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Republic of Turkey (Yenileme)

The most bizarre partnership, temporary or permanent, of 20th-century history may have been the productive rapport between the Yenileme movement and the Republic of Armenia.

In the aftermath of the June Revolution and the eviction of the Unitarians’ rivals from Constantinople, Akarsu Kubilay’s government inherited a significant portion of the Ottoman Empire’s army and law enforcement and controlled most of western Anatolia. Though Kubilay would certainly have liked to gather the forces of his new territories and march into Karin [2] and Yerevan, he recognized that every day spent fighting the Armenian rebels was another day in which more dangerous foes like Ottoman loyalists and Arab nationalists were left alone. Meanwhile, the Armenian leadership, which generally wanted independence to be as bloodless as possible, reasoned that securing peace with the Union would allow Yerevan to spend less on the military and more on nation-building. An Armenian offer to sell some of the military supplies they had covertly received from Visegrad’s new Black Sea Fleet vindicated Kubilay’s refusal to convene hostilities, and led to a more comprehensive agreement for peace. The Sivas Conference was not a smooth process—a vein in the eye of Hagop Hovhannisyan, a future Democrat of the Armenian Republic, reportedly popped from sheer stress during an argument with a young Tevfik Rüştü Aras—but a deal was hammered out by April 1914. The Armenian Republic would not gain a coastline on the Black Sea or Lake Van, but it was permitted a shore on Lake Urmia and recognition of its full sovereignty. In return, the Armenian government granted the Union most favored nation status for trading purposes and agreed to accept Armenian immigrants from the lands of the Union, to whom the Union would grant safe passage.

The value of the Union as a trade partner was not immediately clear. One of Kubilay’s early ideas was to not create any replacement for the Ottoman lira, in the belief that money artificially separated the people from each other. Taxes ending up being charged “in kind,” a practice that translated to allowing soldiers to march into farmers’ homes and requisition their crops at will. 1915 was marked by a wholesale reversion to barter trade in urban areas. The Unitarian subcommittee for the economy decided, with Kubilay’s permission, to unveil the manat (derived from “moneta,” a word plucked straight from the Polish lexicon that meant “coin” in the Unitarian language) in 1916. The new currency was used to pay the Union’s soldiers and the civilians who did reconstruction work in the cities. To give the money value, department stores were set up in the Union’s major cities to sell food or items that the Union had produced or looted. By 1917, the manat, backed by the gold that the Union gathered over the course of its campaigns, was a medium of exchange, a store of value, and a unit of account. It had become a true currency, on which future prosperity could be built— and none too soon, for the oil boom was about to begin. In 1918, the Union hired a Swedish company that exploited oil in Vespucia (the manat was never freely convertible on the international market, so the Union had to pay with the precious metalworks and gemstones of the former Imperial Palace) to examine the old Ottoman oil works around Basra and suggest ways to enlarge them. Sweden had no real reason to follow France’s and Germania’s lead on restricting trade with the Union; it was furious at the movers and shakers of Europe, and didn’t feel that the faraway Unitarians posed much of a threat to its conservative society. With Swedish technical and managerial assistance, the Union became a behemoth. The oil of the Gulf was sold to anyone who wasn’t disgusted enough with the Union or enamored enough with the state of postwar Europe to refuse the Unitarians. The customer list had a few regulars— Sweden, Lithuania, India, Japan, the South Vespucians— and shifted over time, as countries grew more or less friendly with the Union.

The Union’s economic growth began to affect Armenia in the early 1920s. Akarsu Kubilay died in 1922, and his protege and successor Tevfik Rüştü Aras made sure that the oil boom’s benefits were invested wherever possible. Oil funded improvements in coal mining along the Black Sea coast, allowing the Union an energy source that it could use at home while selling oil abroad. The Union hired more foreigners, seeking out college-educated engineers and scientists in Europe’s Unitarian associations. Young men and women with few prospects in their capitalist homelands were urged to come to the Union and build Weber’s promised society. In a major milestone for modernization, the Union developed the ability to safely and efficiently mine aluminum and diamonds, and use them to produce its own drill bits for the oil industry. As public order was restored across the Union, allowing families to settle down in a state-built apartment and get a job at the local publicly-owned company, domestic demand for consumer products grew and the Union could, incredibly, meet it. With every step of modernization—the oil industry, the housing boom, and the knock-on effects on other industries like metallurgy, textiles, basic manufacturing, increasingly advanced technology—the Union not only meet but exceeded its production targets. The surplus could be sold, but not by the Union itself. Too many countries still, rightly, feared strengthening it. Here, Armenia became useful. As an island of relative stability, Armenia could be trusted by the Union to keep valuable goods safe. As its traditional merchant families, augmented by new emigrants from the Union, built up links with partners old and new in Persia, Georgia, Volga Russia, and beyond, Armenia proved that it could put money to work, investing it wisely to earn massive returns [3]. Over the course of the 1920s, Armenia grew into an exporter of chrome, steel, aluminum, textiles, automobiles, and other goods which it should never have been able to create in any appreciable quantities on its own. Though Germania responded with targeted restrictions on certain Armenian goods, most other countries saw the loophole for what it was and slid right through it. Armenia prospered, and used its prosperity to buy even more Unitarian goods even as the working conditions in which such goods were made became painfully clear.


As Sefa Armagan's nascent Yenilemist state declared war on the Kurds, Armenia considered its options. Bands of Kurds, with few prospects of employment in the civil service or military of a dying empire, once made a living out of raiding Armenian villages in the late days of the Ottoman Era. Meanwhile the Union had been, for all its faults, a productive ally. Better still, the new Yenilemists— not so much an ideological movement as a coalition of anti-Union pragmatists— were open to negotiation with Armenia, and favored common-sense measures like keeping the old Union manat notes in circulation until some future end to hostilities. The Union-built railway between Sivas and Karin was reopened, and Armenian troops massed along the border with Kurdistan. Armenia didn’t clamor for war—the government was more comfortable with supplying economic aid to the Yenilemists, and the people with re-establishing the Turkish-Armenian economic exchange and strengthening the institutions of their own democratic republic—but if the Kurds were to suddenly collapse militarily, Armenia might get its shore on Lake Van after all.

Republic of Kurdistan


The Sublime State of Shirvan was sure of one thing—the collapse of Kurdistan and the expansion of Armenian influence were equally unacceptable, especially when one led to the other.

Shirvan, a centuries-old Azeri-speaking monarchy in the Caucasus, declared the end of its Ottoman vassalage after Kubilay’s June Revolution. The Union attempted to negotiate a sale of the former empire’s Azeri provinces, but the Shirvanshah’s spies had already learned that the Union was territorially cut off from the Azeri lands by Armenia and would not be able to resist a Shirvani conquest. Relenting, the Union’s representatives offered promises of non-aggression in exchange for the contents of the Ottoman treasury in Ganja. This deal went through, and after the neutralization of Republican and anarchist pockets of resistance in the mountains of Anatolia, the Union was ready to begin its campaigns against the Kurds.

The policy of “Denationalization,” as it came to be known, was born during the Kurdish pacification campaigns. To denationalize, an aging Kubilay would explain to a young Aras, was not to kill. Denationalization done right was to keep the people, but remove the idea of nationhood. In other words, it was not necessary to destroy all mosques— closing down half while keeping the other half under surveillance from planted spies, and restricting the population from displays of faith outside the boundaries of the mosque, could successfully denationalize a group. It would make their delusional beliefs a private matter, and private beliefs cannot mount a successful challenge to pan-human unity. Mecca did not have to be razed to the ground when a ban on the hajj would suffice. Sure, it was one of the pillars of Islam—but if the sick and disabled didn’t have to go, then surely the remaining Muslims could figure out some excuse to avoid that particular duty. Aras, upon taking power in 1922, followed this policy to its natural conclusions. Agriculture was mechanized— a few true believers of Unitarianism, armed with tractors and chemical fertilizers, could produce the same agricultural output as a whole village of Kurdish peasants— and the resulting dispossessed peasants migrated to cities to find jobs in the new factories. In the process, their tribal identities weakened and the Unitarian state enveloped them, providing them their money, their food, their houses, their lives. New schools were built in Kurdish towns. The first five academic grades— the only compulsory ones— encouraged students to develop literacy in Kurdish, but every subsequent grade focused on competency in Turkish and Unitarian, the de facto and de jure official languages of the Union. One could avoid becoming part of the system, but at the cost of becoming uneducated and destined for a short life of toil in the factories or the oil refineries. Wherever possible, lethal violence was avoided, but never completely. The first boats of Kurdish refugees, fleeing destroyed villages once suspected of hiding nationalist rebels, crossed Lake Urmia to reach Shirvan in the mid-1920s, and more followed.

Shirvan had, throughout the past decades, developed in opposition to the Turks. In the 1880s and 1890s, as the industrialized world’s initial whispers about oil grew into a clamor, Lithuanian investments had helped build the oil wells, refineries, and pipelines around Baku. The Ottomans protested Vilnius’s interference in the affairs of its vassal, but there was very little that it could do besides hiring French scientists to kickstart a rival oil industry. After the Great European War, Volga Russia replaced Lithuania as patron and customer, but Shirvan was not dependent on the Russians. Volga Russia and European Russia were just two consumers of Shirvani fossil fuels on a list that included the Krajina, Khiva, Circassia, Georgia, and Crimea. This already led Shirvan into a rivalry with the Armenians, whose roles as an economic middlemen required the Union’s economy to be strong and its oil industry to compete successfully with Shirvan’s. Shirvani rule of Karabakh, an Armenian-majority territory, cooled relations even further. In 1932, this was relatively immaterial. 1942 was different.

In 1942, the traditional clothes that the Kurds hid away from the regime in closets and basements finally saw sunlight. Kurdish bureaucrats across the Union used their literacy to hand in resignation letters in Unitarian and Kurdish to their superiors, and returned to their hometowns (or the places that they believed to be close enough to the ruins of their real hometowns). A collective farm in the mountains selling tobacco, managed by a Kurdish functionary and guarded by troops on his payroll, became the nucleus of a shadow government that pushed against the Unitarian authorities. That same functionary, Mustafa Salih, chaired a conference in Erbil that evolved into the First Congress of the Republic of Kurdistan. The most important member of the Congress was Murad Surchi, who, by surviving the Union’s forced disbandment of more noisy tribes, had become the most significant tribal leader remaining among the Kurds. Salih reportedly viewed Surchi himself as a source of legitimacy for the new government, and Surchi’s tribe as the nucleus of a paramilitary force that could augment the small army he already had at his disposal. Interestingly enough, representatives of the Assyrians were invited to this conference as well. Despite their differing faiths, languages, and lifestyles, the Kurds and Assyrians developed strong links, based at least partially on living in the same area and a common dislike of Turkish superiority. By the time that open war began, Salih’s government had stolen enough of the Union’s machine guns, rifles, munitions, and commanding officers of Kurdish ethnicity to give Sefa Armagan a bloody nose.


Once the new Republic proved itself capable of governing land outside its provisional capital, military aid from Shirvan arrived across Lake Urmia. Armenia disapproved, but there wasn’t much it could do— it certainly wouldn’t attack Shirvan's boats, and Shirvan had naval superiority on the lake anyways. As the Yenilemist forces launched their first raids on Kurdish encampments, each of the Caucasian rivals could only back its particular horse, and wonder privately if it had made the right choice.

United Republic of Arabia


The Arab nationalist movement of the Ottoman Civil War stood for a single, united Arab state that, while protecting traditional values, could face modernity confidently. In truth, the movement was a hodgepodge of emirs, village headmen, religious leaders, urban liberals, and even former Ottoman Republicans under the overarching control of not one but two monarchs. Hussein of Mecca, the Hashemite Sharif of his home city and the father of Tripolitania’s future Emir, is acknowledged as the “leader” of the revolt and its armed men, but Sultan Hisham of Nejd is recognized to have provided vital support. Private correspondence between the Sharif and the Sultan illustrates a vision of rotating kingship, in which the monarchs and emirs of Arabia would rule as a council and select one among their number as a pan-national leader. But this plan, designed to fit the conditions of the Arabian Peninsula, made few provisions for the society of the Levant, where identifiable emirs gave way to sects, tribes, and hometowns. Nevertheless, the Arab nationalists, united by optimism, launched a daring raid on Egyptian Palestine and Sinai in early 1914, and, seizing the Golan Heights, readied an attack on Damascus. Liberating Damascus from its warlord, a governor of Syria appointed by the now-deposed Ottomans, would assert the viability of the Arab movement. Failing or letting the city fall into Unitarian hands might prove a fatal blow. As it turned out, they were exactly right. The Battle of Damascus began with the nationalist capture of the city, but ended ignominiously as the better-armed, better-supplied, and better-trained Unitarians encircled the Arab army inside and its commander, Hussein of Mecca. In one of the most brutal maneuvers of the Ottoman Civil War, the soldiers were disarmed and, along with any in Damascus who dared voice their support for Arab nationalism, marched into the Syrian desert at gunpoint. They were supposedly meant to be “resettled” in the eastern city of Deir ez-Zor, but were given almost no food, water, or rest along the way. By the time the Union army emerged from the desert into Deir ez-Zor, which was captured in the meantime by another Union army marching down the Euphrates, 20,000 of the Arabs had been killed by starvation, sickness, thirst, heatstroke, or the simple cruelty of their captors. The nationalist movement was not strong enough to recover from the Syrian Death March. News of this unspeakable end to the early streak of victories caused some nationalist leaders to note the relatively good treatment received by those who professed loyalty to the Union. They killed their pride and defected from the movement, hoping desperately to save the lives of their people and themselves. By the start of 1915, Union control of the western Levant extended southward to the Sinai Peninsula, but notably stopped cold at a line between the western Sinai towns of Bir al Abed and Ras Sedr. West of this line lay the Suez Canal, and few among the Unitarians were delusional enough to think that attacking the Canal would endear them to the great powers.

The Arab nationalists who remained in the fight, led by Sultan Hisham, swore allegiance to the Ottoman loyalist government in Baghdad, led by the deposed Mehmed V. The new coalition was one of the erstwhile Empire’s Muslims, arrayed together against a godless horde that had already seized Jerusalem. The Union refused to do anything to the place—Kubilay, recognizing the consequences of damaging the third-holiest city in Islam, threatened to personally snap the neck of any hotheaded youth who so much as touched the Old City—but this was not known to the coalition, which was fully aware that never, in the long and illustrious history of Islam, was the beating heart of the faith so vulnerable to so dangerous an enemy. It didn’t matter if the Unitarians had no real plans to sack Mecca and Medina. The fact that they could do it if they wanted, and would do it if there were no consequences, bred enough nightmares. The anti-Unitarian coalition was funded in small part by the Mughals— they could not give larger amounts of aid or launch a direct intervention because their own populace was war-weary and increasingly rebellious— but its greatest strength was its fervor. Dedication unto death enabled the coalition to drag out the war for another year, a year in which the Union threw itself bloodily against the defenses of of Mosul three times before bursting through, in which the Kurdish tribes of Sulaymaniyah were forcefully dispersed across Anatolia, in which Mehmed V supposedly remained “campaigning for our sakes” in Basra, in Qatar, and then in Shiraz even after the Unitarian conquerors found his body in Baghdad. Organized opposition officially ended just in time for the Paris Peace Accords of 1916, in which the Union sought and gained diplomatic recognition.

The greatest impact of the Union, however, lay not in its destructive activities, but its creative ones. Aras had always been interested in the sector theory of urban geography, elucidated by a Vespucian researcher named Anton van Gelder. Van Gelder theorized that cities naturally developed in specific ways: zones of industry typically sprung up around transportation routes, factory workers usually lived close to their workplaces, and commuters who could afford to travel to their workplaces lived farther away from the noise of industry but not too far away from the city center, which would invariably be some kind of business district [4]. Aras felt that the division of a city into sectors based on inhabitants’ use of the land was not just a natural effect of urban growth, but a desirable goal to be planned for and brought about by the state. If regarded by the government as interconnected but ultimately separate units, each sector could be improved to be as modern, safe, and productive as it could possibly be. After Aras succeeded Kubilay, he leveraged the growing wealth of the Union to reshape its cities. Constantinople was remodeled first, with almost every pre-1916 building undergoing some kind of seismic shift. The Hagia Sophia was mostly demolished, with some parts left as a museum and one of the minarets repurposed as a clock tower.

By 1930, most major cities in the Union had undergone similar transformations, with Damascus as an especially prominent example. Damascus featured a central business district—the “Old City” of medieval times—at its core, where the Union’s state-owned businesses sold most of their wares and where state-owned banks handled the finances of the nation and its people. Zones of industry, which in Damascus included steel production and the making of textiles from the cotton grown on the Euphrates’s collective farms, grew along the northern railroad to Beirut and the southern railroad to Jerusalem. The living and government sectors of Damascus, however, developed in ways that the Union had not foreseen. Though the national Congress trusted city governments to build accommodations for everyone, it was unable to stop bureaucrats and soldiers' families from using their high pay and influence to move further away from the noisy zones of industry. Less educated workers, who toiled in the service of the same state as the bureaucrats, were ultimately forced by necessity to cut down on public transport costs by staying close to the factories. The government sector existed in the east of the city, in the place on the map that van Gelder marked as “high-class housing”—and not without reason. The five years of elementary school that most of the Union’s new citizens attended made sure that students had basic-to-intermediate numeracy and the ability to read their local language. However, if one wanted a serious education, one had to apply for a secondary school and do seven more years of schooling to learn, among a vast number of other scientific and social subjects, the Unitarian and Turkish languages. Mastery over these could and did make one a bureaucrat, a manager of men— by the standards of the poor, a bigshot. While the Arab and Arabized denizens of Damascus slaved away in the 20th-century hell of the factory, the traditional elite—which had always identified as “Ottoman,” spoke Turkish well, and maintained its loyalty to Constantinople even if its flagpoles no longer flew the red star-and-crescent—successfully transitioned into new roles within the Unitarian bureaucracy. The bureaucrats' gated sectors of the city, close to the city center and yet hopelessly distant from the sectors in which the poor, Arabic-speaking majority of the city's population lived, were the fruits of their success. The changes in Damascus were a model for similar changes in other Arabian cities like Amman, Sana’a, Riyadh, and Jeddah.

The United Republic of Arabia, declared in the heady year of 1942, inherited these stratified settlements and their potentially traitorous elite. It inherited the penal colonies along the Gulf Coast, where so many Turkish and Kurdish dissidents and their families lived and worked on the oilfields in the blistering heat that the Arabs were below 50 percent of the once sparsely-populated area's population.

It inherited Jerusalem. Jewish migration to the Union intensified around the same time that the Revival Front gained power in Lithuania, home to the largest Jewish population of any individual state. This was not due to the Revival Front being anti-semitic, but anti-Unitarian— a stance that alienated those Jewish intellectuals and shtetl peasants who had grown to believe in the promise of Unitarianism. Some of the Jewish Unitarians migrated to the Union-held city of Jerusalem out of some sentimental wish for “Zion,” but upon realizing the relative poverty of the area they dispersed across the Arab lands, hawking their skills to the Unitarian governors. The Jewish population of Arabia in 1942 was a little over 1.5 million. Most of this population was not composed of recent arrivals. Instead, their ancestors had lived, prospered, suffered and died in the Levant for centuries. They spoke Arabic, and generally underwent the same struggle as their fellow Semites. However, the disproportionate presence of Jews in the provincial Unitarian elite was not unnoticed. Though the current policy of the Arabian Congress was a steadfast refusal to alienate anyone, some grumbled privately about the subject.

The Union left behind one last gift: a budding drug problem. Though officials maintained an anti-drug stance, it was an open secret that the collective “wheat” farms in Yemen grew khat, a plant with leaves containing an amphetamine-like stimulant. The secret police was tasked with selling the plant and drugs derived from it on the streets. Selling the stuff secretly, through Arab middlemen, generated profit and distracted volatile young Arabs from thoughts of rebellion while allowing plausible deniability. Upon conquering Yemen, the Arabian government found that most of the land’s cultivable areas appeared, on closer inspection, to be given over to khat production. The region’s economy practically ran on khat. While the provisional government in Mecca could do something drastic about the problem, it could not do so without appearing to have abandoned its respect for regional and tribal autonomy. The government could, for the short-term, do little but be thankful that the Union had decided to plant its poppy fields in Anatolia instead, and wonder what techniques the Yenilemists might use to deal with their up-and-coming opioid crisis.

A coffeeshop in Baghdad, 1942

As I enter, I see five fingers splay out from the outline of an open hand. The shape is painted on a small wall-mounted plaque. The old functionaries of the Public Health Committee were left behind to die in Kubilay, but the newly-reconstituted agency has been here recently. For as long as I or my friends can remember, five blue fingers show that an establishment has been inspected and declared perfectly healthy. The definition of “health”, however, was never just physical. The manager of even the smallest cafe was appointed by the city government, whose members were appointed by a subcommittee of the Unitarian Congress, and all of that allowed a lot of room for error in screening management candidates for ideological health. Establishments in which “unhealthy” activities were suspected to occur were given plaques with some fingers retracted. This created much confusion—a dissident might walk into a two-finger cafe expecting subversive discussion and walk out with hepatitis A, while a hypochondriac might walk past a three-finger joint's open door only to find that he had missed a relatively free exchange of ideas. Still creates, I must say. The aforementioned conditions still exist, just like the avenue of closed shops not far from here. A clenched fist, painted in an angry shade of red, adorns each of their boarded-up doors.

The manager is gone, so I pour myself a cup and stuff some manat notes into the cash box. Under the cash box, there are a stack of flyers for an old film my uncle used to love. Literacy was rare in villages like his, and Kubilay knew it; he created a bureau to make films in Arabic so more people could hear the message. This film, around ten or fifteen years old, is about a young man who is always being scolded by his father for leaving trash on the floor of his room in the family apartment, and not putting his books back on the shelf, and wasting the sweat of the people by not turning off his electric fan before leaving the room. He tries to get a job in the civil service to escape his father’s nagging, and while waiting for his interview he notices some things about the waiting room and fixes them. He finds some trash and throws it away, places a stack of Unitarian documents on the top of the shelf, and turns off the fan since he doesn’t need it much. The commissar, seeing the improvements, hires him immediately. The young man learns that his father’s nagging has made him responsible, and enabled him to turn his wasteful existence into a productive and happy life, spent in the fruitful service of humanity. Many people loved this film, and so it has been brought back for another run in the reopened theater. I suspect that the manager’s disappearance is related to his failure to distribute these flyers. I hope the Indian soldiers enjoy the show—it was their idea, after all.

Two boys outside share a piece of pita bread, handing it back and forth between bites. I walk past them. Their eyes flick to the patrolman on the street corner. The tall one doesn’t move his arm, but his right index finger shoots up. He stirs the air with it once, and leaves it standing.

All the world under the one God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful.

I return the gesture. The short one bunches his fingertips together, pointing them upward, and moves his hand up and down at the wrist. The tall one makes three signs in quick succession: he cups his left hand and scoops the air within with his right thumb, he extends two fingers outward to the side with his thumb pointing up while keeping the ring and index fingers retracted, and he points behind him with both thumbs.

Stay a while, and do business with us. We can give you food, protection, or a chance to talk with our higher-ups.

I extend my middle finger, index finger, and thumb, and then quietly bring the three fingertips together. I then stretch all my right fingers out, keeping them apart, with my palm facing my chest.

No, I don’t need those at the moment. Thanks for offering, but I must be going.

They repeat the last gesture. I continue walking to my apartment. The patrolman is leaning against a wall, dozing.


Aras built us all apartments, but his real gifts were the kitchens. One had to speak quietly in his kitchen, and sometimes turn the tap on so the neighbors could not hear his words over the sloshing water, but here one could have privacy. Privacy meant listening to music, reciting poetry with friends. It meant getting a 1915 Arab rebel’s badge of service for your thirteenth birthday from a stepbrother with connections, but being forced to return it because you might be arrested or killed if someone saw you with it outside. It meant listening to forbidden channels on the Sengupta, and wondering just how the Germans enjoyed such strange music. It meant having political discussions unfold before you, and steadily growing smart enough to participate meaningfully. Today, it means having ten of your friends sitting around a table, waiting for the guest to begin speaking. I turn on the tap and sit down. The guest takes a breath.

“I am Abdulhamid al-Tarabulusi. For four of the last five years, I have served the revolutionary state in Tripolitania. For the most recent of the five, I served al-Qaeda, setting up cells of dedicated revolutionaries in Syria. Now, I am here only through your beneficence. You have risked your lives in sheltering me, and risked them again in hearing what I have to say. I can only repay you by answering any questions you have about me, what I have done, and who I have done it for.”

[1] I stole this very lovely logo from a far-right Turkish party called the Great Union Party.

[2] OTL: Erzurum.

[3] Partly based on OTL Finland’s relationship with the USSR, and British Hong Kong’s relationship with the PRC.

[4] Based on OTL theories. Look up Homer Hoyt's sector model for more info.


I was working on something like this for a while; I wanted to see what daily life under the most doctrinaire of the Unitarian states would look like. The Union is now dead, so I repurposed what I wrote to show the Union’s effects on the successor states and societies.