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“You nervous, Sy-on Boy?” Anya asked as she walked.
“Will you stop calling me that?” Damian hissed as he walked beside Anya. “It’s been 16 years and we’re engaged now, for God’s sake.”
“I’ll stop calling you it when it stops being a surefire way to get your attention, Sy-on Boy,” Anya shot back.
“Wait, what?” Damian asked, slowing down.
They were in a hall of yet another embassy in Berlint, as part of their duties as civil servants under the Ostanian Ministry of Foreign Affairs. This time, it was the country of Firenza’s, and their first time beyond its lobby and first floor, at that.
“I’ve been calling your name for a few minutes now, Damian,” Anya replied, brows furrowing in annoyance. “You haven’t been responding.”
“Oh,” Damian said, stopping completely now. From a pensive, troubled face, he was now looking sheepish before he turned away from Anya.
(Nice going ‘projecting confidence, strength, and surety' to your fiancee, dumbass,) he thought.
Even without the tone of Damian’s inner voice, Anya could feel the bitterness, anger, and shame. It was either a perk of her powers seemingly evolving or her learning how to better use them, possibly both.
That wasn’t what was important now, though.
“Look, Damian,” Anya said as she took Damian’s hand and turned him to face her. “We’re only the B or C or even D Diplomatic Team. If we screw up—and I gotta say I hope we don’t—there’s going to be someone else already in line to fix things after us.
“So, don’t put so much pressure on yourself to get this perfectly, alright?”
She stood on her tiptoes and gave him a quick kiss on the lips.
Damian blushed and smiled for a moment before he caught himself and came back to a serious face.
“We’ll be fine,” Anya said, smiling at him. Then, she frowned, glared at him, and added, “Also, your stress is getting to me, so, please stop?”
“Right, right...” Damian said, nodding. He sighed and continued, “Alright, alright, no more worrying, let’s just get to the room and the ambassador.”
“We’ve got this, Damian,” Anya said, letting go of his hand and making a thumbs up with it.
“Yeah, we do,” Damian replied.
The two of them began to walk again before realization hit them:
“Ah, where was the room again…?” Anya asked.
Damian looked around and then looked simultaneously annoyed and disappointed with both of them. (This is why we’re the B, C, or D team…) he thought.
Thankfully, they managed to find some other low-level staff members who helped guide them to their appointment. As they reached the door, Damian and Anya were happy to find themselves with plenty of time to spare.
After a brief moment to fix their looks and run through their plan once more, they knocked.
“Please, come in!” a dignified, older man’s voice said in perfect, unaccented Ostanian.
Damian opened the door and gestured for Anya to come in first, then the both of them began today's assignment: an informal talk with one of the Firenzan Ambassadors, a middle-aged man in a dark brown suit perfectly tailored to his large, stocky figure.
“Ambassador Rodrigo Rollini!” Damian said as he approached him, then extended his hand and smiled. “A pleasure to see you again.”
“Likewise, Mr. Desmond,” Rollini said, smiling as well as they shook, the three rings on Rollini’s hand glittering from the afternoon light from the window.
(Two clearly young and inexperienced civil servants to try and salvage that dinner last week,) Rollini thought. (Clearly, Ostania felt no need to even try to send someone who learned Firenza as thoroughly as I have their country’s language.
(Haah. I bet they don’t even know how to say ‘Buongiorno, Ambasciatore Rollini. Un piacere rivederti anche tu.’ or how to pronounce it properly,) Rollini thought as he turned his attention to Anya. (Maybe I shouldn’t have let Krause redeem this favor.)
“Buongiorno, Ambasciatore Rollini. Un piacere rivederti anche tu,” Anya said, smiling broadly as she offered her hand.
Rollini blinked, surprised, before he grinned, his eyes shining. “Bungiorno! Allo stesso modo, Signora Forger,” he said. “I’m surprised you know Firenzan and speak it so well. It seems very few Ostanians bother to learn it, even among those who work in this embassy.”
“I’m surprised, too,” Damian said. “I don’t think I ever saw or heard about you learning it.”
In his head, he continued, (Which is weird considering we’ve basically been working together constantly on Firenza since last month…)
"Oh, you know," Anya said, smiling innocently, "I decided to learn some of the language since Firenza's such a hot topic here in Berlint. I'm not going to be an interpreter any time soon but it's not bad to have a new skill, right?”
“Indeed,” Rollini said, nodding. “So, how much Firenzan have you learned, Ms. Forger?”
Anya blinked. “Ah--” she started.
(… You didn’t just grab a Firanzan-to-Ostanian dictionary, a primer on the most basic phrases, and memorize that and only that, have you, Ms. Forger…?) Rollini thought, the smile on his face rapidly disappearing.
(Crap…) Damian thought. (Don’t tell me she just grabbed a tourist guide and memorized the first page of greetings?)
"It's hard to say since I haven't been taking formal language lessons or had many chances to speak with native Firenzans!" Anya said quickly, laughing and feigning embarrassment. “I’ve mostly been learning through watching international broadcasts from Firenza and piecing together what’s happening on screen.”
“Ah,” Rollini said, much of the respect and joy draining away from his eyes. “Well, I suppose I should be happy that a foreigner is taking the time and effort to learn my language and enjoy my country’s arts and culture.”
(It's also better than the alternative,) Rollini thought.
(Was that bullet dodged or just grazed? Oh, Anya…) Damian thought.
Anya struggled to keep the pleasant smile on her face.
“Well, shall we sit and get on to business?” Rollini said, gesturing to the two couches facing each other on one side of the room.
“With pleasure, Ambassador Rollini,” Damian said.
As they all sat down and began the afternoon’s discussion, Anya relaxed.
The first reason was that the leather upholstery was as stupidly luxurious as rumored, likely imported from a traditional craftsman from Firenza as the accountants Anya spoke to and read the minds of often complained about.
The second was because Damian, as usual, would be doing most of the actual diplomatic work between the two of them, while Anya would sit quietly, smile, nod, and occasionally offer up some poignant and clever commentary or support for Damian’s claims.
Though their superiors trusted in Damian’s skills (and feared the power of the Desmonds and their faction), they always put Anya with him as a friendlier face when Damian got too aggressive, when feminine charm was more effective, or when her impressive “people-reading skills” would come in handy.
Her superiors had much faith in the last, as Anya’s father, Loid Forger, was a psychologist of some renown, she learned quite a lot from him when it came to gently prodding, analyzing, and building rapport with people to the point where they would willingly put their walls down, and she had minored in it during her college years.
Her skill for fishing out answers, cutting through deception, and knowing exactly what people wanted to hear was rapidly becoming legendary.
As such, Anya became a valued member of the Ostanian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, despite her infamous track record of public blunders and countless citations for “unprofessional behavior, unfitting a public servant and a representative of the People’s Republic of Ostania on the international stage.”
And, less publicly, it was what made WISE all too happy to keep Anya on as a valuable "civilian asset" rather than "civilian informant".
Should worst come to worst and someone enemy intelligence organization begin to target her specifically, WISE could, without a hint of deception, bad faith, or cover-ups, claim that Anya Forger was not and had never been directly recruited or part of the organization.
Perhaps it was far from her childhood fantasies of becoming a spy or an assassin like her parents.
But, time, maturity, and the ever more harsh realities of both those grim businesses had taught Anya it was far from the glitz, glamor, and excitement of her favorite spy serials on TV.
So, Anya figured, if war could be understood as a failure of diplomacy, then this life of a young civil servant aiming to become a diplomat and a future politician's wife was for her.
If nothing else, Anya enjoyed the work, being with Damian, and her parents were delighted their daughter’s career was safe and exactly what it was on its face.
And if they could both keep protecting her in their ways throughout their real jobs? Then all the better.
Of course, this didn’t mean Anya’s job wasn’t free from the stresses, crises, and unexpected turns that her parents were often plagued by. They were just of a different, much more mundane nature, like the one brewing now.
Rollini put his hands on his knees, lowered his head, and sighed. “Mr. Desmond, Ms. Forger,” he said, “I do not wish to imply anything negative or insult to you two.
“But, if your country sent you two here to try and put up the same arguments as I had heard last week, except from less experienced civil servants and in a more casual setting, then I politely suggest we part ways early and save us all the time and breath.
“My mind is unchanged, and I believe you two are unlikely to change it as well,” Rollini said. (That, and your superiors didn't even have the decency to treat us to another nice dinner.)
“Ambassador Rollini,” Damian said, frowning, “please, we still wish to try and get you to reconsider your position on the expansions of the trade and immigration between our two countries. I believe you mentioned that you had complaints and concerns you did not wish to voice at last week’s dinner with Ambassador Lehman, for the situation was too formal?
“Perhaps we can be the sympathetic ears for your concerns and open a path to discuss them with our superiors,” Damian asked, smiling hopefully.
Rollini sighed. “I appreciate both the consideration and the earnest effort, Mr. Desmond, but I’m afraid that you won’t be suitable.
“For one, I feel my thoughts on the matter are best expressed through my native tongue and you don’t speak it and Ms. Forger is not fluent in it. For another, I would prefer to keep confidentiality and since all the interpreters currently working for us are both Ostanian and rotate among almost all our Firenzan speaking staff, it seems we’re all out of luck.”
(Damn it…) Damian thought, struggling to keep the smile on his face as he discreetly gripped his thighs in frustration.
(It’s quite the shame, really,) Rollini said, pausing for a moment to stretch a bit in his seat. (I would have appreciated an Ostanian confidant, maybe that would help them see Firenza’s point better.)
Anya got an idea. She debated it for a few moments before she decided to take the risk.
“Perhaps we’re not entirely out of luck, Ambassador?” Anya offered.
“Oh?” Rollini asked, turning back to her. “Did I miss something, Ms. Forger?”
“I will admit that my understanding of Firenzan isn’t perfect but Da—I meant, Mr. Desmond and I have been working with the staff of the Firenzan Embassy and reading up on the country and its current events for the last month or so,” Anya continued.
“So you think that with all this prior knowledge, you’re confident you can try and understand my complaints, spoken in Firenzan?” Rollini offered.
“Yes, Ambassador,” Anya said, nodding and putting on her determined face.
The room was silent as Rollini looked deep in thought.
(Oh, Anya, please let don’t let me down…) Damian thought nervously.
(A bold attempt…) Rollini thought, fortunately in Ostanian. (I suppose it’ll be a bit of a good distraction. And if it helps one more person learn my mother tongue, why not?)
Rollini shrugged and opened his arms. “Very well, then, Ms. Forger,” he said. “I can respect your drive to go above and beyond your duties and hone a new skill at the same time.”
(I pray you don’t walk with the grace of a man who tied his boots together,) he added to himself.
Anya didn’t know what that meant, exactly, but she could figure out that it probably wasn’t good.
“Thank you very much, Ambassador Rollini,” Anya said. “Whenever you’re ready, I’m listening.”
Rollini nodded. He took a deep breath, seemed to collect himself for a moment, and then, he was off.
Anya was aware that Firenzan was spoken quickly. She and Damian had been present for several other meetings aside from last week’s dinner. It was also not uncommon to pass by Firenzan nationals and Firenzan officials casually speaking their home country’s language in the lobby or the first floor’s other offices and establishments.
But, those times, Anya was politely listening to the speaker then waiting for an interpreter to say everything back to her, slowly, clearly, and in a language was already fluent in.
And now, she was finding out firsthand that it was a very, very different experience, actively listening to the speaker, trying to figure out what they were saying from the deluge of words coming out of their mouth, and parsing what was being said through the flashing mental images, emotions, and memories in the speaker’s brain than listening to their inner voice, as she usually did.
Thankfully, either because Rollini was throwing her a lowball or from pure luck, he talked about the tensions between Ostania and its neighbor Westalia, and how the ever-present threat of war breaking out at any moment affected both them and how the rest of the world perceived them as potential trading partners and travel destinations.
Anya listened attentively and happily, especially because Loid often unintentionally gave her a very extensive look beyond what public sources could give her.
“Did you get what I just said, Ms. Forger?” Rollini asked.
“Yes!” Anya said proudly. “You were talking about the tensions between Ostania and our neighbor Westalia, and how it feels like we’re on a tightrope act where falling means war, which is why a foreign nation like Firenza is reluctant to expand our agreements because they don’t know if the chicken will start pecking afterward.”
Rollini blinked before he smiled. “Excellent, Ms. Forger! I don’t know what you were watching on TV, but I’m pleased to see you seem to understand a great more than I thought.
“That, or you have a talent for picking up languages I was not aware of.”
“Sorry, but what was that about ‘chickens pecking’ just now?” Damian asked, confused.
“It’s a saying in Firenza, Mr. Desmond. Roughly translated, it’s, ‘Careful when you reach for the eggs in a hen’s nest, for you do not know if she will peck.’” Rollini said. “It can mean, ‘Be skeptical when you try to take a tempting offer because the one who is making it may make you regret it instead.’”
“Uh… huh,” Damian said. “That’s, ah, that’s an interesting saying.”
“In Firenza, you could put one saying a day on a calendar and still have hundreds leftover to use for next year,” Rollini said. “But, if you do not mind, Mr. Desmond, I would like to continue speaking to your fiancee, Ms. Forger.”
“Oh, pardon me,” Damian said. “Please, continue.”
(You’re doing great, Anya!) Damian thought, his inner voice shouting. (Keep it up! I love you like you love peanuts, baby!)
Encouraged, Anya asked Rollini to continue.
“Gladly,” Rollini replied. “Forgive me if this starts to get a little long and redundant, Ms. Forger, but I feel you must understand me and the country I grew up in to understand my and my country's opposition to these agreements."
“Please, go ahead regardless, Ambassador Rollini,” Anya said. “I’m planning to become a diplomat in the future, that will be part of my job!”
“Che ammirabile!” Rollini said, clapping his hands before he put his serious expression back on and returned to speaking Firenzan.
He may have been speaking like a historian or professionally to someone fluent in the language, but to Anya, it was like watching a history documentary from the eyes of one person from a young age to the present day.
There was the devastation and the hopelessness that surrounded Rollini as a child, entire towns, cities, and villages leveled by war, of the desperation as his parents and older siblings tried to find someplace, any place that would be safe, let alone a place to raise a family.
There was Rollini, grown-up now, having what looked like an old hand-me-down suit being hurriedly tailored to fit him, flashes of him running and working at what looked like a government building, passing by protesters wielding signs, shouting angrily about the “Trattati di Pace di Parisii” and an important man named “Muzzioli”, the latter of which Rollini seemed to have very little love or respect for.
There was Rollini shaking hands with countless people in suits, ties, and other formal attire. At some point, it seemed that Anya’s brain had rendered his thoughts and memories into something like a cartoon. She watched an ever older and higher-ranking Rollini shaking hands with very important-looking officials only for them to be suddenly yanked out and replaced by another from a long, long, long line of eager politicians.
Still, despite the political game of musical chairs and the protests, the devastation of his past was fading.
Cities were rebuilt or sprouted anew before his eyes, streets were crowded with busy people going about their days, unbothered by the devastation of war and the fires of conflict. There were fond, warm memories of him riding up an Ape scooter to a much younger version of his wife, when her hair was still completely lustrous black. There yet were more beloved memories of his siblings' families and his family, enjoying themselves in a park here in Berlint with all the others.
Anya smiled, as Rollini was doing.
It would not remain on their faces for long.
There were now memories of tense, stressful meetings with dignitaries and officials from other sectors of government, like the military. There were long, unpleasant nights and days stuck to a desk, making phone calls, looking through newspapers or grimly watching a TV for what was about to happen next. There were backdoor meetings with serious, no-nonsense faces like Loid and other spies, or her Uncle Yuri when he was going about his “duty to his country.”
Constant, terrifying flashes of blood red, on flags, in accessories, in uniforms, on logos and graffiti.
There were even substitutions from Anya’s mind: the sterile, featureless, cold, and hard cells of the laboratory she was trapped in for her first few years, except instead of kids. Animals trapped in cages and cowering, much like Bond I’s memories and night terrors. Only, instead of innocent children being unknowingly led in or helpless animals being carried and dragged on leashes and rods, there were adults in chains, ropes, and bags over their heads.
“Anya? Anya!”
“Huh?!” Anya asked, snapping back to reality and blinking. “I’m sorry, I think I lost focus for a moment.”
(No shit!) Damian thought, scowling. “Are you alright?” he asked, the scowl softening as he reached out for her hand.
“I can stop for now if you must compose yourself, Ms. Forger,” Rollini said calmly. “I am the first to admit this part of my job and the truths that keep me up at night are hardly the trivial sort.”
“Please, give me a few, then,” Anya said, touching her head and frowning with her other hand gripping one of Damian's. "I still want to understand.”
“Take your time,” Rollini said, nodding.
Anya started slowly breathing in, breathing out. Like a film reel on a running projector, Anya let the memories, the images, the sounds, and the sensations play out at their pace, till they eventually ran out, the “screen” was blank, and a sense of relief began to flood in and wash away the unpleasantness.
“Alright,” Anya said, letting go of Damian’s hand and putting them back on her lap. “You may continue, Ambassador Rollini.”
"As you wish, Ms. Forger," Rollini said, nodding before he picked up where he left off.
Now, it seemed, he was looping back to Ostania and the heart of his and Firenza’s problem:
A government-issued flier warning about the Brigata Cremisi, one faction of undoubtedly many Firenzan anarchists, who were seen or depicted clad proudly in deep, blood red. Many more wanted posters and news reports painting them as the prime suspects and perpetrators of bombings, kidnappings, extortion rackets, sabotage, and a long, long list of other crimes. And in Anya’s mind, almost indistinguishable from the radicals that terrorized Ostania and Loid fought regularly and Yor came in conflict with, except for complexion and physical features, language, and nationality.
Above all that was a prominent, powerful, traumatic memory of a bombed-out interior in a place called Piazza Montana.
Then, the memories of Rollini putting flowers beneath several portraits at a funeral service.
Several of them looked like just colleagues, but one of them was a young woman who strongly resembled Rollini.
When Rollini’s focus seemed to shift on Ostania’s radicals specifically, it seems he believed the only thing separating them from Firenza’s anarchists was geographical distance, and the bureaucracy and laws keeping them from crossing it.
“Pardon me, Ms. Forger,” Rollini said, interrupting Anya’s thoughts. “But from that look on your face, I believe you understand my and Firenza’s position now.”
“I think I do now, Ambassador Rollini," Anya said with her serious expression on.
“Ah, excuse me, but can I please get a brief rundown?” Damian asked. “In Ostanian, if you will.”
Rollini chuckled for a second. “I believe you should give it to him as well, Ms. Forger. It will give me a chance to correct anything you may have misinterpreted.”
“Give me a minute to organize my thoughts,” Anya said before she rested her hands on her lap, closed her eyes, and started focusing on her breathing.
She didn't know if she was tapping into some mystical power as the philosophy books said, but Anya did know that this “focused breathing” thing did wonders for her powers and her brain in general.
The thoughts streaming in Damian and Rollini’s heads were quickly blocked out, Anya was almost retreating completely into her mind.
The sheer volume of information, memories, and emotions she'd taken from Rollini—a lifetime's worth, and only a small slice of his life as a whole, at that—plus all the information prior were brought back into focus, sorted through, and then compressed together into one continuous mass.
Then, like a sculptor did a gigantic hunk of cut marble from the quarry, Anya started chiseling into it shaving off what was unneeded, sanding it, and adding details and flare.
Finally, when Anya opened her eyes again, she smiled broadly and said, “I’m ready.”
“I’m listening then, Ms. Forger,” Rollini said, smiling wide and spreading his arms out as well.
Damian nodded, peering at her intently. (You’ve got this, Anya!)
“I believe what your point was, Ambassador Rollini, is that you and Firenza fear that the extremists and radicals that threaten Ostania will find like-minded allies, safe refuge, and swathes of recruits if they manage to find their way to Firenza through reduced trade and travel restrictions," Anya said.
“You were born and lived through the devastation of Firenza after the 2nd Great War. You watched as your country was built back up, enjoyed a few decades of reconstruction, recovery, and prosperity, and then, the Piazza Montana bombing shook Firenza, its citizens, and your life as you knew it.
Anya bowed her head. “My condolences for the friends, the colleagues, and the family you lost then.”
“Mine as well,” Damian said, doing the same.
“Thank you both,” Rollini said before he looked down. “Her name was Riviera. She was about your age, actually, and working her first government job out of college, too.”
He shook for a moment, composed himself, then looked up and said, “Please, continue.”
“As you wish, Ambassador,” Anya said. “To get back to where I was…
"Like here in Ostania, you and your government are watching terrorists destroying the society you all helped build, killing innocent citizens, and denying your family the peace you want for them, that you were robbed of as a child.
“But unlike Ostania, Firenza is trying its best not to proudly and openly boast about its strong alliances with certain countries that may or may not be supporters or kindred souls of those same terrorists.
“And, to bring up Mr. Desmond's point earlier, I'm guessing this is why you didn't want to talk about this to Ambassador Lehman and his staff, during the formal dinner. Because you know the chicken would not peck but you feared so many of her eggs would be completely rotten.
“Would that be accurate, Ambassador Rollini, or did I misinterpret anything you said?” Anya said, smiling.
Damian blinked, stunned.
He looked to Rollini, who seemed to be completely silent and still wearing that neutral, professional expression.
He looked back to Anya, who was trying her best to look “proud” but not her memorable, infamous “smug.”
Then:
Clapping, slow, powerful, and increasingly faster.
“Bravo, bravo, Signora Forger!” Rollini said, grinning and laughing. “I don’t know if you were deliberately understating your skills to catch me off guard like this, but color me impressed whichever the case!”
“Did… did she get it right, Ambassador Rollini?” Damian asked.
“Perfectly!” Rollini replied. “All she might need at this point is speaking lessons, more exposure to our culture and customs, and practice having conversations with natives! If you would like, I’d be happy to help make introductions to my fellow Firenzans here in Berlint.”
“I’m flattered and would appreciate it, Ambassador Rollini,” Anya said, nodding. “But I think now that Mr. Desmond understands the situation now, too, he has much he wants to say.”
"I do indeed if you would allow it, Ambassador Rollini," Damian said, his expression serious. (I'm going to make sure this miracle of yours won’t go to waste, baby.)
“Please, then, go ahead, Mr. Desmond,” Rollini said, back to business once more. “I’m eager to listen to you, as well.”
“Thank you,” Damian said. “Now, Ambassador Rollini, since we now understand your and Firenza’s chief concerns…”
Damian started talking about the many laws, successful counter-terror operations, and the programs that Ostania had created, authorized, and overseen.
There was “protecting the free exchanges of ideas in our universities and colleges from those who wish to destroy and dominate, not construct and collaborate," which Anya had 4 years' worth of personal experience from college.
There were the more effective and efficient counter-terrorism methods for the (publicly known) arms of the police, with which Anya was unintentionally familiar because of her uncle, Yuri.
And, finally, there were ever-falling statistics and incidences of successful or even just attempted terrorist attacks, sabotages, and other assorted crimes, with which Anya was intentionally familiar, this time because of her parents.
“Compared to their reign of terror during the 1960s, Ostania has never been safer from this threat," Damian said. "Our state would never have offered to expand our exchanges with Firenza if it were not confident it could protect itself and its allies from the malcontents and criminals grown on its soil.
“So please, won’t you change your mind about opposing and help us convince your fellow nationals as well?” he said, smiling.
Rollini looked at Damian in a mix of unease and regret before he sighed and shook his head.
Damian blinked, Anya was confused.
“Ah,” Damian asked, “did I say something wrong, Ambassador Rollini?”
“No, no, nothing of the sort, Mr. Desmond,” Rollini said. “I just found it fitting that you chose 1960, for better or worse. It's the year I started my work here as an ambassador in this embassy and when I moved my family here to Berlint.
“But, unfortunately, that fact only strengthens my belief that Firenza is not ready to take further risks with Ostania.”
“Why so, Ambassador Rollini?” Damian asked, trying not to panic.
“Haah, I’m afraid I must be crass and deeply unprofessional to even come close to answering that question, Mr. Desmond,” Rollini said, looking miserable.
“You have our confidence, Ambassador Rollini,” Damian said, putting a hand to his chest while Anya nodded in support. “And you already have confided in Ms. Forger with such great candor earlier, didn’t you?”
“Fair enough,” Rollini said, shrugging. “I had already spoken my soul to her, what more would hurt?”
“Thank you, Ambassador Rollini,” Damian said. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Rollini nodded. Then, he looked to the heavens, threw his arms up, and yelled:
“Aaah, porca miseria, was it a truly dreadful time to be alive and working in politics in Berlint, Ostania during the 1960s!
“College students allegedly trying to blow up buildings and landmarks with explosives strapped to dogs! Students from the same universities my older nephews went to, students who they had been friends or worked with before they decided to become abandon their promising futures and become terrorists!
“Could they have roped them in? Was it a mistake for my sister to send them to live with me here and satisfy their desire to see more of the world past Firenza? Would the same happen to my children when they came of age and if they chose to study here?
"I still don't have an answer!
"Then, there was that luxury cruise ship that departed from here in Berlint, and built with the city's support, at that! My brother-in-law retired from the Firenzan Navy, tired from the constant threat and fear of being blown up and dying in a watery grave.
“That ship was supposed to be his first civilian job since his service, and what happens? A bomb threat, narrowly, literally defused because the crew just happened to have a former navy man who was an explosives expert!
“He never willingly went on a cruise ship ever again, if he could help it! Will probably die having never traveled any distance on any body of water ever again, too!
“There were even credible rumors of an underground league of extreme tennis tournaments that acted as both a money-laundering scheme and the twisted hobby horse of criminals with money to burn, intense boredom to sate, and no morals or decency whatsoever.
“And among which, allegedly, were Firenzan nationals and politicians who wanted to take a break from the constant infighting and changes of guards back home.”
Rollini looked back down and let his hands limply fall into his lap or the cushion beside him. “And that was all just between the years of 1962 and ‘63...”
He took a deep breath, composed himself, and continued, “My point is, Mr. Desmond, Ms. Forger, you two were lucky to be young, innocent, and ignorant of the world then. You must have been, what, 5, 6 years old then, I believe?”
“I would have been 6 in 1962, yes,” Damian said.
“Same,” Anya added quietly.
“Then, you both don’t know the deep scars and traumas that have haunted us here in the Firenzan Embassy,” Rollini said. “Without shame, without irony, without a drop of bad faith, I am happy for you two.
“I continue to work here despite it all because I love my country, and I love this country, and I love my fellow citizens of Firenza first before I came to love Ostania’s.
“I want both Firenza’s interests and her people’s to be protected while they live, work, and potentially die here in Ostanian soil. Hopefully, not prematurely. Nor, in a forced closed casket viewing. Nor, a memorial, if they could not find anything to bury or burn in the first place!
"So long as the specter of war between Ostania and Westalis looms over you, and so long as its nightmarish spawn haunts us, representatives of Firenza who live here in Berlint, I cannot think of any possible way you could convince us that opening more of our borders and industries to Ostania will be a good thing.
“I apologize for any insult, Mr. Desmond, Ms. Forger, but Ostania is nothing like our allies in the Unified Nations of the Americas,” Rollini said, winding down. “I don’t believe you have anything in sufficient quantity or quality that we of Firenza would brave the risk of acquiring."
“No, Ambassador Rollini, please do not apologize,” Damian said. “Your candor is greatly appreciated. I suppose now, our problem is how we’re going to relay this information to our superiors without betraying your trust.”
(Or getting arrested by the secret police for undermining faith in Ostania’s institutions, that would also be bad…)
“You have my sympathies, Mr. Desmond,” Rollini said. “If I may, perhaps we should end this meeting now and return to our respective offices? I’m grateful but drained from the intensity of this catharsis and I have a prior appointment for this evening.”
“Please go right on ahead, Ambassador Rollini,” Damian said.
“Thank you,” Rollini said, standing up.
As Damian did the same and they went through the professional goodbyes plus the unofficial reassurances that almost nothing of what they discussed would leave this room, Anya wondered if there was still any way she could salvage this meeting.
Then, thanks to a stray thought from Rollini as he got his mind off “work” mode, Anya found it.
“Wait, Ambassador Rollini!” Anya cried, getting up in a hurry.
“Huh? Anya?!” Damian asked, surprised.
“What is it, Ms. Forger?” Rollini asked. “Did you forget something?”
"More like I just realized something," Anya said. "Something important. If you don't mind, will you please sit down again and hear me out?"
Rollini looked confused and reluctant but shrugged again. “Ah, I suppose I can spare a few more minutes.”
“Thank you, Ambassador Rollini!” Anya said smiling as she returned to her seat.
“What the hell are you planning?” Damian whispered as he did the same.
“Just leave it all to me,” Anya whispered back.
Damian looked troubled.
“Well, Ms. Forger, I’m ready to listen.”
But, he didn’t have the chance to protest so he just decided to put his faith in Anya again. (Maybe she’ll pull another miracle,) he thought.
“It’s about what you said earlier, Ambassador Rollini,” Anya said. “When you said that Ostania has nothing that Firenza wants despite the risks. And, well, I believe you forgot one very important thing.”
Rollini blinked then nodded slowly. “And what would that be, Ms. Forger?”
“Art, Ambassador Rollini!” Anya cried, slapping her hands on her thighs and leaning forward in her seat. “Specifically, Ostanian musical theater!”
Damian blinked. “What?” he asked.
Rollini was silent—but not in contempt or annoyance, but rather, in the pleasant sort of shock and surprise.
Anya continued, “Doesn’t Ostania have one of the richest, most diverse, and most talented musical theater productions and performers in the world?!
“Just our most popular female starlets alone can fill up several pages in an album of just their portraits!
“Their faces and names can move truckloads and rail cars full of postcards and merchandise all over the country yet still face a constant shortage and a thriving black market catering to desperate fans, not to mention those abroad who spend fortunes trying to get it out of our borders!
“And most importantly, when they perform live, don’t our largest, most expansive, and most well-equipped stages and theaters struggle to even just admit all the fans desperate to get inside and see their favorite starlets, let alone contain the sheer energy and joy that they inspire with their talent and charm?!
“What else would let us forget our worries and anxieties so completely?
What else would remind us of the beauty and value of peace and prosperity, when we channel our passions and emotions to create, not destroy?
“What else would unite peoples and nations across borders and language barriers than musical theater?!”
Damian’s face was a mix between shock, anger, confusion, disappointment, panic, and regret—until he risked a glance at Rollini, and found him looking positively enraptured, clearly hanging onto Anya’s every word.
“Ambassador Rollini, I must ask you,” Anya said, her face gravely serious, “will the people of Firenza satisfy themselves only with broadcasts and recordings on TV?
“Will the people of Firenza satisfy themselves only with records shipped in from overseas rather than signed and handed to you by the artists themselves with their thanks and a smile?
“And will the people of Firenza satisfy themselves only hearing about the magic of their live performances secondhand, from the privileged few who can fly to Ostania in time and back because they can skip or speed through all the forms, the interviews, and the approval stamps that your average citizen needs to go through and pay so many administrative fees and headaches for, just to be put on a waiting list for foreign travel approval?!”
“NO!” Rollini cried, slamming his hands on the couch as he shout out of his seat.
“EXACTLY!” Anya said, mirroring his explosive rise.
Damian just looked between them, wide-eyed and at a loss for words as a captive audience.
“Shouldn’t they be able to feel what it’s like to be among the crowds waving their glowsticks, in the colors of their favorite member of the Queena Quintet as their charm overflows from them and off the stage, washing over the audience?
“Don’t they deserve to feel what it’s like to be the first to witness the little improvisations, the dramatic twists, and news-making performances? Ones like the ‘Flug der Fantasie‘ from Torheit der Summerhof-Kreaturen, where audiences could watch the actresses flying just above their heads with the greatest of ease, never once letting up with their singing as they dance like they are caught in a violent storm?“
Anya and Rollini were nearly face-to-face now, the former shouting, the latter almost violently nodding his head in enthusiastic agreement.
Damian was still in his seat, blankly staring at them and trying not to think too much.
Suddenly, Anya‘s voice lowered dramatically, she began to whisper:
“And don't they also deserve the chance, that magical, beautiful, irreplaceable moment where they see a rising star making her first major debut on stage, the first big leap in a glorious career?
“One like Katharina Klein’s?”
Rollini gasped so hard, that Damian feared he might get dizzy from forgetting to exhale. “You… you know Katharina Klein? You’ve seen her, as well, Ms. Forger?!”
“I haven’t personally,” Anya said, shaking her head slowly. “But, I’ve heard good things about her from the musical theater lovers here in Berlint, of which Foreign Affairs has many.
“And, I realized that third ring on your hand was one of her commemorative 1st-anniversary merchandise. I've heard it was one of the rarest, most sought-after items, only for the truest fans who went to all her previous shows and that show, with the ticket stubs or the receipts from the venues to prove it.
“Don't you think it's unfair that the opportunity is only available to Firenzans who already happen to be living in Ostania?"
“Yes… yes, I do," Rollini said, significantly calming down and sounding more somber now. "But, it will take much work to convince my fellow Firenzans that opening our borders for the sake of musical theater and art will be worth it.
“We might forget our fears during the performance itself but reality comes back soon after the curtains close, oftentimes without our consent or warning.”
“Maybe we can try and convince them with a proof of concept?” Anya asked. “A joint performance between our starlets and some of Firenza’s as well?
“It will be a celebration of unity and friendship between our countries, a show of gratitude and hopes for the continuation of the continued peace that lets us hold these productions safely, that audience members would fight to attend even with the potential security risks from radicals?
“Especially if a hypothetical cast list would involve Ms. Klein and someone like Firenza’s Paola Palidina.”
Rollini gasped again, this time he clutched his chest and staggered back.
“Ambassador!” Damian cried, shooting up from his couch.
“I’m fine!” Rollini cried as he quickly gripped an armrest as if his life depended on it. "I'm fine… forgive me for scaring you, Mr. Desmond," he continued as he slowly lowered himself back on the seat. “Ms. Forger just brought up a prospect too exciting for this old man to handle...”
“My apologies, Ambassador Rollini,” Anya said, curtsying.
“The fault is mine, Ms. Forger!” Rollini said, waving with his free hand. “If anything, I should thank you for such a wonderful proposal. I’d never have thought of it myself and I’m the avid fan of musical theater here!"
“I think we should all sit down and take a moment to calm ourselves,” Damian said, gently grabbing Anya’s arm and coaxing her back down. “This is getting too intense and wild for a meeting between national representatives, unofficial or not.”
“Agreed,” Rollini said. “But, regardless of our lapses in professionalism just now, Mr. Desmond: I feel that your fiancee has made a great argument to opening up Firenza to Ostania.”
Anya beamed proudly.
Desmond took a moment to recover from the flood of relief and warmth that surged inside him, cleared his throat, then turned back to Rollini. “So you’re saying that Ostanian musical starlets are the key, then?” he said.
“Not the sole key, certainly,” Rollini said, shaking his head. “But one that would open a lot of doors, and one that has made me a sure ally of yours."
“Our money is on musical starlets, then,” Damian said.
They started hashing out the details of this plan, promising to tap their connections or consult experts on the logistical hurdles of staging a giant international co-production, until Rollini had to leave to prepare for his date with his wife and another couple at the theater--it was producing a musical, of course.
They said their goodbyes for certain this time, Rollini much more enthusiastic as he left. He also said Anya and Damian were more than welcome to join him in another musical in Berlint, scheduled for next week.
“Unfortunately, it won’t have Ms. Klein as part of the cast, but I promise you a wonderful time nonetheless,” Rollini said.
“We’d be happy to check our schedules and see if we can join you, Ambassador Rollini,” Damian said. “We’ll send an update to your office by today or tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”
"I pray for the stars to align for a 'Yes'," Rollini said. "Now then, it was such a pleasure to meet the both of you today.
“I must confess, I did not have high hopes for this meeting but it exceeded my expectations, and then brought them to entirely new, fantastic places I hadn’t thought were possible.
“Mr. Desmond, Ms. Forger, it may be a bit presumptuous and premature, but I foresee bright careers in politics and civil service for the both of you young ones,” Rollini said, glowing like a proud father.
"You humble us with your praise, Ambassador Rollini," Damian said, bowing and smiling.
“Likewise,” Anya said, curtsying instead.
“Well then, I really must be off now!” Rollini said. “Man waits, time does not!”
The two of them waved and watched as Rollini left the room and then shut the door behind him.
And when it seemed certain to the both of them that Rollini was not coming back any time soon:
“Uuughhh…!”
Anya wavered, her legs turned to jelly, and Damian caught her.
“Woah, got you!” Damian cried as he pulled Anya to his chest. “Anya? You alright?”
“Brain fried… tummy empty… need peanuts,” Anya mumbled, so limp and weak she was almost like a sack of potatoes—or perhaps, peanuts.
Damian sighed and reached into one of his pockets. “I’m pretty sure the restaurant at the lobby offered peanut chunks with the gelato they serve. Here, have one of these for now,” he said as he pulled out an airplane packet and then ripped it open with his teeth.
Anya sighed but took it. “I miss the days when you had big bags of peanuts on you all the time, Damian.”
“Yeah, I miss those days, too, but there was just no coming back after you accidentally kill a man with them, even if it was in self-defense...” Damian muttered.
Elsewhere in the embassy, listening through a wiretap, Loid Forger sighed in relief.
“I can’t make sense of your methods and thought process, Anya…” he said. “But this world is in good hands if you'll be one of the people protecting its peace when I'm inevitably gone.”
About 2 weeks later, one evening in Romanus, Firenza, at its Old Port Neptuna district, there was an abandoned warehouse. Lights were spilling out of a few of its windows and a violent, howling, burning rage was leaking through its walls.
"What happened to the failure of negotiations?! Where are the scandal and political fallout?! What happened to our ‘dry powder keg waiting for a spark to ignite it’?!”
The man yelling was Marco Masini, leader of the Nuova Lega Party of Firenza.
His voice easily pierced through the walls of the repurposed factory supervisor’s office. It bounced off the building’s walls and went up to the rafters, easily heard even if you were behind or beneath the fortified walls, partitions, and secret hatches that concealed the facilities and “campaigning materials” the party hid from the public and especially the police.
Marco’s fellow party members and allies from other political groups, however, did little to stop him, too confused, too depressed, or too angry. They just sat slumped around, paced around aimlessly, or took their frustrations out on the training dummies and shooting targets.
Even his cousin and right-hand man, Giacomo Giovanni, found himself unable to do more but sit in his usual seat and watch Marco, currently pacing around their meeting table, flailing his arms about, and further wrinkling the copy of the Notizie Internazionali dal Governo di Firenza in his hands.
Eventually, Marco tired of words. He stopped in front of his chair, ripped up the newspaper in his hands into so many shreds, and hurled them into the air!
Fwoosh.
The pieces suddenly, inexplicably exploded into flames, falling around Marco like so much burning confetti and ash as he finally dropped into his seat, exhausted and sweating.
Giacomo waved some of them away, smothered a few burning hunks with his palm, then asked, “Would you like some water, Marco? Your throat must be parched and it looks like you’re about to ignite yourself.”
“What I would like,” Marco wheezed, staring up at the ceiling and quite literally smoking out of his ears, “is the head of whoever ruined our plans on a silver platter and then served to me, personally. I don’t mind if it has to be frozen and smuggled from Ostania first, so long as it gets here.”
“Then I think we might already have a prime suspect, Marco,” Giacomo said.
Marco looked at him, curious. He flared up again as Giacomo pulled out another copy of the Notizie Internazionali from his jacket. But, Marco held himself back as Giacomo quickly pulled out the Culture and Arts section and set aside the rest.
Giacomo put the paper on the table and pointed at one of the articles, saying, “Here.”
It was on the 3rd page and at a low, out-of-the-way spot. To the publishing arm of Foreign Affairs in Firenza, it was likely a filler article meant for the sake of taking space for lack of ads or public notices that could fit in that section without feeling too obtrusive or out of place.
To Marco, however, it was to become the focus of Nuovo Lega for the immediate future, and the beginning of a new, lifelong burning vendetta.
“Ambassador Rollini Enjoys An Evening At The Theater In Berlint”
The article was as basic and trivial as it got, probably because all the hard-hitting, political implications and events surrounding Rollini were back on the front page.
The picture was of Rollini, his wife, and two civil servants from Ostanian Foreign Affairs, one Damian Desmond and his fiancee, Anya Forger, as they exited their car and walked to a theater in Berlint. The photo was probably taken by a paparazzo on the street and then mailed over to Firenza, which explained why it happened a little over a week ago.
Their faces looked like they were all looking forward to the show, like old or fast friends.
Though his anger was initially aimed at three of them—Rollini, for the betrayal, Desmond and Forger, for being conniving, corrupting Ostanians—Marco soon realized one, in particular, deserved the lion's share of his newly born vendetta.
“'It's like she's spoken to our souls as Firenzans, natural-born lovers of art,'" Rollini was quoted. "'In short order, she's become a welcome guest in our embassy, our new favorite Ostanian friend. Perhaps our two countries have a long way to go in improving our relations. But, if we can enjoy musical theater together in the same box, then there is much hope yet.’”
Marco quietly put the paper down, it was a bit damp from the sweat pouring from his brow and slightly burnt along where he held it. “Giacomo,” he said.
“Yes, Marco?” Giacomo said, sitting up.
“How many more copies of this do we have on hand?” Marco asked. “I need at least one clean, unmarred photo from this article, preferably more for editing and alterations,” he said, tapping it.
“Ah, I’ll go ask around,” Giacomo said, standing up. “We can probably get a lot of them if we move early tomorrow before the trash collectors start their rounds, too. Ah, but what exactly are you planning, Marco?”
Marco sighed and wiped some of the sweat pouring from his brow with his hand, the beads rapidly began to turn to steam. "Giacomo, my beloved cousin, my best friend, and accomplice from the cradle: we will let our people and our allies know the face of our newest enemy, the conniving foe who dared to sabotage the path to the Firenza we dream of.
“Rollini?” Giacomo asked.
“No, this ‘Anya Forger,’” Marco said, shaking his head. “Whoever she is… to abuse and exploit the love of musical theater that runs deep into the heart of our nation and its people… it is unforgivable.
“We must show her the error of her ways, in the only manner this world will care about.”
“Wait, we’re not going to try and bomb a theater this time, are we, Marco?!” Giacomo asked, wide-eyed.
“What?! NO!” Marco cried, rocketing out of his seat and then grabbing Giacomo by the shoulders. “Porca miseria, Giacomo!” Marco yelled as he shook him. “Have you lost your mind?!
“The theater crew and the casts are innocent in all this! We will not destroy bastions of culture and art, and more importantly, the people that work hard to bring them to us! Especially ones like Katharina Klein!”
Marco suddenly let go of Giacomo, Giacomo went staggering back and crashed into a file cabinet.
BANG!
There was now a new notable dent and deformation in the cabinet where Giacamo’s back had hit it. But, he seemed unharmed, if dazed.
Marco ignored him and pulled out a necklace from inside his shirt, on which hung a limited edition Katharina Klein locket, the second most sought-after item after the ring. Marco opened it, inside was an autographed picture of her plus a short message (allegedly) written by her own hand.
“Ah, mia Signora della Bellezza, mia Signora della Grazia, mia Signora dei Miei Sogni!” Marco swooned, gazing wistfully into the open locket. “I swear, nary a drop of the blood, sweat, and the tears we shed as we fight for our Firenza will ever stain your shining career, your perfect figure, or your beautiful soul!”
“Madonna!” cried a third voice. “What is going on here?! Did an assassin break through the window or what?”
Marco was still too busy whispering oaths and words of love to his pendant and the woman of his dreams and didn’t notice her.
Giacomo did and waved to her. “Ah, Marco’s just going off again on Ms. Katharina, as you can see, Gianna.”
Gianna Giovanni, Giacomo’s fraternal twin sister, looked at her cousin Marco, back at her brother, then sighed. “Aah, Dio mia! Nonno should have insisted our parents move out...” she said, putting her palm to her head and slowly shaking her head.
“Can’t change the past, only work towards the future,” Giacomo said, shrugging.
Gianna nodded until she noticed the file cabinet. “The hell happened there?!”
“I accidentally crashed into it earlier,” Giacomo replied. “I’ll just bang the dents out tomorrow.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about!” Gianna yelled as she stormed over to Giacomo and grabbed his hand. Her eyes unfocused for a moment before she let go, glared at him, and said, “You’ve got a bruise growing on your back. We need to ice it.”
“I’m pretty sure I can leave it alone,” Giacomo said, shrugging.
“The hell you are!” Gianna snapped. “Come on, we’re going to Padre Pietro’s and seeing if we can’t borrow some ice… hopefully he still has some gelato in stock at this hour, too.”
“Ooh, you think he has any peanut toppings left?” Giacomo said excitedly, even as he left with Gianna.
“Ugh, no peanuts tonight, Giacomo,” Gianna said, shaking her head.
“Why? What’s the matter?” Giacomo asked, looking confused.
“I can’t explain it, but there’s something about them that has just repulsed me lately...” Gianna said, scowling.
Back at Berlint, Ostania, in the Firenzan Embassy, there was a restaurant on its first floor, constantly busy and simply named after its founder:
“Ristorante d'Assisi”
Among the highest ranks of the embassy, it was beloved for serving as authentic and good quality Firenzan favorites as it could, while mostly limited to using Ostanian ingredients and suppliers. Among everyone else, it was one of the few places in Berlint that served such cuisine and became a pleasant change of pace, for those that could afford it.
For Damian, however, it became the most convenient source of peanuts while he and Anya were constantly in and out of the Firenzan Embassy and dealing with their nationals.
“Oh, Mr. Desmond!” said Eileen Eichhorn, the Ostanian waitress that always served them. “And Ms. Forger, too…” she continued, looking worried as she turned to Anya.
Anya moaned as she gracelessly slumped face-first into the table, exhausted.
“Is she going to be alright, Mr. Desmond?” Eileen asked.
"Just get her usual, Eileen,” Damian said, waving his hand. “Quickly, if you can.”
"Single scoop chocolate gelato with a triple scoop of peanut chunks it is, then," Eileen said, scribbling on her notepad. "Excuse me then, Mr. Desmond."
Damian gave a half-hearted goodbye before he turned to Anya. “Hey, Anya?” he asked, leaning over and waving his hand in front of her face. “Stay strong for just a little longer, alright? We’re going to get you your peanuts soon.”
“Can’t take this no more...” Anya mumbled.
“Take what anymore?” Damian said. “The wait? I think I still have a peanut packet in my pockets.”
“It’s not the wait...” Anya said, rolling her head so she looked face down at the table. “It’s all the lessons on Firenzan! And the ambassadors and the attaches and the staff and their friends and their families that insist on talking to me in it, and only it…!”
Anya slowly looked up at Damian, on the verge of tears. “My head’s going to explode… these people… never… seem… to stop… talking…!”
“Is it really that bad?” Damian asked, concerned.
Anya just looked at him and whimpered.
Damian just sat back down, and patted her head quickly, before holding her hand.
Eventually, Eileen returned, her tray holding a dessert dish almost overflowing with chopped peanut chunks. There were so many you could barely see the rich brown chocolate gelato underneath.
“Your order, Mr. Desmond, Ms. Forger,” Eileen said as she put it down.
“Thank you,” Damian said before he tapped Anya’s head. “Anya, look: your peanuts are here.”
“Too tired,” Anya said, rolling her face to the side. “Feed me.”
“What?!” Damian said, eyes widening in scandal.
Eileen sniggered before she covered her mouth. “Sorry. Excuse me, I’ll just be going now,” she said as she pressed her tray to her chest and bowed.
“Don’t let us keep you…” Damian said. (She can’t be serious, can she?) he thought.
"I'm serious," Anya said before she opened her mouth like a waiting hatchling or perhaps a young child.
(And, of course, she was,) Damian thought, scowling as he quickly looked around.
(Isn’t that Mr. Desmond and his fiancee, Ms. Forger? I can’t believe that they’re acting so childishly and shamelessly and here in Assisi’s, nonetheless! Have they no shame?) thought a Firenzan man in an expensive suit, a scowl on his face.
(THIS is the “power couple” making waves here in the embassy?) thought a waiter as he attended to a table full of high-ranking dignitaries enjoying wine and charcuterie. (Man, Father was right, connections ARE everything, meritocracy is shit!)
(Oh, so is this that ‘delightful eccentricity’ of theirs that I’ve heard so much about? It really is like something straight out of a farce brought to life, how wonderful!) thought an elderly Firenzan woman who was smiling warmly. (Oh, to be young, foolish, and unburdened again with my dear Erico...)
Damian sighed as he processed the mixed bag of expressions and silent opinions from the diners and staff around his and Anya’s table. Then, got up, grabbed his chair, and put it back down next to Anya.
Damian picked up Anya’s spoon with the “dignity, intention, and surety that a politician should have,” scooped up some of the peanuts and fed them to Anya.
“Aaah… mmp...” Anya went before she chewed, swallowed, then opened her mouth again expectantly.
(Fuuuckkk…) Damian thought, tightly gripping his spoon in one hand and his thigh with his other hand. (If only I’d gotten a back room or something, I could be enjoying this no problem…!)
Elsewhere, toward the back of the restaurant, Eileen watched them, before one of the chefs reminded her to get back to work. She apologized and did, devoting herself to her waitress duties until her shift ended.
And when she was in the back room with the employee lockers, she pulled out a small, generic-looking notebook hidden inside the clothes she came in earlier that day.
At first glance, the contents looked like the illegible scrawl of a child or someone who'd suffered a stroke, but it was a cipher, only able to be cracked if you had extensive knowledge of both Firenzan and Ostanian and their grammar.
Like, say, a half-Firenzan, 2nd generation immigrant like Eileen, whose Firenzan mother kept in close contact with her family back home and was very involved in politics in both countries.
“There has to be something more to these two beneath the surface,” she wrote, to be transcribed and transmitted to her Nuova Lega chapter leader later that night. “Either this Anya Forger and her fiance, Damian Desmond, are spies and manipulators of unparalleled skills masquerading as a childish idiot and her lover…
“… Or Firenza is screwed far beyond our ability to save it.”