Auveki, Phanóma

19:00
30 July 2025
Derailment Vigil, Soge, Vesper

Kai changed his mind. After hopping between countries every week for one and a half years, it feels weird to have an office to himself. Meeting the same people in the same places at the same time every day is now a foreign concept to him—so is the productivity he saw yesterday during the National Security Council Conclave! Kai feels like a fish out of water, so he wants to prolong his return to Vice President duties just a bit longer.

Kai helps families light candles as he walks around the plaza of the Soge Central Train Station, listening as they recount how they lost spouses and siblings in the derailment. The dim twilight and overcast sky make the warm candlelight feel eerie. The stories begin to desensitize Kai, so he takes a break and walks towards the inoperative train station.

He passes several armed federal security officers at regular intervals. They don’t say anything to the Vice President, but as he climbs the stairs to enter the train station, two gentlemen in federal security uniforms stop him. Kai can tell that one of them is wearing a poorly attached, cheap wig and holding a walkie-talkie, “Second Group: intercepted and disarmed.”

The other man is clean-shaven, bald and has light blue irises that darken towards the pupil. He is angrily scratching where his beard must have been, and looks shocked to see the Vice President. “How may we help you?”

“I’m just wandering around—” Kai responds before being cut off by the walkie-talkie again.

“Third Group: intercepted and disarmed.”

“No worries, Vice President. Would you like an escort?” asks the second gentleman. Now, Kai has heard statements like this millions of times during his diplomatic missions, but the sound of “Vice President” in this man’s mouth sounds off.

“Fourth Group: intercepted and disarmed,” the walkie-talkie crackles again. “All threats neutralized.” The two federal security officers look at each other and heave a sigh of relief.

That’s when the gunshots begin.


Split seconds later

What happens next happens so fast that Kai has trouble processing it. The security officer with the walkie-talkie grabs Kai and carries him into the train station, where they find the other security officer. There’s no electricity, so Kai can barely see a thing. All he can hear are screams. And the occasional bullet, but they’re few and far between.

“Vice President Leandro, we need to go. Now,” the second security officer murmurs fiercely. Kai is dazed, but he realizes why the officer seems off: Kai recognizes his voice, which never calls him by his formal title but always with “Kai.”

“Ros?” Kai ventures. The shaven face and blue eyes (which must have been contact lenses) threw him off at first, but hearing the voice alone assures Kai that it’s his best friend. And of course, they’re in a situation like this. What did Kai say about joining Ros on his quests?!

“You need to go,” the other security officer echoes. His voice sounds familiar too…a lot like Defence Minister Brookhelm? “One shooter slipped through our defences, but he’s being contained now. Take my torch and follow this corridor until you reach the side exit. Join the others for now; we’ll rendezvous later.”

Ros and Kai do as they’re told and sprint until they’re outside again. Only minutes have passed, but ambulance and police sirens fill the air; firefighters are dousing the abandoned plaza that is now ablaze; medics are setting up make-shift clinics; security officers are doing headcounts and trying to keep the people calm.

Kai and Ros make eye contact with each other, nod, and walk into the scene to boost morale.

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1:45
31 July 2025
Aviateza Avenue, Spiritus

Ros only left Soge once everyone who attended the vigil could be accounted for. Considering the intel his team had gathered, the vigil could have ended up a lot worse than it did. Ros, Vaske, Jana, and even Ian were scattered all over Soge, intercepting the goons trying to cause mayhem. They don’t know how one managed to infiltrate their defences, but the shooter is being detained and questioned. Overall, Ros’s operation was a success with no casualties, but he’s still shaken up. Ros could’ve lost his life—for real this time.

What was it that his parents told him when he first ran for office? Well, his mother said nothing and has said nothing since. His father muttered, “Kjo reRosùrdì zovaabio tjebìi.I hope you know what you’re doing. Ros had taken it as disapproval at the time, but what if it was caution? Concern? Or just something said to avoid an argument? There’s no way Ros could know, because his father never took a stand on anything. Did he ever believe in anything? Or was he just cruising through life on autopilot?

His parents always watched the news, so no doubt they saw the interviews reporters had with him after he took off his bald cap and contact lenses. Mrs Nolokari was almost certainly clucking as she shook her head, dismissing Ros’s world as irredeemable once it intersected with the world of politics: the root of all evil. Ros concludes that his father remained silent. And he is not wrong: hundreds of kilometres away, just outside Milina, Mrs Nolokari changed the channel after her son’s interview and Mr Nolokari said nothing—a deep frown marring his face.


7:30
Raamistau Office Building, Skierova, Vesper

Volta had perfected her condemnation of the shooting over the weekend. Given how underwhelming the actual event was, she had to tweak a few details. She will speak to the Head of Defence, Mo Trabo, about that later. For now, the Raamistau approaches the balcony and places her notes on a lectern, though she’s already memorized the entire speech. Volta takes a deep breath and surveys the crowd below her. “Vespètaa—” she begins before her voice catches in her throat. She thinks she’s imagining it, but no. No. NO!

The Vespern police have adopted Ana’s uniform design. Dark blue pants. A lighter blue top. The Vespern crest. A white belt. Volta can’t breathe. The ground is spinning. The floor is about to give way, so Volta can fall and topple over the balcony and—

“Ahem,” Mo clears his throat, subtly raising an eyebrow at the Raamistau. That brings Volta back to Pacifica. She continues her speech.


13:00
Skierova University Library, Vesper

“No electricity. Again!” Drihu shrieks as she enters the library. “So much for this Nation Unbound.”

“This government’s a joke, except no one’s laughing.” Itoa, her bespectacled friend, retorts. “The only things I’ve been unbound from are my gold watch and good heating!”

Ana stands up, frustrated by the ruckus. “Excuse me—”

“I can’t go anywhere without this stupid ID,” Itoa spits as he reveals a laminated card, his details on one side and ‘DECLEV’ printed on the other. “I was buying bread this morning, and the clerk asked for my ID. Now, why do they want to tie ropes between me and my loaf?”

“Just because you were born on the other side of the river?!” Drihu jeers.

Ana cuts in, “Keep it down. Other students are trying to read.”

The two friends fall silent and stare at Ana. Drihu pulls out her phone and types something in. After scrolling for a while, she pulls up a picture of the former Deputy Raamistau and places it beside Ana’s face for a side-by-side comparison. Ana holds her breath.

“Either Ananeli Fujarvi has a twin sister…” Drihu begins.

“…or she is our librarian,” Itoa finishes. At that moment, Ana is crawling out of the Raamistau’s Office. Her key is jamming in the lock to her own home. She is slipping on black ice. A tear is slipping down her face.

“Sorry you had to be a part of that government,” Drihu rubs Ana’s shoulder. “We all know they had something to do with the shooting at the Vigil.”

Shooting? So that must be what Ana wasn’t supposed to overhear. But even though she did, what’s the point? Ana didn’t do anything to divert disaster when she could have. The weight of the realization sinks her to the floor. “It’s all my fault,” she parrots. “I heard her plan it. It’s all my fault.”

Itoa interrupts, “That must be why she sacked you then. You’d be so demoralized you wouldn’t be able to do anything. Volta sure knows how to play with people’s minds, I’ll give her that.” The Raamistau must have known about Ana’s corruption for a while, so that would explain why she sacked her deputy when she did. Ana wants to believe Itoa, but no: this was all her fault.

“Hear me out,” Drihu proposes. “What if we start protesting against Volta? We have her old second-in-command, and clearly she knows how to push Volta’s buttons.”

“Ouch,” Ana winces, though a smile is creeping across her lips. Ana would love to deliver a dose of Kìruna’s own medicine to the Raamistau. She stands up and sees a crowd gathered around her. Shivers go down her spine. “But…why me? I was useless in office and cost people their lives. I can’t lead.”

“Trust me,” Itanoa sneers as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “This past month should’ve taught you that Vespern people aren’t that hard to (mis)lead.”

Drihu shoves Itanoa but smiles. “You also have insider information no one else has. Plus, imagine the symbolism: the Deputy Raamistau rises from the ashes to extinguish the fire that burned her!”

This coaxes the smile back onto Ana’s face. “I’m in.”

00:00
1 August 2025
President’s Residence, Spiritus

Ros can’t sleep.

He thought he’d crash the moment he hit his bed. But he didn’t. The adrenaline from last night is still coursing through his veins: that (alongside an unhealthy amount of caffeine) is the only way he managed to do anything today. Anything but sleep.

Well, how could he? The boom of gunshots plays on repeat inside Ros’s mind. So do the screams. The crackle of the walkie-talkies. The sight of the Vice President…

Ros gets up and walks to the window. He wears his glasses and, through the snow, Ros can make out the silhouette of the Vice President’s Residence. It looks like the lights are on. It may be a long, cold journey to get to Kai, but Ros still dresses to brace the Spiritan winter.

He makes his way downstairs and starts turning the door handle, but his hand freezes. Kai probably doesn’t want to see him right now. No one does. Ros knows he doesn’t; he can’t stand himself. He puts his coat on the coatrack and starts climbing the stairs. That’s when he sees it. The President rubs his eyes, but no, it’s real. It’s really there.

Ros tiptoes into the dimly lit living room, scared to startle the sewing machine and scare it away. He strokes its cool cast-iron mane, feeling the familiar faults in its otherwise smooth silhouette. His hands now glide over the warm, dark, wooden desk whose smoky hue has always stumped Ros: is it a tattoo from the Second Civil War, or is the desk made of ebony? But one thing Ros is sure of, despite scanning the whole table to find it, is the word—a whisper—etched where metal meets timber, past meets present, and grandmother meets Kiajòr.

Ros traces each letter indulgently, almost like his finger is his grandmother’s needle, etching their bond into the wood. “What are you doing?” Ros would ask whenever he saw the needle pierce the skin of the table. “You’ll see,” she’d respond. And Ros did see.

Beside the sewing machine, a neat heap of fabrics lies at the edge of the table. Ros picks two, places them on the bed of the machine, places himself on a chair, and hunches over. He plants his feet on the treadle, rocks it back, and rocks it forth. The balance wheel turns the needle into a chattering beaver, biting hungrily into the fabric, spitting out cloth, and asking for more. As the clicks keep picking up speed, his feet first galloping like a racehorse’s, Ros finds his rhythm. And all of a sudden, he can’t differentiate the clicks from his pulse—the clicks are his pulse; he and the machine are one living being. With each sigh of determination, life is breathed into the nostrils of his handiwork. His hands spin the thread, measure it out, and will cut it free. He and his fabric have one destiny.

Out of cloth and out of breath, Ros tries to stand, but his legs—now foreign to solid, static ground—drop him back into his chair. His head finds its way to the table, and his eyes take their leave.

No one wakes him. Not even Hemva, who, instead of preparing the President’s breakfast, drapes the blanket he sewed over his shoulders.

OOC Notes
  • Kiajòr roughly translates to ‘My son’
  • Sorry for updating this so late. I moved cities in August and I’m still adjusting :folded_hands:
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