>>25383460hey, i have a story to submit, archivists can feel free to clean it up to match the conventions of the world so far (eg. i don't know if nations are still referred to in the "/general/" format or if they have proper capitalised names)
spoiler just to put a black bar separating the pretext from the story itselfThe Great Soda Heist
News travels fast. A group of rogue alchemists from /ringo/ had made an unsanctioned departure in the night, carrying a hundred barrels of Hope Soda. Given the nature of their cargo, the current events of the world at the time, and the direction in which /ringo/ enforcers watched them vanish over the horizon, it was easy to guess their intention. They sought to use that experimental miracle potion to aid civilians caught in the crossfire of the catastrophe unfolding in /rushia/. A noble goal, no doubt. Mine, perhaps, less so.
When the envoys of Hope arrived at the closest port to /rushia/ - a conveniently quiet fishing hamlet on the coast of southern /micomet/ - and began the tedious process of unloading the barrels, I was ready. The morning sun woke up my men’s muscles just in time for the ambush. From every angle, be it from the town itself or from clinging to the underside of the wooden pier, we emerged, slaughtering the poor alchemists without hesitation. What few were trained to defend themselves had their hands occupied with unwieldy fluid-filled cylinders.
News travels fast. But not faster than me. By the time the pitiable shouts of dismay had reached those still aboard, I was face-to-face and knife-to-throat with the vessel’s seeming captain. I seem to recall attempting to make some sort of quip regarding the situation, but he seemed distracted. Perhaps he was more concerned with the rapidly declining numbers of his crew.
“Who are you?” he stuttered out to me as the screams finally died down. My only answer was to smile, retrieve my pocket watch from within my coat, and throw it to him. Once I was sure he had a secure grip on it, I grabbed him by the collar and threw him overboard. To the tune of his sputtering in the water as he attempted to swim to land, my men began returning the barrels to the boat.
News travels fast. And it travels even faster when its epicentre is a lone survivor. As we took the cargo out to sea to rendezvous with the rest of our crew on our own ship, he took to the taverns of /micomet/. As we sank the stolen craft, Hope Soda and all, he spread a tale of pirates who sought to take the elixir for themselves. I do commend him for some level of insight - he possessed enough to see through part of our ruse. The pocket watch is the single most recognisable symbol of a teamate, but he knew that a teamate I was not. A true teamate would not so freely dispose of one of their most prized possessions.
Unlike in /watson/, where each watch is unique to its owner and represents their position, status, and history in the nation, the watchmakers of /infinity/ mass produce handmade timepieces out of muscle memory just to distract themselves from the gnawing thoughts spawned in the cold. Just for the momentary sensation of clinging to a tangible symbol of their goddess, for only so many seconds as does not allow the dread of abandonment to return. Indeed, despite the similar appearance, my pocket watch was of /infinity/ make, not /watson/, and the spared fugitive thus reasoned that /infinity/ was attempting to frame /watson/ for the sabotage of a benevolent operation.
But those /infinity/ watches are created to serve no purpose beyond the very act of creating them, are discarded as soon as they are complete, and are thus incredibly easy to get a hold of. Who’s to say I am a kronie merely because I possess a kronie’s watch? Many who were bored enough to listen to that man’s tale dismissed him as a stray, raving schizo. Some accepted his interpretation, that /infinity/ was at fault. Very few saw deeper into my deception, having heard - or perhaps themselves inspired - similar stories before, of incidents that had turned out to be engineered for the sole purpose of inciting senseless conflict between nations.
News travels fast. But it is weighed down by evidence. I find it travels much faster in the form of a rumour. Scurrying like a rat across the land, under every door and into every tucked-away corner. Soon everybody knew about the ambush at the docks, and all recalled a different version of events. Soon blame was being tossed around like the cheap whores we celebrated with the night of the heist.
The world moves to the dance of my strings. And the story I would have it tell is one of purest chaos.
