Onto Old Glory: An Imperial Timeline

24th of May, 1007 ALB (1962 AD)

10:30 Hours

Maregyptian Beaches

HMS Relentless

The skies over Maregypt were a grim shade of grey, thickened with smoke from artillery fire, and the occasional flash from distant explosions briefly illuminated the dark clouds. The air was hot and dry, thick with the scent of war, and from the deck of HMS Relentless—the only aircraft carrier in the fleet—the sound of bombers taking off could be heard as they began their deadly descent toward the beaches below. Their payloads were hardly the kind that would give anyone a warm, fuzzy feeling—chemical warfare bombs, tailor-made for utter devastation.

Colonel Eddmud Blackadder stood on the bridge, hands behind his back, observing the scene below with the sort of enthusiasm one reserves for watching paint dry. His body covered in a summer clothing, and on on his head a pith helmet. Blackadder himself was less of a demon and more of a devil with a sharp wit and a distaste for the sort of work he was being paid very handsomely to do.

"Ah, Maregypt," Blackadder sighed, his voice muffled by the gas mask strapped tightly to his face. "Nothing like invading a hellhole full of zebra revolutionaries and pony monarchists to make me long for a quiet night in with a nice cup of arsenic."

He watched through the lenses of his mask as the Royal Marines stormed the beaches, alongside with the occasional hardsuit personnel here and there. The medium-mechanized automats—towering, spindly walkers with tank turrets mounted in their bellies—strode forward with menacing precision behind the infantry, offering support-fire via minigun turrents that spewed 155 mm shells at the defenses.

Anyone with sensible eyesight and a functioning brain could see that this was not a battle. It was a particulary aggressive hostile take-over of a nation by the West Zebrican Company. Only instead of money and stocks, it was shells, bombs and more bombs.

"George!" Blackadder shouted, turning his head to where his ever-loyal (and frankly dim-witted) subordinate, Lieutenant George, stood beside him. George was fumbling with a pair of binoculars, squinting as though trying to read the instructions on a box of explosives.

"Yes, sir?" George chirped, his voice as enthusiastic as ever, despite the carnage unfolding below.

"How are we looking down there, George? What’s the tally on destroyed infrastructure, burned villages, and traumatized zebra revolutionaries so far?"

George flipped through his notes, shaking his head in confusion. "Well, uh, according to the reconnissance drones, sir, we’ve, uh, utterly decimated about twenty-three villages, flattened approximately... carry the one... twelve supply depots, and, uh, we’ve got about six battalions of zebra militia currently trying to fight back with sticks and what I can only assume are very rude gestures."

"Marvelous," Blackadder drawled. "Remind me to send them a thank-you card and a bottle of something alcoholic, preferably something that will finish the job quicker than our bombs."

Another explosion rang out in the distance as a shell from the heavy gas artillery landed squarely among a cluster of zebra defenders. The thick, choking green mist spread like a plague across the beaches, and through the zoomed lenses of his mask, Blackadder could see the zebras and ponies clutching their throats, collapsing like puppets whose strings had been cut. A particularly large burst of gas followed as the chemical warfare bombs dropped from the bombers overhead detonated, blanketing the Maregyptian defenses in a toxic fog that spread through the trenches.

"Ah, gas. The great equalizer," Blackadder mused, sounding utterly bored. "Some men die with honor, some men die with dignity. But gas? Gas makes sure you die coughing, spluttering, and trying to apologize to your lungs for being born."

George nodded, apparently oblivious to the grim tone in Blackadder's voice. "It’s quite the spectacle, sir! Chemical warfare and bombers really do get the job done, don’t they?"

Blackadder arched an eyebrow behind his mask. "Yes, George. I believe we’ve successfully established that if you drop enough bombs, even the densest of zebras will stop complaining and start assuming room temperature."

One of the medium-mechanized automats fired a shell that obliterated what appeared to be a Maregyptian stronghold—though ‘strong’ was rather generous considering it had the structural integrity of a sandcastle. The tower crumbled, sending zebra and pony defenders scattering in all directions.

"I must say," Blackadder said dryly, "if it weren’t for the fact that we’re securing the vital oil supply of this godforsaken land, I’d almost feel bad for the poor sods down there. Almost. But then I remember we’re getting paid, and suddenly my conscience grows remarkably silent."

"Indeed, sir!" George agreed, his voice far too cheerful for someone witnessing a massacre. "We’re doing the world a favor! Securing oil, food, and... well, uh, what else are we here for again?"

"Control, George," Blackadder replied flatly. "We’re here for control. Oil, food, land... you name it. We’re British, after all. If it exists, we’ll claim it, and if it fights back, we’ll gas it until it can’t."

As if on cue, another volley of gas artillery was fired, the shells whistling as they soared through the air and exploded over the Maregyptian defenses. The chemical cloud rolled in, choking every last corner of resistance from the trenches, and the few defenders still standing dropped like stones.

"Reminds me of the Great War, sir," George said with a nostalgic sigh, his voice crackling through the gas mask filter.

"Ah yes," Blackadder replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Back when we fought for freedom, liberty, and the right to slaughter each other over a few miles of trench. Good times, George. Good times."

Down below, the beachhead had been established. The hardsuits trudged forward, their weapons cutting down any stragglers that dared to poke their heads out from whatever sad excuse for cover they had. The automats stomped through the wreckage, crushing debris and bodies alike beneath their spindly legs.

Blackadder glanced at his wristwatch, sighing. "Well, George, I’d say we’ve officially broken their defenses. Not that there was much to break. It’s like stomping on a particularly annoying anthill. Messy, but ultimately satisfying."

"Yes, sir!" George said, still far too cheerful. "And might I say, we’ve done it in record time! You really are a tactical genius, sir!"

Blackadder gave a slow, exaggerated nod. "Yes, George. I’m the Napoleon of desert warfare. If Napoleon had access to an entire fleet of bombers, artillery, hardsuit infantry, and chemical weapons that could make even the most stubborn zebra rethink their life choices."

The radio crackled to life, and a voice buzzed through the speaker. "Colonel Blackadder, the beach is secure. No sign of further resistance. Orders?"

Blackadder tapped the radio. "Excellent. Proceed to phase two. Push inland, secure the oil fields, and make sure to gas anyone who even looks like they might be considering resistance."

"Yes, sir," came the reply, followed by the hiss of static as the line went dead.

Blackadder turned back to George, who was practically vibrating with excitement. "Well, George," Blackadder sighed, "looks like we’ve done our job. All that’s left is to enjoy the smell of victory, which, coincidentally, smells a lot like burning zebra fur and mustard gas."

George gave a hearty laugh. "Oh, sir! You’re always so full of wit and charm!"

Blackadder stared at him for a long moment. "Yes, George. Wit, charm, and a deep, unyielding desire to drown myself in gin and forget I ever set foot on this godforsaken continent."

"That’s the spirit, sir!" George beamed, clearly missing the point.

Another explosion echoed in the distance, followed by the sound of yet another wave of bombers flying overhead, their shadows cast long over the battlefield below.

Blackadder adjusted his gas mask and turned to face the smoldering ruins of what was once the Maregyptian front line. "Well, George," he said, his tone deadpan, "welcome to Maregypt. The land of sand, sun, and the occasional chemically-induced massacre."

George clapped his hands together. "What a place, sir! What a place!"

Blackadder rolled his eyes beneath his mask. "Yes, George. A place where dreams come to die. And by dreams, I mean zebras. Lots and lots of zebras."

And as the last bomb fell, Blackadder’s wit remained as sharp as ever—cutting through the fog of war, just as the gas rolled over the broken beaches of Maregypt.

Why God?

Bennet struggled to move his armored foot among the sand, as he kept his shellgun aimed at the defenses, not that there were any at the moment. He lifted another foot, before it landed on the sand with a thud, as he moved himself forward by approximately 2 inches.

His armor was not exactly made for soft ground, as it was meant for urban warefare and to crush and bring down any stubborn defenses or be at the front - alongside tanks and automats - of a particulary agressive push. However, since the Company was on a very tight scheduel to secure the entire country by tomorrow morning, he was deployed as part of a blitzkrieg strategy.

He stopped as he saw one of the strider's tripod long thin metal legs hit the land infront of him, as the hardsuit's user interface had warned him of such. The UI had a map and utilized on radio frequencies to show what was where. Until London decided to send another satelite into space, he had to make due with this.

The land was covered in chlorine and mustard gas, as he couldn't see shit beyond a few meters. That's why the Royal Marines would often try to stay behind a hardsuit as to not accidentally get shot or stomped by said person. There were about 30 of them behind him, as he stomped slowly forward.

Finally, after God knows how long, he finally stomped out of the gassed beaches, as he jumped over the trench line with a thud and continued to walk forward, while the Marines were spreading out. Bennet could hear the soft rumblings of tanks being dispatched from behind, as he finally lowered his shellgun and holstered it close to his chest, as he looked around.

Dead bodies of ponies were everywhere. Blood polled in several places, but it was clear that all of them either chocked on the air or drowned on their own blood. Bennet looked around further, his footsteps crushing a few dead ponies or zebras, as the scene became more clear. It was an incredibly one-sided affair which could barely be considered a fight.

He stopped as he placed his armored arms onto the butt of his shellgun, resting them as he simply stood there. There was nothing for the captain to do really. All around him were already things done, Marines removed the flags long ago and replaced it with the Union Jack, supplies were coming in readily and everything was already done. Bennet worked it out that the country would be under the Company's control in a few hours at best, as he stood there.

26th of May, 1007 ALB (1962 AD)

14:20 Hours

Kingdom of Wingbardy, Abyssinian Colonial Terriory

The skies above Abyssinia were a bleak battlefield of smoke and metal, where the sun struggled to pierce through the thick black clouds left in the wake of endless bombardments. Below, the Wingbardian forces—griffons in their sleek World War II-era uniforms—scurried about like rats, clutching their bolt-action rifles and outdated submachine guns as if they could ward off the inevitable. Their wings twitched with anxiety as they listened to the low hum of something far more terrifying than any native Abyssinian rebel they had ever encountered: the growl of the British war machine hovering above them.

High above, the massive, ominous figures of Lockheed AC-130 gunships cruised through the sky like predators, their eyes focused and unblinking, searching for anything unfortunate enough to wander into their path. These flying behemoths had no mercy, no hesitation, just a singular mission—to rain hell upon the enemy. And if the Abyssinian rebels thought they had seen terror before, they were woefully mistaken.

Below them, towering over the desert landscape, moved the mechanical nightmares that made the Wingbardians' blood run cold: British Striders. Spindly and unsettling, these mechanized walkers moved with unnatural grace, their limbs hissing as they traversed the rocky terrain like the avatars of death itself. Tank-like cannons were embedded into their bellies, swiveling with deadly precision as they offered support fire for the British and Wingbardian forces.

For the Wingbardians, this was colonization turned nightmare.

In one such makeshift command post, General Benito Avvoltoio, the Wingbardian commander, stood with a trembling claw over a map of the Abyssinian highlands, his feathers twitching in agitation. His once prideful stature was diminished by the distant but ever-present roar of British AC-130s tearing the sky apart above them. Every vibration in the ground felt like a prelude to disaster, and every shadow cast by the towering Striders reminded him that he and his forces were mere ants in the British Empire’s grand chess game.

"By Boreas, those... things," Avvoltoio muttered, looking skyward as a low, distant rumble from the gunships reminded him of the unstoppable power at his back—or rather, above it. The Wingbardian colonization effort had gone well enough, at least until the Abyssinians had begun organizing fierce resistance. When they had begged the British for support, Avvoltoio hadn't quite expected this. Now, the very sight of their allies made his feathers stand on end.

His aide, Captain Alessio, wasn’t faring much better, his beak clamped shut in a permanent grimace. "General, we have reports that the Abyssinian rebel forces are preparing another attack along the eastern flank."

"Another attack?" Avvoltoio scoffed bitterly. "How quaint. Do they think a few outdated rifles and ragtag formations will be enough to stop the British death machines up there?"

The ground beneath them shook violently, causing both officers to stumble. The unmistakable sound of a Strider's artillery rang out, a deep mechanical whirring noise as its cannon unleashed a barrage of fire toward the eastern ridge. Through the haze, they saw the Strider, looming above the battlefield, its three mechanical legs hissing as it reoriented itself for another shot. The Abyssinians stood no chance, caught in the crosshairs of technology they could scarcely comprehend.

"Doesn't matter what they think, sir," Alessio murmured, his eyes glued to the sight of the towering mechanical titan. "It matters what we think. And right now, sir, I’m thinking we’re ants watching giants play with magnifying glasses."

Avvoltoio swallowed hard. The ground shook again, and this time it wasn’t just from the Striders. The deep, methodical thrum-thrum-thrum of helicopter gunships echoed across the desert. From a distance, their silhouettes appeared—sleek, black, and merciless, like birds of prey circling a dying carcass. The Wingbardians may have been masters of the skies in their world, but the British gunships turned the concept of aerial dominance into an art form of destruction.

As if to punctuate his thoughts, the roar of miniguns erupted from the helicopters, strafing the battlefield with a relentless barrage of firepower. Abyssinian rebels who had dared to poke their heads from cover were instantly cut down, torn to shreds by the hail of bullets.

Avvoltoio watched through his binoculars as entire squads of Abyssinians simply disappeared in the dust, evaporated by the sheer volume of fire.

And still, the AC-130s circled above, their larger cannons booming as they provided devastating support from the heavens. A rebel artillery position was obliterated in a single, thunderous shot, leaving nothing but a smoking crater.

"This is madness," Avvoltoio whispered, barely able to tear his gaze away from the carnage. "Absolute madness."

"Madness, sir?" Alessio turned to him, his face pale beneath his feathers. "No, sir. This is what the British call Thursday."

The general shot his aide a glare but didn’t argue the point. It was hard to argue with the truth when it was being painted in blood and fire across the Abyssinian plains. The British hadn’t come here to play games. They were here to remind everyone, Wingbardian and Abyssinian alike, that they were the undisputed masters of modern warfare.

"Look at them..." Avvoltoio muttered, staring at the Striders as they methodically picked apart Abyssinian positions. "They don't even care. They crush them like insects."

"Better the Abyssinians than us, sir," Alessio said grimly, casting a nervous glance at the towering war machines. "I... I think I'd rather be on the wrong end of the Abyssinian rifles than under one of those things' feet."

Avvoltoio couldn’t disagree. Every boom from the Striders’ cannons, every rattle of the miniguns from the gunships, and every distant thunderclap from the AC-130s made his claws curl into fists. The British were untouchable, and he knew it. The Wingbardians had come to Abyssinia hoping to carve out a colony with some help from their new ‘allies,’ but now... now it felt like they were little more than observers, watching as the real power—British power—tore their enemies apart with a level of detachment that was downright terrifying.

Suddenly, the radio crackled to life, and a clipped, emotionless British voice filtered through the static. "General Avvoltoio, this is Captain Patrick Wells of the 5th British Automaton. We've neutralized the Abyssinian artillery positions. All targets have been suppressed. You’re clear to advance and mop up."

"Mop up," Avvoltoio repeated, his voice flat. "Thank you, captain." He said before

The line went dead, leaving the Wingbardian command post in uneasy silence.

"Mop up," Alessio muttered. "We've been demoted to janitors, it appears."

Avvoltoio didn't answer immediately. He stared out at the battlefield, at the burning wreckage, the broken bodies of Abyssinian soldiers lying in the dirt, and the towering Striders that loomed over them like ancient gods of war.

The ground shook again, and another Strider moved forward, its spindly legs hissing with hydraulic power. The Abyssinians—those few brave or foolish enough to still be alive—fled in terror, scrambling away from the titanic machines as fast as their legs could carry them.

"This isn’t colonization anymore," Avvoltoio finally said, his voice low and filled with a cold, quiet dread. "It’s extermination."

"Perhaps, sir." Avvoltoio responded. "But at least we'll have more griffons alive. And we aren't doing the heavy lifting, so that's a plus."

From the skies, the AC-130s circled lazily, their cannons still trained on the ground below, ready to unleash hell at a moment’s notice. Above, the helicopter gunships prowled like hungry wolves, their rotors slicing through the air in an endless, relentless beat.

The Wingbardians had asked for British assistance in their colonization efforts, but now, watching the destruction unfold around them, Avvoltoio realized they had gotten far more than they bargained for.

And for the first time since the operation began, he found himself wondering just who the real enemy was.

30th of May, 1007 ALB (1962 AD)

00:20 Hours

Federated States of Europe, Frankfurt

In the heart of Frankfurt, the air buzzed with an electric sense of anticipation. The city, a symbol of Europe's past struggles and triumphs, was now about to witness the dawn of a new era. Crowds had gathered by the tens of thousands, filling the streets, squares, and every available rooftop to witness the historic moment. Banners of the newly minted Federated States of Europe (FSE) fluttered proudly in the wind, emblazoned with the stars and cross. It was a night that would be remembered for generations, the day when the continent set aside centuries of division and became one.

The iconic Römer square was at the heart of the celebration. Massive screens projected the unfolding events for those who couldn’t see the stage where Otto von Habsburg, now the Crown Prince of the FSE, was set to deliver his address. The air smelled of fresh bread, beer, and burning torches, blending the aromas of celebration with the gravitas of history. A sea of flags in blue and gold shimmered above the heads of the crowd, while fireworks intermittently lit up the sky, even before the official ceremony began.

On the grand stage, Otto stood tall, his regal bearing a blend of the old monarchies and the new democratic values that defined the FSE. His uniform was immaculate, decorated with medals and symbols of Europe's many nations, showing the unity he now represented. Behind him, an orchestra waited in anticipation, their instruments ready to perform a rendition of Ode to Joy that would echo through history.

The chattering of the crowd began to die down as Otto stepped up to the podium, gripping it with steady hands. His eyes swept over the gathered masses—Germans, Italians, Poles, Spaniards, and countless others—united in a way that had never been thought possible. The silence became palpable, the world seemed to hold its breath for the words of the man who was to lead them into the future.

Otto took a deep breath, and then, in a clear and resolute voice, began his speech.

"Meine Damen und Herren, citizens of Europa,” he started, his voice carried by the wind through the square. “Today marks the birth of something greater than any of us could have ever imagined. For centuries, our continent has been divided—by borders, by languages, by wars that tore us apart and left deep scars upon our lands and people. Even with our transport towards this new world, we were divded. But tonight, no more. ”

A cheer rippled through the crowd, but Otto lifted a hand to bring silence once again.

“Tonight, the Federated States of Europe are born through the will of its people. A Europe united by its shared values, by its commitment to democracy, freedom, and the belief that we are stronger together than apart. Tonight, we have done te impossible. ”

His words hit with the weight of history, carried by the dreams of millions who had endured the horrors of division. People waved their flags harder now, eyes gleaming with hope and pride.

“Tonight, the United Kingdoms of Germany become part of something far greater—a federation that will be the beacon of civilization, the vanguard of peace, and the heart of a continent that is once again whole.”

The crowd roared, and the sound was deafening. Otto paused, his eyes glistening with emotion, allowing the people to celebrate the enormity of the moment before he spoke again.

“Our journey was long. It was not without struggle or sacrifice. But today, we stand as one people—eine Nation, ein Europa—not through the triumph of one, but through the union of all. The voices of Italians, Spaniards, Dutch, Slavs, and all the peoples of our great continent are now united in the spirit of democracy, equality, and shared destiny.

We have done the impossible, my fellow europeans. WE HAVE UNITED EUROPE AT LAST!”

There was a collective sigh of joy from the crowd. Some wept, holding each other, their differences forgotten in the light of this new beginning. The flags waved higher, the cheers louder.

Otto looked at the orchestra and nodded. The first stirring notes of Ode to Joy began, and the crowd hushed in reverence. The music filled the air, swelling with the grandeur of the moment, a testament to the unifying power of art and spirit. As the melody built, Otto raised his voice once more, delivering the final, triumphant cry that would be remembered for centuries:

“VIVAT EUROPA!”

The words echoed through Frankfurt, carried by the wind across the streets, the alleys, and into the hearts of every citizen of the new Federation.

“VIVAT EUROPA!” the crowd chanted in response, louder and louder, until it became a deafening roar that could be heard for miles. The ground itself seemed to tremble under the weight of their collective joy.

And then, the chorus began. A choir of voices—representing every nation of the FSE—sang Ode to Joy with a passion that could move mountains. The hymn of unity, penned by Schiller and immortalized by Beethoven, became the anthem of the new Europe. The voices rose, intertwining in perfect harmony, a symbol of the unity that now defined the continent.

The music soared, and as it did, fireworks exploded in the sky above Frankfurt, lighting the night with dazzling colors—blue, gold, and white, the colors of the Federation. The heavens themselves seemed to celebrate alongside the people.

Otto von Habsburg stood there, his hand over his heart, gazing out at the people who had embraced the dream of a unified Europe. He could see the faces of hope, of determination, of pride. This was no longer just a dream. It was real. Europe was united, and nothing would stand in its way again.

As the final notes of Ode to Joy echoed into the night, the celebrations reached a fever pitch. The people of Frankfurt danced in the streets, embracing one another regardless of nationality, language, or creed. For tonight, they were all Europeans. And for the first time in centuries, they believed that peace—real, lasting peace—was possible.

The fireworks continued, but Otto’s thoughts drifted to the future. He knew this was just the beginning. There were challenges ahead—great ones. But with unity, with the strength of their collective will, the Federated States of Europe would stand strong. And under the banner of democracy and monarchy together, they would forge a path forward, not just for Europe, but for the world.

Europe was reborn, and its people would never forget the night they stood as one.