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"The so and so nations capitol has been captured and the so and so nations has gone into civil war. When the dust settled the so and so nations has emerged."
We all remember this captivating message given to us by our military advisor after our forces march into the once formidable opponent’s capitol in Civ 1. However, for many of us this all but an ancient memory in the back of old Civ gamers heads. Yet, still, even during Civ 3 you can't help but wonder what happens to a civilization when their center of operation has been snatched from them and when their people gaze down the dark barrel of defeat. What truly happens when the dust settles?
The strong, potent smell of whiskey filled the private office of President Joan d'Arc, which lay hidden in the man made caverns of Paris under the devastated Presidential Palace, which resembled much of the Capitol. Quietly she glugged the bottle of whiskey, coupled with long deep sighs and the apparent rumble of bomber wings flying over the city for another shot at devastating what, if anything was left. Her heavy, tired, depressed and hopeless eyes jetted across the crumpled war reports that lined her table. They spoke only of military blunders, lost battles, and sieged cities. She leaned back in her wooden chair, made from fine Scandinavian timber; an ally of her country....well....was, until it was subdued, like many other countries, by the vicious powerhouse called Rome.
She growled gently under her breath as she thought about sniveling grin of Caesar when he declared war on France. How he dared justifying his declaration by calling France a suppressive government only interested in taking the wealth from other nations. Of course the League of Nations didn't become entranced by his speech, tangled with false accusations, but what could they say against a country four or five times more powerful then them. Her eyes focused back down at the unorganized stack of reports, until she spotted "Operation Maginot Line". She laughed, with a laugh not of joy, but of sadness as she thought back to how her now deceased general Napoleon, assured her that line was impenetrable. How he lived to eat those words, when he himself died at the destruction of the Maginot Line. Of course it's not all his fault, who knew that the newly produced "Tanks" could make such a swift and forceful punch into the thin, but powerful defensive wall? Who could have second-guessed that military operation "Vici France" (Conquer France) would have caused such mass destruction of French infrastructure and lives that it did? Joan leaned back again, lightly pushing the paper off the table in frustration. It floated gently in the room’s dank air before landing in front of the room door, which was now being opened.
Joan looked up, just as she was about to take another sip from bottle. She stood erect in her seat as she noted the stubby faced man, know only as Richelieu, her most trusted advisor and only advisor since the rest had met their end during the massive air raids on Paris. "I have good news from De Gaulle on the field, President. It seems the general has managed to recapture Lyons from the 67th Roman infantry that occupied the city. He also wishes to thank you for the freshly produced "Angel Tanks". He, also mentions that the men are getting use to their feel and request more."
Joan’s lonely eyes filled with a sparkle of hope as she gently set aside her mostly empty bottle of whiskey on a stack of papers to the right. "How many more, exactly?"
"No less then five hundred straight off the line, along with 400,000 more men to run and keep maintenance."
Joan paused for a moment, the hope slowly draining from her eyes and her face once again returning to its bitter expression, as bitter as the whiskey she consumed.
"Maybe the four hundred thousand men, but five hundred tanks? We could barely get the one hundred tanks off of factory lines before they were bombed to dust by Roman planes!"
Richelieu stepped forward a bit, the same expression matching that of Joan’s. He hated to see the poor women like this, it wasn't so long ago that Joan could be seen celebrating in the dance halls of her palace, when she learned that valiant French Cavalry had scored a wonderful success during the Zulu-French struggle. Those days however, were long since gone and like much of the country she was losing faith in her country, her lord, and mainly herself.
"De Gaulle notes that it is critical that he get these tanks if you ever want to liberate the rest of are mother country.", He spoke in slight defense for the general, who was somewhere in rubble surrounded barrack of Lyon, hopping to get the reply he wanted.
Joan grasped the whiskey bottle with her right hand as he stroked her throbbing forehead with the left. Slowly she finished off the last trickle of liquid in the brown bottle and tossed it aside, laying back in her seat once again, her eyes locked upon the hand drawn map of France hanging in the room.
"Well you can tell De Gaulle to work with what he has and pray that the Lord is on his side. Someone has to have faith for our country...I know I’m losing it everyday."
Richelieu closed his gapping mouth with a sad nod as he pressed the new report on the table with the rest of the strewn about papers. He calmly turned around and walked out her cramped office, closing the door softly behind him. Joan sighed again, a few tears streaming from her eyes. She was strong, yes, but the heavy burden of saving her beloved nation was slowly crushing her soul. She looked up at the roof, as she heard the familiar buzzing nose that haunted her very mind. The bombers were coming for another run...
Bismarck looked around the rather gloomy bar of men, mostly German or a mix of German and French. Even one or two sobbing French widows who had lost their husbands in the war. He almost felt sorry for the women, but then again he felt a sense of pleasure, seeing how that the French had suppressed German culture, forcing them to walk the "straight" path of the French flag. It was so bad, by the end of the Zulu-French war, no one in the international community remembered his people. For Bismarck, the invasion of Rome from the west was little more then a hidden revenge. Bismarck rubbed his baldhead as he flipped the daily newspaper, which showed half-truths about French success in the war, showing images of "daring" soldiers rushing flag first in the furry of Roman Tanks. Bismarck, like the widows at the bar knew the true inevitable fate of the man.... death. With a steady yawn he folded the newspaper into equal parts and laid it on the wooden table before him. He looked towards one of the women who had ceased her weeping with help of some heavy wine drinking and with his usual solid voice he spoke to her.
"You know miss, I always thought the French pride themselves on their ability to endure through the most dark of moments. As your president, what's her name again? Oh yes, Joan D'Arc has shown, this is quite the opposite."
Disgusted the women threw the bottle of win lying beside her directly towards Bismarck. Lucky for Bismarck the bottle missed its target by a long shot, she would of hit him had she not been intoxicated by so much wine.
"Shut up you...you...you German!” she yelled out in a slurred voice, followed by a stream of tears.
The bartender, who was silently watching Bismarck, as he cleaned out dirty glasses with an overly used gray wash towel, spoke up in a gruff voice. "Hey watch it Bismarck, ever since this war, French spies have been scoping ever bar and shop in town. Be careful what you say. Heh, besides I don't want my bar shutting down because of your mouth. It's all I have you know."
Bismarck looked away from the women, drowning in her tears with a chuckle. "Just like every other German in France, too afraid to speak up against the government and being satisfied with the scraps left over from the table. You say this is all you have and yet you do nothing to improve your life. Hell, with the French in control of whatever move honest folk like you and me work hard for, it's no wonder this is all you have! You good sir can wallow in the mud hole set aside for you by them all you want, but me, I’m going to make sure the German people are noticed in the vast world."
A few German people, who would otherwise be drinking their hour away, took notice to Bismarck and his statement. One by one a few shouts of agreement to what he stated would sprout up. Eventually the whole bar was cheering with German Pride, hanging on every word spoken by the entrancing Bismarck. Minute by minute, cheer by drunken cheer, the bartender became nervous that secret French police would bust into the bar any second.
"I won't have any of this talk here in my bar. If you want to have some kind of hopeless revolt then take it outside my tavern.", the bartender yelled, mostly directed towards Bismarck.
Bismarck muttered something under his breath as he stormed out the bar, the room became silent and the drunken men went back to what they did best, drink. Though Bismarck had been stopped here, nothing would stop him from going town to German populated town, spreading the word of a separate and free state. Revolution was in the fiery eyes of this old man and nothing would stop him.
We all remember this captivating message given to us by our military advisor after our forces march into the once formidable opponent’s capitol in Civ 1. However, for many of us this all but an ancient memory in the back of old Civ gamers heads. Yet, still, even during Civ 3 you can't help but wonder what happens to a civilization when their center of operation has been snatched from them and when their people gaze down the dark barrel of defeat. What truly happens when the dust settles?
The strong, potent smell of whiskey filled the private office of President Joan d'Arc, which lay hidden in the man made caverns of Paris under the devastated Presidential Palace, which resembled much of the Capitol. Quietly she glugged the bottle of whiskey, coupled with long deep sighs and the apparent rumble of bomber wings flying over the city for another shot at devastating what, if anything was left. Her heavy, tired, depressed and hopeless eyes jetted across the crumpled war reports that lined her table. They spoke only of military blunders, lost battles, and sieged cities. She leaned back in her wooden chair, made from fine Scandinavian timber; an ally of her country....well....was, until it was subdued, like many other countries, by the vicious powerhouse called Rome.
She growled gently under her breath as she thought about sniveling grin of Caesar when he declared war on France. How he dared justifying his declaration by calling France a suppressive government only interested in taking the wealth from other nations. Of course the League of Nations didn't become entranced by his speech, tangled with false accusations, but what could they say against a country four or five times more powerful then them. Her eyes focused back down at the unorganized stack of reports, until she spotted "Operation Maginot Line". She laughed, with a laugh not of joy, but of sadness as she thought back to how her now deceased general Napoleon, assured her that line was impenetrable. How he lived to eat those words, when he himself died at the destruction of the Maginot Line. Of course it's not all his fault, who knew that the newly produced "Tanks" could make such a swift and forceful punch into the thin, but powerful defensive wall? Who could have second-guessed that military operation "Vici France" (Conquer France) would have caused such mass destruction of French infrastructure and lives that it did? Joan leaned back again, lightly pushing the paper off the table in frustration. It floated gently in the room’s dank air before landing in front of the room door, which was now being opened.
Joan looked up, just as she was about to take another sip from bottle. She stood erect in her seat as she noted the stubby faced man, know only as Richelieu, her most trusted advisor and only advisor since the rest had met their end during the massive air raids on Paris. "I have good news from De Gaulle on the field, President. It seems the general has managed to recapture Lyons from the 67th Roman infantry that occupied the city. He also wishes to thank you for the freshly produced "Angel Tanks". He, also mentions that the men are getting use to their feel and request more."
Joan’s lonely eyes filled with a sparkle of hope as she gently set aside her mostly empty bottle of whiskey on a stack of papers to the right. "How many more, exactly?"
"No less then five hundred straight off the line, along with 400,000 more men to run and keep maintenance."
Joan paused for a moment, the hope slowly draining from her eyes and her face once again returning to its bitter expression, as bitter as the whiskey she consumed.
"Maybe the four hundred thousand men, but five hundred tanks? We could barely get the one hundred tanks off of factory lines before they were bombed to dust by Roman planes!"
Richelieu stepped forward a bit, the same expression matching that of Joan’s. He hated to see the poor women like this, it wasn't so long ago that Joan could be seen celebrating in the dance halls of her palace, when she learned that valiant French Cavalry had scored a wonderful success during the Zulu-French struggle. Those days however, were long since gone and like much of the country she was losing faith in her country, her lord, and mainly herself.
"De Gaulle notes that it is critical that he get these tanks if you ever want to liberate the rest of are mother country.", He spoke in slight defense for the general, who was somewhere in rubble surrounded barrack of Lyon, hopping to get the reply he wanted.
Joan grasped the whiskey bottle with her right hand as he stroked her throbbing forehead with the left. Slowly she finished off the last trickle of liquid in the brown bottle and tossed it aside, laying back in her seat once again, her eyes locked upon the hand drawn map of France hanging in the room.
"Well you can tell De Gaulle to work with what he has and pray that the Lord is on his side. Someone has to have faith for our country...I know I’m losing it everyday."
Richelieu closed his gapping mouth with a sad nod as he pressed the new report on the table with the rest of the strewn about papers. He calmly turned around and walked out her cramped office, closing the door softly behind him. Joan sighed again, a few tears streaming from her eyes. She was strong, yes, but the heavy burden of saving her beloved nation was slowly crushing her soul. She looked up at the roof, as she heard the familiar buzzing nose that haunted her very mind. The bombers were coming for another run...
Bismarck looked around the rather gloomy bar of men, mostly German or a mix of German and French. Even one or two sobbing French widows who had lost their husbands in the war. He almost felt sorry for the women, but then again he felt a sense of pleasure, seeing how that the French had suppressed German culture, forcing them to walk the "straight" path of the French flag. It was so bad, by the end of the Zulu-French war, no one in the international community remembered his people. For Bismarck, the invasion of Rome from the west was little more then a hidden revenge. Bismarck rubbed his baldhead as he flipped the daily newspaper, which showed half-truths about French success in the war, showing images of "daring" soldiers rushing flag first in the furry of Roman Tanks. Bismarck, like the widows at the bar knew the true inevitable fate of the man.... death. With a steady yawn he folded the newspaper into equal parts and laid it on the wooden table before him. He looked towards one of the women who had ceased her weeping with help of some heavy wine drinking and with his usual solid voice he spoke to her.
"You know miss, I always thought the French pride themselves on their ability to endure through the most dark of moments. As your president, what's her name again? Oh yes, Joan D'Arc has shown, this is quite the opposite."
Disgusted the women threw the bottle of win lying beside her directly towards Bismarck. Lucky for Bismarck the bottle missed its target by a long shot, she would of hit him had she not been intoxicated by so much wine.
"Shut up you...you...you German!” she yelled out in a slurred voice, followed by a stream of tears.
The bartender, who was silently watching Bismarck, as he cleaned out dirty glasses with an overly used gray wash towel, spoke up in a gruff voice. "Hey watch it Bismarck, ever since this war, French spies have been scoping ever bar and shop in town. Be careful what you say. Heh, besides I don't want my bar shutting down because of your mouth. It's all I have you know."
Bismarck looked away from the women, drowning in her tears with a chuckle. "Just like every other German in France, too afraid to speak up against the government and being satisfied with the scraps left over from the table. You say this is all you have and yet you do nothing to improve your life. Hell, with the French in control of whatever move honest folk like you and me work hard for, it's no wonder this is all you have! You good sir can wallow in the mud hole set aside for you by them all you want, but me, I’m going to make sure the German people are noticed in the vast world."
A few German people, who would otherwise be drinking their hour away, took notice to Bismarck and his statement. One by one a few shouts of agreement to what he stated would sprout up. Eventually the whole bar was cheering with German Pride, hanging on every word spoken by the entrancing Bismarck. Minute by minute, cheer by drunken cheer, the bartender became nervous that secret French police would bust into the bar any second.
"I won't have any of this talk here in my bar. If you want to have some kind of hopeless revolt then take it outside my tavern.", the bartender yelled, mostly directed towards Bismarck.
Bismarck muttered something under his breath as he stormed out the bar, the room became silent and the drunken men went back to what they did best, drink. Though Bismarck had been stopped here, nothing would stop him from going town to German populated town, spreading the word of a separate and free state. Revolution was in the fiery eyes of this old man and nothing would stop him.
Thanks everyone for reading and replying to my story. I will continue it, don't you worry. Also, unscratched I proofread and tried to make the sentences less confusing and jumbled. Hopefully I succeeded...Well here goes...
) too hastly. I'll try to remeber this during the next part.
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