The Éire Crisis

[Prydania]

"Good evening. My name Karla Jennings, and welcome to the evening news.

Our top story today; the escalating Éire crisis.
Lord Protector Crofts, in response to the ÉRA's unprovoked and deadly attacks on five government buildings over the past week, has issued an executive order declaring Martial Law in Éire. The Lord Protector stated that a massive military buildup centred around Éire will begin immediately.
The Lord Protector's vow to stomp out the ÉRA's rebellion was met with hostility from the international community, lead by American President Elliot Frémont. For more on that we go to Senior Foreign Correspondent Gordon Newman. Gordon?"

We goe to a split video screen with Gordon Newman in front of the White House in the DSA capital of Washington

"Thank you Karla. Immediately after Lord Protector Crofts issued his executive order to send in military personal into Érie President Frémont's office issued this statement:
'The President of the Democratic States of America finds the Commonwealth government's act of aggression on its own citizens as a crime against humanity. The President demands that the Éire issue be solved not with bloodshed, but before an international committee.'
Consul of Foreign Affairs Destler issued this statement:"

We go to a video clip of Destler being interviewed on the steps of the Department of Foreign Affairs building

"President Frémont, to be frank, needs to remove his nose from situations that don't concern him. This is a matter of internal security. The Commonwealth of Inglo-Scotia will not, under any circumstances, allow an international body to dictate how it is to conduct its own internal matters."

We go back to the split screen of Karla in the studio and Gordon in Washington

"There you have it Karla. As of now the American government has yet to issue a reply to Consul Destler's statement."
"Thank you Gordon, we'll be seeing you again should anything further on the Éire crisis come out of the States.
We're going to take a commercial break, when we get back we'll look at the latest round of Major-General arrests."

[Prydania]

Council of State conference room, under the Commonwealth Parliament Building
"Thank you Gordon, we'll be seeing you again should anything further on the Éire crisis come out of the States.
We're going to take a commercial break, when we get back we'll look at the latest round of Major-General arrests."

The television in the upper left corner of the concrete room went blank as Consul of War Mark Anderson pushed the "POWER" button on the clicker.

"Howe" Crofts snapped, his attention focused on Gerrard Howe, Consul of Security, "what can we expect from our American fiends?"
"I think we can expect a good deal of AIB supplies and advisers to be funneled into Éire in support of the ÉRA. It's the position of the Frémont administration to weaken the Commonwealth, and an independent Éire, even an unstable one, would achieve that goal."
"Is this theory or fact?"
"I can safely say it's fact Sir. CSIS undercover agents, as well as AIB and administration contacts, confirm this."
"And the Major-Generals?"
"I have undercover agents scattered throughout Éire, and an ÉRA infiltration program is already underway."
"Very good Consul Howe."
Gerrard breathed a sigh of relief. When the LP demanded to know a Consul's status on a position he expected things to be well under way.

"Destler" Crofts snapped, turning to his brother-in-law and the Consul of Foreign Affairs, "what are we doing about the Americans on the diplomatic front?"
"Frémont can't keep up the support for the ÉRA for very long. He's been holding back southern secessionists for two years. He'll crumble under the weight of his hypocrisy."
"I wasn't asking that Consul" Crofts shot back, "I want to know how you're going to pressure the Yankees into limiting their support to Collins and the rest of his ÉRA thugs."
"Obviously we'll threaten tariffs, embargoes, the usual lot. However the Southern secessionists can work to our advantage. I'll make sure to remind him that if he insists on helping the Éirens, that he remember the adage 'what goes around comes around.'"
Crofts nodded. "Good Consul Destler."

"Anderson" Crofts said, turning his attention to the Consul of War, "what's the military plan at the moment?"
"After convening with the General Staff we have decided to starve them Sir."
"Explain."
"Admiral Paine has already begun blockading Éire. He's issued orders to escort all fishing vessels back into port. Any vessel that does not comply, or decided to venture back out will be sunk on site.
Field Marshal Theriot plans on seizing all major stores, meat packing plants, and processing centres.
Air Marshal Kline will order our bombers to spray a damaging chemical called O64, dangerous only to plant life, over all farms.
Once food has become scarce, and the Éiren population weakened, we will begin military operations against the ÉRA.
We're hoping the Éirens will come to blame the ÉRA for the lack of food, and turn against them. This will make our military operations that much easier, as we will then have some sort of native support."
"Excellent Consul Anderson.
Gentleman, this Commonwealth stands on the brink of oblivion. Make these terrorists understand what terror really means."

With that the Lord Protector got up and left, followed by two soldiers.

[Prydania]

"Éiren fishing vessel Deirdre, this is Captain Paul Moore of the Commonwealth Naval sub CSS Suffrage. This is a warning. Return to port or you will be fired upon. Please respond."

"Captain, we need to fish, our food supply back home is running low. Please, just let us stay out for one hour."
"You have your warning Deirdre. End transmission."
"Aye captain."

"Lieutenant Sutton, fire when ready."
"Captain..." Lieutenant Fields, navigational officer, began, "they're just asking for one hour. What's the harm?"
"Lieutenant" Moore fired back, "My orders to sink any Éiren vessel out of port come directly from Admiral Paine himself. Now I intend to carry out those orders, whether you agree or not. The only difference is that if you don't, I'll be forced to record it in my log, a log the Admiral will no doubt read. So I ask again for clarification, Lieutenant; what were you saying about our present course of action?"
"Nothing sir, nothing at all" Fields muttered.
"Excellent Lieutenant.
Lieutenant Sutton, as I said before, fire when ready."
"Aye sir."

The Suffrage rocked slightly with the impact of the torpedo on the Éiren fishing vessel.
"Lieutenant Fields" Moore ordered, "resume our present patrol."
"Aye captain" the Lt. replied, a gaping hole in his gut.

[Prydania]

Just outside of Centra Supermarket, Éiren capital of Béal Feirste
"What do you mean I can't go in?" Mairtín Hinds yelled, all of his rage directed at one of the Inglo-Scotian soldiers guarding the supermarket's entrance.
"Sir, you've already visited this location twice this month, that's all your rations card will allow."
"My family needs food!" he yelled, a sense of desperation creeping up on him.
"We're all out, and if I don't get in, there won't be any left next month. The rumors are that there hasn't been a single restocking since marshal law was declared."

"Sir," the soldier responded, "I'm sorry you and your family made unwise decisions regarding foodstuff management, but you will have to step aside for costumers who still have a visit or two left on their cards."
Apparently defeated, Hinds turned to walk away. Then, in an instant, he grabbed a shopping cart and pushed it into the soldier.
Just as he began a mad dash to the gap in the line of soldiers, he was gunned down.

The crowd fell into stunned silence, only the footsteps of Sgt. Ian Reid could be heard. The Sgt. stood front and centre to his troops.
"This man died" he began, "not by his own hand, or the hand of these soldiers. His death, and the suffering of the Éiren people, falls on the shoulders of David Collins and the rest of the murderous ÉRA. Blame them for your hardships."
With that he turned and made his way into the supermarket, ignoring the jeers of the crowd.

[Democratic States of America]

White House Press Room, Washington
"And now..."Press Secretary Milton Kress began, "the President of the Democratic States of America."
Kress removed himself from the podium as President Elliot Frémont stepped up.
"Today at 12 o'clock pm" he began, "I was handed a report. One that sickened and disturbed me. It covered atrocities committed by the Commonwealth of Inglo-Scotia on its own citizens.
The people of the Commonwealth province of Éire are being starved by their own government. The Commonwealth's military has been ordered to not only cut off the flow of food into Éire, but to also strictly ration all food within the province.
What I describe to you is nothing short of genocide. Men who want nothing more then an extra loaf of bread to feed their families are gunned down. Fishermen are sunk by the Commonwealth navy.
These Democratic States will not stand by as Lord Protector Crofts systematically starves Éire in a quest for personal power.
I am hereby calling for an alliance of nations to force the Commonwealth to end its slaughter of the Éiren people, and to allow the Éire separatist crisis to be resolved by that alliance.
We will not sit here as thousands are sacrificed on Crofts' alter of power."

As soon as it became clear the president had finished the reporters jumped on him like hungry vultures.
"Yes, you" Frémont said, pointing to a reporter third from the left in the second row.
"James Carver, New Ustio Times.
Mr. President, you are on record saying the goal of any international council should be an independent Éire. How do you respond to Frasier Pershing's accusations of hypocrisy on your part concerning the Southern secessionist movement?"

"Mr. Pershing fails to realize that the two matters have nothing to do with each other. The Éiren people are a people with a distinct culture from that of the Inglo-Scotians. Self-determination is at risk here.
The movement Mr. Pershing represents is not interested in self-determination, the southerners of this country share a culture with that of the north. David Collins of the ÉRA seeks the right for his people to rule themselves. Mr. Pershing simply wants an excuse not to pay tariffs. Next questions....yes you."

"Mary Hillard, San Andreas Free Press.
Do you have a response to Consul Destler's statement demanding America remove itself from what he called 'a matter of internal security'?"
"I would hardly classify the slaughter of thousands as simply an internal security matter. Thank you there will be no further questions."
With that the president exited the press room, leaving a crowd of clamoring reporters in his wake.

[Sovereign Dixie]

 
 "Can you believe this horseshit?" Jack Anderson swore at the image of Fremont on the screen. He reached for the bottle of whiskey across from him, pouring a double, he downed in one gulp, wheezing as it burned it's way down his thoat.

 "'Tariffs....tariffs... I'll show him tariffs! Where does this ass clown come off? Common culture.... common culture my ass! I mean, sure, we watch the same television shows, read the same books, speak the same language, and in some cases, listen to the same music.... but there's more to a culture than just that... it's... it's...."

 "It's what?" Asked Michael Chamberlain, who sat next to him, watching the now muted image of the DSNN anchor prattling on about some kind of crisis in Ryazania. "You have to admit, the damnyankee's got a point. At least as far as the outside world is concerned. Things aren't like they were a hundred and fifty years ago."

 Anderson spat his contempt as he spoke "Who's side are you on, anyways? Look, things may not be like they were back then, but alot of things *are* the same. When it comes down to it, culture is alot more than *pop* culture, it has to do with customs, traditions, values, lifestyles. All of which differ significantly down here. Besides, even if we shared as much "culture" as this pompous ass would have people believe, there is still the fact that we have the same right to self determination as those in Eire. Frasier's right, Fremont's a fucking hypocrite. He stands up there on his high and mighty pedastal talking about human rights and a lot of other bullshit, and then turns right around and tells Dixie to go fuck itself."

 Throughout this tirade, Chamberlain had sat quietly sipping his beer. He agreed with Anderson, he just didn't feel the need to scream his opinions to all within earshot. He did say what he felt he needed to, however. "Look, Jack, I agree with you, you're preaching to the choir, the point I was trying to make here is that it doesn't matter a hoot in hell how right we are, what matters is how effective the League of The South is in getting the message across. I know Frasier as well as you do, we served together in the Army for longer than I care to recall, and if anyone can get the word out, he can. But even at that, we've got an uphill climb at best. Not just against the damnyankees, but even convincing our own people that we need to seceede."

 As if on cue, the bartender changed the channel to a local station out of Mobile. "The Pershing Factor" had become the number one syndicated news talk show in the South, with a large audience even in some of the northern states. A former DSA General turned political pundit, Frasier J Pershing definately had a knack about him. Whether it was a knack to inspire, or a knack to inflame, whatever it was... he definately had it.....

 The screen faded in, a cut shot to Pershing revealed a very angry expression, made all the more forboding by Frasier's high forhead and somewhat receeding hairline, his brown eyes seemed peaceful enough, framed by a scowl which conveyed nothing but contempt.

 "Good Evening America." He began... "I'm Frasier Pershing, and it's high time for some truth...."

[Prydania]

Just outside the gates of Éiren capital of Béal Feirste
The people of Béal Feirste looked on with horror as row after row of Commonwealth soldiers marched into the traditional capital of Éire. The sound of them marching in perfect unity was almost hypnotizing. The grey clouds of the Éiren sky reflected off of their visors, causing one to wonder if those visors weren't in fact made of smoke.
The soldiers, dressed from head to two in black, the only colour bing the two small red "V"s on the Commonwealth flag patch on the left arm, seemed like a deadly smog moving through the city. Every 20 meters two soldiers each carried a Commonwealth flag by a pole, as it gently fluttered in the faint breeze.

At the lead of the column marched Colonel Michael Jones. He was dressed in the same uniform as the other soldiers, only in place of the black helmet/visor combo he wore a black beret adorned by a red "V" in the front. The long column of soldiers finally stopped at the steps of the Éire parliament building, where a makeshift podium had been set up.

Colonel Jones made his way to the podium, as civilians and soldiers listened on.

"Marshall Law attempted to bring peace to the ÉRA crisis by having the provincial government of Éire work hand in hand with the Commonwealth Military. Sadly the desired objective was not achieved. Therefore by executive order from the Lord Protector of the Commonwealth of Inglo-Scotia Steven Crofts, the Provincial Government of the Commonwealth province of Éire is disbanded, and the province is to be placed under direct military control for an undetermined amount of time...."
Before he could finish screams and hisses barraged him from the civilian crowd.

"The General Staff" he continued, "has selected me, Colonel Michael Jones, to act as Military Governor. My first act is to ratify Military Order G-57 by executive decision. The elements of Military Order G-57 can be found on the many posters that will be put up throughout the city shortly.
The Military Occupation only needs to last as long as David Collins and the ÉRA freely operate. I call on you on behalf of the military, government, and people of the Commonwealth to aid your own cause, help us end the ÉRA's senseless wave of violence. It's the only way to return to normalcy."
The Colonel made his way into the Éiren parliament, blocking out the boos and screams from behind him.

Finally he came across the office usually reserved for the Speaker of the House. It would serve as his office until the Military Occupation had ended.
The room was decorated with various portraits of historical Éirens. Two flag poles stood in the corners behind the desk; the provincial flag of Éire, and the traditional green, white, and orange horizontal tri-colour of Éire.

"Private" the Colonel demanded.
"Yes sir" a soldier following him answered.
"Have a crew come in here and remove all of these portraits and that garish tri-colour. Then have a portrait of the Lord Protector and a Commonwealth flag brought in."
"Yes sir."
"I plan on making myself very comfortable here" the Colonel said, half to himself.

[Sovereign Dixie]

 "Good evening America, this is Frasier Pershing, and it's high time for some truth! Today, President Fremont made the claim that The South only wishes to escape tarrifs, insinuating that  we are economically inferior. The truth is that it is indeed Fremont himself who is thinking about the wallet of a fat and bloated bureaucratic sesspool. The truth is that without Southern exports, the North would lose it's superpower status and be reduced to a mediocre shadow of it's former self!

 Perhaps though, the most infuriating comment, was that our culture is identical to that of the North, a comment born of ignorance and racism. The cultures of the two regions are in fact similar, thanks to years of cultural genocide waged by the leftist media and the bleeding hearted cretins in Washington. They use the mistakes of a past chequered with racism as a pretext for our cultural extermination! They say we should let go, that the War of Secession was 150 years ago, and it's time to get over it... and I say to them, that slavery was 150 years ago, and *they* need to get over it!

 We live in a new world, with new ideas, and Dixie is not the same as she was, and yet she is the same. She is better, a heart still beating strong with the blood of patriots who believe in right and wrong, and the right of individuals to pursue their own destiny, not to have it legislated by ancient hypocrites with hardening arteries and soft minds. Our flags and patriotic songs have been all but outlawed over the years, our citizens are advertised as the epitome of idiocy, and ridiculed without cause. Tell me now... who then harbours prejudice?
 
 Fremont sits on his bloated ass yelling canned sermons at Steven Crofts over the current situation in Eire, while making sure that Washington keeps it's steel boot of oppression over Dixie! No more! We will no longer stand for this!

 I urge all citizens within the south, make your voices heart! Write your congressmen, contact the local offices of The League of The South to find out how you can get invovled. If you have a Confederate Flag, put it on your car or home. It's time for us to quit being ashamed of what we are! For our friends who may live up north, but support our cause, show your support however you choose, and know that you are appreciated.

 This Saturday, the 24th, I will be staging a rally at Blasco Stadium in Birmingham, for information, call our office after the show. Well folks, that's all the time we have for tonight, Good night, God bless, Deo Vindici. Sleep safe America."


"And......CUT!" Called the producer, the lights over Pershing's desk went out one by one, he waited until the red lights of the cameras went off before producing a silver flask form the left inside breast pocket of his grey coat. He sook a generous drink, and stowed it back away again.

 "Frasier, you've got some more hate mail!"  called out Michelle French, his assistant. Pershing looked up and raised an amused eyebrow before replying "oh, joy, I needed a good laugh" in a very droll fashion.

 Standing up from behind the desk he towered over the girl, at just over six and a half feet tall, Frasier Pershing towered over nearly everybody he met. He was of thick build, but not excessively overweight. His voice had very little of the drawl most often associated with Southerners, he had a smooth very distinctive voice, sounding a mixture of southern, midwestern, and even a bit of Inglish when speaking certain words. Frasier Pershing was many, many things, but ordinary was not one of them.

 He took one of the letters and scanned it briefly for anything of value, seen that it was simply another obscenity laced hate rant, he wadded it up and tossed it. "Fucking idiots." he commented as he walked away.
 

[Democratic States of America]

Oval Office, White House, Washington
Pershing's face disappeared from the television screen as Frémont sunk into his chair.
"I hate freedom of the press" the President mumbled to himself.
"What are we going to do about that treasonous son-of-a-bitch?"

"Right now" Paul Rae the Presidential Chief of Staff responded, "we do nothing. Let that alcoholic wind bag pull up FXX's ratings, it'll help the economy."

"We just can't let him get away with this shit" Frémont protested.
"You're going to have to Elliot" Rae murmured looking over military reports, "because right now you have to deal with Éire. You've committed yourself to that. If you go after the secessionists at the same time that your helping Collins you'll just add wind to Pershing's sails. Just ignore him, focus on Éire."

"When do you want to me let the Chiefs of Staff know they can begin drawing up war planes?"
"Jesus Christ Paul, I'm not going to push for an open declaration of war against Inglo-Scotia."
"Pardon? Wasn't it you said the Democratic States of America won't stand for what Crofts is doing over there?"
"Look, I'll have the AIB funnel supplies and advisers, maybe even send of a general or two help the ÉRA in military matters, but we are not going to war Paul. I want that clear."

"Elliot" Rae pressed on, "yesterday Crofts ended Marshall Law, dissolved the Érien provincial government, and ordered a full military occupation. He's got more man power over then just enough to maintain order. He's got a good chunk of his army over there, and they're running the province. The ÉRA can't win this fight Paul, even with all supplies we send over, they don't stand a chance. We need to get our military over there ASAP."

"Paul, I won't go to war over this. I'll help them covertly, I'll endorse them publicly, but I WILL NOT drag this country into war over this. Understood?"
"Yes sir" Rae conceded.
"If Elliot Frémont has one weakness" he thought "it's that he's to hesitant to take any real action."

[Éiren Republican Army]

 The glowing ember of the cigarette trailed in the cold darkness from the mouth of David Collins to the ashtray at the right side of his leather recliner. He could have done to be a few degrees warmer, but was thankful he even had electricity in such an out of the way place... yes... hiding out had it's price.

 He sat and watched variations of the same scene played out on channel after channel, town after town.... thousands of IS infantry moving into towns throughout Éire. The sight made naseous, even more so than the sight of that goddamned red "V" he seen everywhere now.
 
 He was going to have to do something about that.

 Éire was going to be independent. Of that he was sure, for the alternative was far worse than death, as most of the ERA would rather die than live under the regime of a madman like Crofts. Collins sneered as he glanced over at the wall to his right, it was lined with nearly every type of firearm known to man. A back room was filled with other supplies.. MRE's ammo.... bomb making supplies.... an icy ball formed in the pit of his stomach though.

 A thousand times that would not be enough.

 If they were going to have even a slight chance of driving Crofts out of Éire, they were going to need all the help they could get......

[Sovereign Dixie]

Blasco Stadium - Birgmingham

 Better weather could have been desired....  a truly fridgid morning coming in at exactly zero degrees. No one really cared about the windchill. The snow fell from the sky in sheets of white, washing over the normally bustling cityscape. Chamberlain and Anderson had done everyhing shy of begging Pershing to postpone the rally due to the inclimate eather, to which Pershing cursed in a manner which few of them had ever heard before (quite a feat given both of the other men were former DSA naval officers) and then said "Freedom doesn't get called out on account of snow."

 It turned out that the people agreed with Pershing, with a near max capacity turn out in the 40,000 seat stadium. Pershing stood in the locker room, where he was meeting with Anderson and Chamberlain. Frasier looked in a mirror as he buttoned down a long black wool trench coat, putting a black leather cowboy hat to cover his balding head. If he was nervous, he did a damn good job of hiding it.

 "Frasier, we've fought long and hard to get this far, don't blow it." Cautioned Anderson.

 "Don't you worry about that, Jack." Frasier used a tone bordering on one which would imply arrogance, Anderson and Chamberlain exchanged nervous glances. Pershing caught it in the reflection offered by the mirror and smiled.

 "Look," Pershing continued, "you don't have to tell me how much we got riding on this, how much so many people have riding on this. We know we're doing the right thing, we let faith provide the tools with which to do it."

 Anderson sighed "Faith doesn't pay the League's debts, Frasier, faith doesn't gain governorships, seats in the Congress and Senate, and most importantly, faith sure as hell isn't going to get the damnyankees out of here."

 Pershing laughed softly. "You'd be suprised, Jackyboy, you'd be suprised."

 Chamberlain took his turn " Where is your speech? We should go over it before you go up there."

 Once again, Frasier only laughed. "It's right up here!" He said, tapping his head thoughtfully. "And right in here." This time, patting his chest. Chamberlain sighed, Andreson pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing the interior corners of his eyes as he looked down to the floor in a resigned mannor.

 Frasier withdrew the silver flask from his pocket, and took a long gulp before placing it back in it's warm resting place.  "Well, gentlemen, time to get this show on the road! Come, my friends, today, we make the world, and most importnatly, Fremont, take notice!" With that, Pershing turned about on his heels, and strode deliberately and purposefully out the door, waking through the hallway with his Anderson and Chamberlain at either side, and slightly behind.

 The scene as they strode out onto the field was one of barely controlled chaos. The stands were a sea of Confederate flags, the red "X" against the dark blue background as had been adopted in 1845 at the onset of the War of Secession. Signs peppered the crowd mass, they varied from the expected and conventional "Free Dixie Now!!!" to the more colourful "Fuck 'em up Frasier!!" The latter made Pershing smile heartily upon reading it. He took his place on the rather modest stage set in the middle of the field, the snow contrasting as rapidly multiplying white speckles upon the background of his black coat and hat. Standing up to the microphone, he pointed up into the crowd to the person waving the sign, thundering his reply to it as the cameras displayed the image on the jumbotron monitors which rimmed the stadium.

 "And indeed I shall my friend!!!"

 The crowed roared it's approval. Pershing took his hat off, bowing modestly to the crowd as they continued their welcome. Frasier smiled, holding up his arms with palms open to the crowd, slowly the roars and whistles dissapated. He drew in a deep breath, leaned forward into the microphone, his left hand clenched into a fist. A sneer draped his slips as he spat out the words.

 "Mr Fremont!!! I know you can hear me! I stand here today, with these good people, and the entire world as witness to what I am about to say.... Mr. Fremont.. you have a problem! The problem here, is that we're tired of you, your government, and the so called "Union"'s illegal occupation of what should be a sovereign nation. Day by day, more and more people grow tired of societies' cultural genocide against our proud land, the villification and racist stereotyping of it's inhabitants, and the rest of the nations scornful attitude towards us.

 We're called racist, ignorant, incestuous, uncultured, and most ironically, intolerant. Yet the very people who label us as these things refuse to tolerate us! Who then, are the racists? The intolerant? The predjuticed and bigotted? It is your people, Mr Fremont!!

 And we will not stand for it!

 A hundred and fifty years ago our sovereign nation was raped, pillaged, and occupied by an illegal and illegitmate force of mindless barbarians with silver forked tongues that spoke of freedom and equality while dealing in the flesh and souls of their fellow man. They sang of the glory of the coming of the Lord whilst the change of the slave trade jingled merrily in their finely woven pockets!

 Standing on the blood of over a half million slaughtered souls, you instituted your policies of brainwashing our youth, of "reconstructing" The South by teaching her sons and daughters that their forefathers fought for the right to oppress those of colour. That your campaign of conquest and bloodlust was a campaign of freedom."

 Pershing stopped momentarily, drew in yet another deep breath, and laughed softly as he delivered his next sentence.

 "Well, Mr. Fremont, if I'd wanted bullshit, I would've stayed on my daddy's farm!"

 The crowd erupted with thunderous approval in the form of cheers, whistles, chants, and laughter. Pershing subdued the roar, and continued.

 "Your taxes rob our people while your left wing government carries out it's perverse and misguided Robin Hood fantasies, your regulations stifle our industry in an attempt to turn Dixie into an economic sycophant, your social agendas attempting to legislate our very morality and thoughts.

 And you claim Stephen Crofts is oppresive."

 The next sentance coming out half bellow, half gutteral roar.

 "Don't make me laugh!

 "Fellow Southerners, everything I have said here today, you know in your heart of hearts to be true. Now to answer the question on everyone's mind." Pershing's voice became soft and sharp, very deliberately pronouncing each syllable of the next sentence.

 "What do we do about it?

 "The answer, my brothers and sisters, is quite simple. The South holds over 70 electoral votes, without which, no presidential candidate can hope to be elected, and a sufficient number of the 20 Southern States must ratify any constitutional amendment for it to have a chance of being enacted. We hold the key to our freedom not in our hands, but in our ballots.
 
 What then, if a candidate that supported the continued occupation of Dixie could not get into office? What then, if an amendment which harmed Dixie stood little to no chance of ratification? I think you're seeing where I'm going with this. The League of The South is opening local chapters in every area we can possibly get to, we're getting the word out, and knowledge is power.

 Yes, Mr Fremont... you do have a problem.

 But not nearly as big of a problem as you're going to have.

 Show your support brothers and sisters, fly the flag, vote your heart, speak the truth. Do these things, and the voices of many shall be heard as one. Together, we'll make our voices heard, and together, we can win back that which was wrongfully stolen from us.

 Good day my friends, and God bless you all!!"
 

[Prydania]

Private Gregory knocked on the large, wooden doors of the main chamber of the Éiren Parliament. At least that's what it used to be. Ever since the military occupation it had more or less served as Colonel Michael Jones' personal lounge.

"Come in" the Colonel yelled.
The two wooden doors swung open as two solider on the other side pulled them open.

The Colonel was slumped in the former chair of the speaker of the house, puffing on a cigar. He must have been puffing on a lot of them, as a grey-ish smoke gathered near the top of the chamber. Works of art that had been on display in the Béal Feirste Museum of Art were scattered all over the chamber, mostly leaning up against the seats in the aisles.

"Sir" the Private announced, "The Lord Protector requests an audience with you."
Suddenly the slumped body of the Colonel became rigid, dropping his cigar.
"The Lord Protector is here?"
"No sir, we have him via a video linkup."

The Colonel picked up his cigar, putting it out in an empty whine glass. He quickly tightened his tie, and buttoned his officer's jacket. Finally he picked up his sash and belt, tightening it around his waist and torso.
Walking toward the door, he quickly brushed away the dust from his sleeves.
"This way Colonel" the Private said, leading the Colonel to the cabinet conference room.

"The video link-up is ready Colonel" the Private stated, as the Colonel stood in front of a blank 40" screen.
"Long Live the Victorious Revolution" Jones responded, giving the Commonwealth salute.
The Private responded in kind before leaving.
Suddenly the screen turned on, revealing the Lord Protector, sitting at his desk in New Beaconsfield.
The Colonel snapped to attention, giving the Commonwealth salute.

"Colonel Jones, what is the status of your campaign against the ÉRA?"
"We have put out down forty-two riots across the province in the last two weeks. We've taken prisoners and identified the agitators of fifteen. All are ÉRA agents."

"And what have you learned from these prisoners."
"Well sir," Jones responded, "it appears that these agents are on the lowest level of the ÉRA chain of command, they don't even know where Collins is. It also appears that their contacts only know slightly more. It appears the ÉRA's command structure is as much horizontal as it is vertical."
"And?"
"Well sir, other then that ÉRA activity has been non-existent."

"Colonel, I sent you over there to do more then put down riots. Collins is keeping low because he's planing something. I want you to actually do what I sent you over to do; Engage in an aggressive campaign to find Collins and the rest of the ÉRA leadership. Do it before Collins has a chance to go through with whatever he has planned.
If you fail I have other officers who are more willing to act. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes Lord Protector."
"Long Live the Victorious Revolution, Colonel."
"Long Live the Victorious Revolution, sir."
With that the screen went blank. 

[Éiren Republican Army]

"This better be good David" Joe McKee grunted as he and Billy Cahill shuffled into the remote farmhouse.
"It's windy as hell out there, it's late, and we were stopped by three separate patrol units coming over."

"You won't have to deal with bloody patrol units for much longer" David Collins mumbled, still looking over a map of Éire.
"Really? What's your grand plan now? Lord knows guerrilla warfare's as slow as a snail when it comes to getting results, and we've been set back months because you brilliantly suspended operations in favour of unorganized riots. Do you know how many Éiren were killed during those riots?...David?!?!"

"And they will be remembered as heroes" Collins responded calmly, still overlooking his map. "It will all be over by the end of the year."

"What do you mean?" Cahill asked, his emotions a mixture of fear, excitement, and curiosity.   

"Well for starters" Collins continued, "no more guerrilla fighting. If we're going to kick those Inglo-Scotian bastards off of our island we need to hit them as hard as we can, straight on. We need to beat them at their own game.
Boys, we're going to war, traditional warfare."

"You're insane" Cahill responded. "You've lost your bloody mind. You want us to engage Crofts' army head on. They should lock a person up for suggesting something like that."

"Bill's right" McKee said. "It's practically suicide. That's a trained army we're talking about Davy. A professional army. Our boys, they've got heat, but they aren't professional soldiers."

"Listen up" Collins yelled. "I don't want this any more then you two do, but we don't have much of a choice. Guerrilla warfare wasn't getting us anywhere. If the Yanks had sent troops over it would be a different story..."
"Dave, they could still come" McKee interrupted.
"No, they aren't!" Collins yelled. A look of shock came over McKee and Cahill's faces.
"Sorry boys" Collins said seconds latter in a calmer voice. "An AIB agent was over here today. He told me my latest request to Frémont to send troops was denied. He also said they were going to slowly decrease their flow of supplies. The bastard told me they had their own problems to deal with....Without American support guerrilla warfare has nothing to far back on. With our supplies slowly being cut off continued guerrilla warfare means the slow but inevitable death of our movement. It's now or never boys. We hit Crofts and his lapdog Jones with everything we've got, or might as well give up now."

Both Cahill and McKee knew he was right, but neither wanted to admit it, at least not yet. Reality, though, has a way of making itself known quicker then anyone thinks. Both of them nodded slowly.
"Why the gloom look?" Collins asked, his attitude suddenly become gleeful. "We're going to win, boys....It's late, grab some beers, you'll spend the night here, you'll get picked up by the patrols otherwise. You'll inform the brigade leaders tomorrow."

[Jelsi]

While watching the news, Prime Minister DiNapoli decided to show her support for the nation of Inglo-Scotia.  The Republic of Jelsi had faced numerous challenges with the Mafia, and as such was willing to show any support with any other nation in the world that was faced with such criminal and terrorist type acts.  Sitting down at her desk, the Prime Minister began to write a simple letter to the top levels of Inglo-Scotian Government, with no access given to anyone other then .

To: The Inglo-Scotian Government
From: Prime Minister DiNapoli
The Republic of Jelsi

Our country has learned of your recent troubles with the dangerous Eira Organization.  We would like for you to know that we support you and your people.  After dealing with numerous Mafia Organizations in our country, as we still do to this day, we would like to offer assistance from one of our Anti Mafia Agency, with task forces setup to combat similar situations.  We would also like to offer some operative units from the Jelsi Intelligence Bureau, or maybe an Infantry Division from our Army.  If not, we wish you luck in your fight, and know that we stand behind you.  Thank You, and God Bless.

[Zimmerwald]

Communication was rapidly breaking down between the two branches of the Gallipoli-Chinese legislature.  The chambers were divided on the issue of Eire: the Parliament expressed support for Inglo-Scotia, the Workers' Council for Eire.  As the Parliament had granted coeval powers to the Workers' Council, no resolution of support or opposition could come from the Gallipoli-Chinese government, and the regular business of government, which had already suffered from surreptitious blocking by one chamber of the other's initiatives, suffered.

Back and forth it went, with people like Aram and Akbar hoping to renew civil discourse, and those like Lin and bin-Sultan derailing the process time and again.  Eire would be the center of a power struggle between the two bodies before all was said and done.