“It’s one thing to ask for custody of a Witch or Wizard from the international community when your Monarchy is already allied with the most out of any nation, but it’s a completely different story when you claim it with complete disregard for formalities,” said one man, his frail figure sat at the far end of the table. “You people, more than anyone, should know the importance these existences hold to the world.”
“You do realise how thin the ice you are walking on is, Prime Minister, Lieutenant-General? I speak for all Spirit nations at this table when I say that magic is reserved for Spirits. Using it in inanimate objects as you Geverdians do is a point of contention we have always tolerated but do not think we approved of it,” a Spirit said, sitting much closer. Too close, considering the mounds of flesh its seat could barely hold off the ground.
The back and forth had been going on for some time, and Lieutenant-General Marie Elvera of the Royal Military Special Operations, as she had been introduced, was growing tired of it. Prime Minister Fredrick Talwaul sitting in the chair next to her was as well, judging by his slumped posture and half-open eyes.
The Prime Minister had already spoken to the members long before, members of a council seldom known by anyone outside its circle of members and protected under a tenuous oath. Despite his only recent induction to the job, the Prime Minister was responsible for gathering the congregation in the first place. The situation had been explained, but clearly not to the rest of the congregation’s satisfaction.
The Lieutenant-General stood. She cleared her throat, and the floor’s murmuring ceased.
“Esteemed members of the middling nations, thank you for your patience and continued understanding. As nations where the relationship between Humans and spirits exists, even if ever so strenuous, we are the ones that must decide what happens to Wizards and Witches and how they are handled. Each of us requires a say, and having said that, may I present Geverde’s matter on the situation.”
As she began to sit down, a defiant voice attempted to speak from the cover of shadow.
“Without interruption, if you would be so kind,” the Lieutenant General smiled, sitting back down with no further issue, thinking nothing of it. The rest of the congressional looked on in agitated pause, too scared to speak.
“As far as we have understood from various tests results and observations, this girl is mentally unstable, likely tied directly to her mysterious nature. Now, further tests could have been conducted, but by a majority decision, it was determined that leaving an unstable Witch under close hospital surveillance and constant testing would result in nothing short of a ticking time bomb.”
“So…you’ve released her?” asked one member, a pudgy woman who’s head barely cleared the shoulders of the modestly sized man beside her. “You just let that ticking time bomb go?”
The outburst irked the Lieutenant-General, and she felt a nerve pop in her temple as she ground her teeth. “We have put her in custody. I feel like you are forgetting a crucial point here. The subject in question is a minor, somewhere between nine and eleven years old. To be treated like a weapon is a human rights violation through and through.”
‘Human rights?!’ the entire congressional seemed to say silently. It was indeed true that Wizards and Witches were powerful beings—powerful enough to almost make someone forget they were still human in the first place, but the Lieutenant-General could never hold such an opinion.
“I’m sure the subject’s guardian needs no introduction; she’s likely already come into contact with your regional governing bodies at one point or another. The girl has been released into the Wishbearer’s care. If there’s anything on this continent that can successfully terminate the subject in question in case of emergency, it’s her.”
The members could argue if they wanted to, but they knew they would be hypocrites. Every nation represented had interacted in some form or another with Wizards and Witches, and each wanted a say. Namely, how much power they could exert over their Wizards and Witches before the others became envious.
In this room, those people were weapons, more incredible than a single nation could control.
“This was all done in a rush, to which we sincerely apologise on behalf of the organisations in charge and her majesty herself. However, the matter was settled with permission from the appropriate Sidosian authorities.”
The Lieutenant-General passed the floor to the woman beside her. The recently inducted Prime Minister of Sidos, Dalena Fault, rose to her full height before bowing.
“As the subject in question is, at present, incapable of determining her origin or old enough to choose one, she will be treated as an expatriate of Sidos. As per this council's agreements, the subject’s nation of origin decides their fate. I fully agree with the judgement passed by my Geverdian counterparts. Any objections?”
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Moments of silence suggested the council members agreed, or rather had no choice but to agree, giving the Prime Minister the cue to take her seat.
“This alliance…between your two nations. You do realise our disagreements with it?”
An awkward silence permeated the room. An old man talked from behind his moustache, blatantly pointing out the elephant in the room. The rest of the congressional stared forward, refusing to acknowledge the spoken sentence.
“Is that an objection I hear?” The Sidosian Prime Minister asked.
…
“If not, then that is all I have to say.”
The Prime Minister finally took a seat, and the council was adjourned. The Lieutenant-General leaned over to the Geverdian Prime Minister.
“You were falling asleep there.”
“It isn’t much of a debate when you hear the same opinion seven times in a row, is it?”
“Debate students always irked me anyways. I’m not much of a diplomat,” she said as she left.
“…student? I’m forty-two!”
But the lieutenant-general’s mind was already elsewhere. The flight back from Rodshiva was short, but the woman wished it was shorter. She had a god-granddaughter to meet.
Jamie Welrod sat in a darkened room, rays of sunshine peeking through the curtains illuminating the smoke circling the ceiling. He sat on a folding chair made of flimsy tin, the type to be bought en masse for the purpose of a community gathering or school recital. It was so squat that the tails of his grey trench coat almost dragged across the floor. Surrounding him were sets of sleeping machines, telegram lines which were—for the moment—dormant. A control centre of sorts, one he presided over as its commander and thereby the commander of every force in its influence. Jamie Welrod was a powerful man.
He sat in wait by the closest telegram, next to a grey telephone standing on its workbench. He sat in silence, puffing on a cigar and watching the hands of the wall clock as they counted down the minutes, then the seconds. Then it rang.
Jamie Welrod let the ringtone play out once, then twice, then picked up the receiver halfway through the third. The bell chimed as he lifted it off the body and slowly raised it to his ear. Neither side dared to speak first and he waited with bated breath, listening to the soft breathing coming from the other side.
“Welrod,” Jamie said slowly, anxiously pausing for a reply.
“I got the number correct, then?” the voice from the other side of the line chirped. “Thank goodness, these eyes don’t do much for me when I’m dialling numbers.”
“Yes, this is the right number,” Jamie replied, some of the tension in his shoulders relieving. “We’ve done what you’ve told us to.”
“You speak of it as an order,” the voice chuckled. “It’s nothing like that, just some friendly advice. Sure, the funds are a matter of business but take anything besides that as nothing more than…optional. An act of goodwill.” The voice talked casually, making Jamie feel as though he was doing nothing more than organising a dinner party. Organising, yes, but Jamie had never been one to throw parties, let alone go to them.
“We find it hard to not take your advice seriously,” he said, “as our sponsor, your advice has only ever been exceedingly accurate.”
“Well, why would it not?” the sponsor asked. “The spoils of partaking in such a vast network are something to be shared with one's allies. You’ve garnered yourself quite a big web yourself, hm?”
“Yes,” Jamie answered. “Most municipal Police forces in the Sidos and many in its Parliament since the last time we were in contact.” He had no intention of being vain, to show off his organisation’s control over the city in an act of intimidation. He needed to be honest.
“Well, I hope you don’t take offence if I consider your web as part of my network,” the sponsor asked. “I do enjoy watching it grow.”
“No, not at all.”
He could hear his sponsor smile over the telephone. “When you’ve got such a compelling motive, people can’t help but lend you a hand. Almost like charity, I just feel as though I have to do everything I can to support you.”
The sponsor had never bothered elaborating this point no matter how many times he repeated it. All he was, was a voice over the phone. A silky-smooth voice that would express interest, wire money and leak intelligence. Their largest funds as of late had been thanks to the sponsor, and their largest hits had been thanks to intel he had given them for nothing in exchange. Jamie Welrod had figured that his sponsor was rich and well connected beyond comprehension, but beyond that he had no clue as to identity or allegiance. His only saving grace was that Jamie himself had stayed as, if not more anonymous in their negotiations.
“I find great interest in your movement, Jamie,” the sponsor reinstated. “I believe S.H.I.A. has wondrous potential to do good. Giving Sidos back to its people, its humans.”
It was a regular event, every time they exchanged words over the phone, the conversation would lead down a similar path. Or rather, the sponsor would lead it down this particular path. Jamie would sit in silence, replying when needed and agreeing universally. It made him uncomfortable in his own skin to be reduced to nothing but a yes man, but swallowing his shame was something he could do if required of him.
“Those professionals I told you to kidnap, pardon my crude language, how are they working?” he asked.
“They work well,” Jamie answered. “We’re negotiating for parts from friendly arms factories and educating our own engineers on their assembly, maintenance and operation.”
“Magnificent machines, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” Jamie replied. He had only seen them disassembled, the metal men that stood several storeys high and carried guns the length of automobiles. Grey men with cylindrical bodies and wiry, stiff appendages, he could imagine their movements as they decimated untold scores of whoever stood in their way, Spirit or Human. “We have plans for them already, although they must be acted upon before the absence of those engineers catches up to us.”
“Yes,” the sponsor said. “Some of them are Geverdian, so it’s no wonder people will be searching for them sooner or later. Keep me updated on your progress and notify me when the first weapon is completed. I have more plans for your hostages.”
“Yes sir,” Jamie confirmed. “Thank you.”
“No, nothing of that sort is needed. Until utopia begins, brother.”