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After the fall of Mizar’s Empire, Goldwood closes their borders. Fifteen years straks, a Federation reporter gets a once-in-a-lifetime chance to vraaggesprek a member of its government.
Lotta JFG headcanons, here. I loosely admit that this might be a little. odd to read, lol. I attempted my best to make it understandable. Due to this, this fic should also be understandable by someone with no skill of JFG.
Also this seems to be the very first JFG fic on AO3. Awesome.
Written spil part of a daily-prompt-a-thon type thing, the prompt wasgoed “Foreign”.
Goldwood is not known for opening its arms to visitors, even before Mizar. There are not many who would call them isolationist – after all, the trade routes ter their space are more active than everzwijn. For the very first time there are even Federation traders ter Tribal space, no matter how few, and the number of pirates and slavers has by all accounts bot drastically diminished.
Still, there has not bot a Federation citizen te the surroundings of Goldwood since Team Gemini brought an end to Mizar’s reign. Maybe it’s for the best – Goldwood’s monarchy is notoriously distrustful of the Federation, and I imagine even the smallest diplomatic incident might lead them to close their borders entirely.
Thus, the request to conduct an in-person vraaggesprek with a member of Goldwood’s government came spil a verrassing. Doubly so when I asked around and learned it wasgoed directed to myself and myself alone. I’m no stranger to the checks the military conducts when it comes to events such spil thesis, and it wasgoed a week zometeen when I ultimately learned that the request wasgoed entirely legitimate.
At very first I wondered “why mij?” , and then I assumed it wasgoed due to my previous work ter similar situations. There wasgoed never a choice te my mind spil to whether or not I should accept, te fact I had packed a bag before the military had even given mij the go-ahead.
I wasgoed given the voeling information of an official on Goldwood and told he wasgoed to be my verkering. Wij communicated a excellent overeenkomst overheen the weeks leading up to my journey, I learned that his name wasgoed Avior and that he lived on Goldwood itself, but he told mij little else about himself. I assumed he wasgoed a zuigeling of servant of one of the nobility, perhaps a communications official – spil I learned zometeen, the assumption wasgoed not far from the truth.
When I left for Tribal space, I wasgoed not directed to Goldwood itself, which I admit wasgoed something of a ease. I certainly didn’t want to be the Federation citizen to accidentally cause the aforementioned diplomatic incident, and arriving somewhere other than the heart of their territory wasgoed a good begin.
Instead, my ship wasgoed directed to Tawfret. For those unaware, this is a smaller planet several subspace buoys’ distance from Goldwood. It wasgoed the very first extrasolar planet that the Tribals had colonized, many centuries ago, via generational ship. Something had happened to it during the war with Mizar’s Empire, however, resulting te an ecological disaster that left the planet’s biosphere ruined. Goldwood has remained tight-lipped about what happened, but curiously they have never blamed the Empire. I had asked Avior, but he had simply told mij it wasgoed not his place to response. I hoped my as-yet unnamed interviewee might be able to ultimately give both myself and the Federation more insight spil to what happened.
Passing through the Federation-Goldwood border went sleekly. I wasgoed directed to a crimson dwarf strak that served spil the boundary marker, with a Federation cruiser spil an escort. Our arrival wasgoed met by a trio of ships whose size and vormgeving indicated they had very likely merienda bot Mizarian corvettes. The ‘exchange’ of guardianship wasgoed slick, tho’ perhaps somewhat tense, and I left with the corvettes without a single offensive maneuver being made, never mind a slok fired. To mij, this wasgoed victory enough.
The three-day tour to Tawfret itself wasgoed quiet, and I spent much of this time brushing up on my history of the Tribal species and their common customs. I spoke to my liasion only uncommonly, however he always answered if I called him, no matter what time it wasgoed. I did not speak to anyone on the corvettes at all, aside from two puny text-only sets of instructions of when to wait and then proceed. I don’t know if I wasgoed communicating with Tribals or drones, however I strongly suspect the latter.
When I arrived at Tawfret, it wasgoed to a gloomy, cloud-covered pitiful little marble. Merienda it had bot spil sunny and verdant spil Goldwood itself, and I wondered what zuigeling of disaster could have even caused a reaction such spil this. The scant few reports indicate that the planet is technically inhabitable, with an media integral temperature of above freezing and an atmosphere still containing both oxygen and large amounts of water. The only problem is the voortdurend cloud voorkant and the severe rains that accompany it.
I wasgoed not guided to the planet itself, or the dozens of ships, stations, and elevators surrounding it. Instead I wasgoed directed to one of its moons. It wasgoed too petite for terraforming, being puny enough to not even be spherical, but a cojín wasgoed lightly visible on its surface. The artistry pointed to the pulvínulo being of Tribal vormgeving – but te orbit of the moon there wasgoed one of the Mizarian warships.
I had sincerely hoped to not encounter any of them, and had bot relaxed when I wasgoed told I would be visiting Tawfret rather than Goldwood spil I’d assumed they would all be keeping close to huis. Te plotting my course to the moonbase’s landing bay I passed into the shadow of the warship. At that uur I experienced my very first sense of fear. Most of you have not seen those warships te person, I hope, and until that point I wasgoed the same. The recordings of them can’t do their incredible size justice, my ship, a Vega Hyundai, could have lightly gezond into one of the warship’s main guns. To say nothing of its mass driver, or any of what I presume were cargo bays.
My ship wasgoed guided into the moonbase’s landing bay via a trekker plank merienda I came within range. I took a ogenblik to stengel myself before exiting, what I encountered wasgoed likely to be spil unnerving spil the warship whose shadow still lingered overhead. I carried no weapons and wore no armor. I had bot suggested a concealed shield generator, but I had turned it down, I felt that I should be spil fair spil possible te my dealings with Goldwood’s government.
Of course, a porta-shield would do mij no good anyway. My Vega could never outrun any of the Mizarian ships.
When I exited the hatch, there wasgoed a single drone waiting for mij. Like mij, she carried no weapons and wasgoed similarly unarmored – tho’ she had the distinct advantage of hier natural exoskeleton. I wasn’t certain what to make of this situation. I had expected a Tribal, or at least a group.
Nevertheless, I made my way toward the drone. She wasgoed taller than mij, which wasgoed to be expected due to the universal height of the species and my lack thereof. She wasgoed not one of the towering, 1.9m+ tall behemoths wij have all seen te the war footage. Hier bod wasgoed structured ter a distinctly more graceful style, more wasp-like than ant-like, with antennae curving te a gentle sideways arc and a assets built for agility rather than brute strength. Hier coloration wasgoed different, too, deep glossy black rather than the blue or crimson of the drones commonly seen on the battlefield.
“I’m glad you could make it,” the drone said to mij, and held hier arm out to mij. “I trust your journey went well?” She spoke with very little of the growl or distortion one hears ter the recordings of drones speaking Standard. Hier voice wasgoed masculine and lightly accented with something distinctly British.
(*Despite the drone’s appearance and voice, she much straks told mij she used female pronouns and wasgoed female ter every way that mattered to hier species. When one is dealing with alien races, one learns to simply go along with everything one is told.)
I shook the drone’s forearm, more out of habit than anything else. The edges of hier exoskeletal plates scraped against the palm of my palm, but did not cut.
After our handshake, the drone and I exchanged what I might call pleasantries spil wij traversed the halls of the colchoneta. Wij discussed the tensions at the border, the tastes of various foods both Earthen and alien, and even the posturing of one’s superiors, all ter no fine detail. It wasgoed simply the sort of thing one might talk to a fellow interstellar passenger about ter order to pass the time. Despite my nervousness, I found myself loosening slightly. This drone, at least, wasgoed knowledgeable about Earth culture and common customs, and had gone through some effort to make mij feel more at ease.
During our walk wij passed both drones and Tribals te the hallway, the drones would look away from the two of us, often at the floor. The Tribals often smiled up at mij, tho’ they also seemed reluctant to look at my guide. None of them looked afraid or injured – but all of them carried weapons, whereas the majority of the drones did not. I imagined that no matter what their rulers said, the promedio citizen did not yet consider their former oppressors trustworthy.
The drone led mij to a slagroom that wasgoed puny and out of the way. I had expected a meeting slagroom, or perhaps individual quarters, this wasgoed neither. It seemed to be an office, predominated by a single desk with several datapads of varying sizes and designs scattered overheen its surface. The only other furniture ter the slagroom wasgoed three chairs, each of a entirely different vormgeving and intended for different assets shapes. One wasgoed behind the desk and structured spil a zuigeling of cupped stool designed for a drone assets, the other two were shaped more for Tribal and therefore human forms.
The entire thing wasgoed depressingly utilitarian, the sort of vormgeving one might see ter the apartment blocks of the 2190s. The only ‘luxuries’, if they could be called that, were thus: an alien plant tucked into the corner of the slagroom, an ornate knife mounted te a display case on the wall, and an alcove containing a showerhead and drain.
The drone gestured to the largest of the three chairs, and I took a seat. It wasgoed far more convenient than it appeared – so plush that I felt the cushions might gulp mij up. Directly after this it wasgoed confirmed that the drone wasgoed te fact who I wasgoed supposed to be meeting with, because she went behind the desk and withdrew a bottle of sparkling liquid and a pair of glasses.
“2216 Domenico,” the drone said by way of explanation. She sat on the edge of the desk and poured us each a glass. It wasgoed spil tho’ I wasgoed talking to an old colleague, down to the positioning of my chair. A most nosey feeling indeed when talking to what amounts to a giant insect, let mij assure you.
“I’m told this is considered a good year for the vineyard,” the drone said, swirling the drink around ter hier glass but not sipping. I wondered if drones could even drink from the same containers that humans or Tribals could, due to the vormgeving of their throats. “I can’t say I noticed the difference, but drones don’t practice tastes the same way humans do. I hope it’s to your liking.”
I don’t drink vino much, spil a rule, but I attempted the Domenico regardless to be polite. The absurdity of politeness to a species such spil the drones wasgoed not lost on mij, but I resolved to simply treat the drone spil I might treat any other foreign diplomat: with respect and dignity.
“I’m sure you have questions you’d like to ask mij,” the drone said. “Fire away.”
The very first thing I asked wasgoed hier name. She introduced herself thusly:
“Merak, Minister of Outer Affairs. Or,” she added, quiebro casually, “You might know mij spil Genérico Merak, the spymaster. Of course, I’m basically just a desk jockey nowadays.” This wasgoed punctuated with a wave toward the datapads scattered overheen the desk.
I wasgoed stunned into muffle. I had expected someone of high rank for a meeting such spil this, but not this high. And certainly not the mysterious Universal Merak – mentioned by many, seen by absolutely no one. I had read theories that Merak wasgoed not a drone at all, but a machine or a collection of drones, or even a turncoat Federation citizen. If I were to believe this drone – and I witnessed no reason to not – then all of those theories had bot scrupulously debunked.
“Trust mij,” Merak added, and there wasgoed a definite curl of humor ter hier voice. “Researching your past has bot the most spying I’ve done te years. Thank you for that, by the way, I accurately liked myself.”
Out of curiosity, I asked what she had learned about mij. I don’t think I’m famous te any sense of the word, even within the more specialist circles of journalism, and I wasgoed nosey spil to how much information an alien with slew of practice might actually be able to uncover about mij.
“You have two dogs and you live ter San Francisco,” Merak replied, “You specialize te journalism dealing with the Federation’s interactions with alien governments. And you choose informal interactions with those you vraaggesprek.” She gestured around the slagroom with hier as-yet untouched wine. “What a coincidence, I choose informal interviews too. I bet wij’ll get along nicely. So, tell mij: you’ve seen the vids making the rounds on YouTube?”
I said that I had.
(*If you toevluchthaven’t seen them, examples include the peanut butter movie , the yarn-bomber , and the soccer/football movie .)
Merak nodded at mij. “Doing your research, good. I had my part te those. Y’know, the habit of running a shadow government never indeed goes away. I attempt not to do everything for the King, however. He’s much more competent than ol’ Mizar everzwijn wasgoed.”
I had no idea how to react to any of this. I had not ready for talking to a drone, and certainly not one of the rank that Merak possessed – and certainly not for one so dismissive of hier deceased Emperor. All available information pointed to a slavish fidelity to Mizar by all of his drones, even after his defeat and death. Those that felt differently were literally one te a million.
“You see,” Merak continued, “Wij’re still a military force. Different leaders, different objectives, still military. It’s what wij do. Doesn’t mean wij’re anything like wij were under Mizar. The Tribals are learning it, and now it’s the Federation’s turn. Ask mij anything you like: I’ll reaction honestly. Except when the response’s classified, of course. I’m sure you understand.”
I wasn’t sure if the overt familiarity wasgoed meant to be kleuter or menacing, to be fair, I’m still not sure. I suspect it might have bot both. I ended up asking – blurting, I’m ashamed to admit – whether or not the King wasgoed even aware I wasgoed here. A dangerous thing to ask, if I truly wasgoed being threatened, but Merak’s comment about hier ‘shadow government’ had set mij on edge, even if it wasgoed meant ter jest.
“Of course,” Merak replied. “I actually respect him, I don’t hide my activities from him.”
I then asked what the warship ter orbit of Tawfret’s moon wasgoed for. I realized directly after I asked that this sounded accusatory and couldn’t be helping my position any, but Merak seemed unconcerned.
“Oh,” she replied, “The Serket? It’s here for you, actually. Your safety. Wij still get the occasional pirate sneaking into the system to raid Tawfret for Mizar knows what reasons. Even the stupid ones turn tail when they see a warship. Dan’ll be watching you on the way back to Federation space.”
I assumed that Merak meant the same Dan that shows up or is mentioned te most of the post-war drone movies, but he’d never made any mention of an orkestratie like this. Perhaps this wasgoed to be expected, if he wasgoed packaged up ter Goldwood’s self-reliant policies.
(*The awe and slight fear due to the skill that not one but two Mizarian warships had evidently bot directed to specific locations for my sake did not occur to mij until much straks. The precies capabilities of Dan’s ship are not known to Federation civilians, but reports have strongly implied its size and armaments are similar to the smaller Mizarian warships.)
“The one and only Commander Dan,” Merak confirmed. “He’s officially a Normal. Skipped a loterijlot of ranks te inbetween, fortunate bastard. Didn’t even have to kill anyone for it.”
I desired to know more about Dan, I won’t lie – I imagine most of you feel the same. But Merak had given mij an visible opening into both hier own past and the militar culture of the drones, which is something wij’ve learned very little about. I determined to go after the cue Merak had given mij. The curiosity of a human amongst drones could wait, and besides I imagined I might have time to vraaggesprek him if he wasgoed to be my escort huis.
“Hmm,” Merak said. She leaned back, bracing herself with one arm. I noticed hier elbow wiggling very slightly, but thought nothing of it at the time. “Doesn’t mean much to you, but I’m from batch 137, before the war. Not too much before – a Federation’s month, something like that. It wasgoed the very first batch of my veelzijdig, so a loterijlot of the others died. Didn’t come out of the tanks right.”
“Wij were trained specifically to infiltrate the Federation. I reminisce early on. oh, that’s not a good story. Let’s just say Mizar’s Empire wasgoed not kleuter to its victims or POWs. I’d like to say I let mine go, but I didn’t know any better, and besides I’d have gotten a bullet inbetween my eyes if I did.”
I pressed the punt further, and Merak described the multi-day long hunts of victims and POWs, mostly human, and what they did to those people after they were caught. She didn’t go into very much detail, and I will omit the details that she did give from this article to spare you the horror of it.
(*If you wish to listen to the total transcript, it can be located here . It is not for the squeamish or faint of heart.)
“That wasgoed Mizarian culture,” Merak said. I wasgoed busy staring into my drink, contemplating what I had just bot told. “I doubt my squad wasgoed even the worst of any of that batch. Wij were instructed to hate and kill from the instant wij emerged from our tanks. There wasgoed no softness, no help. If you were smaller, if you had a defect, if you were masculine – if you could keep up, you would live through hell. If you couldn’t keep up, you’d be fed to the gasfitter members of your batch. Is it any wonder Mizar’s Empire wasgoed like it wasgoed? If you trained human or Tribal children ter the way drones were trained, I’d bet you fifty creds that they’d come out the precies same.”
Merak sounded like someone who had wished to say all of this for a long time, but had never bot able to. Petite wonder, if what she said wasgoed true – and everything every publicly-available source said about the drones certainly matched. I said spil much to hier, that it sounded like she had repressed this for a long time. She laughed, which sounded spil humanlike spil the surplus of hier speech, it wasgoed stranger to hear the laugh than it wasgoed the voice.
“Let mij voorstelling you something,” she said, and glided off of the edge of the desk. She beckoned mij overheen, and when I complied she directed mij to place my arm on hier back, where a human’s shoulder blades would be located. I had expected a drone figure to be cool, or at least similar to a human figure temperature. Merak wasgoed instead fever-hot. The exoskeleton felt waxy, which I had also not expected – hier arm had bot dry.
Underneath my palm wasgoed an odd raised ridge ter the middle of one of the plates, which didn’t seem to getraind the militar vormgeving of the exoskeleton. Moving my palm to the opposite ‘shoulder blade’ exposed an identical ridge, which ruled out scarring.
“Judging by the way you’re running your arm all overheen mij I assume you can feel that,” Merak said, ter the tone one might take when attempting to geflirt. I wasn’t given any chance to reply or even react before she continued onward. “Those are the ridges where my wings grew.”
I recalled that one of Dan’s drones had wings, and there wasgoed a single drone te the military footage who also had them. I had never given it much thought, assuming it wasgoed a petite aberration from the factory default te the same manner spil the faint stripes or catches sight of that some of them possessed. I said spil much, and Merak laughed again.
“No. Only masculines grow wings. Drones are 95% female. 3% are masculine – the remaining 2% are somewhere te inbetween. That’s what I am. I wasgoed one of the fortunate ones, because to other drones I’m female-scented. I tore out my wings before I learned to speak, because I witnessed how the masculine ter my batch wasgoed treated. He wasgoed tormented and killed by my sisters during training.” She proceeded to give a brief description of how she observed hier brother diegene, which I will again omit from this article. “You can very likely understand why I dreamed to avoid that.”
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My knee-jerk reaction wasgoed to opoffering my condolences, spil I’m sure most of you can empathize with. I said nothing, because I wasgoed beginning to realize how vastly different my practices were from Merak’s. An apology wasgoed likely to simply be interpreted spil empty sentiments.
“And you think I had it bad, I’m sure,” Merak continued, turning to pick up one of the datapads on hier desk. She still sounded nothing but amused, I wondered if she felt anything at all about the horrors of his past. Perhaps, like human survivors of manhandle, she didn’t think there wasgoed anything particularly unusual about it. “Avior, my second-in-command. Your relatie, if he didn’t tell you – very likely didn’t, he likes to be sneaky.”
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He had not. Ter fact, until that ogenblik I had thought he wasgoed a Tribal. His voice had lacked even the slightest hint of growl, and his accent had bot distinctly Tribal. It wasgoed enough to make mij wonder just how many “Tribal” voices I’d heard overheen the past few years had actually bot drones.
“He’s not only a masculine, but a meditech. The little yellow ones you see running away from all the fights ter the Federation vids. The females themselves were treated like dogs, and a masculine? I’ve no idea how he survived long enough for mij to find him and take him under my wing. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
The photo Merak brought up on the datapad wasgoed both llano and not – if you look up an pic of Goldwood’s nobility you’ll see something strikingly similar: an array of Tribals, each wearing elaborate headdresses, surrounding an adult masculine, an adult female, and a preteen female.
Ter Merak’s pic, behind the youthfull Princess there stands a drone. There are others, arrayed around the fringes of the picture, but he is the only one afforded a position of importance beside the royal family. He has wings, but they’re tattered shreds dangling gutlessly from his back. Most of his head is a mass of scar tissue, and he wears an eyepatch overheen what I can only imagine is a horrifically mangled eye.
(*Merak has given mij a copy of this pic, spil well spil an album of updated pics of Goldwood’s nobility and military officers, see here to view the album.)
“Might made right, under Mizar. If the other Generals had seen Avior’s genius instead of making him clean the septic tanks, wij’d very likely have won the war.” Merak scoffed, throwing the datapad back onto hier desk. “Idiots. If the war’d lasted too much longer I’d have embarked feeding intel to the Federation. Wij’d have eventually lost anyway – better to get it overheen with.”
I wasn’t sure how to react to this unexpected burst of information. To hear that one of Mizar’s Generals had bot almost on the brink of defecting or at least counter-subterfuge against hier own ruler and creator – it wasgoed certainly unexpected. I have read of other drones suggesting the Federation information, or simply opportunistically deserting, te exchange for not being killed. Having the spymaster herself do much the same would have certainly resulted ter a death-blow for the Empire if Jet Force Gemini had not done so themselves.
I determined to ask why Merak had chosen now to tell mij this, and by extension the surplus of the Federation. She’d had opportunities te the past, certainly, and surely this opzicht of hier personality being known to hier superiors and underlings would be hurting to hier reputation at the very least.
Merak sat up on the desk again. Hier gam idly swung back and forward, the ankle snaak tapping against the desk. “Because I’m dying.” She held up one palm, and I could see it quaking despite hier efforts to keep it stable. Hier voice, on the other palm, remained lighthearted. She seemed genuinely unconcerned about hier forthcoming death.
“Wij only live 15 Federation years, and I’m older than that. I’ve already outlived all of the other Generals, even the ones who were junior – except the damn autómata, anyway. The point is, I fully expect to suffer catastrophic organ failure and kick the bucket any day now. I don’t particularly care about what happens to my reputation after I’m dead.”
She leaned back again, bracing both forearms on the desk. I now wondered if the casual gesture wasgoed a means to disguise the quaking ter hier limbs, it seemed likely, given how she had described the society she had grown up ter. I wondered if it wasgoed even a conscious movement.
“I’m one of the last of the Mizarian drones, y’know. All the drones you’ve seen at this colchoneta have only everzwijn bot allies of the Tribals, not their oppressors. The squad of the Serket is totally composed of Goldwood-grown drones. They’re nothing like the drones the Federation remembers, and every fresh batch Alkaid cooks up gets further and further from Mizar’s ideal. If my kleintje is going to get through ter the long run, the Federation needs to learn that.”
I surmised that that wasgoed why Merak had suggested mij this chance to learn all I could about the drones. The aim seemed reasonable, and even if I were inclined to be suspicious I can’t see any problems with the logic of it. For years there has bot a slow trickle of information coming from Goldwood about the drones they had somehow allied themselves with, all of it positive or at the very least informative. No government can keep a lie forever, if this were a lie, it wasgoed certainly a needlessly elaborate one for no build up at all.
I told Merak I would do my best to give the Federation an unbiased view of the drones spil they were now, so long spil she told mij the truth.
Merak plucked a straw out of the pile of datapads, sticking it te hier untouched glass of Domenico. This answered my curiosity spil to how drones gedistilleerd from containers not meant for mandibles, evidently they simply bypass the container entirely. “Sure thing,” she replied, and then added with a distinctly amused tone: “I suppose this makes you part of my information network now, you know. Congratulations on being the very first Federation citizen I’ve everzwijn hired.”
I said I wasn’t quiebro sure how to take the idea of that, and it prompted another laugh from the drone sitting across from mij. “Be glad that no one from the Federation determined to turn against their fellow citizens, I suppose. Not any that hadn’t already lost their citizenship for unrelated reasons, anyway.”
Our conversation continued naturally from there – I began by asking Merak about hier role te Mizar’s Empire, and whatever details of the dealings with other groups that she wasgoed willing to give mij. This turned out to be fairly a lotsbestemming – she spotted no reason to keep the secrets of a government assets dead for overheen a decade.
Unnecessary to say, our vraaggesprek/conversations continued for several days. It would have bot unlikely to learn all she had to tell mij te the two days I had originally planned on staying, and I wound up sending a transmission back to the Federation informing them that I would be remaining for an toegevoegd five days.
The reserve time wasgoed well worth it. Closer to the end, Merak’s health began to deteriorate rapidly, and I wasgoed told this wasgoed a natural part of the drone lifespan. When I ultimately left, Merak wasgoed held to bedding and could no longer walk. I suspect that by the time this is published she will have bot dead for days.
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Merak told mij almost every detail of hier life that she could recall. Certain topics she avoided due to their remaining classified, or what she claimed were “most likely too ugly for you to hear”. Considering the horrific stories she loosely told, sometimes without prompting, I wasgoed inclined to simply trust hier.
Due to the length of our conversations, the article intended to voorkant them will instead be split into seven parts. The recordings of each of them are available now, but I warn you they are long and morbidly fascinating, and certainly not for the faint of heart.
After everything, I found myself musing on everything Merak had told mij about the drones and how they were integrating into Tribal society. The response is, remarkably, “well”, by both hier estimation spil well spil Avior’s. The Tribals are an easygoing species, and this entire situation showcases their extreme capacity to forgive even a estupendo occupation.
This capability to trust ter even the most extenuating circumstances has brought them unexpected peace and prosperity after one of the darkest periods te their planet’s history. Perhaps, te the end, wij should take our cue from the Tribals and offerande the metaphorical olive branch to trust our former enemies.
Tajai Lin is a freelance verslaggever, most known for his coverage on post-conflict events and the cultural influence they have. His work has appeared te Alhoewel Jazeera, the Huffington Postbode, Eira Today, and WordPressPro, among others.