Stay tuned for Chapter 2: The Wedding Of The Century!! 


A/N: so see, | fixed her. She’s not a Mary Sue now. Also my great- 
grandma just died, so pls be nice. Read and review! Rate up! No 
flames! 


Win Condition 


It had been so long since Charles had felt human, away from the 
muck, pestilence and waste. His own body felt uncomfortable, 
foreign to him; his last wash had been months ago. Mites and lice 
crawled across his form, feeding and infecting at their own pleasure, 
treating him as a nesting ground. His mouth ached and bled day in, 
day out, the only restitution being that the gruel they ate wasn't solid 
enough to dislodge or crush his decaying teeth. He hadn't even 
removed his boots in days - no doubt the ebbing pain he felt would 
be a trench foot infection. 


The Great War was a disaster, an uncontrollable inferno that was 
fueled by naught but accumulated rage and insanity. Nobody had 
known it, but the entire world had been supported by a single man, a 
lone pillar. Nobody knew until it was destroyed, and the world had 
crumbled and collapsed. 


Even amidst the pervasive roar of endless gunfire and shelling, 
Charles could hear his comrades screaming. Pain and fear 
prevailed. Fear for their dying country, for their threatened families, 
fear that it would never end. Because, as they all knew, it was 
entirely possible that it wouldn't; it was terrifying enough when the 
western front was unexpectedly crushed by wave upon wave of 
Germans and Austro-Hungarians, Ottomans and Bulgarians. But 
then news had washed back to London from the coast of France, 
and a new type of fear was born. 


The Central Powers were no longer abiding by laws they did not set. 
Neither laws of war nor laws of nature were followed - a pact with 
the devil must have been forged. How else could they make such 
wicked weapons? Gas which would drive men mad with endless, 
nonexistent fire. Grenades which scorched the earth unlike anything 
else the world had ever seen. Guns which could disfigure men 
beyond recognition within seconds. Such was overlooked as the 
manic cries of broken madmen, until the horrors followed the stories 


home. 


Charles could handle it no longer. Only fifteen years of age, and his 
life had devolved to hiding in a trench south of Manchester, slinking 
in fear from enemies that could revoke even death from him. 
Scarred by images of men suffering unspeakable torture, never to 
find peace or restitution. A world without empathy, kindness, sanity. 


Charles mentally broke, buckling over and retching for the 
eighteenth time that day. Tears poured from his face, the only sound 
he could make a deep moaning. How could it have come to this? 
Surely someone could have foreseen the devil's work he now 
feared? Had there been nobody there to stop it, to restrict its spread 
and keep the world sane? It was too late to place restrictions now - 
the only people who would survive would be madmen without 
restraint. 


Snap. 


Charles spun to his left, pulling up his rifle and aiming along the 
trench. He should have been alone. To his horror, a masked man 
emerged from behind a corner, aiming a rifle of his own at the child. 
Only two thoughts passed through the mind of Charles, as he 
reflexively pulled the trigger: First was the faint hope he had 
responded fast enough, and would kill the man first. 


Second, that he would be lucky enough to die if he failed. 


NO. 
REVISE. 


The world beyond the window was a blur to Edward, a blur that he 
had never seen. It was the same physical world, with its old trees, 
grass and fields, but this view showed the new spirit of it all. A new 


world was blossoming from the seed of the old, with new ideas and 
perspectives coming to fruition. Some were frightened by the 
change, and that was understandable. The things that had changed 
were drastic, and the time taken was short. Edward, however, was 
unfazed; he had been born into this changing world, so was rarely 
frightened of it. 


The sound of the train’s whistle was muffled by the walls of the 
cabin, but was nonetheless unmistakable amidst the rumble of the 
coach’s wheels. Edward quickly shifted in his seat, eager to see 
what the whistle heralded — to his amazement, the cityscape of 
London was fast approaching. What normally took him several hours 
to traverse by carriage had taken only a little over two by railway. 


“Such speed!” he mumbled to himself, marveling at the completely 
Mundane machine. 


It was assuredly Mundane, at least. None of the major powers 
capable of influencing Faults would have had time to assist in the 
conception of such a wonderful contraption, not with the Sixth Occult 
War going on. Even without its main instigators, the conclusion of 
the war had been dragging on for several months now, fueled by 
Ongoing conflicts between stubborn participants, trying to emerge 
victorious in a war nobody could win. Nobody would have had the 
time or the resources to create any beneficial Faults for locomotives, 
nor could they mass produce it on a scale sufficient for their 
demand. 


Of course, Faults were precisely what brought a thaumaturge such 
as Edward to London. Retrieving it from his pocket, he looked at the 
telegram he had received shortly before his departure. 


WE MUST SPEAK TAKE LONDON TRAIN IMMEDIATELY 


1'O PREVENT FURTHER WAR REQUIRE ADVICE 
CJ 


Without a doubt, some description of a vice needed to be placed 
upon the thaumaturgic world. The only guidelines that existed — the 
Charlemagne Conscripture — were blatantly ineffective in their duty. 
The old ages of witch hunting had forced it to be spread by mouth 


alone, rendering it susceptible to unnoticed alterations both 
intentional and not. Written records of the Conscripture were 
drastically conflicting, usually sparking arguments about which were 
more accurate and which were not. Such debates were part of the 
ignition to the Sixth Occult War; an attempt to purge heretics who 
tarnished the rules of thaumaturgy, while finally removing all 
ineffective interpretations from history. 


Again, an unwinnable war. The fact that four Occult Wars had 
occurred during the lifespan of the Conscripture was proof that it 
was ineffective. 


The train lurched to a halt, prompting everyone within the cabin to 
collect up their possessions and head to the exits. Edward nervously 
rose from his seat, unsure if the locomotive would make another 
abrupt motion. He made sure to steady himself upon nearby seats 
as a precaution, partially returning to his chain of thought. 


What sort of regulations did Cynthia have in mind? How would they 
be effectuated, and by whom? Perhaps a council would be 
necessary to ensure the enforcement of the new rules... Edward 
made a mental note to bring it up with her, as he stepped onto the 
platform outside the carriage. 


Charles sat in his bedroom, quietly reading through his book. It had 
been an average sort of day, no different from the last and probably 
no different from the next. Adults were so strange; a little bit of snow 
on the streets and suddenly school is cancelled, but the actual threat 
of the Great War only gave them more things to teach. How to put 
on a gas mask, what to do when you hear sirens, where the safe 
places in the city were... Charles usually zoned out for those parts. 
The only thing he actively paid attention to was the news. 


There was a very important reason Charles paid the most attention 
to the news from France, a reason he — nor any son, daughter or 
mother — could never possibly forget. Losing interest in the 
paperback book, he set it aside and retrieved the tin lunchbox 
stashed under his bed. Now here was a story befitting a growing 
fifteen-year-old; not a story of a strange detective and his wounded 
assistant, but a true story that was still unfolding. A story of hope, 


valour, determination, comradery. He opened the tin, looking eagerly 
at the messy stack of letters within, the date of each plain to see. 


Ah, but such a story was not one that should be interrupted. It 
should be enjoyed in its entirety, start to finish, without intermission 
or pause. Retellings of the story were only befitting with food and 
drink on hand. Leaving the tin of letters open on his bed, Charles 
ventured out of his room and down the steps, heading towards the 
kitchen. His mother shouldn’t yet be home; she would still be at the 
factory, working to ensure the soldiers would have what they needed 
to keep fighting. 


The perfect time to snatch a digestive biscuit or two from the pantry, 
along with a glass of milk. With the war dragging on, food was 
becoming quite difficult to obtain — the biscuits and milk were 
supposed to be for celebrations only. Fortunately, reading about the 
war was perfect cause for celebration, so swiping some was 
perfectly justified. 


Reaching the bottom of the stairs, a strange noise caught Charles’ 
attention. He knew exactly what it was, but it was strange for him to 
hear it coming from the front room, and from a familiar but distorted 
voice. His mother wasn’t supposed to be home yet, why was she 
home so early? Investigation was needed. He crept over to the open 
doorway as quietly as he could, peering inside. 


His mother was sitting at the far end of the room, one hand holding 
an onionskin letter while the other covered her face as she sobbed. 
At her feet sat a wooden shoebox, stains of mud evident upon its 
surface. But it was the letter, the onionskin letter, that caught 
Charles’ attention the most. He had only seen a letter like that once 
before, when the government had conscripted his... 


Tears welling in his eyes, Charles stepped into the room. His 
mother, hearing the footsteps, locked eyes with him immediately. 


“Is dad...” 


CONTINUE. 


Geliebte Mutter und Vater, 


Ich bin froh zu héren, dass es euch gut geht. Wir sind weit 
weg von Zuhause, dennoch hat die Nachricht des Angriffs 
uns schnell erreicht. Zweifellos waren es verzweifelte Juden 
und ihre Unterstitzer, die versuchen uns zu schwachen. Ich 
habe nichts anderes von Feiglingen erwartet - bitte seid 
vorsichtig bei den Fabriken, vor allem den Wunder-Fabriken. 


Es fallt mir schwer zu glauben, dass in eurer Mitte Verrater 
leben, die planen solche Taten gegen ihr eigenes Land zu 
begehen. Tausende riskieren hier ihr Leben, sterben weit 
von Zuhause und ihren Familien, und sie wagen es unsere 
Heimat zu zerst6ren, zu versuchen unsere Familien zu 
toten? Diese "Stiftung" ist nichts als eine Verkleidung des 
Bolschewismus, eine Plattform fur die Unterdruckung 
Deutschlands. Ich bin sicher, dass der Fuhrer sie 
zerschmettern wird, wie es solche Untermenschen 
verdienen. 


Uns geht es gut hier drauBen. Die Kampfe werden immer 
kurzer und kurzer und bisher haben wir weder Boden noch 
Manner verloren. Wir Uberrollen samtliche Feinde mit den 
Blitznhaubitzen oder feuern ein oder zwei Schlsse ab, wenn 
es ndtig ist. Diese Waffen sind wirklich fantastisch - sie 
kdnnen mit einfach allem geladen und benutzt werden. 
Meistens haben wir einfach Erde von wo auch immer wir 
gerade anhalten reingeschaufelt und was auch immer 
daraus wird auf unsere Feinde geschleudert. Die 
Explosionen kénnen geradezu spektakular werden. 


Ich muss jetzt gehen - wir stUrzen uns bald in die finale 
Schlacht, die den Krieg fur uns entscheiden wird. Wir 
werden bald Zuhause sein und ich freue mich darauf, euch 
nach so langer Zeit wiederzusehen. Der Fuhrer wird mit 


Sicherheit mit uns zufrieden sein, so schnell wie wir die 
Feinde des germanischen Volkes besiegen. Ich werde euch 
bald wiedersehen. 


Heil Hitler! 


Dearest Mother and Father, 


| am glad to hear that you are both well. We are far away 
from home, and yet news of the attacks reached us swiftly. 
No doubt it is the actions of desperate Jews and their 
supporters, trying to weaken us. | expected no less from 
cowards — please be wary about the factories, especially the 
Wonder-Factories. 


| cannot believe that traitors would live amongst you, plotting 
to do such things against their own country. Thousands 
have risked their lives here, dying far from home and from 
their families, and they dare destroy our home, try and kill 
our families? This "Foundation" is nothing but a disguise of 
Bolshevism, a platform for the oppression of Germany. I'm 
sure the Fuhrer will destroy them, like these sub-humans 
deserve. 


We are all well out here. The battles become shorter and 
shorter, and we have yet to lose any ground or men. We roll 
over any opposition with the Blitzhaubitzes, or fire a round or 
two if need be. These weapons are truly marvelous — 
anything can be loaded into them and used. Most of the time 
we have just been shoveling in soil from wherever we stop, 
hurling whatever it becomes at our foes. The blasts can be 
quite spectacular. 


Articles 1000-1099 


| must go now — we will soon be entering our final battle, 
after which the war will be ours. | will be glad to come home, 
to see you both again after so long. | am sure the Fuhrer will 
be pleased with us all, so quickly defeating the enemies of 
the Germanic people. | will be home soon. 


Heil Hitler! 


NO. 
REVISE. 


In another fit of rage, Thomas slammed his fists down upon the desk 
before him. The force was enough to knock over his inkwell, 
allowing the black liquid to spill across the handwritten note before 
him. 


Frustration had been getting the better of him for the past several 
months now. Colonising the New World was proving to be a nigh 
impossible task; from the moment the colony had been established, 
its inhabitants had been endlessly harassed by drought, pests and 
disaster. For several years, both food and water had been 
dangerously scarce. The colony was almost abandoned completely 
out of desperation. 


Tossing the ruined letter aside, Thomas mopped up the spilt ink with 
his handkerchief. Even with the colony properly established and 
running now, expenses had to be carefully monitored and controlled. 


Ink was by no means a commodity, but it was still an expense, and 
one that Thomas did not wish to needlessly partake in. He needed 
to be sure he would always have the finances needed to flee, to 
bribe whomever necessary so that he could run back to Britain on 
short notice. 


The savages were volatile, functioning solely upon instinct. They 
had no interest in living upon the unforgiving land, but they showed 
no comfort in sharing it either. Taking the chief's daughter had 
silenced them for a time, until both daughter and father had passed, 
and a new leader was elected. Yes, a new leader with no apparent 
sense of sanity or conscious thought, who acted purely out of rage 
and moved to annihilate the colony in one fell swoop. 


What uncertain cowards the savages had been. They knew that they 
would imminently lose more than they gained alone, so they had 
defaulted to what they were best at; superstition and spirits. How 
they had gotten their blasted witchcraft to work was known only by 
them, but it had without doubt worked. Demons and beings thought 
to be but mere myth now wandered the land, summoned by the 
redskins to do their bidding and destroy the colonists. Unfortunately, 
their deities couldn’t see the difference between native and colonist. 


Thousands had died that day. Men, women, children, slaves... 
everything within the grip of the demons was crushed, tortured, 
consumed, scorched. Only Jamestown itself had been spared, the 
settlement armed just enough to stave off the horrors. But 
everything else was put to waste. Even now, those ungodly 
creatures wandered through the fields, eating unreaped harvests 
and cursing the soil. The savages had fled weeks ago, and were yet 
to be seen or heard of yet; perhaps all of them had perished.