rebuild the church where it once stood, now occupied by the busy thoroughfare that once bore Lenin's name.[2] The city as a whole had changed too much under Soviet rule, and much of its roads no longer matched the old Prusssian city blueprints. But the Polish people demanded its return, and its reconstruction now sits within the crowded downtown of the city's heart once again. But all who knew its past doubted it could ever be the same. However much they cling on to its past, Steindamm, as had the city and country, had changed.

Sitting in the chapel in contemplation, Stanislaw could see the myriad trappings of Catholic iconography that now defined its purpose. In a bitterly fought campaign between the Roman Catholic Church and its Lutheran counterpart, the former was able to obtain ownership of the reconstructed chapel, on basis of the overwhelmingly Catholic Polish demographic. Growing up in a proud, pious family, the young man had long been surrounded by tales of Poland's long and turbulent history. For them, God was more than the divine being that saved and safeguarded the souls the Polish people. He defined Poland.

“Out of school already,” a voice broke the silence, “I wasn't expecting you, Stani.”

Stepping out from a side door, a young priest, no older than his early thirties, stepped out in a black robe, a small gold cross hung around his neck. With neatly-cut brown hair and a pair of spectacles, he appeared the part of a scholar, easily mistaken as a lecturer of a seminary. The fact that he had until recently been studying in one was not lost to Stanislaw. Standing up, he opened his hand for a shake.

“I'm just here to congratulate you, brother,” he said, “sorry I haven't come to visit. How're you doing?”

“Haven't conducted my first Sunday service here yet,” quipped the smiling priest, “can't say. Your studies?”

“Well... you know... I'm doing ok,” blurted the lad, trying to force a smile to assure him.

“Oh yes,” the priest recalled, “you've started on your 'National Education' course, have you? How'd you find it?”

“How do I find it,” Stanislaw admitted, “feel like brainwashing to me.”

“Well, the curriculum had changed since my time,” his elder brother told him, “back then, pride in an ancestral land is tantamount to disloyalty to Prussia. It's a lot less about that now, thankfully. Can't say I approved of such forced nationalism then.”

“What was your lessons like, though? I mean, you went to a seminary, so I wouldn't know,” queried Stanislaw.

Pausing for a moment of thought, the elder replied, “hmm... Let's just say there were people who didn't believe this country should exist, and that the government pulled all the stops to weed out such ideas.”

“I didn't think Gram was that sort of person,” the younger Pole quipped.

“That wasn't the work of Gram, Stani,” the priest informed him in a more serious tone, “he was out of office by then. It was the brainchild of PM Tonchev. He believed that any ties to a foreign homeland, even family ties, had the potential to destroy Prussia from within. It was a troubling time, I know that. But there was something heavy-handed about his approach I just don't like. “

Bowing his head, Stanislaw could hardly imagine. He could barely remember his own childhood, when the boy could hardly care for such things as politics and history. Looking around the downtown area outside the stained glass windows, he could still recall the faint structures of late Soviet-era blocks. However, now, all he sees is postmodernist shopping malls, and a giant scaffold decorated with images of late Prussian thinkers where the Palace of Soviets once stood.[3]

Before he could ponder, however, he noticed at the corner of his eye a figure passing by. Walking around the edge of the chapel hall, the same orange-haired coif from the museum took a bow to the priest in silence as she stepped out the door. Staring back at the exit, Stanislaw felt a tap on his shoulders. He had not realized how long he had been fixated at it, a mischievous grin on his elder brother's face.

“Someone you know,” teased the young man.

Waving him off, Stanislaw denied, “bug off.”

Chucking at his blushing face, the priest stated, “relax, boy. I won't keep you here for long. I believe she's heading for Nox just across the street. Funny place to put a library, but I guess it's hard to find space in the capital.”

“Nox,” mused the brown-haired teen, pausing to think through his next move. Hesitant for a moment, he quietly stood up as he bid, “thanks, Jerzy. I'll see you around then.”

Without a moment's haste, the lad soon made a move on, prompting the pastor to shake his head in relent.

“Kids these days,” Jerzy quipped, as Stanislaw vanished behind the door, “I must be getting old.”

Stanislaw's next destination was just a street across, but his chase would come with more than just a lad's crush...

[4]
​

OOC Notes:

1. OTL.
2. IOTL, the church was never rebuilt.
3. As mentioned in an earlier post, the Palace of Soviets was demolished to rebuild Königsberg Castle. The decorative scaffold design around it is inspired by those that were build around the old Japanese General Government building, which was demolished to allow for restorations to Gyeongbokgung palace.
4. OTL's ION Orchard, in Singapore's downtown. IOTL, the area occupied by the Nox shopping mall is a hotel.

Cast

• Stanisław Andrzejewski (CV: バナージ・リンクス)
• Jerzy Andrzejewski (CV: シンルー＝ハウゼン/カストル) - Priest of Steindamm Church
• Agata Lubomirska (CV: ミネバ・ラオ・ザビ オードリー・バーン)

 

[Remitonov]

Playing: End of the Unknown - NieR: Automata Soundtrack by Keiichi Okabe​

Nox (Нокс), Steindamm Avenue, Kyonigsberg
26th January, 2016 C.E.

Nox, one of the newest additions of downtown Kyonigsberg. Built in 2010, the modern shopping complex is one of many to spring up in the heart of the capital. Its prime location at the northern junction had made it a prominent landmark along the river Pregola. That, along with the entire district, provided a clear contrast with buildings of heritage across the river, and soon, across the street.

Crossing the busy intersection as throngs of suit-wearing pedestrians, Stanislaw could barely make out the girl's facade among the crowds. As he slipped through the automatic doors of the shopping mall, the human waves did not appear to abate. It was as if every effort was being made to obstruct him, as he shuffled through the claustrophobia-inducing masses.

“I thought this is a weekday,” Stanislaw grumbled, “where the hell do these people come from?”

“...I hope you're on the edge of your seats, folks,” an announcement soon broke out in the distance, “in just a few hour, the worldwide release of Otherworld's latest expansion, Legacy of Man will be out, with the full update ready for your gaming pleasure! I see a lot of excited gamers crowding the lines, some of whom I've heard have been here all night! Be sure to stay tuned, though, because we still have a lot of events coming up, so stick around!”

Squeezing into the main atrium, Stanislaw could not help but cringe at the sight of the seemingly infinite human mass. Lines upon lines of young men and women, some with laptops on hand, are busy waiting in front of the stage and by the sides. An elaborate stage decorated with walls of disjointed stacks of white cubes gave the entire event area a digital feel, likely the theme of the game. There were even some dressed in fantasy costumes and apparels, and in some cases, science fiction.

“You got to be kidding me,” the Pole grumbled, trying to spot for the strange girl again. To his good fortune, a string of Polish-accented Russian amidst the noise reached his ear, as he turned to face a group standing in line.

“...what kind of student council waits in line for a video game,” quipped the shawl-wearing Pole to a group of girls in fantasy and sci-fi costumes at the queue, one of them in a wheelchair, “I thought you were heading for the library.”

“We'll get there... eventually,” teased a young 'elven knight' with light blue hair, shifting her eyes coyly, “it'll only be a couple of hours, don't worry.”

“I'm only human, Agata,” went the wheelchair-bound 'robot' in the silver, futuristic suit, her calm voice muffled by her mask, “don't I deserve to relax? If I had to take everything so seriously, I might end up like 'Miss Potter'.”

“I suppose,” the orange-haired girl mused, “just remember to come up later. We need to get started on the project.”

“Why don't you get a copy yourself,” teased the blonde elf, “we can play together~.”

“I'm not a gamer person, Shelly,” she declined gently, “I find computer games too mindless for me. Anyway, I'll see you upstairs then."

Watching her depart for the elevator, Stanislaw tried to think through their words. Last he recalled, there was a public library set up on the mall's upper-most floor, a strange place given its location. Nonetheless, tailing behind, he could barely see the lady vanishing behind the elevator doors, the digital screen counting up the floors. Pressing himself inside a crammed, transparent lift, he pressed the desired floor before waited at the back. Slowly the stacked lift began to clear with each floor, as the noise downstairs faded slowly with the distance. Eventually, only a few were left to disembark, with the boy stepping out last. Looking around again, he once again spotted the girl departing into an entrance, this time the gantry of the library.

“Who puts a damn library in a shopping mall,” he grumbled again, tapping his library card at the gantry to tail the mystery girl. Unbeknownst to him, however, his presence attracted a pair of bewildered eyes. It was his classmates, with Paulina busy sampling lipstick from a beauty store.

“Is that... Stanislaw,” blurted the brunette, a bit wide-eyed at his appearance as Stanislaw failed to notice them, “I thought he said he was going to the Polish Church.”

“You... tell me...” Petr forced the words out, struggling with several bags of merchandise, “maybe he just wants to read some books.”

Narrowing her eyes, Paulina could not hide her suspicions. He appeared to be following someone, to her. Putting the lipstick back on the display, the girl soon marched off for the library, leaving the hapless helper behind.

“Oi,” Petr cried out, barely able to move with his load, “wait up!”

Stepping into the chilly, air-conditioned library, the booming music of the atrium downstairs was mysteriously stifled behind the soundproof walls. Tailing the young redhead as she stood at the counter, Stanislaw could spot a CD being handed by the dour elderly librarian. Watching the lady take the digital relic into the computer lab, the hapless boy paced towards the counter as he tried to think up a query. Faced with the piercing glare of the granny, however, the words choked up in his throat, forcing him to clear it in an audibly embarrassing cough.

“Uhh...” he stuttered a response, his eyes shifting over the desk as he spotted a half empty set of CDs, “what's that?”

'Shit,' he quickly thought in a cringe, 'get it together, just ask for a disk or something.'

“I mean, uhh...” he quickly forced a reply, “do you have anything on the Polish community in Soviet-era Prussia?”

It was not a total lie, but the awkward phrasing of the query would have been suspicious to just about anyone, much less a cynical-looking old lady. As the wrinkled, bespectacled elder, turned back to her box of CDs, she pulled out the first on the extreme right side. Her ageing arm lifting to pass the disk, she said in a low groan, “Part 1.” Fortunately for Stanislaw, the woman did not appear to suspect him of any ill-intent, or more likely, care.

Accepting the disk, the awkward-looking boy stepped into the computer lab as he tried to spot the girl again. A coif of orange hair seated at the back, the young teen was suprisingly easy to spot in the sparsely populated room. Taking a seat in front of a terminal down the row from her, the confused lad was not sure how to approach. He was not even sure why he came, though the disk seemed to have passed on him a convenient excuse.

“Well... since I'm here...” he mused, thinking back at his team project. Dropping the disk into the player, he quietly put on his headphones as he took slight glances between the girl and his desktop...

______________________

Playing: Warszawianka 1905 by Wacław Święcicki

Polacy Prus w 20 wieku
Поляки Пруссии в 20 веке
Polish Prussians of the 20th Century

Part 1 – Exile and Return​

The Poles of Prussia are among the oldest groups to have lived on its soil. Alongside the Germans and the Balts, the history of the Polish people in Prussia is intrinsically tied to their motherland, with a proud history dating back over a millenium. But most Poles living in the modern state are, like virtually everyone else, recent migrants from the Soviet period. Their past with the Soviet regime had been complicated, with many a part of the communist revolution, and others fierce resistors in the rebirth and preservation of the Polish nation-state.

By the end of the Second World War, much of the Polish population had long vanished, the result of increasing stigmatization of the community by post-WWI Germany. However, through the efforts of the Belarusian-born Pole, Stanislaw Mazurski and his Committee for Polish Integration, some 48,000 new Poles would be registered by the end of the Internationalization project in 1963. Some, undoubtedly, were ethnic Russians who Polonized for various reasons to immigrate to the West Baltic SSR, but much of its Polish population were derived from expelled dissidents, economic migrants, and Poles exiled to Siberia during Stalinist rule. This coalescing of different groups, similar to the diverse demographics of the German population, would play a part in defining Polish identity in Prussia, both as a part of the greater Polish people, and as a distinct diaspora tied to the new nation-state.

Cast

• St Wojciech (Adalbert) of Prague Catholic High School
  • Stanisław Andrzejewski (CV: バナージ・リンクス)
  • Paulina Krakowska (CV: ミコット・バーチ)
  • Petr Nováček (CV: タクヤ・イレイ)

• St. Elisabeth of Thuringia Catholic Girls School
  • Agata Lubomirska (CV: ミネバ・ラオ・ザビ オードリー・バーン)
  • "Elven Swordswoman" (CV: 結城 明日奈)
  • "Catgirl Archer" (CV: 朝田 詩乃)
  • "Blonde Elf"/Shelly Eban (CV: 桐ヶ谷直葉)
  • "Some... robot person" (CV: 倉崎 楓子)

 

[Remitonov]

That took long enough, and admittedly not the best one I've written, but I need to get this out of the way.

Yasnaya Polyana, Kazakh SSR, USSR
February 24th, 1957 C.E.
Stanislaw Mazurski

Yasnaya Polyana, one of several ethnic Polish villages scattered across the steppes of northern Kazakhstan. Founded by expellees from the European Soviet Union in the 1930s, the village was another story of starving and tired exiles who, against all odds, manage to survive the harsh, alien environment thrust upon them by the Man of Steel. Much of it was credited to the local Kazakhs, who disregarded their own poverty and differences to welcome and aid their new neighbours. Still, the shanty conditions of the clay houses spoke of a grim life in the Central Asian frontiers, something a young Polish administrator hopes to ratify.

Getting off his sedan on the dirt roadside, Stanislaw Mazurski pulled his officer cap down below his eyes nervously. This was his first time with a major assignment, and the lad did not feel too confident. Many of the villages, he had been told, were more fluent in Russian than Polish, and he himself was unsure if they wanted to move again. More importantly, it was a task he was personally impressed with, after Prime Minister Gomulka’s talks in Moscow to repatriate Soviet Poles last November. In all, the weight felt a lot heavier than he anticipated. He expected a simple desk job in Kaliningrad, not running around in the middle of the Siberian wastes hunting ‘lost tribes’.

“What am I doing,” he muttered, as a clumsy, bespectacled secretary in an oversized pink cardigan tailed him, “I thought this was just an ambassadorial service. Sit behind a desk, sign documents, organize cultural events... not mucking around in the middle of nowhere like a recruiter.”

“Well, you asked for it,” the bob-haired girl replied, adjusting her red-rimmed glasses, “you raised your hand when the officer asked.”

“I didn’t know it involves travelling,” barked Mazurski, “I even had to act touched when the PM spoke to me! ‘Bring them home’, he said. I... I’m not here for great things. I just don’t want to be an errand boy.”

Mazurski’s task to encourage the Poles of the Soviet Union to immigrate to the oblast appear a direct contradiction to Gomulka’s intentions. He knew, based on the job description that the oblast was never meant to be more than a glorified processing centre. But the expectation was that once the Poles were considered ‘rehabilitated’, they would move back to Poland. And there was only so much the Polish government could have done on an official capacity with their Soviet masters. As a coordinator for the project, Mazurski was in a unique position as a middleman, too insignificant for the Stalinist hardliners in Moscow to care about, yet with enough power to pull a great number of his exiled countrymen westwards. Kaliningrad, by their knowledge, existed simply to rehabilitate potential immigrants where possible. With proof of Polish citizenship unnecessary for immigration to Kaliningrad (or any part of the USSR), it was a chance to re-Polonize candidate settlers meant for the new ‘recovered territories’, or ‘compensated territories’ as Mazurski crudely defined.

“If you’re so unhappy about it, why don’t you just quit,” the girl pestered.

“I... I can’t just quit,” barked Stanislaw, “I haven’t even started. That won’t look good if I want a promotion or anything! I’ll be ruined! Besides, I can’t say not to that man. He’s... I don’t know... inspiring.”

‘Inspiring’ might not have been the right word for him to describe his new boss. For the cynical blonde lad, Captain Stolypin was, as far as he could tell, a clown. Overly optimistic and barely grounded in reality, he might have made an interesting addition to the Soviet propaganda department. How and why he ended up in the secretive KGB was anyone’s guess. But Mazurski had little doubt he had deep connections, a contradiction to the persona he saw at their meeting in Kaliningrad...

Office for the Committee for Resettlement
Lenin Avenue (Leninskiy Prospekt), Kaliningrad, Kaliningrad Military Oblast, USSR
4th January, 1957 C.E. (Flashback)
Stanislaw Mazurski

“......I’m sure you’re all eager to give suggestions and such, so we’ll start on housing policy then...”

Seated by the side of a large boardroom table, the Stanislaw of last month was a bored, albeit eager young man. Having taken up the task as administrator for the Polish community of Królewiec, or Kaliningrad as the Russians now renamed it, the young man expected an easier life than his drab coffee boy tasks at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. A prestigious opportunity to improve on his credentials, he was tasked with improving the cultural and economic situation of the Poles in the military region. It seemed too easy, especially since the Polish community in the region had been, for a phrase, non-existent. Given that it was a core territory of Nazi Germany, Stanislaw doubted there was any of significant numbers left after the war. Still, it was a manageable task, and admittedly an exciting prospect. But the daft looking Russian at the front of the room foretold a very different story.

His eyes drifting to the side in boredom, he felt a slight jolt down his spine as a young blonde woman in an SS-looking uniform settled beside him. Stoic, unfeeling and decked in stylish dark grey, Stanislaw nearly let out a yell as he glared at the woman. For a moment, he had actually though he was seeing a ghost, even under the sunlight gleaming from the windows. But the shadows cast from the woman showed she was still among the living, and obviously, not a Nazi.

“You like older women, huh,” a disgusted whisper echoed into his ear as he gasped in shock. Looking over his shoulder, he could see the pouting face of his bespectacled partner, hissing back, “do you mind, Jo! I get jumpy when you get near me like that.”

Noticing the cold blue eyes of the ‘Nazi’ peering at him, the hapless lad made a few bows as he apologized frantically. Fortunately, the woman appeared to pay little heed, looking back at Stolypin as she unpacked her suitcase. Agitated, he tried to turn his attention back at the meeting as he watched Jo jolt down his words. For some reason, he felt a strange, petty vibe coming off her, a sour undertone on her face, as if she was trying not to mind him.

“You’re not jealous, are you,” he teased softly, “she’s just older than you. Get a grip.”

“Jealous,” grunted the bob-haired girl, adjusting her spectacles, “what do you mean ‘jealous’? I have no reason to be jealous. I’m younger than her. I can grow up.”

“I’m sure...” he chirped deviously, unable to suppress a triumphant smile. If there was anything Joanne felt touchy about, it was her appearance. Her dowdy spectacles, bob haircut and oversized cardigan made her look like a granny. In sharp contrast, the East German officer had a head of gold and shimmering blue eyes, and a statuesque physique that would have made her the epitome of a Aryan superwoman. For a moment, he had a wacky idea of her possible origins, a Lebensborn experiment turned to the enlightened socialism of her Soviet liberators.

“You’re insane!”

Jumping at the sudden yell, the surprised Pole quickly snapped out of his thoughts. Peering up, he could see a tall, buxom redhead in a Red Army uniform, hammering the table as she directed her anger at Stolypin. The lad, unsurprisingly, was a bit taken aback, though he appeared restraint as his job demands, listening on the objection.

“Dissolving all ethnic districts,” the woman decried, “you call that a ‘plurality’!? If the areas are not segregated, there will be a Russian majority in every district and every village!”

“Sit down, Anahit,” a scholarly-looking man in a civilian suit grunted, his hands clasped as he rolled his eyes at her noise, “let the man speak his piece. What are you so fearful about?”

“But Father,” blurted the officer, hesitating for a moment at her slip as she corrected, “Professor-“

“Sit. Down,” the professor firmly told her off, as the woman finally relented to his orders.

Mazurski could only bite his lip. Noticing his aide adjusting her large spectacles nervously, the Pole had not expected this. Whispering to Jo, he asked, “what happened? What were they discussing.”

“If you’ve taken a moment off ogling the Niemec,” she stated sarcastically, “you’d hear that they were discussing demographics. The plans Colonel Tonchev sent us were outdated. Captain Stolypin doesn’t intend to segregate the populations. He wants to spread everyone out, with housing quotas. Every district, every city, every housing block will include as many diverse groups as possible, at best to reflect the proportion of the general population of the Eastern Bloc.”

“What,” the lad blurted, still a bit confused. This was the first time he has ever heard of such a tactic. Much worse, dissolving the various nationalities would leave just one as the majority, the Russians. And they were already familiar with the effects of Russification, much longer than the entire history of the Soviet Union.

“I... understand your concerns,” the captain spoke to the woman, looking ill at ease over the outburst, “I never stated this will be easy, but segregation builds barriers, and such barriers create distrust and hate. If we’re still at the point where we have to worry about ethnic tensions, then we’re not really the ‘family of nationalities’ we claim to be, are we?”

His words were pure madness. To question the facts of party orthodox; Mazurski had to wonder if he was in way over his head. Already, the looks on the division heads were those of skepticism and worry, and in the red-head woman’s case, anger. Only her father and the blonde Hungarian in the expensive coat showed any interest at all, and it was the dubious kind of optimism, one of super-villain glee. And there was more to worry about for Stanislaw. Stolypin had mentioned about ethnic tensions. As far as he knew, there were plenty of axes to grind for the Poles towards a lot of groups, mainly their own neighbours.

“Never mind management,” a tanned Central Asian queried Stolypin, “how do you intend to get sufficient numbers to immigrate? The Soviet Union is vast with no shortage of resources. How do you intend to set this little hamlet apart?”

“I have... a few plans,” he mused, “but I feel I need to discuss with the team on economics before I proceed. And when we have a set plan on what workers are needed, we can figure out incentives to rope them in. That is where you come in as a representative.”

“If you intend to encourage migrants via incentives,” the German finally spoke, “then this venture has already failed to meet your objectives. All migration rates being equal, the territory will remain Russian dominated. There is little way to offset this peacefully, even if you prioritize minority privileges over the majority. With that in mind, are you willing to employ more drastic methods?”

The words struck a nerve with Stanislaw. He could see where the Stasi officer was going. The only real way to change the demographics of an entire area was the same way Kaliningrad became Russian in the first place; by force. The suggestion did not appear to be lost to Yevgeny, as his expression turned terse. Rubbing his hands, he seemed deeply troubled by the implication.

“I... really do not want it to come down to this,” he explained, “if at all possible. That is why I sent a request to the politburo regarding the population transfers. Check your files, there’s a copy for each and every one of you.”

Pulling out a document from his file, he revealed an approval with official state seals printed. On it was the signature of the General Secretary himself, along with the main coordinator who broached the plan to Warsaw, Vladimir Tonchev.

“Hmm,” the bob-haired girl mused, adjusting her spectacles as she analyzed their copy, “Stan! This is an authorization for repatriating ethnic minorities deported east during the Stalinist period, with Khrushchev’s signature on it! How the hell did he get this?”

“I... I don’t know...” Stanislaw blurted, a bit stunned by the document’s contents. He had his suspicions when Gomulka personally spoke to him out of the blue. But now he knew why. Someone had told him about the approval. That was what he meant when he asked Stanislaw to ‘bring them home’.

“You are crazy,” a Romanian girl with brown, wavy hair decried Stolypin, “those people were deported for a reason! You want to invite enemies of the state back into Europe? You’re liable to get us all arrested!”

“Calm down, little girl,” the professor assured her, a hint of patronizing in his words, “the paper has the Soviet leader’s name on it. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

“That still isn’t grounds for rewarding criminal behaviour,” the girl insisted, “these people are Nazi collaborators! Their presence this far west endangers the very security of the bloc. This is a waste of time. I refuse to be a part of it.”

Something of the girl’s words felt like a provocation. Gripping his hand under the table, Stanislaw tried his hardest to restrain himself. Despite his communist allegiance, Stanislaw was far from the ideological sycophant the likes of Iron Felix. Shutting his eyes, he wondered if he should speak out over this. He had no idea what might happen if he tried. He dared not test the system, for what it was worth.

“In 1930,” Stolypin spoke in an unhesitant, strangely serious voice, “General Secretary Josef Vissariovich deported over a hundred thousand Poles from western Ukraine and Belarus to Central Asia. Many did not survive the first winter. In 1939, we deported several times that number from the annexed areas. More died. What were their charges, then? Were they fascist too? Or were they just Poles?”[1]

The words struck him like a nail. The sternness of Yevgeny’s words unnerved and fascinated him; echoing a sentiment no Pole would dare say to their Kremlin overlords. More importantly, his words contradicted political correctness – it questioned the very actions of Stalinist-era deportations. A few years back, and this would have earned him a place in the gulag. But Stalin was dead, and it appeared as if the new leadership, at least him, was heading down a different path.

“What do you think,” Yevgeny questioned Stanislaw out of the blue, “what crimes were these deportees accused of? Do you know?”

“I...” he blurted hesitantly, his mind turning blank as he began to panic. At first, he felt like feigning ignorance, acting like a naive boy who simply was not astute enough to understand history. But sitting in front of a clique of young adults, he felt he could not fake the same innocence the committee head had displayed so far. Racking his brain, he quickly crafted the best answer he could.

“Nothing,” he stammered, peeking to his side at the German woman staring at him “I do not think they were guilty of anything. Stalin was paranoid; he feared having hostile populations within his borders so he expelled whoever he thought might threaten him. Many were women and children. In some cases, even communist sympathizers. It’s not a stretch to say he was just one step away matching Hitler.”

Stanislaw was already beginning to regret his words. All around, he could see stunned expressions, in particular the young blonde aide who accompanied Yevgeny – ‘Valeriy’, he recalled. Others appear intrigued, with the Armenian doctor’s spectacles gleaning in the sunlight. Joanne herself was horrified, likely due to the statement’s seditious content. But what surprised him was Yevgeny’s expression. He seemed... appreciative, as if he was glad.

“You hear that, everyone,” he told the committee, “those are the words of someone who will change our world. This country... the Revolution... everything that we have worked for the past half-century is at risk of degradation. And it has already begun. We have turned a blind eye to atrocities. We lie and congratulate ourselves for absent achievements. I will not deny I am not proud of the course my country had taken since Comrade Lenin's death. What right do we have to ask you, the future of Eastern Europe, to be grateful to us for the Nazi defeat? I have seen things that make me wonder if we’re really that different from them, and I ask you to do the same.”

“This is sedition,” the Romanian blurted in shock, aghast as the others at his statement, “are you fomenting a revolt?”

“I’d never think of it,” Yevgeny stated firmly, “I do not want war. I want change, and I know it’s possible. And this is where it will start. I will build the ideal country, a model for the world to follow. I will prove there is a better way. No... we will prove that to Moscow. The Politburo has granted me and Tonchev full authority to prepare and administer the region as it transitions to civilian rule. I don’t believe I can repay him for his aid, but I will not let his help go to waste, nor yours. Do I have your support?”

Stanislaw felt stunned. He had no idea how big this operation was going to be. At the very least, the captain had a way of inflating their importance to the greater scheme of things. At a time when the Soviet Union was having a standoff with the capitalists, something as minute as a city planning committee was hardly something in the scope of grand projects.

But something about this piqued Stanislaw’s interest. He did not know why, but he felt... invigorated.

“Full authority, you say,” Stanislaw queried, “that means the Border Guards cannot stop us if we begin repatriating people from the east, am I right.”

Smirking a bit at his words, Yevgeny coyly answered, “yes. No one can stop you, save the Secretary General himself.”

For a moment, any doubt he had was suddenly shoved into the back of his head. He did not understand why, but Stanislaw felt convinced by the man’s words. For a clown, Stolypin had a mysterious charisma in his eccentricity, and while it had not won over most of the skeptics in the committee, it had certainly won over him.

For a moment, he actually believed in him...

Yasnaya Polyana, Kazakh SSR, USSR
February 24th, 1957 C.E. (Present)
Stanislaw Mazurski

“’Bring them home’,” Stanislaw grumbled in irk, “what was I thinking?”

The Stanislaw of the present was beginning to regret leaping into Yevgeny’s project. For a coordinator, he had not realized how ‘hands-on’ his task was to be. While his Internationalization project sounded like a government scheme to erect a huge Pometkin country, the reality was far harsher in hindsight. The Politburo and Khrushchev had given them full authority to conduct their operations, but that did not mean they would be given the resources. With few staff, little funding and little government support, they were on their own, languishing on their own effort while Khrushchev’s own Virgin Lands initiative saps the budget. In all respects, Stanislaw could see why they were even given so much power to conduct repatriations in the first place. Moscow never really thought they could succeed, and thus saw no reason to stop them from bringing a few token exiles to build their little facade. Wiping his face, he wondered how he could have gotten sucked into Stolypin’s hysteria then.

“I still think we can make it,” Jo admitted with a surprising sense of optimism, “like you said, we’re not really here to help Stolypin. We’re here to help our fellow Poles. Whether this project fails or not is of no consequence to us. What matters is how many we can bring back to Poland, before they become fully Russified.”

“I guess,” he said, “but I expected more help than this. We have God-knows-how many square kilometres of land to cover. We’ll never find them all.”

“Well, this is a nice place to start,” Jo affirmed, “like you said, we haven’t even started.”

Reaching the chapel, the lad heaved a sigh as he prepared to meet with the village elders inside. He did not anticipate a huge response, likely because of the meagre size of the village. But stepping inside, he was soon confronted with a hall full of old folks, weary farmers and screaming infants and kids. His eye batting, he was starting to dread the work to come.

“God help me...” he muttered, stepping forth to face them.

National Library, Downtown Branch
Nox (Нокс), Steindamm Avenue, Kyonigsberg
26th January, 2016 C.E.

“...initial visits to the remote lands of the Soviet interior yielded little results at first,” the narrator reported as the disk played a montage of clips from the 50s, “hampered by a lack of staff and material support, Mazurski often had to make trips deep into the Asiatic regions personally. His first visit to Yasnaya Polyana drew a tepid response, as residents had grown wary of trusting Soviet officials on their word. But realizing his message of a better life in Kaliningrad may never match the promise of returning to Poland, the official opted instead for an old Soviet approach – he twisted the truth. While it had long been the intention of Polish authorities to see their brethren repatriated, the decision to allow Poles to return ultimately lay with Moscow, and by extension, to Mazurski’s superior, Stolypin...”

Listening to the video with a half-bored look, the other Stanislaw had tried to keep an eye on the redhead girl. Every few moments, he glanced down at the aisle at her, staring back on his screen after a small pause to avoid being spotted. But as time wore on, his attention was increasingly being sucked by the documentary. As he peered back down the aisle again, he quickly realized she was gone.

“Ah shit,” he blurted in a whisper, standing up as he paced out of the lab. Passing the girl’s emptied seat, he noticed a strange keychain – a plastic model of a ball-like robot toy – left on the table. The chain appeared rusted and broken, as if snapped by accident. Scanning the vicinity as he stepped out, he felt unnerved at her sudden disappearance.

“Where do you think you’re going,” Paulina questioned without warning, appearing right in front of him, “how long do you intend to stalk her?”

“Gah,” Stanislaw gasped in a fluster, staggering back at the presence of his two friends. Agitated, he denied, “stalking!? Who’s stalking? I’m not stalking! I was just... studying, that all. We need to work on our project and all that. Besides, what are you doing here-“

“If that’s the case, why didn’t you call us,” Paulina sneered back, “it’s a group project, Stan. There’s not much of a point if you do it alone.”

“She’s jealous, man,” Petr whispered from behind, “better own up before she slaps you.”

“Jealous,” snapped the girl angrily, attracting a frustrated hush from the librarian at the desk. Dropping her volume, she hissed at Petr, “I am not jealous. I’m trying not to get him slapped with a restraining order. It’s different!”

“Like I said,” Stanislaw insisted in frustration, “I am not-“

Before he could complete his sentence, however, he noticed from the corner of his ear a noise at the exit. Turning over his shoulder, he spotted the ‘princess’ at the gripped, her hand gripped by a redhead woman in a black collared shirt and a pink shawl. Beside her, an identical-looking woman in a yellow top and hot pants appear nervous, possibly her twin. It did not take long for him to recall the former; she was the escort back at the museum, and she appeared ticked off.

“-let go of me, Malwina,” the redhead ordered as the same escort from the museum dragged her towards the exit, “I already told you. I don’t need you to tail me.”

“I cannot comply with that,” the woman insisted cold, “you know how dangerous it is to walk around alone.”

“I have Wanda with me already,” she claimed, forcing a smile to assure her “you don’t have to worry-“

“I, for one, cannot trust Wanda on this,” Malwina questioned rhetorically, “don’t think I don’t know you. You brought her along knowing she can’t keep an eye on you. And people wonder why I’m the younger sister...”

“Hey,” blurted the sibling, “I can take care of Agata just fine! I’m just giving her a bit of breathing space, that’s all. She’s going to hate you you’re going to keep breathing down her neck. No need to drag her back home like this.”

“Shut up,” Malwina growled, “I’m not about to take any chances. You’re coming home, now!”

“I don’t want to go back,” insisted the ‘princess’ stubbornly, “let go of me!”

Stanislaw had no idea how to react. His first thought was simply to grab her and run, but her aristocratic-looking appearance dissuaded him, suggesting a really problematic outcome for him. But he felt he could not just leave her be, being dragged away by overprotective escorts like a child. It was then he recalled the trinket he found on the computer desk, and he simply stepped forward.

“E-Excuse me,” he spoke, holding the keychain by the chain, “I think you lost something. I found it by your desk when you left so...”

Unsurprisingly, the serious-looking twin of the duo gave him a hard stare as Stanislaw tried hard not to look nervous. Watching her ward rummage through her bag, he heard her remark, “he’s right. It must have broken off somehow. Thank you-“

But before Agata could reach for it, Malwina yanked her back as she stated, “who are you? How did you know she was at that seat?”

“C-come on,” Stanislaw blurted in agitation, “I was studying near her in the computer lab. It’s not that hard to notice her.”

His gaze drifting to Agata and Wanda, the hapless boy had no idea what he was getting into. Was he trying to distract the woman? Was he trying to dissuade her? Stanislaw was so eager to get the girl out of her dilemma he never really thought of a plan. Should he try to make a break for it? Was he going to risk looking like a cheap drama cliché?

“Yoink,” blurted Wanda without warning, pulling her sister’s hood over her in a moment of instinct. Stunned and blinded, the stern escort floundered as the mischievous lady ran off with their charge out of the gantry. Startled by the flurry of events, Stanislaw could only catch Agata’s gaze one more time. Malwina, however, did not appear amused at all, neither with them nor him. Fortunately for the boy, she opted to pursue them instead, hopefully dismissing him as a bystander. But Stanislaw could sense her blaming him. After all, he did appear to have intent on roping the girl away.

“A word of warning, young man,” she told Stanislaw, “stay away from Miss Lubomirska. You have no idea what you’re getting into.”

Watching her depart, the young boy could only wince at the chilling warning. In his own admission, he always suspected the girl had a dubious background, even if he had eyes for her. But the teen had no idea why. He felt... drawn to her, a strange connection he could not explain.

“Ow,” he yelped, as Paulina sent a punch on his forearm and puffed her cheek in agitation. Bowing his head in apology, he admitted, “sorry... I was... acting a little off, wasn’t I?”

“Very off,” Paulina griped, “what the hell were you thinking!? You can tell right away she’s bad news! Probably some rich bitch with underworld connections.”

“I... I was just returning a keychain,” Stanislaw tried to justify, “I... didn’t know better.”

“Well you should have, lover boy,” snapped Paulina, seizing his hand, “let’s go.”

Startled by the sudden tug, Stanislaw cried out, “owowowowow! Where’re we going!?”

Giving a devious grin, she chimed, “you wanted to study, don’t you? You were in such a rush you left your bag behind. I’m going to pound some history into you for this!”

Chuckling a bit as the brunette took him along, the lad finally relented, “fine... we’ll look into it. I was just about to tell you what I looked up.”

“Liar,” Paulina grunted, a playful undertone behind her words, “you weren’t focusing, were you?”

Stanislaw himself could only chuckle in silence. He could not help but feel she was right to scold him. However, he could tell the ‘princess’ had came to the library for that same project. While he doubted he might bump into her again, he could not help but wonder if retracing Stanislaw Mazurski’s path might end up doing just that.

“Agata Lubomirska,” he mused absentmindedly, “what the hell is wrong with me...”

Stanislaw had no idea...

Part 4
​

OOC Notes:

1. Numbers are subject to dispute (not helped by Wikipedia’s penchant for dubious quality edits), but I generally picked the lower numbers since Yevgeny would have likely gotten estimates from Russian sources.

Cast

• 1957
  • Committee for the Resettlement and Demilitarization of Kaliningrad Military Oblast (1957)
    • Stanislaw Mazurski (CV: 神原 秋人) - Polish representative
      
    • Joanne Kasztanowa (CV: 栗山 未来) - Mazurski's aide
    • Cpt. Yevgeny Mikhailovich Stolypin (CV: ユルゲン・ベルンハルト) - Leader of the Committee
    • Cpt. Arnhild Weiss (CV: アイリスディーナ・ベルンハルト) - German representative
      
    • Cpt. Anahit Narcessian (CV: ダリル・マクマナス) - Hakob's aide/daughter
      
    • Dr. Hakob Narcessian (CV: ジーナス博士) - Armenian representative
      
    • Cpt. Nurzhan Aitmukhambetov (CV: アレルヤ・ハプティズム) - Central Asian representative
      
    • Jr. Lt. (2nd Lt.) Valeriy Petrovich Tonchev (CV: グレミー・トト)
    • Margit Haraszti (CV: 琴吹 紬) - Hungarian representative
    • Stefania Rotaru (CV: フィオレ・フォルヴェッジ・ユグドミレニア) - Romanian representative
• 2016
  • St Wojciech (Adalbert) of Prague Catholic High School
    • Stanisław Andrzejewski (CV: バナージ・リンクス)
    • Paulina Krakowska (CV: ミコット・バーチ)
    • Petr Nováček (CV: タクヤ・イレイ)
  • St. Elisabeth of Thuringia Catholic Girls School
    • Agata Lubomirska (CV: ミネバ・ラオ・ザビ オードリー・バーン)
  • Agata's Caretakers
    • Malwina Ciszek (CV: マリーダ・クルス)
    • Wanda Ciszek (CV: エルピー・プル) (OOC Note: Would have preferred to find a pic of her at Marida's age, but owell)

 

[Remitonov]

I know I promised an omake, but I already have drafts for the main post around, and I don't have the omake ready, so here. :/

Swissôtel Kaiserhof, Kyonigsberg, Kyonigsbergskaya Stolitsa (Kyonigsberg Capital City)
Night, 30th January, 2016 C.E.

The Swissôtel Kaiserhof, just a short walk across the bridge from the National Museum. A revivalist-style hotel built in the modern day, the Kaiserhof deliberately invokes the image of the old Germanic Prussia. Seamlessly blending into the surroundings, few realise how recent the building really was. As the hotel’s staff prepare for yet another round of patrons, an undercurrent of dread appear to be building around the hotel.

“That’s a lot of gendamerie deployed,” remarked Lubomir, dressed in a plain black tuxedo and a red tie, as he drove his red Toyota Auris RS past a police cordon with sharply-dressed officers, “we wouldn’t be expecting the president, are we?”[1]

“I wish, Mr Tonchev,” Ludmilla told the others, decked in a long violet dress, “the Federation of Prusso-German Nobility isn’t exactly averse to showing off. It’s nice of you to be our chaperones for the night. Sorry I called so late. My father had to attend to an assignment all of a sudden.”

“A friend of Vasilka is always welcome to ask for help,” Lubomir chimed, much to his own daughter’s embarrassment, “you might want to consider your choice of chaperone more carefully, however. The tabloids would have a field day if they found out the ‘House of Tonchev’ was present in a party of German aristocracy.”

“Well, if you were worried about it, Mr Tonchev,” Ludmilla queried, “why did you accept anyway.”

Chuckling, the father went, “let’s just say I have a thing for attention.”

Vasilka, in contrast, did not appear to share her father’s sentiment. Gripping her gloved hands, she was less composed over having the cameras on her. In retrospect, they were fairly hard up on choices of transportation. Between her parents’ two family cars, Zisel’s sister’s jeep and the Svedas’ family truck, it hardly seemed like a fair contest for the latter two.

“Besides which,” Tarana griped, squashed at the center, “isn’t this ball a bit… high class for people like us? Sounds to me like a gathering of old folks with long names and titles gone by.”

Bowing her head a bit, Ludmilla admitted, “you’re not wrong. The federation is a grouping of various German hereditary organizations. The only reason my family is invited is because my last name is Ungern-Sternberg. No blueblood association is going to miss that name. That said, it’s not a pretty place. The old Junkers aren’t too happy mingling with Tsarist nobles like me. Many want to restore the monarchy under Hohenzollern rule, while Tsarists on our end want a Romanov wearing that crown.”

“But this is a republic,” Maria grunted, seated beside Vasilka’s father at the front as she played with her hair fringe, “there’s no point in fighting for titles here. Are they serious?”

“If I have to be honest, I’d say yes,” the girl remarked lackadaisically, “they’ll fight over a kingship that will never be re-established, and they’ll fight over crowns that will never be made. It takes a lot to make old people move on…”

“You don’t sound very interested in attending,” Vasilka remarked, “why are you going anyway?”

Giving a sigh, she lamented, “well, let’s just say I have a responsibility to represent my family. My father isn’t exactly a reputable figure. ‘UNESCO Heritage Recovery Expert’ may sound like a fancy title, but it’s nothing more than jargon for ‘UN-sanctioned relic hunter’”

“Is every generation of yours that larger than life,” Maria griped, as the car slowed down on the porch to a waiting team of valets, “it’s kind of creepy.”

“Maybe it’s in the blood,” Ludmilla theorized, waiting over the opening cabin doors as the valets welcomed their newest guests, “we have a reputation for churning out blockbuster-worthy biopics~.”

Frederick Ballroom, Swissôtel Kaiserhof, Kyonigsberg, Kyonigsbergskaya Stolitsa
Night, 30th January, 2016 C.E.

Playing: Johann Waltz - Victoria 2 Soundtrack

Stepping into the Kaiserhof’s main, grand ballroom, the well-dressed guests trickling in were greeted to a trip into an earlier time. Through its gilded doors, the glittering chandeliers and ornate amber fixtures shimmered under the white fluorescent lights. Hanging above, old flags of the Prussian kingdom hung alongside those of the Russian empire. Only the modern black-white-blue tricolour of the Prussian republic in the middle provided a needed break into reality, something many elders in the room did not appear to appreciate.

Gawking in wonder, some of the girls appeared overwhelmed by the scenery, Zisel and Ausra, namely. While some, like Vasilka and Ludmilla, were somewhat familiar with high society and its norms, their friends in the other end of the social ladder were predictably not. Straightening out the marvelling girls, Ritva whispered, “stop gawking. It’s rude.” In all, there was reason for them to be uncomfortable with the scenery – there appeared to be too few guests their age.

“Are you sure you’ll be fine by yourselves, girls,” an elder, brunette woman in a lime-green dress told the nine, “I don’t think this is your kind of crowd.”

“I think they’ll be fine with me, Mrs Toncheva,” assured a young orange-head woman staggering in on her high heels, eerily similar to Zisel in appearance, “you two should have fun.”

“I do not think we’ll be able to enjoy ourselves all that much among people who regard us as inferiors, Starshina Kaufmann,” Lubomir replied in his usual wit, “no blueblood with an eye out for restitution would as much as spit in the direction of someone of ‘revolutionary’ heritage. Still, since we’re here, best we enjoy ourselves, shall we?”

Grimacing a bit at the shade-sporting blonde as he made his way to the tables, Zisel’s ‘twin’ grumbled to Mrs Toncheva, “why the hell did you marry him, Madam? You’re not the kind to be interested in connections, or bad boys.”

“Who knows,” Vasilka’s mother admitted, shrugging the concerns, “life is full of unknowns. Keep watch on the girls for me, Astrid. You know men… parties are a hotbed for bad behaviour. You take care now, Vasilka, everyone. I think the further he is from all of you, the better."

Rubbing her hair in exasperation as she watched the couple depart, the marine sergeant had reason to be perturbed. Thrown with the task of babysitting the nine, Zisel’s elder sister Astrid did not feel confident about the job. Even though the girls were far from brats, they were also not entirely adept in formal etiquette. Then again, neither was she.

“Oh my god,” squealed Laila, crowding on the buffet table with Zisel and Ausra as she began piling buffet food on her plate, “they look so heavenly~!”

“Hold it,” Maria blurted, stepping over, “that’s rude! Just come back for it when you’re finished with the first plate!”

"But it's a buffet," Ausra pleaded, her own plate looking a lot like a mountain of delicacies, "what if the plates are emptied out when we return!?"

Clutching her head in exasperation, Astrid griped, “what are you, children? My heels are killing me, and this dress is barely covering my chest.”

“Sorry for dragging you along,” Vasilka apologized, “we had a spare invite, and my parents thought you’d like to join in.”

“I don’t,” Astrid insisted, “they just know my sister will be joining and roped me in. And, no offence, Captain Tonchev is not exactly a humble man.”

“I’m their child,” Vasilka grumbled, “I think I know that better than anyone.”

A quick survey of the area, and the girls could not help but stiffen at the scene. All around the ball, old men in business suits were exchanging common pleasantries, though a wide gap appeared to be forming at the center, splitting the Junkers from the Russo-Germans. Stepping out of the ballroom doors as the more gluttonous of the bunch were dragged out against their will, the nine could not help but look out for peers to hang out with.

“Come to think of it,” Ritva remarked to Ludmilla, “you never did tell us about your family. Your ancestor was the Mad Baron, wasn’t he? How did he escape? What happened?”

“Tell us, tell us,” Ausra pleaded, stuffing her mouth with skewered meat, “I’d like to know!”

“Who knows…” remarked Ludmilla, “it’s quite a dull story… Baron Roman von Ungern-Sternberg was my great-great grandfather. He was always quite an eccentric character, combining his Tsarist loyalties with his infatuation with Mongolian culture. After the Russian civil war, his army entered Mongolia and overthrew the Chinese occupiers. Reinstating the Bogd Khan, he hoped to re-conquer Russia from the Soviets from there. But when the Red Army and their Mongol allies invaded, he had to scrap his plans for a march into Russia to support the uprisings there.[2] On hindsight, he was never going to defeat them. The numbers and training just couldn't compare. His army broken and routed, he was forced to escape into Manchuria alone. In the end, he died a broken, miserable old man at the mercy of the Japanese. There are his sons, but that's a different set of stories entirely.”

“I’d love to hear it, though,” a voice gingerly cut in on the girls, “it’s not every day the daughter of the ‘Relic Hunter’ finds the time to grace our presence.”

Looking up, the girls were a bit surprised by the stranger before them. A young girl around their age, the silvery haired girl has a shimmering aqua gaze, paired with a white silk dress. It was not hard to guess she was high-born, just like Ludmilla. The main difference was that while Ludmilla’s family had history, not fortune to their name, the girl was clearly a step above.

“Vicky,” squealed Ludmilla, recognizing the princess as she grasped her hands, “it’s been so long!”

“Vicky?” The others blurted, looking at each other in bewilderment. Perhaps, there was more to Ludmilla than they realize, beyond the tale of the Mad Baron, and the progeny of his clan.

OOC Notes

1. :3
2. IOTL, he invaded Russia anyway, not knowing that the uprisings had already been crushed by the Red Army.

Cast

• Singenwaldhang Girls High School (from left to right)
  • Aušra Švedaitė (CV: 高坂 穂乃果)
  • Ritva Pajari (CV: 園田 海未)
  • Mariyne Mugu (CV: 南 ことり)
  • Maria Hayrapetyan (CV: 西木野 真姫)
  • Tarana Irevani (CV: 矢澤 にこ)
  • Vasilka Lyobomirova Toncheva (CV: 絢瀬 絵里)
  • Ludmilla Aleksandrovna von Ungern-Sternberg (CV: 東條 希)
  • Leila Pääsuke (CV: 小泉 花陽)
  • Zisel Kaufmann (CV: 星空 凛)
• Chaperones
  • Lubomir Vladimirovich Tonchev (CV: シャア・アズナブル クワトロ・バジーナ) - Vasilka's father
  • Natalya Vyachevslavovna Ledovskaya (CV: エマ・シーン) - Vasilka's mother
  • Starshina/Master Sergeant Astrid Kaufmann (CV: アネット・ホーゼンフェルト) - Zisel's elder sister
• Others
  • 'Vicky' (CV: ラ・フォリア・リハヴァイン)

 

[Remitonov]

Frederick Ballroom, Swissôtel Kaiserhof, Kyonigsberg, Kyonigsbergskaya Stolitsa
Night, 30th January, 2016 C.E.

“OH MY GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD!!!!!!!”

Ludmilla, as her friends had long known, was a girl with a not-so-ordinary past. Just by looking at her immediate family, she would have been a well-travelled high school girl, often moving due to her father’s work as a UNESCO agent. Settling in Singenwaldhang, Ludmilla rarely shared anything about her acquaintances before, with real friends hard to come by. Squashed within an entire horde of Vicky’s schoolmates, the eight other members of μ's were… a bit overwhelmed.

“Are you really ‘μ's’,” a brunette girl with long hair squealed to Ausra, “I watched your Christmas concert at Independence Square!”

“T-Thank you…” Ausra blurted, “glad you liked it…”

“You wouldn’t be here to perform, would you,” joked a more senior, dark-haired girl with a lopsided ponytail, “after all, you have... umm…”

“Kannon’s Chosen is among us this day,” a grey-haired girl with twintails interjected, “would be a waste to perform to aged landed peerage with no appreciation of modern art.”

“You’re a landed peer, Roche,” a fourth, black-haired girl stated flatly, much to the Lolita’s dismay, “and say their names properly. It’s not like you don’t know who they are.”

“Mind if I get an autograph,” declared a blonde girl in a strange accent, inching discomfortingly close to Vasilka with a card on hand, “I have a special message to send to a dear vriend and fan of yours~.”

“Friend...” Vasilka tried to answer calmly, her discomfort leaking on her face, “no problem… What’d you like me to write.”

“’To my precious gem, Henna’”, the fellow blonde crooned excitedly, unable to restrain her coy behaviour, “a school president of the ages~.”

Watching their friends being accosted, Ritva uttered a faint response, “So they’re all from St Elisabeth? small world...”

“It’s a pretty prestigious one, if I recall,” Mariyne blurted, “a Catholic girls school run by the Teutonic Order…”

“I expected a lot of rich kids there, though,” Tarana admitted, intimidated by the numbers, “I can’t help but feel beneath them.”

“how many connections do they have?,” Leila said, feeling increasingly overwhelmed.

“They’re not all nobles, girls,” Vicky tried to assure them, “most just got the invite from friends, just like you.”

“That doesn’t explain why so many are from the same school,” Ritva refuted, rattled by the underwhelming response, “how many nobles from your school actually got invited to the ball!?”

“Well,” Vicky remarked, “there’s me, Roche and that girl we like to call ‘Iron Rack’.”

“That’s a dubious nickname,” the Finnic girl yelled in agitation.

The party, as it was transpiring, was proving to be a huge gathering of old gentlemen types, from the bearded patriarchs of age-old dynasties to the strapping princes in Prussian cadet uniforms. It was not hard to miss – virtually every young man in the room was a member of a cadet corps in the armed forces or police, if not enrolled in such an academy outright. And the circle of giggling schoolgirls around them were of no exception, though their elegant dresses made it harder to determine who was part of it.

“…Anyway,” Viktoriya broke down the many girls in their gathering, “these are Aleksandra, Yulia, Alyona, Elena, and my aunt, Fiona,” she chimed, her hands on a slightly younger, shy looking girl with shoulder-length white hair, “most of them from the army cadet corps, and before you ask, yes, she is younger than me. She’s like the younger sister I never knew I had.”

“Come to think of it,” a serious-looking brunette uttered, her eyes shifting between Astrid and Zisel, “you never told us your sister was a member of an idol group, Starshina. You two practically look like twins.”

“Yes, uhh…” Astrid blurted awkwardly, forcing a smile, “let’s just say I don’t like people asking such questions.”

“You know them already, Big Sister,” Zisel queried, peering at the group with a kitty face.

“They’re from the cadet corp,” Astrid stated with rolled eyes, “they were at the wilderness training camp in Shchventishchken during the winter break. Pack of sassy mouthed bit-… blini.”[1]

“Pancakes,” blurted Zisel, feeling a bit confused at the senior’s sudden restraint.

“Right…” Vasilka remarked, looking around at the fangirls, “and you girls are?”

“The Skoolkoor~,” the fellow blonde answered gingerly, accepting the autograph from the idol, “school choir, though that’s just jargon. Our real club name is-”

“We’re the school choir, not the idol club,” the raven-haired Mongol interrupted flat out, much to her friend’s displeasure, “sorry, she’s like that. I’m Kuular, I’m the assistant head of the choir. The cheery little sprite is Rasa, the Lolita is Rochelle, or Roche, the brunette is our head, Alsu. And this joker...“

“Emma,” squealed the loop-hair, “tweede generasie Pruisiese. What brings you here~?”

“’Benchwarmers’ might be a crude answer,” Vasilka went, “but I guess I was too curious not to check the ball out.”

“Well, there’s not much to see here,” Kuular remarked, “most people our age here are military types, Viktoriya and her Cossack band included. Our school disciplinary committee as well, though, they’re Anglo-American.”

“From the NATO garrison,” Ludmilla queried.

“Yes,” Viktoriya replied, “plenty of NATO personnel send their girls to St. Elisabeth, mostly Americans from Pilava naval base. The blonde with the dumpling hair? Her father is a colonel in the United States Marine Corp. The Harry Potter-looking brunette? British SAS. The jumpy first year with the short hair? US Air Force. And the shady-looking twintail... that's odd, where'd she go?”

“It’s very rude to comment about your schoolmates to complete strangers, Miss Wrangel,” a monotone British accent broke the silence, as a dubious-looking blonde with long twintails and a concealing hair fringe over her eyes showed up beside her, “I don’t believe my friends will take kindly to that.”

Startled by the ghostly appearance, Ritva took a while to process the Briton’s words, blurting, “wait, Wrangel?”

“Yeah,” Ludmilla went, “that Wrangel. Strange coincidence, isn't it?”

“You found out, huh…” Viktoriya admitted, giving a sorry smile.

Before the girls could quiz her further, a poster sign hanging next to the group caught their eye. All around, exhibits of monochrome photos and personal effects were in full display, attracting the attention of the patrons of the ballroom. Some took a keen interest, others merely made passing remarks and jokes. But there was something distinct about the exhibition that few of the Junkers understood. It told the story of the people who came before the Junkers’ return – the story of the East Germans and Soviet Germans.

Überrest
След | Vestige | Ślad | Ženklas
An exhibition on ethnic German settlement in the West Baltic SSR (Prussia)
Based on the historical novel ‘Vestige’ by Yvonne Raeder​

“Überrest,” Tarana read the German title and its translations on the poster, “’vestige’? What’s that?”

Peering at the description, Ludmilla surmised, “it looks like an exhibition on ethnic German migration into Prussia during the Cold War, based on a novel of the same name by… hmm…”

“What’s wrong,” Mariyne queried over the pause.

“It’s nothing,” Ludmilla answered, “thought I saw that name somewhere.”

“Seems like a hit with the nobles,” Vasilka mused, “they seem quite interested.”

“Ms Vasilka, I don’t think you understand the contrasts between us and those who came before,” Viktoriya answered in a more cynical tone, “the generations of bluebloods before us have no understanding of the lives of those that migrated during the Soviet period. The first thing that comes to their mind when they hear of the Germans of the West Baltic is that their lives were nothing but suffering. They’re not wrong, to some extent, but the truth is far more complicated. My family spent their whole lives in Western Europe. Even I, a girl born and raised here in the post-Soviet republic, cannot claim to fully grasp the past. And yet our elders believe they have their full support and well-wishes because of how much they believe they've suffered under the Kremlin.”

Taking a second look at the adults inspecting the exhibits, there appeared to be a growing sense of condescension emanating among the nobles. Light comments on the dire straits of the first ‘Gastarbeiter’ – ‘guest workers’ as they were known in German – only served to highlight their ignorance.[2] Turning her gaze away, the blonde Russian youth felt a bit… sickened. And it was not only the Junkers engaging in such talk. Some of the comments were clearly in Russian.

Looking at a display at the starting end of the exhibition, Vasilka could see the image of 1950s Kaliningrad at the foreword. It was, in many respects, a city that looked very much like a cookie cutter Soviet industrial hub, save for the ruins of Königsberg Castle in the background. But what was different about the city’s image compared to the ones at the National Museum was the grim atmosphere of incarceration in Soviet-era Prussia. The Cold War displays generated a similar effect to contrast the commoners’ plight with the powerful position of Kaliningrad’s rulers. Here, there was little mention of the idealism of Stolypin’s international city. All it told was the reality of his project’s darker side, the one the Kremlin, and puppets like the East German government, had always favoured...

OOC Notes:
1. OTL Pugachevo, Nesterovsk Raion/District, formerly Schwentischken, East Prussia. Also, 'blini' (Singular: blin) is a Russian pancake dish. Not as strong a word as 'blyat', but you get the point.
2. IOTL, the term was used for migrant workers in West Germany, while East Germany used a similar term, 'Vertragsbeiter' or 'contract workers', to refer to migrant workers, mainly those from communist countries outside Europe. ITTL, the term is still used in West Germany, but in East Germany, it referred to East German migrants in Kaliningrad.

Cast

• Singenwaldhang Girls High School (from left to right)
  • Aušra Švedaitė (CV: 高坂 穂乃果)
  • Ritva Pajari (CV: 園田 海未)
  • Mariyne Mugu (CV: 南 ことり)
  • Maria Hayrapetyan (CV: 西木野 真姫)
  • Tarana Irevani (CV: 矢澤 にこ)
  • Vasilka Lyobomirova Toncheva (CV: 絢瀬 絵里)
  • Ludmilla Aleksandrovna von Ungern-Sternberg (CV: 東條 希)
  • Leila Pääsuke (CV: 小泉 花陽)
  • Zisel Kaufmann (CV: 星空 凛)
• St Elisabeth of Thuringia Catholic Girls Academy
  • Army Cadet Corps
    • Aleksandra Bogayevskaya (CV: 煌坂 紗矢華)
    • Yulia Nikolaievna Sokolova (CV: 姫柊 雪菜)
    • Alyona Denisova (CV: 藍羽 浅葱)
    • Viktoriya Mikhailovna Wrangel (CV: ラ・フォリア・リハヴァイン)
    • Fiona Béliveau (CV: 叶瀬 夏音)
    • Elena Voronin (CV: 暁 凪沙)
  • School Choir
    • Rochelle Beatrix von Fünflinden (CV: 神崎 蘭子)
    • Emma van Hoek (CV: 小原 鞠莉)
    • Khertek Kuular (CV: 渋谷 凜)
    • Alsu İlgizova (CV: 新田 美波)
    • Rasa Songailienė (CV: 島村 卯月)
  • Disciplinary Committee
    • Linda Newmark (CV: 穂波・高瀬・アンブラー)
    • Hiltrude 'Trudy' Ingrid von Schaffhausen (CV: リリア・シェルベリ)
    • Miriam Kohler (CV: 内田 有子)
    • Antonina Ritella (CV: ファム・ファン・ファン)
• Chaperones
  • Starshina/Master Sergeant Astrid Kaufmann (CV: アネット・ホーゼンフェルト) - Zisel's elder sister

 

[Remitonov]

Überrest
След | Vestige | Ślad | Ženklas
An exhibition on ethnic German settlement in Cold War Prussia (West Baltic)
Based on the historical novel ‘Vestige’ by Yvonne Raeder

Tsarina Catherine II 'the Great 'of Russia, the Russo-German monarch responsible for opening German migration into Russia in the late 18th Century.​

The Germans of Prussia are by far the most prolific of the ethnic groups in the country. For a millennium, German settlement and rule over the Baltic coast has defined the history of the region and Europe, from the foundation of the Teutonic Order to the rise of the Prussian kingdom. But the German history of Prussia came to an abrupt end, when the local population was expelled by the victorious Soviets after World War II. But a new history was to unfold for those who come after, as migrants from what was once the German Democratic Republic (East Germany) intermingled with various German disapora of the east, whose pasts were more intertwined with the Russian Empire and Soviet Union than Imperial Germany.

To define the Germans of the new Prussia, one must dissect the various migrant groups that came. While repatriates who returned after their expulsion in 1945-1947 make up a significant number, a far larger portion came other parts of East Germany, as well as the Russian-speaking Germans of the Soviet Union. These Russo-Germans, descendants of Baltic Germans and Mennonites expelled to the Siberian and Central Asian interior, would intermingle with migrants from their ancestral lands, coalescing into a new bilingual people that would define the new Prusso-German identity. Later, as the ‘German Explosion’ brought in new migrants from both East and West, the cultural composition of the German population would come to match the diversity of the new Prussia itself.

Before the collapse of the Soviet Union, the German sub-groups could generally be split into three categories, sometimes overlapping with each other. The first were repatriates who had returned to Prussia, often considered part of the East Germans in general. However, their motivations and ideology made them more unreliable compared to other migrants, and the Stasi-supported Committee for German Immigration sought to bar anyone with the faintest ties with the old Prussian province from returning unless stated otherwise. The second, the East Germans, were a mix of voluntary migrants motivated mostly by economic incentives, as well as those forcibly ‘volunteered’ (i.e. abducted) to migrate to the West Baltic. The latter, the result of a complex Stasi program to divert the tide of defections away from West Germany, tended to cooperate more with repatriates than normal migrants. However, unlike the repatriates, potential defectors were prioritized for migration, as a means to detain them in the West Baltic. The third, the Russo-Germans, were generally considered voluntary migrants who were attracted by both economic incentives and a chance to escape exile in the desolate frontiers of the union. It would be the interactions between these three groups that would create a new cultural identity for the German diaspora, one of embrace for both German and Russian cultures. It is this diaspora that would find themselves on a collision course with new migrants in the post-Soviet era, as arrivals from western Germany, especially the exiled Junkers of old Prussia, sought to reassert their long-lost vision of their homeland.


Ministry for State Security Headquarters
Haus 1, Ruschestraße 103, East Berlin, German Democratic Republic
27th January, 1957 C.E.
Arnhild Weiss

“He’s insane.”

It was a sentiment held by Arnhild herself back at Kaliningrad; a young party internationalist demanding an unreasonable level of achievement never seen since Stalin. Despite Yevgeny’s expressed reservations against the use of force or coercion, Arnhild had no illusions what exactly they would be using to meet his quotas. Rather, Arnhild had no illusions why the DDR was on board for his Kaliningrad project. It was not, and it was hard to believe anyone, even his Soviet leaders, were genuinely supportive of it.

“Don’t worry too much about it,” a bald higher officer with gleaming spectacles remarked, handing her back her report without a second thought, “we’ll follow our plans as instructed. His quota system does not conflict with our repatriation program. Besides, Colonel Tonchev has already given us full creative direction in handling our migrations.”

“Are you sure,” Arnhild queried, doubtful of the statement, “do you not think Stolypin would protest to becoming a prison warden.”

“Are you implying he has no idea,” the general scoffed, brushing off the concerns, “Captain Weiss, you are not a child. An officer in the KGB, the very organization that has green-lighted the Internationalization program, can’t possibly feign ignorance to its true purpose. Just follow your directives and you’ll be fine. While I had hoped to assign you to a task more suited for your high calibre, I suppose you will have to do for this one. Who knows, if this… whatever it is, takes off, you might be in line to enter the Volkshammer, or more.”

“I’ve already given the high brass my word,” Arnhild refused politely, “it wouldn’t be fair for me to back out, in any case. Besides, this… program has its fair bit of challenges. I would not dismiss it as an easy task right off the bat.”

“Oh,” the officer chimed, raising an eyebrow, “if that’s how you feel, then I wish you the best of luck. Pity… You picked a very difficult superior to answer to.”

‘A very difficult superior to answer to’… Knowing the brass’ opinion of her, there was a certain meaning to it that Arnhild had trouble dismissing. Had it been anyone else, Arnhild would have had the superior wrapped around her finger and thighs already. Her talents, her cool beauty… those were the archetypes of a femme fatale spy. But roping Yevgeny was nigh-impossible, not with the infamous Black Widow as his own woman. Arnhild could scarcely imagine why someone like Sara would tie herself to a young, unaccomplished cadre. Did she believe he was a large investment in the making, or was she a lot less avaricious than she actually appeared? Regardless, she did not take too kindly to being compared to a honeypot. Saluting the general as she took her leave, she mustered all the cool patience she had to leave, her lips pursing at his joke.

Waiting at a corridor for her superior, a young, smiling junior officer with short, neatly-cut hair saluted as she passed. Following behind, he questioned, “what did he say, madam.”

“He said to carry on,” she stated coldly, hiding her discontent, “how are the decoy networks and smuggling routes coming along?”

“Everything is proceeding as intended, Madam,” the boy answered in a strangely jovial manner, following behind her, “agents are reporting in many requests for defections. It’s far more serious than we thought.”

“Of course it is,” Arnhild stated as a matter of fact, “we have savages within our ranks using suspects as stress relief. Just deal with them as planned.”

“Very well. What about the Germans in the Soviet Union,” questioned the young man, “I mean, we were assigned to watch over their resettlement too...”

“That…” Arnhild muttered, pausing as she pondered over her other role. While her initial and only task was the simple ‘resettlement’ of ‘potential Republikflüchtlinge’ in Kaliningrad, Arnhild was also tasked by Stolypin to tend to migrants from within the Soviet Union, Baltic Germans and Mennonites exiled east of the Urals. Her superiors were not too keen on whatever duties that laid outside those assigned to her. But at the same time, they never cared enough to stop her either.

“Some effort will do,” Arnhild simply answered, electing not to think too much on the issue, “if the networks can’t get enough to meet his numbers, we’ll just head out once in a while. No big deal.”

“I see,” the smiling aide stated, bowing his head a bit, “if it’s too much trouble, I can always head alone-“

“It’s fine,” Arnhild refused, “I don’t want to impose on you.”

Glancing back at the young man, Arnhild could not help but feel unnerved. Knowing her superiors, there would always be at least one person under her tasked to keep tabs. Just because she was the daughter of a politburo chief did not make her exempt from surveillance, far from it. And their purpose was just restricted to seeking out moles. Even an envious officer could find fault with his betters simply to take her place. In fact, just about any subordinate could aim to take her down out of envy. For that reason, she tended to be a woman of few words, an aloof, calculating persona to keep suspicions away.

“I’ll see to the Russian side myself,” she simply told the lad, “I don’t think I can keep my eye off the head... I get the feeling his plans would only drive all of us but ruin.”

This was the reality of Arnhild’s world. Equality be damned, only those with the ties and loyalties could ever the eminent power in the communist bloc. Social equality, redistribution of wealth and other crowd pleasers were fine while they lasted, but ultimately, nothing truly changed. The revolutionaries become the new nobles, and the peasants who lacked the talent to rise up remained where they were, slaves to the whims of their leaders.

Nothing will ever change…

Petropavl, Kazakh Soviet Socialist Republic, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
27th January, 1957 C.E.
??????

Petropavl, in northern Kazakhstan.

One of the many Russian cities lying outside the Russian SFSR, Petropavl was a triumph of Tsarist colonial ambitions, taming the massive steppes of Central Asia for God and emperor alike. Most recently, the area across northern Kazakhstan has become a vast experimental garden for Khrushchev’s Virgin Lands program. To transform barren soil into a breadbasket of the Soviet Union, many, including Germans from European Russia, were settled in the area to toil and seed the land. And from its bumpy start, optimism was rife after last year’s bountiful harvests.

But one man had no intention to labour in the fields as his forefathers had. In a small house in the city’s periphery, the solemn-looking, dark-haired man was glaring at an ad that was pasted on the notice board. It appeared like a normal job description, exhorting patriotic workers to join in building the ‘international’ city. The problem was, that city was about three-and-a-half thousand kilometres from Petropavl. It laid at the edge of the Soviet border, in a closed military region.

“A bit far,” went the man, lowering the paper, “sounds like a lot of paperwork. I should try looking around the city a bit more. There has to be something I could work in.”

“Excuse me.”

Watching a door open at the corner of his eye, a silver-haired, effeminate-looking boy with distinctive fringes stepped in with a cup of coffee. Despite the contrast in hair colour, not many disputed their family relationship, perhaps due to their matching hairstyle. As the boy laid the cup down on the table, the elder rubbed his eyes as he thought about him. While the silver-haired lad was, on paper, his son, the former farm hand could only wonder how true it really was.

“Vissarion, is it,” he spoke to the teen, “did Inessa… did your mother ever told you about your birth father?”

“Birth father,” Vissarion uttered, bowing his head a bit, “no, not at all… All she said was that he was a high-ranking KGB officer, practically untouchable. Someone this irresponsible has no right to be my father.”

“You don’t know that, Vissarion,” the senior went, “might have been an accident. He might not know you exist. Who knows? Besides, I’m not exactly a good person either. I signed away some marriage papers to bail a random stranger out and promptly left her to herself. Who would have thought she was carrying a child? The state would have ‘killed’ you and sent her to prison if they found out.”

“But they didn’t, did they,” the boy remarked with unusual calm, a soft smile on his face as he looked at his brochure, “thanks to you, my mother was able to pass on as a free woman, and I was able to come into this world. For that, you are my father, my one and only. If you feel burdened, I’ll be happy to help.”

Sighing in relent, the elder simply stated, “just finish your studies and get on with your life. You don’t want to be tied down with me.”

Pausing a bit at his lackadaisical attitude, the teenager quietly switched topics, asking, “come to think of it, you never told me your full name, Mr Kir… Father.”

Glaring at the boy, Kirill had no idea how to feel about his new son. He never intended to have a family, a main reason why he was so ready to sign away his bachelorhood without a second thought. The woman who asked for his help fifteen years ago, Inessa, was far from a friend or relative, simply a stranger that appeared in their village of Peterfeld. Kirill was barely into marriageable age then, and balked at the idea of settling down with a woman and children. Now, he was wondering in hindsight if he should have accepted her plea, whether to condemn her to a false crime and forced abortion, or to have a random love child call him ‘father’ for the rest of his life.

“Kirill Yakovich Vorarlberg,” the man told him, “that’s my name.”

“Vorarlberg,” Vissarion went, “that’s a German surname.”

“My family were Mennonites in the Volga region before the Great Patriotic War,” Kirill explained, taking a sip off his coffee, “Stalin didn’t want us helping the Nazis, and so they ordered us into this godforsaken place. So many died here because he feared we might turn on him in a heartbeat. In the end, what’s the point of returning to Europe if your own farm is home to another family? I can’t be expected to evict them, not without the state’s backing nor with a clear conscience. You don’t have to take my surname. You had your mother’s the whole time, so it doesn’t seem reasonable to-”

“I’ll take it,” the boy affirmed with a straight face.

Taken a bit by surprise, the adoptive father blurted, “what?”

“I’ll take your surname,” Vissarion repeated, unwavering in his tone, “it’s only fair. Both the law and providence dictate that you’re my father. It’s only right that I carry on your family line, adopted or not. Besides… my mother requested it. I suppose it was the least she could do to repay you, even if you didn’t think too much of it.”

“Something tells me you act just like your mother,” grumbled Kirill, submitting to his fate, as he adjusted himself to look to the window, “do as you wish.”

A gentle smile on his face, Vissarion could not help but feel elated. It felt odd, taking the surname of a stranger he never met until now, but he had every reason to be grateful. While Kirill opened claimed otherwise, there was at least some clear selflessness in him. He felt it was only right to repay him, for a deed that seemingly meant so little to Kirill, but very much saved Vissarion’s life.

“Besides which, are you considering moving to Kaliningrad, Father,” Vissarion queried, turning the brochure around for Kirill to look at.

“Ah… I guess,” Kirill blurted, “but payment for paperwork and train tickets seem a little too steep. It’s not like I can’t find work here in Petropavl.”

“But the ad stated all expenses will be paid by the state for all non-Russians,” Vissarion informed him, “with priority given to smaller and non-national minorities.”

Widening his eyes a bit, Kirill uttered in surprise, “really?”

“It’s right here…” the lad pointed out on the paper, a bit confused over his surprise, “all two lines of it. Don’t tell me… you can’t read, Father?”

Vissarion had struck a sore spot, as Kirill turned away in grim shame. Wiping his face, he dared not admit that he had only finished grade school, hence unable to read anything more than simple Russian words. Restraining his urge to snap, the father tried his hardest not to show his despondence. Changing tact, he quickly concluded, “let’s head for Kaliningrad then,” ending the conversation where it stood.

Father and son were going to Stolypin’s ‘international’ city.

Cast:

• DDR Minister of State Securit (Stasi)
  • Cpt. Arnhild Weiss (CV: アイリスディーナ・ベルンハルト)
  • Jr. Lt. Walther Ahrens (CV: 死神) - Arnhild's aide
  • Arnhild's superior (CV: エーリヒ・シュミット)
• Vorarlberg family
  • Kirill Yakovich Vorarlberg (CV: 半田 清舟)
  • Vissarion Kirillovich Vorarlberg (CV: 骨喰藤四郎)

 

[Remitonov]

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Mysterious_Cities_of_Gold
Is this possible?

To be perfectly honestly, I'd have to say no. I'm already stuck trying to write a post for Shura on North Korea or Tuva. I can't see myself writing a piece on South America at the moment.

EDIT: Also, kyuzoaoi made a rank table for the thread. Could use some edits, but I think it suits the uniforms I'm going for. :3

 

[Remitonov]

Sorry for the short post. I'm on tablet, so my typing power is limited.

Sonnenallee, Treptow, East Berlin, German Democratic Republic
Morning, 12th February, 1957 C.E.

​

'Sun Avenue', intersecting the West Berlin district of Neukölle and East Berlin's Treptow. One of the last remaining links through the Iron Curtain, the avenue's checkpoint is ringed woth border guards, all scouring for anyone attempting to slip across to the capitalist enclave. Heavy penalties and increased enforcement had done little to seal the porous border, the result of the Postdam agreement by the Allied powers. With the once cordial agreement turning into a flashpoint for the Soviets and the East German government, the fear that the West would rob the budding DDR of its best and brightest continued to weigh heavily on its leaders. Something drastic had to be done, a permament barrier as was erected in the inner German border...

But how many would flee before then?

For now, however, such ideas were beyond the thought of Beata, sitting beside her father in a simple Czechoslovak Škoda 1200. It was her first time going on holiday, outside the drab classroom of her East Berlin school. Her father was a simple clerk and a committed communist, and had only managed to squeeze through the constricting bureaucracy of its immigration office to get a visa. And their vacation awaited just next door, in West Berlin, practically their only access to the West at that point.

"Say, Dad," she squealed to her father on the wheel, adjusting her blue shawl and furcoat, "where do you think we should visit first? The Berlin Zoo? Postdamer Plafz?"

"I wish I know, sweetie," the unassuming, dark-haired clerk remarked, adjusting his spectacles, "I never thought we'd get a permit, to be honest. Barely anyone does these days. I didn't want to go too far for a vacation too. That stack of paperwork won't vanish without me around."

"There you go with work again," grumbled Beata, "you barely come home to work as it is."

Bowing his head a bit, the father apologized, "sorry... ever since your mother left, I haven't been spending much time with you. At least for the night, we can spend some time together, just the two of us..."

Hearing about her mother, Beata could hardly understand what he meant. She had hardly been in Beata's life, disappearing one lone night when she was just a baby. Having to struggle between his job and raising a child, her father had found it hard to spend time with his 'little sunshine'. And yet there they were, on a short overnight trip around West Berlin. It seemed like a dream come true. No work, no late nights, just the two of them...

However, as they slowed in front of the border checkpoint, something disturbing was beginning to unfold. There appeared to be a jam, and quite a long one.

"My god," grumbled went the driver, trying to get a better look of the jam, "so much for a first time... Stay in the car. I'll check what's wrong."

Hunched on her seat, the impatient Beata watched as her father packed his visa and passports, storming forward to the angry crowd at the checkpoint. Peering over, she could see a single border guard hailing the crowd with the loudspeaker, trying to appeal for calm. Hordes of incensed commuters, however, responded with frustrated heckles, waving their visas in the air in outrage.

"Do you know how long it took to get this permit," yelled one driver.

"Why did you close the checkpoint," demanded another.

"I have a brother to visit over there," snapped a third, "get a move on!"

Trying not to get flustered, the hapless guard appealed, "please! Please! Everyone, just calm down! We're trying to sort out the technical issues. Please, be patient!"

Spotting another guard approach the hailing guard, Beata could see the latter bending over to listen to his whispers. Raising his voice, he asked, "who here have permits signed by a certain Isaak Weber? If so, please step to the side of the road. We have some questions you like to ask."

"Weber," blurted the surprised clerk, looking down at his visa. To his shock, the paper bore the suspect's signature and name in full ink, as did many of the bewildered commuters around him. Clueless, he and some of the commuters began stepping to the side as ordered, hardly suspicious of the guard's orders. But others, as it turned out, were, and without warning, broke out in a violent stampede.

"It's an arrest warrant," yelled one of the commuters, fleeing at full speed from the checkpoint, "run!"

To Beata's horror, dozens began storming the road, fleeing an increasing cordon of border guards armed with AK-47s. It felt like a flood was coming, seeking to sweep everyone aside. As panicked passengers began fleeing their vehicles as well, the helpless Beata could only watch her father in the midst, shambling around in bewilderment at the surreal escapade. Ironically, as his 'reward' for heeding the guard's orders, he was suddenly wrestled to the ground by a pair, his hands raised in the air as he begged his captors not to hurt him. Screaming as the guards began pounding him with their rifle butts and boots, the mortified Beata tried to yank the door open. But more guards were already at the scene, beating and pinning down anyone they saw.

"W-Why are they doing this," Beata mumbled in terror, huddled on her seat as she tried to block out the screaming, "what're we doing wrong? We... we're just going on vacation!"

Beatrise Kutsche's 'vacation' had only just begun...

Cast

• Beatrise Kutsche (CV: ベアトリス)
• Klaus Kutsche (CV: ?)

 

[Remitonov]

*checks poll*

I see an unusually high demand for Estonians, next to East and SE Asians, Latvians and Finns.

Good news is, I'm actually working on a draft for East Asians, complete with cast members to work with. Estonians, thou... :V

EDIT:

Also, some uniform designs by kyuzoaoi. Wasn't expecting any, but it was nice of him to make some. :3

 

[Remitonov]

Frederick Ballroom, Swissôtel Kaiserhof, Kyonigsberg, Kyonigsbergskaya Stolitsa
Night, 30th January, 2016 C.E.

‘…in all, a total of 80,000 new Germans were registered in Kaliningrad from 1956 to 1963. More than half, some 52,000 were Germans from the Soviet Union, emigrating from far-flung areas such as Sverdlovsk and Petropavl. Most of the remainder, approximately 25,000, were East Germans, most of who were economic migrants. An estimated 7,000 were abductees captured and exiled by the Stasi, a small number compared to the 3.5 million who had emigrated to West Germany during this period. It is not known how many potential defectees were deterred or intimidated by rumours of the abduction program. But historians generally agreed that the stop-gap measure, intended to deter defections until the construction of the Berlin Wall, were largely ineffective in stemming the tide. Regardless, thousands of political prisoners were to be exiled to the West Baltic SSR – the so-called ‘Prison Republic’ – from 1956 to the 1980s…’

Gleaning through the personal effects on display, the girls could sense a strange contrast between the migrants’ fates. While the narrative of the ‘prison oblast’ held true for many East Germans caught in the abduction program, the same could not be said of a great number of others. Most had simply wanted a better life, leaving behind their home towns for an alien land nestled on the coast of the Baltic Sea. In many ways, the tales of the German Diaspora were not too different many other groups. But the myth of the ‘prison country’ never went away, and the belief that those of German blood would seek a German restoration still rang strong among the noble caste that once ruled Prussia. But time had shown some the error of their judgement, though many apparently refused to acknowledge that Prussia was no longer the same.

“Come to think of it,” Vasilka queried Ludmilla, looking over an old passport belonging to Vissarion, “I could have sworn I’ve seen that name before…”

“That’s because we did,” chimed Ludmilla, point at the label below, “’on loan from Professor Roman Vissarionovich Vorarlberg’. It’s on the exhibit.”

“That’s a bit surprising,” blurted the blonde Russian, “small world…”

“Oi, we’re heading back in,” Ausra suddenly called out, waving to the two at the ballroom entrance. Giggling to each other, the two girls simply rejoined their friends, their unspoken bond strong as ever, within their little circle of friends.

_________________________​

Arriving back inside the ballroom, the girls could still see the rift between the rival camps. While peppered with dancers waltzing to the live orchestra, it was not hard to tell from their movements how little they were crossing the floor. Only the front stretch, crowded by the younger guests, was more mixed, but even then, it was not hard to see the divide.

“Your sister is quite popular, isn’t she,” chimed Leila to her cat-faced friend, as they watched Astrid being accosted by a group of young naval cadets. As the elder Kaufmann blew her top at particularly short, feisty young man in a bandana, Zisel could not help but chime, “she is. She’s an instructor in the marines, after all, but she also trained army cadets from time to time. They like to call her a little demon. You think if I stepped in, they’d get frightened?”

“I doubt so, Zisel,” Laila refuted her; “those are military academy brats. You’re too nice and cute to pass of as an instructor. They’ll find out right away.”

As the boys’ attention turned to the trio, the bashful girls gave a light wave to Astrid’s wards. Among them, a short young boy with orange spiky hair gave a large grin, waving back while his friends gave a more muted response. Unsurprisingly, the scowling sister bent over in his view, her eyes gleaming with ire. Unwilling to get sucked in, the trio quickly fled back to the others’ company, abandoning the young cadet to a grim fate.

“Where the hell is your tact,” Tarana chastised the three, “we’re school idols. You don’t just wave at random boys. The paparazzi will snap that up.”

“Please…” Maria grumbled, “we’re not that popular. Just look around. Barely anyone’s ever spoken to us, besides Ludmilla’s acquaintance.”

“Naïve,” Tarana criticised, “you plebs have no idea the kind of social status you’ve attained, especially you, Zisel. If people knew your relationship with your sis, her charges will get her no end of grief.”

“Don't be silly,” Zisel went, clearly not perturbed, “her recruits are already giving her that. She told me all about it.”

Cringing at the unfettered reaction, the Azeri merely grunted, “You…”

“I see Starshina Kaufmann hasn’t changed a bit,” another voice added, a regal, princely tone in his speech, “I almost forgot how nasty she was.”

Cutting in was a dashing young man with curly, silken gold hair, his navy blue, Prussian naval uniform impeccable as always.[2] His adjutant, a chiselled redhead, accompanied beside him. Jumping a bit, most of the girls, Tarana especially, were a bit shocked to have an officer speak to them. But Zisel appeared totally unfazed, greeting the men with her usual cat-like grin.

“Reinhard, Eckbert,” Zisel blurted, “I wasn’t expecting you two here.”

“Yes, we’ve only just docked this morning, Ms Kaufmann,” the blonde captain responded courteously, “the Königsberg is already at the end of her days. Might be the last time she sorties out.”

“You know these men,” Tarana yelped in shock, her jaws agape as she broke out in cold sweat. Giving a light chuckle at the girl’s reaction, the blonde introduced himself, “Reinhard von Sommer, Captain 2nd Rank of the Prussian Navy’s Koni-class frigate, Kyonigsberg.[1] This is my adjutant, Captain-Lieutenant Eckbert Berger. Her sister gave us a hard time back when we were cadets,” he quipped half-jokingly, “if I couldn’t tell the two apart, I might have hit her by mistake.”

“Careful, Captain... She’ll get angry if you do that,” Eckbert quipped to his friend before turning to the girls, “don’t worry about it, he’s just joking. She might look irritable, but she cares a lot about her trainees. We’re not naval infantry, but we’ve had some scrapes at close quarters ourselves. Can’t say we’re not grateful to her.”

“A-Ah…” Tarana went, still a bit disturbed at Zisel’s acquaintance, “my name is Tarana, and this is Maria. I suppose you had an invite?”

“Yes,” he went, a slight melancholy on his face, “the Junker Association wouldn’t miss the chance to add more men in uniform to the batch, even from noble families with almost absolutely no reputable actions. Nothing but a hollow expression of lost power, this ball... Between ourselves, I’d never have attended if there wasn’t someone here I’m looking for. And no, if you’re wondering, it’s not Starshina Kaufmann. She’s not my type anyway. What of you, young ladies? A friend in high places, perhaps?”

“Well…” Zisel crooned, “she’s not rich or anything. She’s just-“

“Achtung! Achtung! May I have your attention, please~!”

At the corner of her ear, a high-pitched, forced chuckle rang like sandpaper as the girls peered at the forefront of the hall. Surrounded by a tuxedo-wearing posse, a young, pompous-looking blonde in an ornate, custom white uniform was a bit too loud for comfort, blasting shrilling German for all to hear. Ringing his wine glass to gain attention,

“Who is that,” Tarana whispered to the others, a bit put off by his shrilling voice, “he sounds like a pampered hick.”

“That,” Reinhard answered with a hint of disdain, “is Prince Wilhelm Ferdinand, son of Prince Christian Sigismund of the House of Hohenzollern; fifth in line to the crown of the German Empire. That means, he’s also concurrently in line for the crown of the Prussian kingdom.”

“What’s this talk about succession,” Tarana went, “what part of ‘republic’ in our country’s designation do they not understand?”

“The part where Prussia as the progenitor of the modern German nation has ceased to exist,” Reinhard stated, “even though the current head of the Hohenzollern family, Georg Friedrich, has stated that he and his family would refuse the crown of Prussia if it were ever restored. Wilhelm’s father, in such a case, would then be first in line to the kingdom of Prussia-“

“-and him as his heir,” Ritva grunted, crossing her arms with a sulk on his face. As the prince began his speech, a quick glance around the crowd showed just how little affection he was getting. The elder Junkers, for one, could only dream of a return of Hohenzollern rule, but the same cannot be said for many others. Much less could be said about Wilhelm’s own peers, the young men and women who would make up the aristocracy in his Prussian kingdom. Fortunately, it appeared that most, even the uniformed cadets on board, wanted nothing of Wilhelm’s deluded ambitions.

“Attention~! Attention, please~,” the prince announced in a crisp German accent, struggling a bit with his English as he rang his wine glass, “may I have your attention~! Ladies, gentlemen, fellow guests… Once again, I extend my warmest welcome to this hallowed night. In eight months, we celebrate the quarter-centennial of Prussia’s liberation from communist oppression. Twenty-five years on that day, justice has been delivered! The suffering of the expellees, who were ruthlessly driven out of their home by the barbaric Red Army, has been righted at last! However, much still needs to be done! With your support, we will bring back, by grace of God and nations, the inalienable right of our forefathers! This coming parliamentary election, me and the National Movement for Order and Progress plan to stand in as the true representatives of the people and the restoration of our kingdom of Prussia.”

Peering around the audience, the girls could see a fair few heads whispering to each other. The Junkers by the prince’s side reacted with a mix of enthusiasm and scepticism. Some did not appear sure if he could succeed, while others are too optimistic or dense to doubt it. The other guests, however, were far less kind. Some elder Baltic Germans scoffed at the idea. Many more reacted with outrage.

“Is he crazy,” questioned Vasilka aghast, “what makes him think we want a monarchy?”

“He doesn’t care if you don’t want a monarchy,” Reinhard grumbled, trying to restrain his disgust for the prince, “he only cares if they want one. The Germans comprise about a fifth of the entire population, yet our influence in Prussia is disproportionate to our size. While most of us are from former East Germany and Russia, many Germans here are former expellees who have returned to reclaim their lost lands. They and their descendants have a vested interest in restoring the Prussia they knew and loved before the Second World War. These are the people he’s trying to win over. Most will never say it out loud without being accused of Nazism, but they do not see the current Prussia as a legitimate nation-state. In their eyes, each and every one of you, save the German race, is an illegal squatter on hallowed German soil.”

The grim tone of his voice and the stern look in his eyes said it all. The prince was an idiot and an extremist; a seditious party who held absolute contempt for Prussia’s current inhabitants. While his party had next to no hope of breaking into the Seym, Prussia’s unicameral parliament; that did not mean he was incapable of angering others. Biting her lips, Vasilka had to wonder why he was allowed into the country at all.

“The monarchy is dead, Wilhelm,” declared a young woman in the crowd in Russian, “only a clown would think of expelling two out of two-and-a-half million people.”[3]

Stepping out to confront the prince, a young blonde girl with a delicately-tied braid appeared stern at Wilhelm’s announcement. Marvelling at her pristine white dress, Ausra asked, “who’s that? She looks pretty.” The intrigued murmurs around her only confirmed the Lithuanian’s words, as Ludmilla gave a coy smile.

“She,” Ludmilla quipped gingerly, “is Anastasia Romanova; Maria Vladimirovna’s granddaughter and grandniece to the late Tsar Nicholas II.”

“Tsar Nicholas II,” Zisel yelled in shock, “that makes her over a hundred years old! She barely looks older than us.”

“She said ‘grandniece’, idiot,” Maria corrected her, “not ‘daughter’.”

“What’s she doing here, though,” Mariyne queried, “she’s not German nobility.”

“Technically, she is,” Ludmilla refuted gingerly, “the Romanov’s male line ended a long time ago. The current Romanovs’ claim their lineage from Peter II of Holstein-Gottorp, son of a German duke and Peter the Great’s daughter. Some say the line ended altogether with Catherine the Great’s son, Paul I, allegedly illegitimate from her lover. Regardless, this princess is particularly troublesome for Prince Wilhelm.”[4]

“Why,” Ausra asked, munching on a cupcake as she observed the altercation.

Giving a devious smile, the Ungern-Sternberg stated coyly, “her father is a Hohenzollern.”[4]

Tensing up at the sight of the Romanov princess, Wilhelm’s usual smug face twisted into an ugly scowl. Self-control, it appeared, was his weakness, and he had no qualms letting his ire show. But more importantly, he appeared silent on her criticism. Unbeknownst to the girls, it was not because he was not quick to retort. He literally did not understand her words. Russian was a language he never bothered to master.

“Who invited this harlot,” he blustered, wagging his finger angrily at Anastasia as he tried to hide his inability to understand Russian, “you think I don’t understand a word you said? You’re mocking me, aren’t you!?”

“If you never had the will to master the dominant tongue of your future subjects, what hope do you have of winning a single seat in the Seym,” Anastasia reprimanded, this time in English, “this Prussia is the legal successor of the West Baltic Soviet Socialist Republic, not the province of East Prussia. You are holding on to a pipe dream you have no hope of returning to. Not only that, how do you intend to win enough votes with that platform? Half the room alone is made up of people who have a lot to lose if you got into power.”

“Don’t bullshit with me,” the jittered prince denied, “the threshold for entry into the Seym is five percent. I don’t need-“

“Do you honestly believe you do not need other votes,” Anastasia criticized again, “you’ll find that’s not easily the case. At your current course, you’ll have trouble even competing for far-right German voters with the Teutonic Front. In what world do you think you can subvert a democracy with such paltry efforts?”

Wilhelm felt overwhelmed. Outraged beyond belief, he could see the folks behind her jeering him like rabble, ready to back her up. Unconsciously trying to down the air in his empty glass, Wilhelm looked close to breaking into a tirade. But the aide by his side was quick to quell his temper, whispering a few words in his ear as he finally simmered down.

“You’d love that, won’t you,” he sneered back in a quivering voice, exasperated by the taunting, “our crown on your head. You have no chance to reclaim your birthright against the oligarchs, so you’re going after me. But I’ll tell you this… I’d die than hand over my crown to you!”

“Are you prepared to back up that statement,” Anastasia calmly refuted him, “because I see a lot of people among us who are prepared to back up theirs. The constitution of the Prussian republic protects the sovereign rights and freedoms of each and every citizen, regardless of race, language, religion and creed. Are you prepared to stake your life prying their home away from them?”

This finally cut the prince short. Glancing through the crowd, Wilhelm was confronted with the glares of many uniformed young men. Army, navy, air force, police… it hardly mattered which branch they were from. All of them swore an oath upon joining to protect the people and constitution of Prussia. And that oath did not include Wilhelm, his family or a crown.

His hand trembling as the glass rattled on his finger, Wilhelm found himself conceding, “fine… you made your point. But know this… you can’t hide what happened seventy years ago. Every Slav, every Turk and god-knows-who-else know very well they’re living on the graves of centuries of German history. Don’t expect any gratitude from me.”

‘Gratitude’… It was an audacious claim from an arrogant German dynast. At no point did Prussia – the new Prussia – expect any sort of gratitude from the expellees. The expellees were able to return simply because they could, not out of any sort of obligation to right any wrongs. However, Prussia’s sudden revival, when the very idea of recovering any territory east of the Oder-Neisse had long perished, had caught the newly reunited German nation off-guard. That so many would become disillusioned by the lack of compensation was of little surprise.

“I hate to think people like him are common,” Ritva grumbled, watching the prince storm off, “and from how he sounds, he must think she’s a usurper.”

“Well, the tabloids do enjoy harping on it,” Reinhard admitted, “a rather unhealthy obsession of his. Even a brainless twit like him could tell. If there ever were a choice for a monarchy, its people would choose her over him. It’s part of a long list of things he despise about its current inhabitants. Had he come a few years earlier he would have already been arrested for sedition.”

Biting her lip, Vasilka reacted a bit more aversely than the others. After all, who, out of the four serving prime ministers so far, had prosecuted people for sedition? Gram had nothing of it in Tonchev’s years as his Minister of the Interior, and certainly not the ones that came after. As much as she would have liked to see the arrogant prince’s reaction to an arrest by the UB, it was hard to pretend it was not a charge abused by far lesser leaders than him.[5]

“Well, my apologies for the spectacle,” Reinhard answered, “it’s one of the many reasons I don’t usually come for this sort of functions. In any case, enjoy the evening, ladies. And send my regards to the sergeant for me, Miss Kaufmann.”

As the two naval officers parted with them, Vasilka was starting to understand why Ludmilla was this reluctant to come. The meaningless politicking, the facades… it was almost like a hive of snakes. Whispering in her ear, she asked, “should we take our leave too? I’m beginning to understand why you hate this place.”

A sincere smile on her face, Ludmilla admitted, “it’s ok. I know who I am. I’m the great-great-granddaughter of the Mad Baron, and the great-granddaughter of the Lion of Xinjiang.[6] I’ve known that as Airi Haneda and Ludmilla von Ungern-Sternberg. But I’m also Ludmilla, student of Singenwaldhang Girls High and her school idol group, Muse. That’s the ‘me’ my friends see. You and the others…”

It was hard to escape the past, both for Ludmilla and Vasilka. No one has a choice of who their family was, or where they came from. But the granddaughter of Vladimir Tonchev knew they could still choose who they wanted to be. Their fathers made the choice to live their own lives, and so would they.

“Duel,” screamed an excited young guest at the door, “there’s a duel coming up at the gym!”

“Who,” blurted some of the patrons, the murmurs filling the room again as they overheard the shouts.

“Some army colonel and naval captain,” blurted the lad, “Bassenheim and Sommer, I think.”

Overhearing the commotion, Ausra yelped in astonishment, “wasn’t that the guy we were talking to earlier!? What’s going on?”

“I… I don’t know,” Vasilka admitted, “I have no idea.”

The night was not over yet.

OOC Notes

1. The Koni-class frigates were a class of Soviet-made anti-submarine warfare ships intended to replace the older Riga-class, but were instead exported to friendly countries. Formerly part the German Democratic Republic’s Volksmarine, the Berlin - Hauptstadt der DDR, Rostock and Halle were scrapped in OTL in the 1990s following the fall of the Berlin Wall. ITTL, the ships were purchased by the nascent Prussian Navy, following the failure of negotiations with the Russian government regarding the division of assets of the Baltic Fleet, much of which were located in the West Baltic (and in OTL, still is). The current names of the vessels are as follows:
   • Kyonigsberg - formerly Berlin-Hauptstadd der DDR, named after OTL Kaliningrad
   • Tsimmerbude - formerly Rostock, named after OTL Svetly
   • Sventomest - formerly Halle, named after OTL Mamonovo
2. The current Prussian naval uniform is based on the former East German Volksmarine and the Soviet Baltic Fleet, though I picked the former as a visual reference. See kyuzoaoi's work on Prussian military uniforms for details.
   
3. My earlier estimate of 6 million, as it turned out, was wildly off the mark, so I reduced it to 2.5 million, about level with other small-sized countries
4. OTL information. Maria Vladimirovna’s heir and Anastasia’s father (ITTL) is Grand Duke George Mikhailovich of Russia, or George Michael of Prussia from his father’s line, Prince Franz Wilhelm of Prussia. The reason Wilhelm is this petrified is because Anastasia’s father has a legitimate claim on the throne of Prussia, if a weaker one than his. Anastasia herself doesn’t, but the idea of a Russian-majority Prussia voting in another monarch than his family is a grave concern for him.
5. The Security Bureau, or UB, (Russian: Управление безопасности; Upravleniye bezopasnosti) is the domestic intelligence agency of the Prussian police services, succeeding the West Baltic branch of the KGB alongside its foreign intelligence counterpart, the Foreign Intelligence Directorate (IRU) (Russian: Иностра́нное разве́дывательное управле́ние; inostránnoye razvedyvatel'noye upravleniye).
6. The Mad Baron is OTL, belonging to you-know-who. However, ITTL, Roman escaped to China following the overthrow of the Bogd Khan. ITTL, the Lion of Xinjiang is the moniker given to his son, Nikolai, based on a vignette I've wrote on him.

Cast

• Singenwaldhang Girls High School (from left to right)
  • Aušra Švedaitė (CV: 高坂 穂乃果)
  • Ritva Pajari (CV: 園田 海未)
  • Mariyne Mugu (CV: 南 ことり)
  • Maria Hayrapetyan (CV: 西木野 真姫)
  • Tarana Irevani (CV: 矢澤 にこ)
  • Vasilka Lyobomirova Toncheva (CV: 絢瀬 絵里)
  • Ludmilla Aleksandrovna von Ungern-Sternberg (CV: 東條 希)
  • Leila Pääsuke (CV: 小泉 花陽)
  • Zisel Kaufmann (CV: 星空 凛)
• Prussian Navy
  • Starshina/Master Sergeant (OR-8) Astrid Kaufmann (CV: アネット・ホーゼンフェルト) - Zisel's elder sister
  • Captain 2nd Rank Reinhard von Sommer (CV: ラインハルト・フォン・ローエングラム)
  • Captain-Lieutenant Eckbert Berger (CV: ジークフリード・キルヒアイス)
  • Cadets (first picture above)
• Guests
  • Prince Wilhelm Ferdinand von Hohenzollern of Prussia (CV: シュヴァーン)
    • Lackey Personal Guard (CV: マギー)
  • Princess Anastasia Georgievna Romanova (CV: アセイラム・ヴァース・アリューシア)

 

[Remitonov]

Sorry if it seems a bit rushed. I don't want to dwell on this much longer.

Frederick Ballroom, Swissôtel Kaiserhof, Kyonigsberg, Kyonigsbergskaya Stolitsa
Earlier that night, 30th January, 2016 C.E.

“Helb mi,” blurted the hapless redhead cadet, caught in a chokehold by the sergeant. Blocked from the guests’ prying eyes by his comrades, his predicament was met with a mixed of resignation and amusement. For his friends, he had made a simple, yet dangerous error. He had underestimated how protective Astrid was, and how irate she could get at a boy ogling her sister, never mind that she looked almost like a twin to Astrid.

“I would suggest releasing him, instructor,” a short-haired, white haired cadet with a stoic look stated in a very logical fashion, “it is not prudent behaviour in a ballroom setting. We do not want to cause a scene. Besides, I do not see much fault in Yartsev’s action. It’s just a friendly wave.”

“Stob talkingh and get her off mi,” Yartsev pleaded, his face turning blue as he tried to tap out in vain. As Astrid’s grip loosened, the hapless boy collapsed on the floor, gasping for air as a cackling, aloof-looking mate helped him up.

“You think I don’t know that,” Astrid grumbled, pouting with a slight blush on her face“I get ticked off quite easily. You saw the look on his face, didn’t you?”

“Hey, you should be thankful, Sergeant,” a aloof orange-haired comrade with spiky hair joked, “that means you have a chance after all.”

“Maybe I should level your face in,” Astrid threatened with an overhead fist, much to his fright.

“I see you’re as insecure about your stature as always, Sergeant,” another voice soon cut in, “mind you, they could be your commanding officers one day.”

Cutting in was a dashing young man with short, almost silvery hair, his dark grey army uniform sergeant lowered her hand as she frowned at the rank latched onto the Junker.

“Forgive me, Colonel Bassenheim,” Astrid grumbled, spying on his rank shoulder board, “what’d you want?”

“I expected more respect for senior officers from you, Starshina,” mused the lad, “though we are from separate branches of the military.”

“Who’s that,” Yartsev queried, raising an eyebrow over the army officer’s presence, “some army brat, Rudi?”

“That,” the calm leader stated, “is Ulrich Burchard von Bassenheim, ex-3rd Motor Rifle Curassiers Brigade ‘Baron Wrangel’s 67th Motor Rifle Battalion. He was one of the UN peacekeepers involved in the ‘Mad Max’ incident in DR Congo.[1] I heard he got posted to Clauswitz Army Academy for that.”

“The one with that Frankenstein,” the orange-haired punk chimed, “he doesn’t look the part. What’s his deal with our dwarf?”

“I’m not an esper,” Rudolf simply stated, watching the Starshina sneer at him, “you ask them.”

Without warning, the officer grabbed the shocked Astrid by the hand, pulling her out of the ball in a sprint right before the cadet’s eyes. Even the stone cold Rudolf, so used to meticulous plans and predicting outcomes, did not foresee it. Shocked, the cadets could only exchange gazes of bewilderment as they were once again left alone.

“What was that for,” the lax orange-haired lad muttered, still staring at the open door. It seemed likely they would never know. But time, as it turned out, would tell.

__________________________​

Balcony Patio, Swissôtel Kaiserhof, Kyonigsberg, Kyonigsbergskaya Stolitsa
Earlier that night, 30th January, 2016 C.E.

Pulled to a quiet balcony patio, the appalled Astrid had half the mind to hit the strange man. Sure, she had known him since middle school to know he was pretty direct, but she had hit him nonetheless. Even with her boyish looks, Astrid was still a straight woman. Flustered by the sudden ‘kidnapping’, she took the time to bark at him for his impulse.

“What’d you want, you crazy boy,” she growled, rubbing her wrist as Ulrich finally released her. Scratching his head, Ulrich uncharacteristically blustered, “no… I just… I just thought we needed someplace quiet. I can’t say this in front of the cadets, especially since they’ll be competing against my cadets in the inter-branch meet.”

“Uh huh…” went the sergeant, a bit wary of his excuse, “and you think I can’t write a few mocking cheers myself?”

Giving a wry chuckle, Ulrich blurted, “I’d be surprised if you didn’t, but you’re not attached to an academy, so I’m not worried. But that’s not why I asked you here… you see… I’m getting engaged.”

Astrid was… confused. She found it odd he needed to tell her about an engagement in private, as if it was some sort of secret. Bewilderment written on her face, she went, “uh, congratulations? I didn’t take you for a scoring type. You were quite the nerd back then.”

For some reason, the girl’s words only attracted disappointment. It seemed as if Ulrich expected her to be jealous for some reason, or at least not congratulate her. Buttoning her mouth, she queried, “what’s wrong? Girl’s not your type? Parents put you up to it.”

“Can’t say she’s not my type…” Ulrich admitted, “but you’re right about the ‘putting up’ thing. My parents are… traditional. As their only son, I’m expected to marry a highborn, or baroness at minimum.”

“Uh huh…” went the short-statured woman, “and what is your type?”

“Well…” blurted the pale-haired officer, hesitating a bit, “she’s… quite the tomboy… tough-talking… unafraid to take it to a man…”

“That’s… a pretty low standard,” Astrid griped, a bit disturbed by his description, “you sure you’re not queer instead?

“No, I’m very sure,” Ulrich said, scratching his head, “she does have a feminine side to it as well. She doesn’t show it, but she’s quite cute in a dress.”

Astrid had no clue who he meant, but her first guess was his fiancé. After all, he did state that she was his type. But if so, why was he upset at being engaged to her? Did he have someone else in mind then?

“Ok…” Astrid replied, deciding against probing too much, “in that case, who’s your fiancé then?”

“Oh, her,” Ulrich went, “Magdalena von Kurzeme. I mean, it’s not like my parents haven’t tried to match my expectations with their own, it’s just…”

“So you’re the one!”

Astrid jumped at the yell, turning back to spot the interloper. At the door, Reinhard appeared indignant, a slight scowl on his face as he glared at Ulrich with piercing anger. Startled, the army officer blurted, “uhh… who are you?”

“Captain Sommer,” Astrid went, “what a surprise. I wasn’t expecting you here, much less acting more like a snob than usual.”

“Stay out of this, Kaufmann,” Reinhard requested straight out, “this is between me and him.”

“Oi,” barked the agitated sergeant, “I’m not the one who suddenly called out Ulrich for no apparent reason.”

“You know this cur,” Reinhard unashamedly called out, as the disturbed Ulrich batted an eyelid at his language.

Cringing at the unusually nasty tone, Astrid barked back, “what? Of course I know him. He’s my middle school friend. What? Am I not allowed to make friends with highborn, Your Excellency?”

Hearing Astrid banter, Ulrich’s expression turned sour fairly quickly. Stepping between the two, Ulrich stated, “so you’re Reinhard von Sommer, Captain of the Kyonigsberg frigate, am I correct? I heard a bit about you from Astrid. A bad tempered count with a knack for cracking pirate skulls. You seemed upset. May I ask why?”

“You know exactly why, Colonel Bassenheim,” Reinhard retorted in a chilling tone, “yes, I know of your tour in Mali. As much as I respect a fellow man in uniform, I don’t take kindly to yoke who think they can decide a woman’s future arbitrarily.”

Astrid tried hard to piece together the context. Given the wording so far, it seemed fairly obvious to her what they were talking about. Reinhard cutting in on Ulrich’s news of his engagement suggested a lot of affection for this Magdalene girl. And Ulrich’s apparent indecision over his engagement would have attracted a lot of ire from him. But as Ulrich turned to the sergeant for answers, Astrid could tell he was unnerved. It was difficult for her to hide her discomfort over Reinhard’s bizarre behaviour. Then again, she had seen men go crazy over a love interest before.

“And who are you to decide her future, Captain,” Ulrich immediately scolded back, mustering his best authoritative tone, “I don’t think you’ve obtained her approval either.”

Outraged, Reinhard cursed, “how dare you… You think this is a game!? Fine, if that’s how you want to play it. Gym, fifteen minutes, fencing duel. Winner gets the girl. Sounds good?”

“Fine by me,” Ulrich chimed cockily, “hope the seas haven’t worn out your skill.”

Astrid felt ticked off. Wagering a woman’s hand in marriage? It felt like a drama staged in the 19th Century. For a moment, she felt tempted to hit the two of them for their selfish behaviour. Fortunately for her, Eckbert was quick to step in, trying to calm down his impulsive friend.

“Reinhard, what are you doing,” the redhead whispered desperately, “you can’t just bet Lady Kurzeme’s hand like that-“

“He left me no choice,” Reinhard yelled, eyeing Ulrich malignantly as the army veteran kept his smirk on, “come, Eckbert. We must prepare.”

Laying her palm on her head, Astrid groaned, “what the hell have you done, you crazy prick.”

“Sorry,” Ulrich admitted, softening his expression as he noticed her exasperation, “he got on my nerves. Don’t worry, I won’t lose to that pompous prince. I’ll beat the ego out of him, and take your hand when I’m done. Wait for me!”

Jogging off for the door, Astrid sulked at the two fools’ actions. She was very sure Magdalena, whoever Ulrich’s fiancé was, would not take kindly to betting her future on a paltry duel. She knew she would not.

But as the reality of their impulsive duel sets in, Astrid could not help but sense something amiss. Ulrich’s proclamation was a bit… off…

“What?”

Gym, Swissôtel Kaiserhof, Kyonigsberg, Kyonigsbergskaya Stolitsa
Present, 30th January, 2016 C.E.

Back at the gym, the girls watched with intrigue as the two men prepare to duel. A bewildered look on her face, Mariyne blurted in curiosity, “so he’s going to propose an engagement to Ms Kurzeme if he beats Captain Sommer? Didn’t he say he didn’t quite like her?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Astrid admitted with a shrug, “I mean, he sounded enamoured with her, but he specifically stated he was not.”

“Maybe he was talking about someone else,” Ludmilla quipped, “he was going to explain the minus points when Sommer cut in. I guess he assumed he was talking about her.”

“In that case,” Ausra queried, “why was Captain Sommer that mad?”

“Isn’t it obvious,” Tarana grunted, “he’s jealous.”

There was no other explanation for his bizarre behaviour. Reinhard was not one to engage in petty duels, but Ulrich’s engagement and subsequent provocation was enough to agitate even him. But Astrid had grave doubts about the whole matter. If Ulrich was this half-hearted about the engagement, there was no reason for him to resort to a fencing duel. Perhaps Reinhard mistook whoever he was talking about for Ms Kurzeme, eavesdropping at an inopportune time to grasp an incomplete picture. Question was, if Ulrich did not think he was fighting to claim Kurzeme’s hand, who was he fighting for?

“Reinhard, what do you take my engagement for, a barter chip,” a young blonde woman with a large coif whispered at him, “I’ve spoken to Colonel Bassenheim. He’s going to break off the engagement.”

“That’s not what I heard, Magdalena,” Reinhard suddenly yelled, “he had the gall to gloat at me. I will make him eat his words!”

“Reinhard, think carefully for a moment,” Eckbert pleaded, “how much did you hear from the two. What makes you so sure he was talking about Lady Kurzeme?”

“And what,” Reinhard griped, “you think he was talking about the dwarf? A priest could have fucked her and not notice the missing rod in front. You jest.”

A palm on his face, Eckbert could only watch as the ticked off noble put on his mask to face Ulrich on. While it was true Magdalena had a thing for masculine activities, she was hardly the only woman on Earth engaged in it. But it was already too late to stop them, as an excited crowd cheered them on. All that was left was to see who gets the humiliation.

“En garde,” snapped the angry frigate captain, making the first move as his épée parried with Ulrich’s. The fierce clash of whip-like blades, while pale in comparison to the actual steel, seemed fierce in itself, as the fiery Reinhard tried to take down his arrogant opponent. Rubbing her eyes, Astrid could only lament the hotheads bartering the poor woman’s affections like a commodity. Peering at the noblewoman, she could only guess what was going through her head.

“What the hell is wrong with you,” Reinhard snapped, desperate to score a point, “you barely know Magdalena! What is it you want with her!?”

“Magdalena,” Ulrich quipped, a bit confused by the words, “you mean my fiancé? What the hell are you talking about; I don’t care about Madame Kurzeme. I barely know her.”

“What do you mean ‘you don’t care’,” Reinhard yelled, incensed by his apparent lack of care, “is it the estates!? The family fortune!?”

“Sommer, I’m a duke’s son,” griped Ulrich again, his eyes twisting into a disturbed glare as he countered his blade, “money and property doesn’t concern me, and even less so once I take that sprite off your hands. What, did my father set you up for this, or do you think I’m that greedy?”

Swatting the blade aside, Reinhard was clearly as bewildered as his opponent. It felt a lot like they were talking about two different people, and Ulrich did not seem to think Magdalena’s hand was the one on the line. Barking in agitation, he demanded, “wait, ‘sprite’!? Magdalena’s a metre-point-seventy-five (175 cm), she’s no sprite! Who the hell are you referring to!?”

Hesitant, the baffled young colonel blurted, “wait… You want Kurzeme’s hand in marriage?”

To the crowd’s astonishment, Ulrich simply tossed aside the blade, chiming, “then I’ll yield, Captain Sommer. For a moment, I thought you meant… You didn’t really think I was talking about Madame Kurzeme on that balcony, do you?”

“Wait, you weren’t?…” Reinhard stammered, wide-eyed in disbelief, “then who…”

His eyes tracing Ulrich’s drifting gaze to the crowd, it soon dawned on Reinhard what he had missed. He knew he was talking about a tomboy, but the first thing he thought of that fit that description was Magdalena, the very reason he forced himself to come to this wretched ball. He had been so stuck up on pressing Ulrich to break up the engagement he never realized the colonel’s own intentions. And what he intended to do had distressed him.

Tearing off his mask as he gave the lad a pat, Reinhard urged, “bar, first floor, now. Before you do something really stupid.”

The bewilderment of the crowd was palatable, as they watched and whispered over the two’s anti-climatic departure. Disappointment filled the air over the colonel’s abrupt forfeit, and wagers going down the drain for many unlucky souls. But for the panicking Lady Kurzeme, it was, for the very least, a sign of relief. She had half the mind to give the navy captain a tight slap, but at least the duel was over without an actual victor.

“Bloody princes,” she grumbled, as Eckbert patted her back, “what was Reinhard thinking there?”

“You knew about the breakup,” the redhead queried, watching the woman rub her eyes in exasperation.

“I was going to tell him tonight,” she said, “bad news is, he found Ulrich first, and whatever he said must have made him berserk.”

“Funny you should say that…” Eckbert blurted, quite unnerved as he recalled Ulrich’s taunting of Reinhard, “I feel Lord Reinhard might have assumed whoever Ulrich had eyes on was you. A bit coincidental, but this is the 21st Century. Tomboys are a pretty obsolete term nowadays.”

“So…” a familiar face cut in on the couple, “this is the ‘happily engaged’ girl, I presume?...”

Stepping over to the unlucky ‘barter chip’ and her friend, Astrid and her wards looked on nervously as they quietly exchanged handshakes. A brief look-over spoke nothing about the lady’s masculinity. In fact, the Jewish girl could have sworn she was far more feminine than her. This, sadly, only added to the list of questions plaguing hr mind.

“You’re one of Reinhard’s friends,” queried Magdalene, as Astrid’s eyes shifted to the side in embarrassment.

“Former instructor,” Astrid blurted, “he was in my naval infantry training course. I whipped him like a pu… pansy.”

“Yes, I heard,” the lady replied in a slight chuckle, “he called you a little imp, among less savoury language.”

“I don’t get it,” Eckbert asked, “why did Bassenheim surrender so readily? Did he intend to break the engagement all along.”

“Yes,” Magdalena said, “Bassenheim told me back when we were being matchmaked. He wanted to refuse the engagement. He was even going to strike himself out of the family succession if he had to.”

“So he was talking about another girl,” grunted Astrid, pouting at his bizarre behaviour, “I had a feeling it was this way. But ‘sunshine’, apparently, didn’t hear the whole thing, so he thought he meant you.”

“But if that’s the case,” Eckbert queried, “who was he talking about?”

“I dunno,” Astrid griped, “lots of girls. What, are girls not allowed to play football or play arcade games? They’re not a rare species, you know.”

“To be honest,” Magdalena mused, staring coyly at Astrid, “he did mention someone who looked just like you. Short orange hair, a head shorter than most… Umm… A boyish frame? he’s known you since middle school, yes? He’s talked a lot about you, strangely enough.”

“No, he wouldn’t talk about me that way,” Astrid waved off, quite dismissive of the idea, “we’re just friends. Besides, I can’t be the only girl in this world with that profile, much as I hate to admit it.”

“No,” Eckbert uttered, his eyes drifting to the high school students behind as they passed off a weird look, “apparently not…”

Twisting her hips back as she looked at the wards, the girls eyes soon fixed on the other Kaufmann in the crowd. Short orange hair, vertically challenged and a lack of frontal assets, Zisel blinked a bit as the crowd around her stared on. Confused, she uttered, “why is everyone looking at me like that?”

Astrid, the elder by five years, had distress written all over her face…

__________________________​

Bar, Swissôtel Kaiserhof, Kyonigsberg, Kyonigsbergskaya Stolitsa
Present, 30th January, 2016 C.E.

“You wanted to marry that imp~!? Are you insane~!?”

Clustered in front of the bar top as the hotel’s guests enjoyed the night, the two hapless duellists were busy clearing the mix-up. The reveal, frankly, was not much of a surprise for Reinhard. Having walked in on the duo’s conversation midway, he should have suspected it was meant to be a moment of confession for the daft colonel. But the fiery blonde was so seething over Kurzeme’s engagement news he had jumped the gun in spectacular fashion. On hindsight, he was probably glad the duel was the only embarrassment that came off it.

“You have something against her, pretty boy,” quipped the rosy colonel, having downed his fifth pint of beer, “don’t play mum. You’re sore over cadet training, that’s why.”

“I’m not sore,” Reinhard blathered, himself feeling a bit tipsy over his Pilsner, “why should I be sore? I outrank her! I’m just-*gurp* I’m trying to save you from a life of utmost misery and woe~.”

“Captain, you don’t know her like I do,” Ulrich poked with a dizzy smile, “we’ve been through middle school, high school, et cetera… She’s not all bad~.”

“How long did it take you to find out she’s a woman,” Reinhard bantered, “I spent the first few weeks believing she’s just some effeminate pretty boy trying to act like a brute. The truth is… much harsher…”

“What, you try to sneak into the showers to pull a prank on her,” Ulrich joked, downing his next glass.

“No, are you crazy,” Reinhard denied, “I could have been hauled off by the MPs for that! And we were on cleaning duty that day! Some dope had knocked off the sign on the ladies’ showers! She nearly gouged my eyes out when she came out!”

Laughing his lungs out, Ulrich quipped, “you lucky bastard~! You should be more tactful than that~!”

“My god,” grumbled Reinhard, “and it was wilderness survival training the next day… Really, are you sure you want someone like her in your life? Better yet, are you sure it’s not her sister you have eyes on.”

“I’m very sure,” Ulrich assured him, “I’m not a pedophile, I think I can tell the difference.”

Chuckling in relent; the lad raised his glass, proclaiming, “if you’re so confident, then be my guest. Don’t say I never warned you. Of course, it’s still not too late to hold on to that engagement, though I will fight for it.”

Raising his glass in kind, Ulrich replied confident, “no, Captain Sommer, I give my blessing to you and Lady Kurzeme. If I’ve ever made a mistake with marrying that ‘imp’, let it be mine alone.”

“Very well,” Reinhard agreed, stifling a hiccup, “to your mistake then~! Cheers~!”

Reinhard von Sommer got the engagement he was hoping for. Though his sweetheart Magdalene remained agitated by his reckless wager of her, the two would go on to a happy and fruitful relationship.

As for Ulrich, that is a story for another time. His title and inheritance for a navy imp, it is a wager he alone seemed crazy enough to make.

OOC Notes:

1. UN Peacekeeping Mission in the D.R. Congo

Cast

• Prussian Navy
  • Starshina/Master Sergeant (OR-8) Astrid Kaufmann (CV: アネット・ホーゼンフェルト)
  • Captain 2nd Rank (OF-4) Reinhard von Sommer (CV: ラインハルト・フォン・ローエングラム)
  • Captain-Lieutenant (OF-2) Eckbert Berger (CV: ジークフリード・キルヒアイス)
  • Bellingshausen Naval Academy (clockwise from top left)
    • Kursant/Cadet Serik Ospanov (CV: イクスアイン)
      
    • Kursant/Cadet Rudolf Karlstein (CV: エルエルフ)
    • Kursant/Cadet Darius Adomaitis (CV: ハーノイン)
    • Kursant/Cadet Anton Yartsev (CV: クーフィア)
    • Kursant/Cadet Yaroslav Golitsyn (CV: アードライ)
• Prussian Army
  • Colonel (OF-5) Ulrich Burchard von Bassenheim (CV: プロイセン/ギルベルト・バイルシュミット)
• Singenwaldhang Girls High School (from left to right)
  • Aušra Švedaitė (CV: 高坂 穂乃果)
  • Ritva Pajari (CV: 園田 海未)
  • Mariyne Mugu (CV: 南 ことり)
  • Maria Hayrapetyan (CV: 西木野 真姫)
  • Tarana Irevani (CV: 矢澤 にこ)
  • Vasilka Lyobomirova Toncheva (CV: 絢瀬 絵里)
  • Ludmilla Aleksandrovna von Ungern-Sternberg (CV: 東條 希)
  • Leila Pääsuke (CV: 小泉 花陽)
  • Zisel Kaufmann (CV: 星空 凛)

• Guests
  • Magdalena von Kurzeme (CV: ヒルデガルド・フォン・マリーンドルフ)

 

[Remitonov]

澳门，中华人民共和国特別行政區
早晨，二月六日，西元2016年

Macau, Special Administrative Region of the People’s Republic of China
Morning, 6th February, 2016 C.E.

Macau, Las Vegas of the east. Since its return to Chinese rule in 1999, Macau had remained largely unchanged under the auspices of the ‘One Country, Two Systems’ policy. While its sister city-state, Hong Kong, was rocked by growing democratic and separatist sentiment, Macau’s relative quiet provided its own set of unease for its residents. While the ruling Communist party was willing to tolerate the presence of the very sins that it had sought to eradicate in the past, it was clear their intent had always been full reintegration of the former colonies within the half-century. That the towering, glittering casinos may one day exist only as an extension of the mainland was a difficult pill to swallow.

“I’m surprised you are willing to accept our invitation, Mr Haneda,” a PLA officer in a formal business suit declared to a bored, disheveled man, with a smoke, driving a classy sedan through the glitz and glamour of the ‘Las Vegas of the East’, “we are most grateful for the esteemed Relic Hunter to be attending our commemoration of the Chinese Civil War.”

“No need to flatter me, Lieutenant Huang,” grunted the lad, “I’m not the one writing your pay cheque. Besides, my bosses ordered me to attend in the name of, I don’t know… reconciliation?”

“Yes, your grandfather had given our soldiers great pain;” the lieutenant replied with a chuckle, “the civil war would not have dragged on this long if not for him. Though, I sense you feel the same toward us. Some among us may never find it in them to forgive the West. But, we are a changed people now, and if at all possible, we hope we never have to fight again.”

“Uh huh…” blurted Shura, half-listening to his preaching, “’socialism with Chinese characteristics’… They’re not kidding when they say money rules the world.”

“Ahahaha,” chuckled the junior, scratching his hair, “funny you should say that.”

Twitching his mouth, however, Shura knew better than to ask further. Economic liberalization was likely one of the only things that the West approved of the Chinese. The realization that economic reform need not be followed on with political reform was a hard pill to swallow for Westerners. For those who lived behind the Iron Curtain, however, such shock felt a lot like hypocrisy, when the United States had spent the entire Cold War propping up dictatorships that would give them basic anti-communist lip service. In many respects, the Chinese Communist had not really changed. Gone was the ideological fanaticism that drove the Maoist economic debacles and civil chaos. And in came a powerful, prosperous hegemon equal to the dynasties of old, ready to take on the West for influence and dominance as a great power again.

“That reminds me,” Huang commented, “why do you still use a Japanese name? Haneda Shura… Are you worried people might recognize you as the great-grandson of the Mad Baron?”

“Hm… I guess that’s one reason,” Shura admitted, a bit miffed at the mention, “I’m not Roman von Ungern-Sternberg, and I’m not the Lion of Xinjiang. And damn you if you keep calling me the ‘Relic Hunter’. What next? Gambling Queen?”

Laughing earnestly at his sarcastic quip, the officer replied, “you have quite the sense of humour, Mr Shura. I do not know about your child, but I do think Ms Wu would be very flattered to be called the ‘Gambling Queen’.”

Shura, as usual did not take this too well. He had a pretty bad opinion of Ms Wu, the scion of the only branch family of the Ungern-Sternbergs. Her existence was a reminder of his clan’s foray in China, after their patriarch, the Mad Baron Roman Teodorovich, escaped to Manchuria. A folktale told on and on in many novels, dramas and movies in the Sinosphere, Shura was admittedly not a fan of his family’s colourful legacy. Worse, his identity and own exploits made for film gold, something he still found hard to get over.

“Then I take it you’ve heard of the ‘The Epic of the White Lion’,” the black-haired lieutenant queried, “I read it when I was in the army. A novel equal to his father’s work.”

Shura grimaced at the officer’s words. Given the fantastic elements that made up his own family legacy, he found it hard to say whether a reckless, lovelorn son who tried to hang himself was truly a writer equal to the legendary Jin Yong. Still, the writer Zha Chuanxia had managed to turn an autobiography into a wuxia novel. Or perhaps, it had always had the potential to.[1]

“Hong Kong made a killing regurgitating that story,” griped Shura, “how could I not know? If I had to hear another person speak of it, I’m going to-”

“Alright, aright,” chimed the lieutenant, choosing to allay his concerns, “I won’t mention it then. You’re probably going to see it way more often from here. We’re almost at the hotel anyway. Come, I’ll show you around.”

____________________________________

Hotel Lisboa, Macau, Special Administrative Region of the People’s Republic of China
Morning, 6th February, 2017 C.E.
Later

Casino Lisboa, the jewel of the city of sin…

A vast complex run by a local tycoon, the resort has become the symbol of fortune and luxury in Macau. Despite years of communist rule under an autonomous system, the central authorities had yet to crack down on the hives of debauchery. And it appeared unlikely that any reversion of communist rule at the end of its fifty-year lease would put them under threat. Sifting the vast, glitzy casino that spans the entire floor, the UNESCO agent was hardly blind to the irony. Many within the throngs of suit-wearing gentlemen and well-dressed ladies at the game tables hid ties to Beijing with carefully-guarded precision. And the corruption that had taken root since Deng Xiaoping’s economic reforms would hardly be expected to be rooted out by one strongman.

“That bitch would go crazy if she were here,” he wondered to himself, taking the opportunity to take a smoke, “and they say I have no moral compass.”

“Well, I guess you should be thankful Ms Wu’s in school, then,” chimed the lieutenant, “quite a few girls has taken quite an interest in her, I heard”

“What is she, lesbian,” Shura bluntly queried, a bit disturbed by his words.

Wagging his finger playfully, however, the officer refuted gleefully, “who know, but rest assured, that’s not what I meant by ‘interest’, Mr Shura.”

“You have such an imagination, Cousin~. But don’t worry, I don’t swing that way… perhaps~.”

A familiar squeal chirping into his ear, the shocked ‘relic hunter’ found himself choking on his smoke, pulling the bud out of his mouth as he tried to clear his lungs. Looking over his shoulder, a hazel-eyed girl with long black hair was hovering over him, her red blazon and ribbon tie hallmarks of her infamously elite Macanese school. Stubbing his cigarette on an ash tray, he wheezed at the sight of the suspiciously unhinged relative. She was clearly underage, and her dealer-like school uniform did little to hide that.

“What the hell are you doing here,” hissed Shura, clearly a bit startled, “shouldn’t you be in school?”

“School hours are over, Cousin,” chimed the girl, “but don’t worry, I’m not allowed to gamble here. I’m underage.”

“That sounds reassuring,” griped the elder sarcastically, still coughing up the tar from his throat, “then what are you doing here?”

Revealing a brochure from her sleeve, the high school girl presented a monochrome picture of a team of Chinese soldiers storming the front, declaring, “I’m here for the Second Sino-Japanese War and Civil War exhibition. You’re here for it too, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” griped the middle-aged man, “I’m working… Besides, shouldn’t you be at home studying or something?”

“We're on a field trip here, Cousin,” teased the young girl, “because of the exhibition. Not to mention, we gamble all the time in school. You were pretty agitated when you first heard that, remember?”

Rolling his eyes, Shura had a feeling they had this planned. Everyone wanted to hear the story from the man himself; the grandson of the Lion of Xinjiang, Nikolai Romanovich. The blossoming violet before him, Wu Wanling, was his cousin, the granddaughter of the Hero of Shanxi and Nikolai’s brother, Alexei. Two Baltic German brothers of mixed blood who adopted the identities of the local Orientals… It was why the two of them had East Asian names.

Reaching the exhibition hall, the relic hunter could see lines upon lines of portraits, photographs and relics posted along the length of the room. Everywhere, throngs of guests were busy soaking in the sights, from authentic Hanyang 88s to masterpiece shots of pivotal battles. Perhaps the most prominent was a painting of two Eurasian brothers, one in Maoist uniform and another in a more lavishly decorated Nationalist one. Fending off waves of Japanese attackers in a Chinese inn armed only with swords, much of which appear stripped of the heavy propaganda of the era. But Shura knew better than to think this was for show. After all, he recognised the two in the painting.

“’Stand of the Two Brothers’,” Shura read the title of the portrait, “it’s almost like they were together from the get-go.”

“They weren’t, Mr Haneda?” queried the officer, intrigued by his words.

“No,” stated the relic hunter, “my grandfather was there to negotiate with the Japs, not fight them. It was her grandfather that made him change his mind. Nikolai… no… Temur was never loyal to anyone but himself, but he was willing to make an exception for his only family, at least back then.”

Jamsarangiin Temur, as Nikolai was known in the Far East, was a man of questionable morality. But for all his faults as a blood knight, he still had a distinct code of honour to follow. Placing value on his subordinates as family, he was raised among the disparate Mongol nomads of western Manchuria. Coming of age, he hoped to join the White Russian remnants in Xinjiang in their resistance against the Soviets. What he discovered deeply shocked him.

‘These were lost men, many of whom had become content simply ekeing out a miserable living,’ read the excerpt from the book, displayed on the Xinjiang exhibit beside the painting, ‘the communist scourge had broken their spirits, a far greater victory for them than breaking their bones.’

Incensed by Colonel Pappengut’s complicity in a Moscow-led alliance to prop up the local pro-Soviet warlord, Jin Shuren, he sought to take over command of the White Russian army and eliminate the puppet and his masters. Whether by great fortune or a covert plot, Pappengut died choking on his teatime snack, effectively handing Nikolai command. Moreover, the Nationalist-aligned Ma clique was waging war against the Xinjiang clique, keeping Jin’s loyalists distracted. Sensing a chance, he rallied the demoralized warlord’s troops against him, toppling his regime and purging the capital of Urumqi of Soviet sympathizers and advisors. Earning the name ‘Lion of Xinjiang’ for his exploits, he was able to cajole the Ma warlords to return home, and pledging his loyalty to Chiang in a letter written in blood.

But Nikolai was only half the story.

“Sounds very fascinating, Cousin,” Wanling chimed, clapping her hands eagerly, “you sound like a sagely storyteller when you say it.”

“Are you calling me old, you damn brat,” Shura griped.

“No, no,” the straight-haired girl declared with her signature smirk, “I’d never think of it.”

“Well,” Huang mused, “if I have to compare, if this were a Jin Yong novel, Temur would have been the Yang Kang to Shimin’s Jing Guo.”

“I can’t say,” Shura grumbled, “people are more complex than that.”

The myth of the ambitious and battle-addicted Temur, and the righteous but naïve Shimin had been perpetuated for decades since the Chinese Civil War. A story of two brothers fighting to resist the Japanese invaders, before being forced to turn on each other had long been remembered as a novel worthy of Jin Yong’s heir. But the truth was far more complicated, with both men possessing depths that defy the myth around them. Temur, for all his ambition and lust for conflict, cared deeply for his men and family, while Shimin paid dearly for his loyalty to the communists, publicly humiliated and criticized by the Red Guards for his foreign, noble blood. In truth, both men had their strength and flaws, and neither could truly fit into the archetype of the heroes and villains of Jin Yong's novels. Sadly, it was the memory of others that decided the story of the brothers, not themselves.

“Do you hate him then,” Shura queried grimly, turning to the two, “the Lion of Xinjiang.”

It was not an easy question to answer honestly, especially for the officer. Throughout the Civil War, few among the Nationalists tormented the PLA more than Temur. While the PLA’s own commanders, including Shimin, were undoubtedly talented, they were often outmatched by the unorthodox and often savage tactics of the warlord. Temur thought like a guerrilla, and understood the grave disadvantages faced by his side against a force with immense popular and material support. To that end, he eagerly put PLA forces through the most sadistic choices, razing villages to deny the PLA vital food supplies, and driving starving innocents towards them to slow them down. Rumours of Nationalist sympathies were often sown in their warpath, dividing families and haunting the nerves of the most steeled soldier. And his favoured tactic of supply raids only frustrated them to no end. As the famed PLA marshal Lin Biao once remarked, ‘one lion is one too many already.’

“He was definitely a worthy opponent,” Huang admitted, “I can’t, in good faith, approve of his actions, but he did what he must to ensure victory for his side. Brigadier Wu once said if he had spent more time reconnecting with him, he might have convinced Temur to change sides. Is that even possible?”

Shaking his head, Shura confirmed, “I don’t think it’ll be as simple as that. Wu Shimin grew up in Yan’an with the Chinese communists. He would not have had the heart to hate those he knew personally, for a homeland he had never seen, or a name he had never used. The same could not be said for my grandfather. The Mad Baron raised him personally; taught him the ways of Imperial Russia. My grandfather resented the poverty forced upon him by the communists. Call it ego all you want. He had always prided himself as a man of superior intellect among clowns of all shades.”

His final stand in Shanghai epitomized the fatalistic zeal Temur had against the communists. Disowning his brother as a traitor to their family, he shamelessly exploited Shimin’s sympathies for the common people to jeopardize his conquest of the city. Allowing the civilians out of the city to surrender to the PLA while harassing their supply lines, Temur had managed to strain PLA resources in the region. The remnants of his army still wreaking havoc behind enemy lines and in the city; he managed to buy time for the bulk of the Nationalist force to escape south. His final act of defiance – blowing a section of streets mined with underground explosives where he stood – cost the PLA dearly. Having denied the Hero of Shanxi and his fellows the chance to capture or kill him, Temur’s remains were never found. He is still remembered in the giant mausoleum in Taipei built in his honour, with the only interred remains being a lock of his hair donated by his wife.

“A simple life,” Shura concluded, “would have never satisfied him, and certainly not the life led by my granduncle.”

However, looking up at the portraits of their grandparents, the contrast between the two families were less stark than believed. Dressed in ornate Mongolian deels with his wife, Temur and his spouse looked strangely out of place, both Eurasians borne by Russian exiles and their Oriental spouses. His wife, Kseniya, fit in slightly better. The daughter of the infamous Transbaikal Cossack, Grigory Semyonov, her stringy black hair and dark eyes belie a wild woman accustomed to the Manchurian steppes. In contrast, the uniform-wearing Shimin was paired with a young brunette decked in a proper, red Chinese wedding gown. Both brothers, whose family had been uprooted from the Russian homeland, chose to plant their roots on the other side of the world. And their very names and appearances, which once bore the house of the Mad Baron, reflected that change.

“'The Red teaching shall spread east',” Wanling recited, reading the opening line of excerpt of Chuanxia’s novel, “'and Khanate shall breathe its last. Refuge will provide no solace. The line of Ungern-Sternberg shall end with Roman 'the Mad'.' Legend has it that a lama once foretold to Baron Ungern-Sternberg his family’s fate. He foresaw the defeat of his army by Choibalsan’s communist forces, and that the family line would end with him. If that was the case, why are we still around?”

“Hell if I know,” Shura grunted, “maybe it was just bunk.”

“No,” Wanling refuted, staring back at the monochrome portraits of the brothers and their newly-wedded wives, “perhaps prophecies should not be taken too literally.”

Two brothers, locked in a war for a homeland’s future… it was little wonder why such stories made for the material of novels and legends. But the story of the Mad Baron’s clan was still being written, as were the stories of countless others. And though neither branches held to the name as tightly as before, their legends would continue to be recorded for generations to come.

Their legacies are still being felt today…

​

OOC Notes:

1. IOTL, Zha Chuanxia, the son of author Jin Yong of Legend of the Condor Heroes fame, committed suicide over a quarrel with his girlfriend at Columbia University. ITTL, he survived, with the rope untying itself due to poorly made knots. He went on to write the semi-autobiographical account of Nikolai von Ungern-Sternberg's life, 'The Lion of Xinjiang'. While said to be of slightly poorer quality to his father's legendary wuxia novels, it proved to be a popular read regardless.

Cast:

• 2016
  • Shura Haneda (Japanese: 羽田 修羅, Haneda Shura) (CV: 你 健一)
    • Other Name: Aleksandr Leonidovich von Ungern-Sternberg (Russian: Александр Леонидович фон Унгерн-Штернберг)
    • Moniker: 'Relic Hunter'
  • 2nd Lieutenant Huang Zhihai (Simplified Mandarin: 黃智海) (CV: 叶修)
    • Other Name: Hwang Ji-hae (Korean: 황지해)
  • Wu Wanling (Simplified Mandarin: 吴婉玲) (CV: 蛇喰 夢子)
• 1940s
  • Jamtsangiin Temur (Mongolian Cyrillic: Жамсрангийн Темур) (CV: 沖田 総司)
    • Other Name: Nikolai Romanovich von Ungern-Sternberg (Russian: Николай Романович фон Унгерн-Штернберг)
    • Moniker: 'Lion of Xinjiang'
  • Wu Shimin (Simplified Mandarin: 吴世民) (CV: 橘 純一)
    • Other Name: Alexei Romanovich von Ungern-Sternberg (Russian: Алексей Романович фон Унгерн-Штернберг)
    • Moniker: 'Hero of Shanxi'
  • Kseniya Grigorievna Semyonova (Russian: Ксения Григорьевна Семенова) (CV: 棚町薫)
  • Huang Zhuling (Simplified Mandarin: 黄朱玲) (CV: 上崎 裡沙)

 

[Remitonov]

While I plan for my next post and get bogged down by work, here's an info dump I made on Tuva some time ago. I figured I'd put this out since I'd probably not be able to finish the omake on it. Anyway, enjoy Russian Far Cry 4. :3

Tuva – The Forgotten Steppes

​

Beginnings

The days leading to the collapse of the Soviet Union was one of tumultuous change. While some, particularly the Baltic States, celebrate the liberation of their homeland from Soviet occupation, others throughout the country greeted the demise with apathy, uncertainty and even fear. But perhaps the least noticeable of the republics that emerged from the chaos was Tuva, one of the few landlocked countries in the world today. Its geographic isolation allowed the small nation to remain largely unchanged for many centuries, and its modern history, while overlooked by most historians, is every bit as colourful as its age-old steppes.

At 170,500 square kilometres, Tuva is of relatively similar size to other Central Asian republics, between Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan. Bordering the Turkic and Mongolic regions of Russia to the north, and Mongolia to the south, Tuva shares a common heritage and history with the area as a whole. At the turn of the 20th Century, Tuva has largely fallen under the Russian sphere, first as a Tsarist protectorate, and then as a Soviet puppet state. Its incorporation into the Soviet Union in 1944 was greeted with little fanfare or outrage. Stalin himself was said to have thought little of the annexation, simply signing off the directive and granting its leader, Salchak Toka, the title of First Secretary of the Tyvan Communist Party. Its status as a Soviet Socialist Republic was also of great mystery, with widespread support within the pro-Soviet government for downgrading its status into an ASSR. The proposal, which would grant Tuva access to funding for infrastructure and other necessities from the Russians S.F.S.R., was ignored by the Kremlin for obscure reasons. In the end, enthusiasm for ASSR status within the Tuvan Communists waned without a word, and Tuva remained a full SSR up till the union’s collapse in 1991.[1]

Tuva’s independence following the August Coup was yet again met with apathy and ignorance. The nomadic ways of the average Tuvan had changed little since the days of Genghis Khan, and the Turco-Mongolic people have lived in relative peace with Russian settlers who flooded the city of Kyzyl (now Khem-Beldir). However, as 1990 signalled the impending end of Soviet rule, Tuvan national consciousness ignited throughout the small republic. The formation of the Tuvan Democratic Movement, and later, terror attacks against the Russian community, sent shockwaves throughout Tuva. Russian troops were called in to restore order, and Russian settlers began leaving in droves. Throughout the chaos, few analysts who even bothered to notice Tuva were certain it would dovetail back under Russian rule. But what came after proved shocking, and as some Tuvans would attest, miraculous.

The Voice of Buddha

As the Soviet Union’s only Buddhist-majority republic, the Turkic Tuvan nation has more in common with its Altai and Mongolic neighbours than the Muslims of Central Asia. In the turmoil of early independence and political divisions between the still-popular Tuvan Communist Party and the Tuvan Democratic Movement, a new, spiritual force, had began to grow in strength. Calling itself ‘The Voice of Buddha’, the religious movement, rooted in Tuva’s Tibetan Buddhist roots, initially aimed at reviving Tuvan spiritual and cultural roots and reversing what they termed as ‘cultural pollution’ resulting from its influence under the atheist Soviet regime. Aligning with the Tuvan Democratic Movement, the coalition narrowly defeated the communist in Tuva’s first elections in 1992, and rejected an accession deal by the Russian Federation. But its leader, the monk Dorje Rinchen, had far greater plans. As Lamaist influence spread throughout the government and its nascent army, the Voice of Buddha waited out the withdrawal of Russian forces, before staging a bloodless coup.

The Tuvan Republic, barely over a year old by then, was replaced by the Tuvan State in October 1992. A Buddhist theocracy under Rinchen, the Tuvan State sought to model itself after the old Tibetan state. In its rule, the Tuvan State under the Voice of Buddha has had a mixed record. Popular support for the government was burgeoning, and relations between Russia and Mongolia improved. However, Rinchen’s suspension of elections in the Little Khural, dictatorial rule through an advisory council of lamas, and the suppression of religious freedoms (Orthodox Christianity and atheism his primary targets), was met with widespread condemnation among human rights groups in the West. That Rinchen himself was a former Red Army officer and Russian convert, Ivan Bobrov, added a cruel sense of irony. And yet, observers struggled to explain Rinchen’s popularity among the local inhabitants, which ranged for devout belief to an outright cult of personality. Regardless, life under the Lamaist regime had generally improved, with great effort put into modern infrastructure, and preserving and rediscovering Tuvan culture and language.

However, things came to a head in 1999 when the mummified body of the 12th Pandito Hambo Lama, Dashi-Dorzho Itigelov, was reported missing from the Ivolginsky Datsan in Buryatia. Shocked monks found an empty grave freshly unearthed, and a note addressed by Russian members of the Voice of Buddha to the monastery had claimed the supreme leader himself had ‘granted asylum’ to Itigelov, reputing to have dreaded of his fate at the hands of the conservative Orthodox Christian authorities. Rumours of orchestration by Russian intelligence were abound, and Russian forces were poised to invade the rogue state. However, intervention from the UN and vetoes from the United States and its allies prevented all out war. To mediate the crisis, UNESCO’s top artefact recovery expert, Shura Haneda (otherwise known as Aleksandr von Ungern-Sternberg), was sent to Tuva to obtain its return. His recovery of the mummy, and his identity as the Mad Baron's great-grandson, has since become a popular legend, entering the silver screen in the box office hit, ‘Relic Hunter’.

End of Theocracy

“In my time as your leader, I have sought to restore light and peace to the fearful hearts of the Tuva. In turn, I myself have become corrupted by the influence of the material world. Thus, I seek to renew myself in the word of Buddha and devote myself to His peaceful study. I ask only for your blessing, and that you continue to follow the path of enlightenment.” – Dorje Rinchen

The end of the Tuvan State, ironically, came not with a revolution, but by Rinchen’s own word. Declaring his intent to retreat back into monasticism and rededicate his life to Buddhist teaching, Rinchen abruptly resigned as supreme leader shortly after, abolishing the Tuvan State in its present condition. He ordered a draft of a new constitution, restoring the electoral vote and commanding his council to return power to the Little Khural. His departure for his hometown of Kyonigsberg, Prussia, was met by hordes of weeping followers and well-wishers at Khem-Beldir Airport. The reasons for his epiphany had remained murky, though popular legend insisted that in a battle to the death with Haneda, the spirit of Itigelov himself had reached out to Rinchen, imploring him to repent. While unsubstantiated by a lack of witness accounts, the effects of popular perceptions, heightened with the movie hit, had only strengthened since.

His arrival at Povunden International Airport, in contrast to his departure, was met by angry protests worldwide, with some demanding his trial at The Hague for human rights violations. However, charges levied against him on the International Court of Justice were thrown out over technicalities. Rinchen subsequently spent his time in the Kyonigsberg Temple since. And while he lamented that his rule had caused undue suffering to those who did not fit into his vision of Tuva, he had maintained that his actions were in the country’s best interests.

Tuva since his departure had remained relatively calm. Though political deadlock between democrats and Lamaists in the Little Khural had since gripped the country, the nomadic lifestyle of its people remained relatively unchanged. Russian influence in the republic remained largely limited, due to Tuva’s inaccessibility and dependence on Russian ports and airspace for trade. In all, the upheavals of the 90s had made little change to the quiet steppes of Tuva, and while the modernity of the outside world continues to creep in, Tuvans remain confident that their traditions and faith will endure through the 21st Century.

OOC Notes:

1. PoD. I believe Tuva's annexation and downgrade to ASSR may be due to a variety of reasons, but Russian minorities and the promise of Russian federal support and public funding may have a lot to do with it.

Cast:

• Dorje Rinchen (pictured) (CV: レヴァン・フウ)
  • Original Name: Ivan Bobrov (Russian: Иван Бобров)
• Shura Haneda (Japanese: 羽田 修羅, Haneda Shura) (CV: 你 健一)