Vignette:Ultimatum
Ultimatum
- Old Palace, Cherson, Imperial State of Alva
February 1st, 1945
hey could have sent a letter.
Instead, they’d rolled out the red carpet for them and insisted they walk on it. Under the guise of well-manicured hospitality, they’d been corralled into a diplomatic corner: his delegation could reject the demands and be antagonized even further by Alva, or accept them and be chewed out back home. For a seasoned negotiator with years of experience under his belt, he really should have seen it coming.
The demands in question were rather simple: relinquish the ports and whatever claims they held on their territory.
Propyria-Alva relations, while fresh out of the oven with the latter’s recent formation, were incredibly belligerent given his homeland’s rather chummy relations with the socialist Goetia. The ports themselves were remnants of a bygone era of endless bickering between government and corporation, and few, if any, would be sad to see them go. Rather infuriatingly, it was just the matter of compensation that seemed to be the main sticking point of negotiations. The Alvaks had yet to budge on the issue, but he'd started to see signs of weakness in their chief representative before they called for a recess.
His delegation, having retreated to talk amongst themselves in hushed tones, is startled when the door to their room is abruptly opened. For all the pompous fanfare and practiced smiles that had been present at the opening ceremony, there are only leery glares and clenched jaws that greet them here. The Alvak delegation's lead figure, one Lykourgos Garas, is a stocky man clad in formal wear. The rather corpulent figure wears a haughty expression that reeks of narcissism with hints of an inferiority complex. He’s dealt with these types of people before; knows what words to use to pry them open without them noticing a thing. He’s already halfway there with this one.
But when he stands up to shake his hand and resume negotiations, Lykourgos steps aside to reveal someone else; someone entirely different. He is tall, lean, and in a military uniform he’s grown uncomfortably familiar with during his brief time here. His posture is rigid as steel and straight like a ruler, but whether through aristocratic breeding or military training he has yet to deduce. He has to inch his head up to meet his pithy black eyes.
“Generaloberst, this is Agisilaos Andropoulos, the leader of the Propyrian delegation.” The hand he firmly shakes is cold, despite the desert heat inching its way through his suit.
“Mister Andropoulos,” the fat bastard croaks. “This is Generaloberst Rudolf von Modriach-Riegl.” Lykourgos refuses to elaborate any further, but he’s fairly certain the general is now the one in charge.
As he returns to his seat, he realizes the general has forgone his own, still looming over the table with hands crossed behind his back. He opens his mouth and raises his arm to gesture at him to sit, but he is quickly silenced.
“Mister Andropoulos, you seem to be operating under the pretense that this is a negotiation.” His Thalassian is unrefined, with sprinkles of Goetic morphology all over. It’s light but gravelly, the kind that comes about when one has shouted for far too long.
“Well, is it?” Even sitting down, he feels quite unsteady.
“No.”
The bluntness of his rejection stuns everyone from his delegation. His eyebrows scrunch up and he readies his voice for a plea of verification, but he’s steamrolled again by the Goet.
“I want you to understand that this is not a negotiation. This is a request to cede your ports to the Imperial State of Alva and to relinquish any future claims to them. There will be no restitution for your loss.”
He can only choke out a half-formed chuckle. “Surely…”
“Understand that we have alternative means to carry out this request.”
It must be a bluff, it has to be. The insinuation of force is enough to get him out of his seat. “This is preposterous! Stupid, even! You aren’t strong-handing this!”
The general gazes down on him, unfazed by his outburst. “I take it this is a rejection.”
He shoots back immediately. “A most ardent one, certainly!” After all, what idiot would resort to using force for some meagre ports? This was a win for him; he’d call their bluff, and Propyria could conceivably expand its naval power projection in the Eurybian while humiliating these washed-up Goets simultaneously.
A beat goes by, then two. A sigh escapes the general’s mouth.
“I’m sure that concludes this convention,” he huffs incredulously. “We’ll be taking our leave now, thank you very much-”
The scraping of chairs from his delegation comes to a sudden halt when the general raises his hand, motioning everyone in the room to cease movement.
“Tell your government they have a week to evacuate the ports before we seize them for ourselves.” The statement comes out of the general in one grand unwavering breath, leaving him with no room for one last undiplomatic pithy retort. “See yourselves out; your entourage is waiting outside. Have a good day.”
The Alvaks follow their general and slowly file out of the room, leaving him and his fellow Propyrians alone, confused, and lost.
This isn’t good, he thinks.
