“The strongest of all warriors are these two — Time and Patience.”
—Leo Tolstoy
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Chapter Fifteen: How to Bake a Fascist Cake
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Ingredients:
-National Socialist Liquid
-Nations
-Atomic Discharge
-A knife
-200grams of Self Raising Flour
Recipe:
Step One: Mix ideological liquid with other nations and the specifically chosen individual.
Step Two: Add flour
Step Three: Cook mixture in a 200°C agreement oven.
Step Four: Share the delicious cake.
“I’m sorry Mrs,” the speaking Griffon quickly flips through a few pages of the documentation he’s clutching, “Erika, we simply don’t have the time, patience, or resources to invest into,” He seemed to pause, as if attempting to remember something, “…what’s it called again?”
“A steam Engine.”
“Right,” he nodded, “the crown isn’t interested in this…machine, and frankly, can’t perceive any potential of its capabilities. Not to mention we are literally, in the middle of an intense civil war right now, so there's no way, any money will be diverted from the military in order to fund your little project.”
He seemed to change the subject, “I would suggest investing your time in manufacturing something useful for the war effort, not these…silly machines.”
The Griffon representing the crown turns his perception to gaze at the strange contraption in front of him, there are two big cylinders, one appeared to be heated by a fire source, while the other, had this strange metal rod moving in and out of it repeatedly. All for the sole purpose to turn a wheel, how…peculiar.
Erica sighed, deep at the back of her sub-conscience, she just knew, her conceptualisation would be rejected. But no matter! She’ll just have to find someone else that will, even if it means approaching the Republicans, Erica is almost desperate to have at least one soul believe in her.
[14th of November, 989. 10:23 am]
I leisurely trot into a particular room, a place commonly referred to as ‘the War Room’. This place is a little overrated, sometimes, younger griffon soldiers ask me, “Ma'am, what’s the, you know, War Room like?” Of course, I couldn’t really care less, it’s literally just a normal room, with a table withholding a map in the centre and several other different areas showcased on the walls throughout the space.
There isn’t even any precious metals, like gold, outlining anything.
I mean, seriously? This whole government building, is even less ‘prestigious’ than it actually may appear, just because this is where most of the governmental, and military decisions are assembled, does NOT make it a well internally structured, and designed building. People tend to cut corners when a building a structure this big in just over a month.
I’m snapped from my repetitive thoughts by the voice other another, “Ah, Atomic Discharge, welcome.” Of course, without voluntary thought, I gave a reasonably crisp solute, despite not performing any of the necessary training.
Using my absolutely extravagant eyesight, I’m able to register the fact, the voice came from a martially dressed griffon, General Bridges to be exact. Positioned alongside another person, General Garrison. Though rather than gazing at the map, both appeared to be staring at me anticipatedly.
I obviously wanted to cut straight to the point, “Why’d you call me here?”.
“We want to inform you of an…” Garrison temporises, “issue.”
Before he could continue, however, Bridges decides to cut in, “A MAJOR issue,”
I adopted a facade of questionably authentic, “How so?”
“May as well betake straight to the point,” he coughed slightly to clear his throat, “the muskets have been stolen.”
My brain requested a few extra seconds to process that information, but eventually, the intense calculations decided to outburst its incompatibility, “WHAT??!”
Bridges decided to continue before I initiate any sort of verbal assault, “Around a quarter of the flintlock muskets you manufactured have become captured by an unknown black insectoid creatures yesterday morning, and we’ve only been able to recover 60% of the total supply, the rest was simply too damaged, or absent.”
Whoever did this, I will personally submerge them in batter, and deep fry them for several hours straight. And then, the torture would truly begin. Normally, I wouldn't give a single shit about this sort of scenario, but the fact that I got stolen from, the second bloody time (I haven’t even found the previous thief), and furthermore, it’s a species that could conceivably reck the balance of power in this civil war. Especially if they decide it’s in their best interest, to join the other side, which could feasibly provide the enemy with the necessary resources to launch a decent counterattack.
And of course, it just HAD to be the brand new flintlock muskets, firearms, that I may remind you, designed myself, for the sole purpose, to be utilised by the Griffon Republic, AND NO ONE ELSE.
“Prior to the provisional run, we had originally organised a whole division of 1,800 soldiers, but now, owing to the fact we can only supply two-thirds of them, has proved to be a rather considerable complication.” Bridges highlighted, “what we were wondering, however, is if you happen to have any extra stockpiled, we are even willing to spend double the agreed amount.”
I slowly shook my head, “No, I’m sorry, those were the last ones for a while.” Which is in actuality, true, I would have to travel back to my compound and organise more, which at the moment, I’m not exactly willing to do, I just unexpectedly have other activities planned.
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Bridges coaxed, “we’ll just have to distribute them among one or two already functioning divisions. I guess the replaced matchlocks can be gathered and administered between the currently unequipped detachment.”
I decided to procure a new topic that I believed was currently most pressing, “Don’t you guys realise this exactly transpires? I queried, “The enemy may retain not onl—“
Garrison interrupts me, “We’re already aware of that, 600 firearms is extraordinarily dangerous to our military efforts,” he waves me off, “we’ve already set up a few dozen search parties around the area ambushed, none, however, have even come close to finding anything yet. We can only hope that the situation untangles itself eventually.”
They won’t locate them, I pretty much guarantee it, the species that apprehended those muskets, is evidently into some sort of classification for deception, the fact no Griffon has any idea what, or who they are, transpires me to believe this. They’ve obviously stayed hidden for hundreds of years, which even in my opinion, is quite the accomplishment.
If I want anything done, I guess I’ll have to just do it myself. Plus, I could do with some time outside, after all. My office is beginning to become dreadfully boring (I’ve run out ways to boss people around).
“The weapons are my responsibility,” I disclosed, “I’ll search for them.”
General Garrison and Bridges slowly rotated their heads until they’re gazing directly at myself. Expressions highlighted facades of utter confusion and bewilderment, after all, their intellectual mindsets would be spitting thousands of questions, enquiring the obvious, ‘Why fuck would she do that?’
“No, absolutely not,” Garrison contented, “I can’t even comprehend what even caused that sort of thought process.”
Throughout my whole lifecycle, I have never been denied anything, not one single thing. So when this primitive, stupid bird, who thinks is my superior officer, says that I can’t do something, it tends to pull a few too many of my emotional strings.
So, as a result, I gave him, ‘the look’.
Almost instantaneously, the atmosphere tensed to an unmeasurable degree. The air itself might as well have caught on fire and expectorated massive amounts of smoke, for it seemed to be smouldering practically everyone in the room. Without voluntary thought, the two generals appeared to back away slightly, as if their literal souls were being ripped from their very being.
“Y-you know w-what,” Gassion shakily stated, “I-I’ve had a s-sudden change of mind, m-make sure to take a couple of s-soldiers with you for p-protection.”
My expression vanished, and moreover is replaced with a genuine smile, the ambience followed this, as all the unnatural pressure suddenly cleared, allowing the Generals to breathe a sudden gasp of relief.
Expressing my gratitude, I said, “I appreciate it.” This was followed by walking at a deliberately slow pace out of the room, with slow, calculated steps, “I’ll be back with several heads on a stick.”
The two Generals just looked at each other from the sudden turn of events.
Deep underground, lies a long series of cave passages, all are coated with an eery unnatural black substance. The walls its self ornamented in a repetitive hexagon pattern, similar to that of a beehive. In one of these cave sections, the quality of this structure appeared to have improved in great quality, as if every square centimetre was polished with fine sandpaper and wax.
And there was a good reason for this, the tunnel, marshalled to a very important section, which is called, the Throne Room. A massive black, insect pony hybrid, one with a large horn, fangs, and wings is currently resting on the royal seat, she is in the process of hearing a report from one of her many subjects.
The unnamed small bug performed a quick bow, “My Queen,” it informed, “We have retrieved some of those weapons you desired, around 600 to be exact.”
“Excellent,” the ‘queen’ announced, “make sure to immediately distribute them throughout the army, I think they will prove to be quite useful in our near future endeavours.”
[14th of November, 989. 12:11pm]
The wind rushed past at a credible rate as myself, and two griffon soldiers, sit in a relativity comfortable carriage, which is currently being towed by two other griffon civilians. The coach is presently following a particularly rocky path, which leads to virtually the exact region where the ambush took place. The air current at this moment is too powerful to efficiently pull the wagon through the air, and as a result, the ‘drivers’ decided it was in their best interest to stay on the ground until it settles.
A Griffon Republic flag hangs on the back of the vessel, waving ferociously in the wind, and displaying that this particular transport, is officially some sort of Governmental importance.
The soldiers positioned either side of me withheld the ‘new’ flintlock musket, both positioned on shoulders and pointed at a 180 angle. Stoic expressions etched across their facades, and heads swirled forwards, consistently scanning the environment for any foreseen dangers.
Though, soon myself, and the military personnel notice something, another carriage approaching from the opposite direction, so as a response, both tensed immediately, their craniums rotated to point directly at the carriage.
I honestly didn’t care, I mean, why would you? Traffic is quite common along these roads.
Dust spat up in random directions from the incoming wagon, the smut surrounding the atmosphere of our own carriage, made it quite difficult to perceive any of the environment in detail, so as a result, the opposing carriage’s features couldn’t be seen until it’s at a relativity close distance, around 60 metres away.
I, however, noticed something… strange it. Really strange.
For one, it’s pulled by ponies, which is quite rare in this sector, not to mention the country. As Equestrian doesn’t exactly have the best of relations with the Griffon Republic. And two, it is decorated with swastikas.
Not just any swastikas. Purple and black, swastikas.
…
Holy fucking shit.
This can only mean one thing, Nazi, Ponies.
Let me repeat that.
卐 NAZI, PONIES. 卐
…
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
Two flags, similar to that of our carriage, proudly displays in the back of their vessel. Presenting their national symbol, which honestly, looks exactly like the historically accurate NAZI flag, but if it was professionally redrawn by a five-year-old girl. After all, the colour pink generally isn’t considered to be a very good idea, to put on a frickn’ flag.
Even the uniforms, overwhelm my perceptional senses, they are simply, just so similar to the World War Two regimentals. The obviously important ‘ponies’ (most likely officers) wore the classic pitch-black assemble, while the soldiers, the ponies covering the flanks of the carriage, seemed to wear steel amour, and laced with simple brown clothing.
To any foreseen outsider, they’d properly be able to determine that I was so preoccupied with staring intensely at the wagon, and as a result, I failed to notice it begin the initial stages of deceleration.
“Ma’am,” one of the ‘drivers’ queried, “they appear to have the desire to communicate, do you want us to stop?”
At this point, I’m snapped out of my annotations and am able to bring the griffon enquiring me into my perception, one of the two griffons pulling my carriage. He simply withholds a questioning facade, as if he is anticipating an answer.
“Ummm,” I mumbled, “sure, may as well.”
Immediately, the carriage began to decelerate, this ushered the surrounding atmosphere to come to a near standstill, causing the dust to be less animated, as the kinetic energy propelled by the wheels lowered significantly.
The velocity of the cart continued to relinquish as the distance between us lowered to a significant degree. This action repeated its self until both carriages are located directly next to one another, and then, proceeded to come to a precarious halt.
The dust layered in the atmosphere around us made it reasonably difficult to discern any significant facial features of the ponies across, only the general outline and uniforms seemed to stand out. Nothing could really be said until the smut decided that it was in it is in its best interest to settle.
Which after two long seconds, it did.
This renewed visibility gave me the ability to preserve the opposing the Pony is relative detail, a mare’s features greeted me, the coal back uniform, the skull pinned cap and a pink banner circled around her right foreleg was the highlight her tributes. She has monotonous pink fur, dull grey hair, and most interestingly, pricing blue irises.
Her expression signifies annoyance and a light scowl of her current situation as if she has better things to do.
This whole pony literally screams ‘I would stab you if I had the chance, but I’m obviously not going to because it would be inappropriate in my current proceedings.’ The kind of person that would drag you in your sleep, and stab you multiple times in the throat and chest.
Though, fortunately, she seemed to be mostly focusing on the griffon next to me, as I am positioned behind this being, and thus, out of view. Soon though, her small, almost non-existent scowl disappears, only to be replaced his a joyous expression, but to any experienced onlooker, such as myself, it was obviously forced.
She was just about to open her mouth to say something, I, however, leaned forward so she has visibility of me, and beat her to it, “Can we help you?”
Her facade turns to shock as her eyes land upon me, taking notice of my outmost bored expression, and especially, the blue uniform I’m wearing, highlighting the fact, I’m part of the Griffon military.
This expression almost immediately disappears, however, covered up with an almost genuinely happy smile.
“Yes,” she proclaimed, in a moderate German intonation, “We were wondering where the Parliament Government building is. Could you point us in the right direction?”
Ah, that’s clearly a German accent, so that means she speaks the language, eh? Interesting… Time to surprise her, I guess.
“Bestimmt,” (“Certainly,”) her expression become inordinately surprised, the kind of surprise when you realise you didn’t put on any sort of protection, “Fahren Sie nur 12 Kilometer die Straße hinunter, biegen Sie an der T-Kreuzung rechts ab und folgen Sie den Wegweisern für weitere 42 Kilometer. Sie werden bald Ihr Ziel finden” (“Just continue for 12 kilometres down the road, turn right at the T intersection, and tread that for another 42 kilometres, follow the directional signs and you’ll soon find your destination.”)
She just persisted with staring intensely at me, likely questioning my ability to speak her language, especially considering I have a clear non-German accent.
Just to let you be aware, I also know French, Russian, Spanish, Mandarin, Arabic and Hawkan. No…I’m not referring to the verbalisation that actual that Hawks utilise. You know that language in Sector 1-2-8-9-D that everyone uses? No? Well, it’s that one.
The mare seemed to snap out of her prolonged thoughts by shaking her head several times and blinking her eyes with the sole purpose to moisturise them.
“Ich schätze es,” (“I appreciate it,”) she nodded, “Nur aus Neugier, wer bist du überhaupt?” (“Just out of curiosity, who are you anyway?”)
I puffed out my chest, “Sergeant Atomic Discharge, technologischer Entwickler der Armee der Republik, zu Ihren Diensten.” (“Sergeant Atomic Discharge, Technological Deviser of the Republic Army at your service.”) I perform a slight bow, just above the borderline to avoid being disrespectful.
Her eyes seemed to mystify for a moment, "Und Sie?" (“And you?”)
She straightened herself, puffing her chest to an unimaginable degree, “Die Beraterin und Diplomatin Lieselotte Weiß, Deutsche Reichskanzlei, freut sich, Sie kennenzulernen.” (“Adviser and Diplomat Lieselotte Weiß, Germane Reich Chancellery, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”)
And this is where the conversation ended. Period. Both sides of the table were becoming increasingly uncomfortable. What sucked even more, however, is that I had millions of questions, I regretfully, just couldn’t ask any without coming off as rude. Just as an example, one such thought includes, ‘Planning any wars yet? Hmmm? Are ya? Huh? HUH? HUH? HUH? ’
And I do NOT want to ruin my first impression, after all, they are FEAKING NAZIS!! I mean, seriously? Come on!
This awkwardness got to such a degree, that the German officer decided it was in its best source of action to end our little ‘meeting’.
“Es war mit ein Vergnügen Sie kennen zu lernen,” (“It’s been a pleasure meeting you,”) she condignly states, “Aber wir müssen weiter an unser ziel, vielleicht treffen wir uns wieder.” (“but we have to continue to our destination, perhaps we may run into each other again.”)
Their carriage begins to accelerate, “Abschied!" (“Farewell!”)
The drivers of my transportation seemed to understand this notion, despite not being able to speak the language, and they too, began to move forward.
I simply waved as we departed.
Well…that was certainly, interesting.
But of course, ten seconds later my hype came crashing down, and I was yet again, completely bored.
That is, however, until I just recalled what I packed in my saddlebags, an object to keep myself occupied during the majority of this trip, a source of entertainment mind you, that never, ever, dissipates. No matter how many hours I use it, it continues to bring endless misery—I mean, happiness for others.
I quickly reach into the saddle bag adjacent to me and pull out the godliest of devices.
A Kazoo.
Using my foreleg, I place the professional musical instrument in my mouth and play the very first song that comes to mind.
The German national anthem.
At full volume.
Of course, nobody really seemed to mind it—for the first three minutes that is—but I never stopped, and soon enough, I swear a few ears were bleeding. Obviously, no-one said anything. After all, if your superior officer was playing a Kazoo, (who, which I might add, can make your life a living misery), would you demand them to SHUT THE ACTUAL FUCK UP??!
No, I highly doubt it.
And thus, the next Era of our travel began.
The era of considering ‘Self Suicide Tendencies.’
The city of Berline was bursting with activity, ponies hurried to a series of different facilities to deliver messages or important orders. Even several squads of soldiers were practising impeccable marching, with the sole purpose to get every muscle, step, and twitch into perfect synchronisation.
This state of animation was also true in another sector of this beautiful city, the NSP headquarters, generals were manufacturing new strategies, logistics were planned, and orders were distributed. This status, however, was disturbed when the inhabitants surrounding, and in this building notice…something peculiar.
An equestrian soldier descending from the sky, directing itself undeviatingly in front of the headquarters entrance. Of course, everyone's' first conclusion whisking throughout their mindsets was ‘HOLY FUCK! WE’RE GETTING INVADED! RUN!!’
And that is exactly what happened, everything turned to shit.
Upper class and normal ponies alike hurried to shelter themselves in nearby buildings, some even thought it was a good idea to scream—Which, may I remind you, is not—while sprinting in a random direction. Eventually, however, some order was restored, as soldiers burst from their patrols and transformed into defensive positions.
Every pony became confused however, when this Equestrian pony, in fact, was not a soldier, but a white Pegasus wearing an exceptionally nice black and white suit. He furthermore, landed on the ground in a glorious act of gracefulness. What was most surprising to the onlooker, however, was that he withheld the Green Flag. (For you uneducated buffoons, it means he came here for diplomatic reasons)
He literally just stood there, his eyes, slightly closed, implying his mood was of the utmost boredom. The banner clasped to the pole, waved lightly in the mild winds.
Germane troops immediately began surrounding him, pointed weapons towards him from a ten-metre distance, body languages were leaning back slightly as if he had a contagious plague.
And then, he spoke in a slight British accent, “Her Majesty, Princess Celestia, has requested an immediate armistice between our two independent nations,” even though he was clearing speaking Equish (English), most could to a certain degree, understand him, they after all, used to be an Equestrian State, “please send your leader to meet for an agreement to the town of Berzenbee.” (The town is right on the border between the two confederations.)
With that small, but sweet statement, he flew off once again, disappearing into the unknown, despite the Germanes had a strong urge to follow him, it would be nearly impossible as Germaney has a very limited amount of Pegasi, and to the disappointment of all officers, none were currently on the Campus.
The highest commanding officer at the scene turned to the soldier adjacent to him, “Machen Sie den Führer darauf aufmerksam, Sie müssen über diese überraschenden jüngsten Entwicklungen Bescheid wissen.” (“Alert the Führer about this, she must know of these surprising recent developments.”)
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Editor's Note:
Wow. The diplomat and Atomic meet and Celestia is being a little bitch, isn't it great mein friends? I also love the kazoo story, so in this weird world will democracy and fascism become friends? Or will history repeat itself? Also, Panzers may be on the horizon.
Heil Deutschland und Muffins
Song used while editing: Erika
Character Sheet:
