Yo. USS Dick here with an oceanic ridge up my ass.

The marines came back, but half of them were just—fucking goners. ’Course, Scrue explained what went on. She’s in the operations room together with Sam and Oreo.

{Wow, that’s some fucky intelligence gathering method ya got there.}

“It works sif it works, sir.”

{One of ’em even said something about talking to royal and rebel generals in the same table. How’s that even work?}

“Aye, me pub crawlin’ crew’s all hand-pickedt so’s they all remember what’s happend even if they’s gone off the knockers.”

{And the poor shits are none the wiser… That’s real fuckin’ dumb but terrifying and impressive all at once, I’d give ya a medal if I can.}

I dismiss Scrue. The solution to this whole thing was pretty obvious from what she said.

Just a quick recap on what’s going on: The north and the south haven’t really gone to war yet. Just that there’s a bunch of nobles going ham on each other in their own territories, and the damage’s been worse than three hurricane seasons squeezed into one, but that’s still what you’d call “preliminary skirmishes,” apparently. Negotiators on both sides been doing a pretty good job at limiting the current fighting to just four states, but man, each state’s got as much clout and cash as an actual country in Eastern Europe, y’know? Even if the fighting’s been cordoned off, it’s still basically a self-contained war.

Man, I can’t imagine what all-out war’d be like. And everyone’s real sure war’s boutta come.

Scrue’s dudes say the mood in the Bay Area’s pretty fucking depressed coz everyone’s expecting they’ll be killing each other soon, which explains the rebel and royal generals having their last “gentleman’s booze” before the showdown.

Nyeeehhh—Ireallydon’tlikethat.

Thanks to Scrue’s dudes, though, we now know that all Sam has to do is waltz up, bow, and announce “THIRD FACTION COMIN’ THROUGH—by the way, we’ve got a fuckin’ aircraft carrier” and we’ll take over the city just like that.

A lot of people like Sam, apparently, and not just coz she’s a hot warrior princess.

“Sir Kaminari, I apologize for having kept this from you,” she says with a curtsy.

Wait, before that—

{Look, girl, I get the mood’s serious but, I really don’t feel right with ‘Kaminari.’ It’s just—it’s just too edgy like man it’s messin’ with my heart, okay?}

“Again?! B-but, it’s such a mysterious name!”

“I agree with the princess! Emperor Hiiro’s naming sense is an artform! Please! Great Kaminari!”

Stop it. You’re hurting me.

{Fuckin’-A—it ain’t flyin’! It’s too edgy!}

“T-then…” Sam’s given it some deeep thought. “… Nelly?”

{… How’d you come up with that.}

“I merely cut away ‘Kami-’ leaving me with ‘-nari,’ and to reduce the Japanese influence, I anglicized it into such a plain name.”

{Man, I knew a guy named Nelly, though. That’d be a disservice to the bastard.}

“One of the ancients?! I-I mean—i-if it is like that… … … then Minari?”

{Sam, are you actually a Japanophile?}

“N-no!”

{I’ll get Embro Hero to gift you a katana if you’re honest.}

“… Y-yes!” “Princess?!”

Hah, fuckin’ knew it. Guess I’m calling a favor from the old man, huh. But what’s this?

{Man, Oreo, you’re one to talk, huh, ya fucker.}

“W-whatever are you talking about—”

{That’s a samurai cosplay, ain’t it? Huh? Huh?!}

“What? This?!”

He looks to the princess. Sam looks away. Good Lord in Christ, she dressed him up?!

I really thought he was a fuckin’ weeb, though. I mean, he liked Hero’s naming sense, y’know?

Oreo massages his temples. “… O Good Holy Island, please, for the sake of everyone aboard, please allow us to simply call you ‘Grey’ and be done with it.”

We went back to Sam’s first suggestion, huh. Every other alternative’s too edgy, so let’s just go with it.

“T-then, Sir—Grey …”

Ah, it feels normal.

“… Again, I’d like to apologize for keeping such things from you.”

{No no, it’s okay. I’m just an aircraft carrier. Far as I’m concerned, you’re actually my boss, y’know? Somethin’ like OPSEC’s pretty normal, anyway.}

" ‘Opsek’? W-well, to thank you for your understanding, I will divulge our plan of action. Of course, you are critical to our plan for today."

***

My name is General Ironheart. I’m sitting with my dear friend, John Bulletneck, on the opposite side of the table. Very soon, we will be on the opposite side of the battlefield.

That our armies both occupy the same city is merely a gentleman’s agreement. It is also by gentleman’s agreement that we will fight on the outskirts, and that the fighting shall cease when the enemy general’s head is taken—our heads.

This city is far too important to Merika as a whole. The Golden Port is Merika’s portal to the entirety of the west coast and the Pacific. Should we join the war against the Demons—an eventuality, no doubt—our warships will be built and sent forth from here.

We must limit this battle to only each others’ heads. Nothing more.

However, my head is throbbing and I feel as if I had already lost.

“Dear friend, I do not remember what happened last night.”

We are recuperating in a tobacco room, away from the ladies and gents with sensitive noses. The air is thick with the smell of resignation.

“Y’all, wasn’t there someone else with us back there? I swear to Gun Jesus, I’d’ve known if I was seein’ two of ya!”

“Dear friend, I was more hammered than the first railroad in Ancient America. Even if there were a spy between us, I would not have realized it.”

There was not even a point to it. We both thought we saw shadows in the corners of our eyes, together with us in that booth. Why would there be a spy? Couldn’t it have been simply one of our subordinates who’d drunkenly stumbled upon us? There were only two factions in the war to come—unless, there is a third column who is instigating this war? No, the cause of the war is transparent, and has been an issue brewing for many years.

The mood in the city is melancholy. As future enemies, me and my friend are not the only ones drinking and smoking away the ticking of the clock. Even our surgeons and cooks are preparing their livers to easily forget the faces that will soon be transient before their operating tables and mess halls—and for what?

Why do we fight against fellow Merikans—for the prosperity of Merika?

The Royal Family is constitution-bound to support the chartered corporations of the north. Those great corporations are the ones responsible for the military and economic supremacy of our kingdom—as well as its soullessness.

There is no slavery in Merika. Only debt and lifetime contracts.

Such pedantry—one might think.

“It is not slavery if you do not own the body of a person.”

“It is not slavery if you are constricted by thorough contracts.”

If you only own a fraction of someone’s time and labor; if you cannot stop someone from resigning; if you cannot twist someone’s reality for your own sake, then it is not slavery.

And yet, the south has risen against the corporations.

“Give us meaningful work.”

The chartered corporations cannot give meaningful work. They give efficient work, but efficiency means nothing to a man looking for his heart.

I agree. We have run out of heart. My own soldiers are hoping that this will be the place where they die. Clearly, we have done something wrong.

However, it is also a fact that we cannot stand on meaningful work alone. Should the corporate charter be abolished, our industries will grind to a halt, and it will take many long years before the kingdom can fill the gaps.

I doubt that it even can, and we do not have years.

The War with the Demons rages in nations across both oceans to our sides. We should be supporting them, but our attention is turned inwards.

I am loyal to the Royal Family, but how I wish they would temporarily amend the constitution and compel the corporations to kneel. How I also wish the south weren’t so impatient to wait until the Demons have been defeated—or rather, they should have at least carried out their rebellion decades ago, and we wouldn’t need to worry for an existential threat to the world.

I cannot fault the south, however. The crushing pressure of the corporations are felt strongest by them. They are no longer having enough children, and what children they do have are directly expediting their complaints to the Creator On High, even forcing the ferryman on gunpoint to take them there. The kingdom’s special tax incentives for the sake of the south’s children are meaningless in the face of productivity and efficiency.

Because of this, the southern states will cease to exist in merely three generations. Of course they would rebel.

I worry that the north would also soon feel the same, but whether it would be the corporate charter or the Demons who will abolish Merika first, we will have to see.

That is, between me and John, only one of us will live to see this conclusion.

“General Ironheart!” “Bulletneck, ser!”

Our subordinates run in with sweat drenching their uniforms. I am appalled by mine—my friend has looser standards, meanwhile.

“Wipe your sweat, Lieutenant.” “What in darnation’s got ya so worked up, son?”

“Sir!” “Ser!”

We await their report.

"“The princess—‘Eagle’s on a darn island’—and wishes to—‘The gun’s on the desk!’—right away.”"

They both speak at the same time, reminding me that I have a migraine.

If I remember correctly, “The gun’s on the desk” is Texan lingo for an above-table negotiation?

A single gunshot rings out right beside me. I look, and John is holding a smoking revolver pointed into the ceiling. I am concerned for the occupants of the inn upstairs, but I am confident that my army’s surgeons can deal with it. It is only a bullet wound—nothing that healing magic cannot address.

“Y’all take turns, goddamnit!”

I shake my head. Although I share the sentiment, John is as rowdy as ever. Our subordinates unsurely glance each other, wondering who should go first. I flip a coin for them, making sure to let the coin ring. It lands heads. “Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir! Princess Burnheart has appeared with her knight over the Californian Blockade Fleet, demanding a conference within the hour!”

“Within the hour!” I’m shocked. This is no good. I have a migraine and Princess Burnheart herself is coming to this city.

John points at his subordinate with his revolver. “Son?”

I shake my head at his dangerous habit. His subordinate is sweating bullets for a different reason now.

“Ser! Captain Wallaby’s told Lieutenant Turtle’s told Private Jessup to tell me that the floatin’ island’s stuck on the port’s storm gate’s come loose and is comin’-a-honkin’! Princess’s said it’s her ship! Ser!”

“Son.” John’s rubbing his forehead. I do the same. My subordinate is also flustered. “There’s a princess’s royal floatin’-what-now?”

I am impressed at the Texan adeptness at expressing shock. A pause came to pass.

“Son, just tell me if ya have no idea what ya just said.”

“Ser! I have no idea what any of it means, ser!”

“Gun Jesus.”

I rub my temples. John is rubbing his with the muzzle of his revolver. John, I know what you’re feeling, but don’t do it.

“John—no, General Bulletneck—are you privy to another gentleman’s agreement?”

“That agreement got ’nuther Texas Tea?”

“Please let the conference conclude before you open it.”

I hand him another bottle. Surprisingly, he does not shoot off the cap on the spot. We send off our subordinates to pass on our message. We will attend.

John is going sober and his revolver is holstered. Princess Burnheart, please go easy on us.