*flip*
*clap*
"Heads."

*flip*
*clap*
"Heads."

*flip*
*clap*
"Heads."

He had been standing there, flipping the coin for at least a quarter of an hour; and every time, every single time, it turned up 'heads'. A most peculiar phenomenon, he had to admit, but not one he was currently inclined to contemplate in any sort of rigorous detail. He was waiting, and while he waited he was thinking; once he was relieved of his waiting he would be speaking, speaking to the man who held a sizable chunk of the Western world in the unfaltering grip of his black glove. One would think, being a fellow Triumvir and therefore a statesman of equal standing, that he should not have cause to worry; and yet, inasmuch as he knew his partners, and they knew him, he still found that when conversing with CurtSibling he was always slightly apprehensive.

He stood rigidly straight, back almost against the wall, his posture matching his military uniform, a grey-brown overcoat and grey pants footed by a pair of hide boots. A dull grey sash hung from his left shoulder, and attached to his belt was a longsword in its scabbard. His gaunt Nordic face was concealed by a thick but well-groomed sandy-brown beard, the rest of his head perpetually shrouded by a Medieval quasi-nasal helmet and aventail. His hands, usually gloved, were at the moment bare so as to play with his coin. He was Thorvald of Lym, Supreme Prime Minister of the Eastern Union, the Triumvirate's Eurasian hegemon. He was a late arrival to the Empire, marshalling the ruined Northern and Eastern European countries under a socialist banner before throwing his lot in with Curt. He was the alliance's chief presence in Middle-Eastern politics and commanded the front line against the Global Defense Treaty, and while he tended to keep the Union to itself beyond the occasional troop contribution to Curt's overseas campaigns, as Triumvir he played a leading role in developing political, and especially military doctrine.

After the umpteenth flip of 'heads', he pocketed the coin as footsteps heralded the end of his wait. Approaching him from down the hall was a man clad in thick, elaborate, and unseasonable leather armour, a fur cape fastened about his shoulders. He bore a long white beard and a barbute helmet with decorative wings, strands of equally long white hair spilling out from underneath, in two cases fashioned into braids dangling on either side of his face. He was Bjørn, Thorvald's chief advisor and best friend, and despite his unusual and anachronistic attire, was one of the wisest and most knowledgeable persons in Thorvald's government, and perhaps the Empire entire. Like Thorvald, he carried a sword at all times; despite his age he was an accomplished fighter, even if he hadn't participated in a true battle for at least a decade.

He stopped in front of Thorvald and handed him a folder. "The reports you requested, sir," he stated in his usual stoic, professional attitude.

"Thank you, Bjørn," Thorvald replied.

As he turned to enter the room behind him, the aide grabbed his arm. "I beg you, sir, reconsider," he breathed, a concerned, almost pleading expression flashing across his eyes.

Thorvald's brow furrowed in a show of sympathy. "I know how much this troubles you, old friend," he said softly, before continuing in a more imperative tone: "Violence is the only language the Coruscantis understand; we have no choice but to respond in kind."

Leaving Bjørn to other affairs, Thorvald entered the small meeting room. A dozen chairs were arranged around an elliptical central table, all empty but for the other Triumvirs. Seated at the far end was CurtSibling in his iconic ENEMY ACE™ uniform and peaked cap, emblazoned with the black-and-white eagle clutching the upside-down cross. Curt was the exceptionally rare brand of despot whose physical presence inspired more fear than his régime: nobody was exactly sure who—or what—he was; his head was a bare skull with two piercing blue lights in his eye sockets; his hands were perpetually gloved, and nobody had ever seen what his body actually looked like. Regardless of whether he had vocal chords, he spoke in an ironically gentlemanly manner that, rather than mitigating his terrifying appearance, more frequently augmented it.

Casually seated three chairs to Curt's right was Perfection, overlord of Africa. Like Curt, he was an oddity, his appearance in a near-constant state of flux: sometimes he appeared in an otherwise human body but with a hollow pentagon for a head and thick Stalin-esque moustache; sometimes he looked like a pentagonal red fortress whose perspective never changed no matter which angle one approached him from. The only constant was the pentagonal motif. At that particular moment he was anthropomorphic, dressed in the fanciful trappings of a Czarist officer; he, too, wore gloves, a peculiar if coincidental commonality the Triumvirs shared.

The two were conversing but quickly broke off as Thorvald entered. Curt nodded as he took a seat. "You're late," Perfection remarked.

"I wasn't aware we were working to a schedule," he replied.

"I decided we were, just now. C'mon, man, get with the program."

Ignoring him, Thorvald opened the folder and began laying out its contents. "We studied what reports came back from New London to try to figure out what went wrong," he began, sliding a set of copies to Curt. "We did not expect CivGeneral to be capable of mustering the manpower he did, nor did we think the rebels could have misappropriated armoured support. Nevertheless, those tanks were antiques, the Coruscantis were horribly underequipped, and by all accounts they should have—"

"BO–RING," yawned Perfection, "Get to the part where we break some necks."

Thorvald sighed. "Long story short, New London was dumb luck. They're out-numbered, out-gunned, and a counteroffensive launched within the next 24 hours will rout them from the city."

"Business as usual, then," said Curt. "Anything else?"

Thorvald cleared his throat. "Liberating the city is merely a reaction. They should never have been able to get this strong in the first place. I propose we move to neutralize the Coruscantis once and for all..." He smirked, putting his fingertips together. "And CivGeneral has unwittingly provided us the means to do so. The tracking device implanted in his body was a wonderful gift of your foresight. We can map his every move, and most importantly, we now have the location of the elusive Vault 44. Our victory is assured; all we need do is pick the time."

"Oooh, I like it when you're confident, Thorvald," Perfection interjected, "It reminds me of Hokkaidō."

The man's face flickered ever-so-briefly. Curt skimmed over the files. "Must we kill him?" he asked in mock dejection.

"I know how much you've enjoyed him as your pet, but I think we can agree the dog's gone rabid, and mad dogs must be put down."

"Very well," he concluded, passing the documents back, "New London will be cleansed before tomorrow's dawn. As for Vault 44," he turned to look Thorvald in the eye, "Assemble the Panser-bjørner."

"As you will," he responded automatically.

Thorvald reorganized the files as Curt and Perfection resumed their earlier conversation; he followed it for a little while until it descended into triviality. Leaning back in his chair, he retrieved the coin from his pocket.

*flip*

*clap*

Heads...