Sovereign

"The world cries for the deaths of women - yet for men, crickets."

- Countess Emily Forch, Great War Volunteer Medic.

---

She was separated. The little girl, winded, tired, and afraid, didn't know where to go. Outside was too scary, and so she merely cried and cried.

A mere convenience store was her shelter and cover from the nightmares outside. Strange angry men with guns patrolled the streets, and so did angry women.

Where her mother was, she struggled to rack her brains of her whereabouts. Her tears seeped on her stained dress, as another boom from outside roared, the blast sending cans and packages falling from the grocery aisles.

Outside, Orlish marines with blue armbands marked with the MN logo rode through the streets with their 4x4 Armored Cars. Sent far into the city center, their goal was to extend the zone of control of the MN and rescue more civilians, or open up routes. Refugees in the thousands lined in columns were what the convoys passed through.

Civilians, mostly women, walked with desperate gazes at them on the sides of the streets. Many of them were silent, but many also cheered at the convoys, as if their liberators had arrived.

The Orlish Marines responded in kind, many of them waved their hands or gave thumbs up and smiles as they passed through the women that clogged the roads.

Of course, many had issues with the clogged roads as well. Cheer as they might, the civilians still blocked their passage. Not that the Marines could blame them, they understood their desperate escape.

"Make way!" Some of the marines shouted from atop their vehicles. "Make way!" Shouted another from behind.

Three of these vehicles stopped right in front of the convenience store, and three Orlish marines disembarked in haste.

"Private Oakley!" Shouted a gruff man to one of the younger marines. "You and Private Timmy, search that store of civilians."

The sergeant turned around to the other marines to bark more orders, as Private Timmy and Private Oakley himself looked at each other, their countenance tired after hours of intense peacekeeping.

"Let's go man." Oakley prepared his rifle, as he entered the store, Timmy trailing behind him.

"Sure."

Gingerly, they stepped through the abandoned store lightly, their steps methodically avoiding debris and fallen groceries.

A tiny sob, childish and weak, took the attention of the duo. With great care, they turned through the dairy section and found a 6-year-old girl, illuminated by the flickering lights above.

She was crying, profusely. Oakley's eyes darted around the rest of the store before he pulled out his radio.

"Report: One civvie found. She's a young girl. Crying. Over."

The few buzzes from his radio punctuated his report, and he quickly replied.

"Copy that."

"What do we do with her?"

"We ask her."

With great care, he approached the girl. He slung his gun free from his hands, attempting to look less threatening. But as the young girl stared at her, she suddenly pulled out her stick.

"Stay back!"

"Calm down little lady." Slowly, he lowered himself to her level, with her tiny arms that held her wand, aimed squarely at his concerned face.

All it would take was one chant from her, and he would be gone.

"We're here to get you out of here." Suspicion, hostility, and fear laced the girl's eyes. "Say, where's your mother?"

Her eyes moistened once more, and her voice cracked.

"The bad men like you!" She cried out, as her hold on the wand quivered. "They…they…they…"

Struggle and grief in her voice, she broke down in tears, her wand falling like a limp toy upon the cold floor. The two soldiers felt their hearts fall. To see a young girl cry tugged at their hearts.

Even when she almost killed them both.

Like an uphill battle, Oakley tried all of his methods to soothe the girl. Yet she cried and cried, crying, and crying for her dear mother. Scarcely was there any idea between the two of where her mother was, but judging by her words and cries - dead, was their most likely conclusion for her.

"Come with us, we'll try to find your mother."

"You…you will?"

"As best as we could."

The two exited the convenience store, the girl held by Oakley in his arms. The sergeant, who awaited the two, stood in silence as he leaned on their vehicle.

"Private, do you have any identification on her?"

"Nope, sarge. Look, we can't just leave her."

He grunted with a head shake. Eyes concerned, yet a mind that demanded practicality. Their mission came first, that was who he was.

"We're going to have to hand her to the civvies, son. Word is, we need to drive to the bridges soon."

Timmy stared at the sergeant, befuddled. Drive to the bridge? What insanity? It was too close to the lines of the junta and the rebels. Being caught in the crossfire would be an inevitability should hostilities resume.

"Got a problem son?"

"Sarge?" Timmy asked, eyes wide. "Who the hell said that?"

"The Colonel, that's who." With finality, he replied. Timmy could not make much retort to him. If the Colonel himself ordered as such, executing it was non-negotiable.

"Still, we cannot leave her with the civilians." Oakley protested. "It would be dangerous."

"So would keeping her with us, son." He crossed his arms. While he understood such concerns, they could not simply carry random children with them.

"Still, better with us than unarmed, desperate civilians."

"Are you sure of this? We are driving to the bridge."

"She would be my responsibility, sarge."

He nodded. Oakley had always been a man of integrity, he knew. To deny him of aiding a civilian, was the equivalent of asking a man to give up his rifle. Impossible.

With a relieved sigh, Oakley turned to their vehicle to place her down to his seat.

A rumble sounded from the road, and their heads turned. The main column had arrived. Tanks and APCs in woodland camo, massive guns raised at the sky, with marines riding atop them, their arrival turned the desperation of the refugees into one of resounding hope.

The cavalry was here.

Cheers erupted from them, at last, someone had arrived to aid them from the siege they had endured for weeks. And it was no mere motley force, the tanks showed that Orland and the MN were truly here.

Them being men didn't seem to change anything, somehow. It seemed that the women and civilians of the city still hoped that they could save them.

The marines responded to the cheers and waves at them with cheers and waves as well, for rarely had many men played the role of the white knight for 300 years.

With that, even the jaded sergeant and Timmy chuckled at the display.

As the first tanks passed through their parked cars, some overly excited marines shouted at them.

"The fucking ladies are actually smiling at us!"

"Sure they do!" The sergeant waved at them.

"Get your asses on the move on!" Another marine taunted playfully between laughs as the IFV he rode atop passed through them. "We're saving more over there!"

"How about you hold on to that turret? You're about to fall off, asshole!" Timmy shot back in an equally playful manner as they rode away.

As the scene seemed to lighten, the sergeant ordered his marines to board back to their vehicles as he laughed. In no time, they rejoined the advancing convoy.

…

More refugees poured every hour through the gates of the port. The troops that manned them almost allowed everyone in, with mere 20-second safety checks. The port was quickly filled with civilians, more than half of them women and children, as it seemed that most men had already been conscripted by both sides before they arrived.

Most men who entered to be evacuated were children, the old, disabled, and generally anyone unfit for service.

At the port, ship after ship stopped to take thousands of civilians at once in 30-minute intervals in the eight docking facilities in the port.

Still, Albert felt uneasy.

"How much have we evacuated?" He directly radioed the ONS Rebenslof. The voice of his XO, Captain Vogel, responded in kind.

"About 124,000, sir. More ships are arriving. Convoy Gamma is already 2 hours away."

"How much will Convoy Gamma hold?"

"Approximately 28,000 civilians, sir. About six ships."

"We need more goddamned ships."

"Indeed, we do, sir. Minister Adelaide had already replied about it. She said she's gathering more of the nearby nations to join in."

"Good."

With a minor thud, he placed back his radio in its box. He turned around to Colonel Richmeister, who stood on the balcony, calmly observing the events on the ground with his binoculars.

Slowly, he joined him on the balcony.

"Colonel, how is the drive to the bridges?"

"Sir, minor skirmishes with the junta have been noted, although they quickly withdrew at our presence."

"Well, that seems bad. Knew they wouldn't hold up to their word."

"Another thing. The refugees down south seem trapped." He frowned deeply. A major predicament had developed as the hours passed, a predicament they had already expected. "The junta is blocking the civilians from crossing the bridges."

Albert didn't seem surprised at the least. His order to drive to the bridges was a result of his foresight. He had expected that the junta, or its more rogue units would take revenge upon the masses of women that tried to escape.

However, with the Colonel's tanks and armored column that advanced through the city, and into the bridges, he hoped that those who tried to interfere would back down at the show of force.

The junta, aggressive as they were, would not push on too much. They were alone, and thus, were avoiding any chances of attracting further international ire with their actions.

A sense of practicality was a part of it too. He expected that they would not want any confrontations with them, only to merely lose men and materiel that could be used to fight Princess Xue's forces.

And so, he stayed resolute with the course of action that they had decided upon.

"Continue the drive to the bridge."

The Colonel nodded. While skeptical earlier, he had realized that Albert was right, and the current actions of the junta proved it further. He hadn't told him yet, but already, he had received unconfirmed reports of individual squads of men harassing and executing stragglers of refugees.

Still, he kept shut till it was confirmed. Albert might turn to rash actions should he mention it.

"I understand, sir. My marines will take it soon."

…

Four Orlish marines shouted profanities against six of the junta's soldiers, who gladly returned the same. Far away from the MN-controlled zone, they had advanced earlier ahead of the convoy to take key positions.

Behind the Orlish marines, dozens after dozens of fleeing women and other civilians passed through the road in fearful haste. Over here, protection was minimal, and many had to resort to their wands to fight off the harassing squads of the junta.

Contrary to what one might expect, the average woman, usually unversed in the application of magic outside its common civilian uses, would usually be ill-suited to face a squad of roving, rifle-toting, angry men.

And so they fled, casting desperate shields or traps at their wake instead.

This squad, for example, had a rough fight with one of the women around. With a few shots, as she struggled to cast a mere wind slice in panic, they shattered her shield and apprehended her.

The Orlishmen just happened to catch them red-handed. With their rifles raised in a standoff, an Orlish marine demonstrated his authority.

"Fuckin release her mate!"

"No, how about you fuck off!" One of them shot back as he handled her roughly. "She broke the law! No one uses their wands!"

More colorful profanities were exchanged back and forth, as the young woman cried before a rumble of tank threads interrupted the shouting match.

Emboldened by the sudden show of nearby support, one Orlish soldier fired his rifle in the air.

"Release her, or you're fucked mate."

The junta's soldiers aimed their guns in response.

"Try it, wanna shoot someone from the MN? Try it fucker!"

Realizing the futility of it, as the squad had standing orders to not engage against MN troops, which these Orlish Marines were a part of, they angrily kicked the woman away in their direction and scurried off.

She cried in tears on the ground as the marines approached her, and she profusely expressed her gratitude to them.

Behind them, the convoy finally passed through, their seemingly victorious ride punctuated by wide-eyed civilians, who had once given up any hopes of being rescued, cheering them on as they advanced, unable to believe the tanks sent for them.

On the one hand, the men atop and in the vehicles indulged in the attention and gratitude tossed at them, which they had seldom witnessed in their lives. And once more, their wide smiles and expressions of reassurance of relief were given in the forms of waves and thumbs up.

Liberators, for once, these men were.