The ramshackle motorized bug-like vehicle grinds—or if the jumpiness can be expressed better—groans as it shutters to a halt just on the outskirts of what I believe is Ègara. Where we were once shrouded by nothing but a vast forest, I find myself peering at a concrete jungle.

And now that I’m here, it’s just as breathless as the entrance of the colony. Being this up close, now more than ever it feels like I have stepped foot into some period drama dating back centuries. It’s too shocking to me that this is modern for them if this bumbling taxi isn’t painfully obvious enough really.

The other passengers have gone already. I felt too embarrassed to disembark before them since I may have gone overboard with currency conversation and didn't want to ask them what the proper amount would be. The fat wad of bills in my pocket, however, appears important enough to be worthwhile. I feel it somewhat appropriate for me to be left alone with the driver, lest I add more to the pile of growing guilt within me.

Feigning innocence, I hop out of the car, taking a few steps from the vehicle for a very much real stretch. I haven’t budged much in the cramped contraption, mostly since I did not want to bother the passenger in the back with me.

And on a near-perfect cue, the taxi driver calls out to me in Anglish that would make my headmistress from all those years ago snap that pointer of her while seething profusely. “Oi! Miss, are ya forgettin’ somethin’ or what?”

I try my best to suppress a smirk, masking it with a surprise as I whirl around with bulging eyes. “Oh… sorry, here,” I reach into my pocket, taking out the wad of colorful paper money native to Francia. “This should be enough, I hope?” I ask. I lick the tip of my left index finger and run through most of the wads of paper, taking out a dozen slips and leaving myself with only a few.

I have no idea how much this is equivalent to the currency back home. Mixing deceptiveness with a genuine lack of knowledge, I hand him the larger amount with a shy grin.

The look on his face is priceless. It’s like I handed him a million dollars with no strings attached. Or maybe he thinks I take him for a fool? He must not be used to it at least.

For me, it doesn’t matter either way. It’s not like I’ll need any of it after the military operation begins.

“I,” he clears his throat. “T, thank you miss.” The taxi driver utters, with one hand he reaches out and I hand him the cash without another word.

At the end of the day, I can always bum off Friederika or even Alexandra for money if I need any money for cash.

Where could those two be, anyway?

And then there’s Paul…

Excusing myself from the taxi driver, I walk aimlessly through Ègara’s outskirts. But now that I think about it, this might be the suburbs. Rows upon rows of identical housing line avenues no matter where I look, their red or brown tiled roofs stand out peeking through the scattered bouts of forestry that manage to penetrate this part of the town.

Through a bit of trekking, I reach what is probably the heart of Ègara. It’s only now upon reflecting on it does it occur to me I should’ve had the taxi driver drive me further inward, but it doesn’t matter now, it’s only an hour or three lost. At worst, I stand out like a sore thumb, a lost lamb wandering from den to den looking for its kin.

I could just be overthinking it though. Frankly, I don’t want any poor sod approaching me asking me if I’m lost.

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With a deep sigh, it makes me wonder if maybe it would’ve been for the better waiting for the taxi driver to drive past the outskirts. Wandering into a literal alien territory like this is embarrassing the more it grows on me.

Eventually, I see an artificial lake and decide to take a rest along its railing. I choose a spot away from civilians; some fishing and others enjoying the peaceful moment of their lives.

Peacefulness. That’s a word I should—and everyone—should cherish and take for granted. In a few days, it’s a word that will feel just as foreign as this colony. A word I will have to de-familiarize myself with soon enough.

Peace… just as artificial as the body of water before me. Could peace ever truly exist in our time, I wonder? Humanity has never experienced widespread intergalactic conflict in the past three or four hundred years since the bombs first fell on old Terra, a planet scarred and rendered inhabitable outside of parts of Oceania and the Australian continents.

And now we’re treading the path before an approaching storm. That’s why we were stationed here. That’s why Alexandra and I went our separate ways; for my fleet in particular we were assigned the Franks—and seemingly, in reality, monitor Jonathan Churchill and his League Militaire.

Why were they allowed to exist after all this time? Why didn’t the Federation react sooner…?

There are too many thoughts entrapping me in a vicious cycle of anxiety. I came here hoping to shake them off but it’s doing me no good.

A peculiar bird interrupts my thoughts and swoops next to me. It flaps its wings in a predatory manner and stares at me with its beady eyes, but does nothing but stare me down in a confrontational matter. Several more of its troops land on the bars around me, and they let out one squawk after another.

I shoo them away to no avail. They’re here to stay—it’s their territory after all. Aren’t I the intruder for being in their land?

I turn to face the city. No matter how I look at it and no matter where I look it’s all the same. These Francien folk truly live in the equivalent of Terra’s medieval Industrial era. All these buildings look older than my old man… older than the structures I once saw in Indo-China when I was a pipsqueak. It’s astonishing. Any moment now I could expect some camera crew to jump-scare me while some old white dude screams cut! It’s unsettling.

But this is real life. This is our reality.

This is just within the Frankish Domain, one of the closest collective star systems concerning Terra, both by relative distance and economic-political ties. How is it in the far hinges of space? In Toscana? In Lombardia?

After we’re done here, what’s next? Do we head back to Ruthenia? Do we simply head back home… mission accomplished?

There is no end to human squabble. For as long as two people exist they will want to squabble with each other. It’s just in human nature—it’s in our DNA to act as such.

But I get none of that here. I don’t have that feeling of tension or uneven equality. No class struggles, not even protests or side glances for foreigners like me. Although the Admiral did mention at the strategic meeting the provincial capital of the Franks, Lusatia, strongly condemns us for our prolonged presence here.

Foreigners… it’s an odd but sad way to put that. I can bet most of the average populace here doesn’t speak a lick of Anglish, maybe a butchered neutered version of it. Even Alexandra—although Ruthenian by blood—struggles with it sometimes.

Alexandra… I wonder where she could be.

“Well, well, well…!”

I can almost hear her annoying snarky voice in my head still.

“Going to ignore me, aren’t ya?”

I should start looking for her before I start hallucinating or something.

“What’s wrong with you? Have you gone deaf on me now?”

I turn to step away—only to bump into someone, falling flat on my bum. A blue-sleeved arm gradually extends out, and I reach for it.

“Oh blimey,” I say. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there—oh!” My blood freezes.

I wasn’t hallucinating. The average height, slender, red-haired mane of Ruthenia herself stands before me.

She flashes her freaky sharp row of teeth with that imposing evil glare of hers.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” The woman says it in such a way that it’s nearly a sneer.

“Alexandra Descartes-Dolz.” I mutter in awe. Eyes wide as they could be. My jaw drops on its own.

“The one and only,” the Ruthenian says with a boastful air of confidence. Behind her, peeks her lackey… whose name I can’t exactly recall, Vinnie wasn’t it? The one I never see without Alexandra. She’s practically Alexandra’s very own Friederika.

It’s her. It’s really her. Alexandra Descartes-Dolz!