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Act 1; Part 2; Chapter 6; Norwegian Lullaby

Act 1; Part 2; Chapter 6; Norwegian Lullaby

“You’ll never see real progress if you don’t get the movement right!” Przemek said, watching Jonathan struggle to lift the bar halfway.

“It’s not about how much weight you can throw around; it’s about how many correct reps you can do , only then will your muscles really feel it.” he added, his tone both encouraging and slightly exasperated. Jonathan drained the last of his water jug, feeling the sun beating down on him, making it even harder to keep his cool—both physically and mentally.

Sports had never been Jonathan’s strong suit. His cardio was great, but he had always struggled to commit to a consistent gym routine. Be it from genes or malnourishment as a kid, catching muscle was always a struggle. Whether it was in high school, the military, or now with Przemek as his unofficial coach, the gym was never his favorite place. Not that it bruised his ego—he knew what he was capable of, and he knew he could get the job done when it mattered.

As Przemek took over the bench press, Jonathan’s attention wandered to the men from Nörkopping unloading their vehicles. They had arrived just half an hour ago, driving everything from a few vans, an old Land Rover to a couple of beat-up Volkswagen Golfs.

They weren’t at all what Jonathan had expected. Oksjö had hoped for more men, but with Norrköping stretched thin with their own troubles, they had sent what they could. Still, the 30 or so volunteers who did arrive looked capable. Most were armed with modern weaponry and carried themselves like seasoned professionals. Jonathan couldn’t help but chuckle when the last old Volvo rolled up. The four men who stepped out were dressed in military and cargo pants, but their flashy Hawaiian shirts under body armor gave them a comical edge.

“Kurw—” Przemek grunted, struggling under the bar as he pushed himself too hard. Jonathan quickly snapped back to attention, rushing to help him lift the bar and secure it on the rack.

"Sooo, correct movement, tovarisch?" Jonathan teased, slipping into an exaggerated Eastern European accent as Przemek caught his breath.

Przemek shot him an annoyed look, still winded. "No chyba się z chujem na głowy pozamieniałeś!" he snapped in Polish.

Even though Jonathan wasn’t fluent, he didn’t need a dictionary to catch the meaning behind that one. He couldn’t help but grin, knowing he’d pushed just the right buttons.

“Alright, alright, He-Man. I’ve got gate watch in half an hour, so I better wash up,” Jonathan said, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Yeah, yeah, piss off,” Przemek replied, still catching his breath. “Good work today. Once we’re done with Lysekil, we’ll hit the legs.”

Jonathan chuckled as he walked away, deciding to check in on the people from Norrköping before heading back to the mansion. As he approached the makeshift parking area, he was once again surprised by their appearance. He’d heard tales of Norrköping, he had expected old fishermen with rusty shotguns, not these guys. Most of them looked like they meant business.

As he passed one of the vans with its back doors wide open, revealing a pile of gear and equipment, the five men unloading it turned to give him wary glances. Four of them were the ones wearing Hawaiian shirts, and they all seemed taller and more muscular than him. Their arms were thick with veins, and most wore sunglasses while sporting perfectly groomed beards.

Jonathan, wiping the sweat from his forehead, couldn’t help but joke, “Is this ze rendez vous for the buses to the Way Out West festival?” His attempt at humor fell flat as the men stared right through him, unimpressed.

“Alright then,” he said with a shrug, feeling their cool reception. He made his way through the row of vehicles until he reached a small grassy plain nestled between the mansion and the village. Here, some of the Norrköping folks were engaged with the folks from Oksjö in conversation, exchanging news from the rest of the country and trying to catch up on the latest developments.

A soft voice signing a nursery rhyme caught Jonathan’s attention, he looked a few meters to his left to the source of the sound. A girl sitting with her back towards Jonathan had a small girl on her lap.

Jonathan watched as the girl softly sang to the toddler. She cradled the small girl, her eyes full of warmth and affection.

“Lille Petter Edderkopp” floated from her lips in a soothing melody:

“Lille Petter Edderkopp,”

“Klatret opp i stigen,”

She sang slowly, each word carefully pronounced as if to teach the toddler the rhythm of the song. The little girl, clutching a stuffed animal, tried to mimic the words. Her attempts were clumsy but earnest, her tiny voice stumbling over the Norwegian syllables with an adorable determination.

“Ned kom regnet,”

“Petter klatret opp igjen,”

The girl’s tone was melodic, her voice a soft murmur that wove through the air like a gentle breeze. She encouraged the toddler with a smile, pausing slightly after each line to give the little one time to repeat. She was wearing some Splinter camouflaged cargo pants. Her top was a Norwegian national team jersey under her Swedish army combat vest.

Although she was almost entirely clad in Swedish military gear, her demeanor, accent, and the language she was singing in unmistakably revealed her as Norwegian.

“Da kom solen,”

“Tørket opp i stigen,”

The toddler's attempts at singing were more like a series of high-pitched giggles and babbles, but her eyes sparkled with excitement. She looked up at the girl with a mixture of concentration and joy, her tiny hands moving as if she were trying to climb the imaginary ladder of the song.

“Lille Petter Edderkopp,”

“Klatret opp igjen.”

The lullaby concluded with a soft and comforting tone. The girl gently pinched the toddler’s cheeks as the toddler mother sitting across from her on the grass smiled, her face a picture of tenderness. The toddler, though not quite mastering the words, beamed up at her, clearly enjoying the rhythm and the soothing sound of the song.

Jonathan watched, his heart warmed by the simple, peaceful moment. As he admired the unloaded G36C carbine lying next to the girl, the toddler pointed at him, her little fingers stumbling over the syllables of his name.

“Jona—Jonattt—” the toddler tried, her voice a mix of frustration and determination.

The girl, noticing the toddler’s effort, gently encouraged her with a soft smile as she also pointed at him. “Jonathan,” she said clearly, her tone tender and patient as she correctly guessed his name. The toddler’s face lit up with understanding as she repeated, “Jona—Jona—Jonathan!”

Jonathan couldn’t help but smile. He remembered the toddler from a few nights ago, when he had volunteered for a shift in the nursery. They had played together, and now, seeing her trying to say his name brought back those warm memories as the Norwegian girl pointed at Jonathan as she said his name in an encouraging and warm manner.

As he took the opportunity to really look at the girl, he noticed more details. Her bright blue eyes were framed by long, dark lashes, which contrasted beautifully with her pale, rosy cheeks. Her face was round and expressive, with a few delicate freckles scattered across her nose. Her soft, golden-blonde hair was neatly braided, the braid draped over her shoulder and catching the sunlight in a gentle sheen.

“Glad someone remembers my name here!” Jonathan said with a grin, his mood lifting as he saw the joy and effort in the toddler’s attempt and the girl’s supportive demeanor. With a smile, he said, “Glad you could join us!” before turning to walk away.

He felt a bit awkward as he walked, still a little taken aback by her beauty. The way the sunlight caught her golden hair and the softness in her eyes had surprised him.

“Bye, Jonathan!” the girl called out with a bright smile as she waved. The toddler, catching the cue, tried to mimic the gesture, her small hand awkwardly waving back. Jonathan waved in return, a genuine smile tugging at his lips as he continued on his way.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

“Jonathan! Nikolaj!” A voice called up from below. Both men, stationed on the platform above the gate, turned around as they sat on their camping chairs. Kristian, a small boy with tousled hair and a hopeful face, stood at the base of the stairs.

“Sofia says you’re expected in the ballroom in ten minutes!” Kristian shouted up. “The people from Nörkopping are there as well,” he added, his tone tinged with awkwardness.

Jonathan glanced at his watch, taking a slow drag from the hookah pipe hanging between his lips. The rich, aromatic smoke curled into the air as he exhaled.

“Tell her you didn’t find us, she’ll fill us in later.” Jonathan said as he took down another drag before handing the pipe to Nikolaj.

“She saw you, she pointed towards the gates when I was with her in the mansion.” The boy answered

“We just got here. When did she tell you this?” Nikolaj called down, his voice laced with irritation.

“Five minutes ago! Nicky and Kristoff are on their way to replace you,” Kristian replied, his voice rising slightly in urgency.

“Va Helvede!” Nikolaj cursed in anger. He stood up abruptly, kicking the box infront of him out of the way as he grabbed his assault rifle. He headed for the stairs with quick, angry steps.

Jonathan, still seated with the hookah pipe in hand, shook his head. “I’m not leaving the hookah behind. We just got it turned on,” he said firmly, his voice tinged with reluctance.

Watching Nikolaj storm down the stairs. Jonathan took another puff, savoring the moment of calm before the inevitable rush.

Jonathan struggled with the hookah in one hand, the pipe wrapped around his neck and his rifle slinging on his chest as he pushed the ballroom door open with the other. The large space was bustling with activity; people from Nörkopping and Oksjö filled the room, with some sitting in rows of chairs while others stood against the walls, attentively listening to the briefing.

Lars’s voice boomed over the murmur of the crowd. “You will all be staying here in the ballroom overnight. If you don’t have anything to sleep on, come see me, and we’ll direct you to where you can grab something soft to lay on. The canteen will be open at 7 PM and again at 6 AM exclusively for you.” A Swedish flag had been placed on the wall behind him.

Jonathan scanned the room, searching for a place to sit. A few heads turned and laughed at the sight of him with the hookah, its plume of smoke adding an unusual touch to the formal setting. His gaze landed on the Norwegian girl from earlier, who was seated in the last row. The seat next to her was empty, and she waved him over, a warm smile on her face.

Navigating through the narrow aisles was a challenge with his rifle, plate carrier, and the cumbersome hookah, but Jonathan managed to make his way to the seat. The girl smiled warmly at him as he approached, and he appreciated the gesture of saving a spot for him.

Jonathan settled into the seat with some difficulty, adjusting his gear so that he could sit comfortably. As he did, Lars’s voice continued to carry through the room, providing information about where the people from Nörkopping could clean themselves and their clothes. The girl took the opportunity to give Jonathan a reassuring nod.

As Lars continued his briefing, stressing the importance of using spill kits for parked vehicles incase of an oil leak to prevent soil damage, the room's attention had waned. Conversations picked up among the crowd, and many seemed preoccupied with their own discussions.

The girl glanced at him and his hookah with a mischievous glint in her eye. Jonathan tried to focus on Lars's instructions, but he couldn't ignore her curious gaze. With a swift movement, she grabbed the hookah pipe and took a long drag. Jonathan’s eyes widened in panic as he saw her exhale the smoke, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.

“Jonathan, fuck off with the smoke would you?” came a grumbled voice from one of the men from Oksjö sitting in front of him. The man didn’t turn around, but his irritation was clear. Her reaction was immediate; she laughed softly at his startled expression.

Jonathan tried to hide his flushed face as he took back the pipe, their warm hands briefly touching. The girl’s teasing smile remained as she leaned in and said, “Why be embarrassed by that? Thought you all were commie anarchists here?” Her playful tone made it clear she was just having fun.

Before Jonathan could respond, the ballroom door swung open with a forceful bang. Sven, Amir, and Kjell, the representative from Norrköping, entered. The room fell into an expectant silence as the trio made their way to the front.

Sven gave Jonathan a curious glance at the sight of the hookah. Behind him, Amir, following closely, raised his hands in a gesture of mild confusion and asked in Arabic, "Kifesh?"—his tone a mix of puzzlement and intrigue.

The three men moved to the front with an air of authority. If there had been a podium, they might have climbed it dramatically, drawing the attention of the entire room. As the focus shifted from the logistical details to the main event, Sven asked Kjell if he wanted to speak first. Kjell, with a polite smile, declined, allowing the meeting to proceed.

As the room settled into a hushed anticipation, Sven stepped forward, looking twenty years younger with his demeanor relaxed and informal despite the gravity of the situation. He took a moment to survey the room, his gaze briefly flickering over Jonathan and his hookah before he began speaking. His voice was steady and unhurried, carrying an air of casual authority.

“Alright, let me break it down for you,” Sven started, leaning slightly on the edge of a makeshift table that served as his podium. He glanced around at the gathered crowd, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Oksjö operates on a straightforward system. Think of it as an autonomous collective. We’re a self-sustaining unit with minimal reliance on external support.”

He paused to make sure everyone was following, then continued. “We handle our own logistics, manage our own resources, and make decisions based on our immediate needs. Our operations are decentralized, which means we don’t have a single point of command. Instead, we’ve got a network of teams working together to handle various aspects of our setup.”

Sven’s casual tone made the complexity of their system seem almost effortless. “Our people are trained to be versatile,” he said, “so whether it’s security, logistics, or daily operations, everyone steps up as needed. We’ve got our own supply chains, maintenance protocols, and communication systems that keep everything running smoothly.”

He gestured vaguely, indicating the room and the people in it. “You’re seeing a bit of that right here. We make sure that everyone knows their role and that there’s always someone ready to take charge if needed. It’s all about adaptability and self-sufficiency.”

With a final nod, Sven relaxed back into his stance, his hands casually resting in his pockets. “Any questions so far?” he asked. “No, good. You don’t step on our toes, and we don’t step on yours. It’s one of the most important of all libertarian principles.”

Sven’s demeanor shifted from casual to intense as he continued, his earlier relaxed manner giving way to a more urgent tone. He gestured with his hands, illustrating his points with a kind of practiced ease.

“That of course only works in a perfect world,” he said, lifting one thumb up and then pointing at it with his other hand, as if counting off points. “In the reality we face right now, we need your bullets.” His hand expanded the gesture, making a decisive movement with his index finger. “And we need the oil and gasoline from Lysekil.”

He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle. “Lysekil gave us and your people an ultimatum. The last of many, last night. Initially, they asked for a levy a few days ago—nothing too severe. About 20% of what we produced. I believe it was 15% of yours? 20% of antibiotics and vodka, 15% of fish and bullets.”

Sven’s tone grew more serious, the casual edge fading as he continued. “They stopped gasoline shipments in the meantime, despite all of us having spent allot of gasoline securing the routes of transit. That was their first ultimatum. Then it escalated. Now, they want 40% of our ‘specialized products’ and 20% of our food production. The food, to be paid in gross by the beginning of autumn. And I can tell you right now, that’s not happening.”

He shook his head slightly, a resolute look in his eyes. “I’m not one for speeches, and neither are the other heads of collectives. We’re not Stockholmare like you lot.” The room erupted in laughter, the tension momentarily easing.

Sven’s gaze grew steely as he continued, “Don’t have all the details on how they’re planning on screwing you lot over, but we’re all here today because we won’t let it stand. People here in Oksjö have seen tyranny before. They don’t want it back. Ask them what happened to the last tyrants who walked these halls. Or go see the bullet marks on the north wall of the mansion where we lined them up or the skull of the old king somewhere near the entrance.”

The room’s atmosphere shifted to a more serious tone, the laughter fading as the gravity of Sven’s words took hold.

Sven’s tone softened slightly as he delivered his final remarks, his voice steady and reassuring. “In nature, cooperation is as much a law as competition,” he began, emphasizing the balance needed between the two forces. “You’re all here voluntarily. Only yourself can force you to go tomorrow. No one from my group will look down on you if you decide not to come tomorrow. The next few days will be hard. Success is not a guarantee. You surviving and going home in a few days isn’t either.”

He paused, scanning the room with a look of shared determination. “I can tell you that we’ve already made contingency plans for our families. But don’t let that discourage you or occupy your minds. The struggle for freedom is the struggle for the right to live according to one's own will, in harmony with others. And when the dust settles the blame and the fruits of your labour will be on your shoulder and no one else’s.”

Sven then stepped back, signaling the end of his speech. His words resonated in the room as he nodded toward Kjell, who was already moving forward. As Kjell took Sven’s place, the room erupted in applause, the collective energy shifting to one of camaraderie and resolve.

The girl next to Jonathan hadn’t left her eyes from Sven during his entire speech. Even as the room burst into applause, her hands joined in the clapping, but her eyes stayed locked on Sven.

Jonathan leaned closer to the girl, his voice barely audible as he whispered in her ear, “He’s widowed.”

She turned her head slightly towards him, a subtle playful smile playing at her lips as she met his gaze.

Kjell’s voice cut through the noise again, firm and clear, “You will all report to your team leaders in two hours. You’ll be assigned a place where you will be briefed about the next days. Pack for 72 hours!”

As the room transitioned from applause to bustling activity, the sound of chairs scraping against the floor and conversations rising in intensity filled the air. Jonathan felt a firm hand grasp his shoulder and turned to see Przemek standing behind him. The look on Przemek’s face was a mix of urgency and concern.

“My room in 10 minutes, bring Nikolaj,” Przemek said, his tone leaving no room for argument. His eyes, serious and focused, met Jonathan’s with a silent demand for immediate attention.

Jonathan nodded, a hint of worry creeping into his own expression.

As Jonathan turned back towards the girl, he saw that she had already disappeared into the crowd that was now shifting and milling about the room. Her earlier presence was replaced by the bustling activity of people standing up, collecting their belongings, and heading towards their respective duties.

The ballroom, which had been filled with a tense but focused energy, was now a hive of movement. Jonathan scanned the room briefly, hoping to catch one last glimpse of her, but she was nowhere to be seen among the sea of people.