It was the first of Gaïôse 2009 when Gaea raised the Great King, Ëarvedui Ruisigusugoriar Eluvatumi, from the ocean. She brought him to where both land and sea were frozen at the tiniest island in the most northern part of Rykkovaa. In the frozen wastes, she appeared to him as his old retainer Dr. Iana Iakov Kuli.
The Great King, finding composure after being dragged from the bottom of ocean only to see an old friend, asked through cold breath, “Dr. Kuli? What are you doing here?”
Gaea smiled onto him, and he felt warmth again. “I am not your old friend, King of Aeluzi, conquerer of Ozipol.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m not a who, Great King, nor a what. I am within. I am born within all living and not living.”
He hardly remembered learning Ozian, and only his tutor smacking his head when he translated the Whispers and could not tell the difference between prepositions having a dative and ablative case. He even knew the first thing Gaea said to the Listener. “You are Gaea.”
“I am not anything.”
He then remembered that was the second thing Gaea said to her.
…
“I see that Eluvatar is rich now. What happened to your people? What has my legacy done to them?”
“They are not my people. They just listened more.”
The Great King sighed in frustration, “Just bring me now to Ozipol, where I brought down the great Ozian direships.”
“As you wish, Great King.” She grabbed him by the arm and they were now at the Tower of Whispers. He recalled looking up at the fortress from the bay, lined by Ozian soldiers and cannons firing down at his ship. He looked at the tower, where some of his cannonballs were still lodged into the side, up the tower that still stood the domed roofs, ornate towers, and decorated walls. Down below, the city was chaos, the mass of buildings were like a continuous streams of vandalized walls down narrow paths that could barely be seen. These winding buildings climbed up and down the slopes of the mountain, giving him a feeling of claustrophobia.
He was confused by what he saw, and even more confused when he saw that Gaea smiled at the sight. “Why do you smile here but not at Romenna? Ozipol hasn’t changed at all. What has happened here? Does not Ozia still rival my confederacy? Where are their great buildings and streets?”
“Look down at it more carefully, Great King.”
He rolled his eyes, but did as she said. After a few minutes of staring he did not see chaos anymore, nor order. This was ordered-chaos. The city’s larger streets converged at intersections with six to eight directions to choose from. Around the intersections were temples, libraries, schools, and hospitals. Between the buildings walked people, bumping into each other. The king’s look of cynicism was gone, and instead he looked at Ozipol as if it was a painting in a museum. He looked at every individual person, a group of workers smoking and catcalling men after a factory shift, an artist arguing with a supplier about the new prices of canvases, and an endless stream of people walking every which way. He wondered what they were all doing and thinking.
“I understand now, why Ozipol has not changed. We did not make cities, just buildings. This is something not measured by currency or ”
The Great King smiled.
An Ozian woman in a tucked in oxford shirt and tie threw the magazine
the Ozipolist down at the table, “What a load of Communist-Revivalist shit.”
She sat on a tattered leather couch that surrounded a busted coffee table by other tattered couches and rickety chairs occupied by people. Some of them she knew, some she recognized, and some that were complete strangers. Next to the abused magazine was a chess board and a bottle of gin, with two people exchanging glasses every time they captured a piece. They were all at a seating area of a local coffee shop named after some Khemish isle. Most of the clients today were tenants in the apartments above the shop, since outside descended a winter storm in the early winter night. This coffee shop was different than the usual Ozian coffee shop, in that it had a sign with prices and items it sold over where the baristas worked for the random tourist that might stop by.
Another woman, wearing an untucked tartan collared shirt, sat opposite to her reading a book, “Aleva, everyone carries a load of shit inside them, including yourself, but what you should be concerned about is that tie. Why are you wearing that?”
“Stop repeating the Gaeanist Koans Yeza, we’ve all been to secondary school.”
A man playing chess who sat next to Yeza drunkenly muttered, “I didn’t go. I grew up in Myroria! I don’t usually know what the fuck you all say, but that was pretty funny.”
Yeza nodded to him, “Thank You.”
Aleva adjusted her tie, ”As for this, you can fuck yourself if you’re trying to make me insecure. As for this story here, why do they keep printing stories that glorify our shitty country. Someone who wants to make cars cannot compete with the other nations of Taijitu, they are buried under paperwork and taxes.”
“Why would we need a car company? There are enough in Ozia.”
“We have one, and their cars are blown off bridges they’re so light, and they work better as barbecue pits than for driving around.”
Yeza laughed, “Yes, but the cars flying off bridges during a gust of wind give our country its character.”
“A characteristic of not working? Don’t get me started on that. I ordered a cup twenty minutes ago,” Aleva started to raise her voice, “And those fucks over there still are on break!”
Across the room of dumpster furniture, a barista raised a middle finger at Aleva, then continued smoking her zuavka cigarette.
“See? If this was Myroria or Eluvatar, she would be fired by now. These people have no motivation to do anything, and they get to live off government handouts as a reward for doing nothing.”
“Aleva, you get paid to do nothing but write your stupid stories and essays about how brilliant capitalism is. The freedom to roam the country in search of bettering the resources given to them. That’s all fine and noble, but I’m not going to trade this life for one rigged against me. We don’t need cars here when we can walk everywhere, and you don’t need a fourth cup of coffee, your hands are already shaking. Just smoke some zuavka. You’ll never leave Ozia. You’re just as bad as that barista.”
“You think I want to be here? I can’t muster enough money in this shitty city to live there for a day!”
“You have that wrong too Aleva. You’re just not willing to move into a shittier situation than you’re already in. You want to be somebody there, envied and cared for by workers. You don’t want to wipe the ass of some rich noble with dementia while you’re there. Others have made the push, why can’t you?”
Aleva plucked out a cigarette from its carton, “You’re a total bitch you know that.”
She raised her book and smiled behind it, “Pass me one too comrade.”
Aleva leaned over to hand the one she already lit, “Sure,
comrade.”
"If it makes you feel better, I wish they would stop publishing stories that lick the cunt of the Primav's revivalist rhetoric."
She puffed once and nodded, the barista yelled over to Aleva, "Order's ready for bitch! Bitch!? One zuavka-coffee for bitch!"
