June 10, 2020

  The United States of America, Washington D.C.

  The Embassy

  Click! Click!

  "Wake up..."

  A voice rang out, gentle yet firm enough to pull Kazimir from the depths of his slumber.

  "Wake up, Mr. Deputy Minister. Today’s schedule waits for no one."

  Kazimir stirred slightly, his body feeling as though it were cast in lead—stiff after a long night of labor. His eyelids were heavy, but that familiar voice refused to let him slip back into sleep.

  "Wake up at once, sir, unless you intend to be late for the meeting at the White House!"

  This time, the tone carried a hint of irritability laced with teasing. Kazimir cracked an eye open, wincing at the harsh glare of the white LED lights. Standing before him was Ikar, his private secretary, whose Tatar(1) features were a mask of stoicism that failed to hide the mischievous glint at the corners of his mouth.

  "Morning, Ikar..." Kazimir let out a long yawn, stretching his limbs as if emerging from hibernation. "You always show up at the perfect moment to ruin a good dream, don't you?"

  Ikar crossed his arms, shaking his head with a look of feigned disappointment. "If the Deputy Minister keeps this up, I fear Moscow will send me over just to act as a nanny. You stayed up late again, didn't you?"

  Kazimir chuckled, his eyes weary but still sparkled with a playful wit. He reached for a cup of stone-cold coffee on the desk, took a sip, and grimaced. "What do you know, Ikar? Even a Deputy Minister needs a little time to... contemplate the destiny of the nation."

  "Contemplate?" Ikar arched an eyebrow, pulling out his phone and tapping through a few screens. "Here is this afternoon’s schedule. A meeting with President Derral is no time for 'contemplation'."

  Kazimir glanced at the screen; the dense lines of text regarding the White House dialogue made him heave a soft sigh. "The White House, eh? Another long day of flowery rhetoric and camera flashes."

  "You say that, yet you’re still sitting there?" Ikar tapped lightly on the desk, his tone half-serious, half-jesting. "Or do you intend for me to meet Derral myself while you stay here and... continue your 'contemplation'?"

  Kazimir sprang up, his movements suddenly more agile than his previous lethargy suggested. He straightened his vest and cast a glance around his modest office. A world map hung in the right corner, a bookshelf filled with favorite volumes stood to the left, and a set of guest chairs occupied the center. It wasn't extravagant, but it was comfortable enough.

  "You’re still bitter about that business in Germany, aren't you?" Kazimir narrowed his eyes, a teasing smirk playing on his lips.

  Ikar shot back instantly, his voice dripping with irony: "Bitter? Who was the one smoking in the car and coughing like they were about to drop dead? I had to roll down the windows in the freezing cold to save us both!"

  The two of them burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the small room. Kazimir pulled a crumpled pack of Belomorkanal(2) from his pocket, lit one, and took a deep drag. The pungent scent of tobacco filled the air.

  "You still keep that archaic habit?" Ikar wrinkled his nose, though his eyes betrayed a sense of familiarity.

  "This tobacco reminds me of the Yeltsin era," Kazimir replied, his voice dropping an octave. "The lessons, the mistakes, and everything we did to bring Russia back from the ashes."

  Ikar nodded slightly, offering no further word. He understood Kazimir better than anyone—understood the pressures mounting behind the title of First Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs. Though Kazimir often appeared nonchalant, he was the man Moscow trusted to navigate the most labyrinthine games of diplomacy.

  "Well, let’s go," Kazimir snubbed out the cigarette and stood tall. "We can't keep Derral waiting. You know how it is—Americans hate waiting, yet they love making others wait."

  Ikar gave a dry laugh, following behind. "If you mention 'the Americans' like that at the White House, I suspect we’ll have a very interesting press conference."

  The two left the office, walking down a hallway brightened by LED lights. Ikar, in his impeccable suit, exuded the professional aura of a devoted secretary. Kazimir, while not overly casual, maintained a relaxed demeanor—just formal enough to meet a head of state.

  Today, they were heading to the White House to discuss the secessionist forces in America—factions that had refused to come to the negotiating table. Recalling the months spent scurrying about to support the mediation process, Kazimir felt a faint smirk touch his lips. If not for the intervention from Japan, things might still be at a total standstill (3).

  The sky outside was overcast, a light drizzle falling. A Mercedes-Benz S600 stood waiting at the embassy gates. Kazimir and Ikar entered the car, sharing a meaningful look.

  "See that, Ikar?" Kazimir said, his voice low as he gazed out at the bustling streets of Washington. "This rain... it’s as if the heavens are trying to wash away the mess of this country."

  Ikar shook his head with a soft smile. "If you get this romantic at the White House, Derral might think you're writing poetry instead of conducting diplomacy."

  Kazimir laughed, patting Ikar’s shoulder. "You really are an excellent nanny, Ikar. Remind me to bring an umbrella next time."

  *****

  The White House

  Minutes later, the car pulled up to the main entrance of the White House. A staff member was already waiting there, umbrella in hand.

  "It seems the White House is truly anxious for this public dialogue." Ikar rubbed his chin, unable to suppress a sense of mockery toward the America of the present.

  Kazimir laughed. "Quite possibly. Perhaps the Oval Office has a plan of its own... We’ll figure it out once we’re inside."

  Ikar stepped out, using his briefcase to shield himself from the rain, inwardly cursing the June weather in America, while Kazimir was sheltered by the staff member, walking at a measured pace.

  The staffer bowed slightly, his voice steady.

  "President Derral is waiting inside. Please, gentlemen, follow me."

  Kazimir replied with a show of respect: "Thank you, I understand... Hurry along, Ikar, don't get too soaked..."

  Ikar said nothing, simply quickening his pace into the main corridor.

  The White House's exterior looked no different than it had during the Lee era, except for the fact that Lee had failed to stabilize America, leaving a chaotic heap for Derral to manage.

  The burning houses in Philadelphia; the gunmen in Texas; and the declarations of a 'New Democracy' from the California government. These were all matters Russia was now compelled to involve itself in.

  The whole thing felt like a joke.

  Much like the LED lights that continued to shine upon the two Russians. Relentless, even if interest had long since faded.

  Kazimir was weighing the proposals Derral might put forward. They wouldn't be simple requests for aid or the establishment of humanitarian corridors.

  It had to be something else.

  "Derral... what surprise will you bring us this time?" Kazimir whispered, just loud enough for himself to hear.

  *****

  The Oval Office

  The White House staff led them to the door. The room radiated the atmosphere of a man trying to project novelty. It allowed Kazimir to glimpse a fraction of the future.

  Derral... it’s time to face him. Kazimir thought, glancing briefly at Ikar.

  The staffer knocked and announced their arrival to those within.

  "President Derral... the Russian envoys have arrived."

  Kazimir and Ikar stepped inside. The entire White House Cabinet was present. At the center of the room sat a white man, roughly thirty-eight years old, with silver hair and an oval face, seated on the sofa to the right. This was the 45th President of the United States, Alton Derral.

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  A man considered Washington’s final card in the gamble to save the nation.

  Ikar narrowed his eyes at the other figures.

  Most of the Cabinet members sat scattered around, as if taking up positions to encircle them. Reporters from major networks like NBC, CNN, ABC, and Fox News were also in attendance.

  President Derral stood up, spreading his arms in welcome:

  "Welcome, Mr. Ikar Berchivka. Mr. Kazimir Roboknov. It is a pleasure to see you both again today."

  Kazimir followed the staffer, bowing slightly toward the cameras, and replied with humility: "There is no need for such formality, Mr. President. We are simply fulfilling our roles as members of the United Nations."

  Derral forced a smile; he knew what Kazimir was thinking, but he didn't call him out immediately. He gestured for them to sit opposite him.

  The Russians did not decline. They took their seats, accepting the scrutiny of the lenses on every expression.

  Kazimir looked at Derral with an impassive face, offering only simple pleasantries before diving into the main subject:

  "It is a beautiful day, Mr. President... Perhaps not for you, but I quite enjoy the rain. It helps me forget the tribulations of work."

  He sighed, deliberately brushing a few dried droplets from his vest.

  "I understand. I, too, am fond of the climate in Florida—pity I cannot go there right now..." Derral gave a breezy smile, glancing at his cabinet members. "Therefore, I believe we need a more effective solution. Last month, the leaders of the Freedom Alliance(4) contacted me. They wish to discuss a path toward reunification following the ceasefire."

  Kazimir felt a surge of surprise. He hadn't expected the aggressors to be the ones proposing such an idea.

  Interesting... Kazimir thought, realizing he would have to improvise from here on out.

  "That is wonderful news, Mr. President. I congratulate the White House on this progress... We have come here today not merely for simple discussion, but to consider organizing a multilateral conference to find a road back to reunification..."

  Ikar opened his briefcase, producing a detailed plan for the conference: participants, mediators, and esteemed members of the United Nations.

  Essentially, it was a Russian proposal to end the fragmented state of affairs currently plaguing America.

  Derral’s lip curled slightly in a faint sneer of contempt for the plan. He knew exactly what the Kremlin’s intentions were.

  Want me to surrender our sovereignty? Think again...

  Ikar observed the Cabinet members. Their presence today wasn't just for a public dialogue. It was an assertion of ideological standing.

  Washington D.C. must have prepared for any contingencies from our side. He silently appraised Derral, unable to help comparing him to their leader, Andrei Vostrikov. In his heart, he couldn't stop feeling a sense of disdain for America's geopolitical failures.

  Kazimir was different; as the First Deputy Minister, he understood the White House’s attitude toward the Kremlin—it wasn't the overt hostility of the pre-2017 era, nor the calm before the storm of 2005.

  The America of today was a warrior whose strength was spent, yet who still retained enough bite to keep the vipers at bay. Everything they did was being weighed with extreme care by Derral and his people. From that, a question arose based on the analysis of the possibility of reunifying the states.

  "Will America remain a superpower in this century? Will they fade away or rise once more? Or... will America maintain this state of limbo, preventing the world from ever reaching stability?"

  That was the question he had asked former President Vostrikov earlier this year. Before returning to the U.S., Vostrikov had given his answer:

  "No one can kill a wounded lion if they do not dare to enter its den. America will not rise as a hegemon again, but no one is strong enough to trample its corpse to move forward. It will live, but it will no longer lead."

  That answer swirled in Kazimir’s mind. Especially now, as he sat face-to-face with Derral.

  The man did not underestimate Russia. On the contrary, Derral viewed Russia as a rival equal to China in the current multipolar world. No matter how the world changed, this axis was reshaping global power.

  The Kremlin and Beijing shared the same goal: establishing influence on American soil.

  This realization left Derral with no sense of goodwill; he saw only Russia’s manipulative schemes behind this event.

  However... this was still the United States. It belonged to Americans. Nothing was permitted to walk their land without permission. If America was the host, the other nations watching them now were rude guests.

  Derral felt a flicker of satisfaction looking at the current state of play. The fact that the Freedom Alliance had reached out helped ease the tension, even opening a dialogue with the California government.

  If nothing unexpected happened, in a few years, America would return to the game—though it would no longer be at the head of the table.

  He recalled how semiconductor companies were gradually shifting their markets to Russia and Southeast Asia, a retreat that displeased him. America no longer had the old EU, NATO was virtually defunct, and bases were falling into Chinese hands one by one.

  The loss of nearly all global military capability was the consequence America had to bear, and they could only move forward with what remained.

  Derral looked at Kazimir, a hidden glint of hostility in his gaze, which the Russian met with a steady, resolute stare.

  "With this plan, I believe it will serve as a stepping stone for the stabilization of North America."

  Derral rubbed his chin, feigning agreement. His tone, however, was stubborn as he countered the Russian side:

  "However... it is a bit rushed. I understand this plan has cost much effort under UN supervision... but it is still premature given the current situation."

  "Is that so...?" Kazimir replied coolly. A sharp "tsk" came from someone in the room. Clearly, Kazimir’s attitude was not winning any favors.

  "I think... it isn't necessarily rushed... it's more like a thorough preparation. I know the American government will have flexible measures for this plan."

  "In some respects, it could be adjusted to increase the success rate... But until then, I think there is still a long way to go, Mr. Roboknov..."

  Kazimir’s face hardened, his fingers tapping on his thigh. Ikar caught the signal and interjected:

  "President Derral. I know you will take the right measures... You are an exceptional man, after all. So, we shouldn't rule out the possibility that it could be implemented sooner?"

  "Well, that depends on the attitude of the parties involved. Actually, I believe the other states wish for this matter to be settled only by Americans."

  Ikar leaned in slightly as the shutter clicks from reporters' cameras went off, signaling a pivotal statement.

  "That is national identity, Mr. Derral. We respect that, and we understand the importance of not imposing one’s will upon any other nation..."

  "Any other nation?" Derral mimicked, his eyes flashing with mockery. "We can discuss that further, if you wish..."

  Georgia and Ukraine would love that answer... Cloaking himself in the ideals of a dictator, as usual.

  Derral thought, taking a deep breath. He felt this dialogue was becoming unnecessary. The final assessment was complete; there was nothing left to worry about.

  He looked at Kazimir and Ikar, the thorns in his side for years. He didn't want to admit it, but he couldn't deny their current achievements. Russia had caught up to them and was still growing.

  The air in the room was as taut as a bowstring. Camera flashes continued in a rhythmic pulse, as if trying to capture every minute movement of the three protagonists in this diplomatic chess match—staged publicly, yet utterly opaque.

  Kazimir scanned the room once more. His eyes lingered on a former Army General, now Derral’s National Security Advisor, who was busily scribbling notes with a silver-plated fountain pen—a subtle symbol of classic American power. Behind him were two members of Congress from the New Democratic Center, a fledgling political party built from the ashes of the Democrats and Republicans, which had either collapsed or been absorbed by secessionist states.

  Kazimir caught Ikar’s eye, then spoke softly:

  "So, the American side hopes that the solution to the current crisis will be decided... by Americans themselves?"

  "Not just hopes." Derral cut him off, his gaze locked on Kazimir. "It is a prerequisite."

  A second passed.

  Two seconds.

  Kazimir maintained his polite smile, but his demeanor toward the master of the White House had shifted entirely. His hand remained on his thigh, tapping a rhythm like a ticking clock. He understood: Derral was sending a message.

  This is my house. I call the shots.

  And Kazimir, not missing the beat, sent back a similar reply:

  Perhaps. But your house is on fire, and we are the fire extinguishers.

  Ikar smiled, nudging the plan slightly further toward Derral.

  "We fully respect the sovereignty of the United States. But at the same time, we cannot stand by when instability here causes global repercussions—in trade, energy, and food security."

  Derral crossed his arms, leaning forward slightly. He shifted into a defensive posture, making no attempt to hide his suspicion.

  "Are you trying to say that Russia, somehow, actually cares about global food stability? That is a... very fresh image."

  Kazimir gave a thin smile:

  "Not necessarily fresh, Mr. President. Russia has been the world's leading grain exporter since 2017. Regional stability means stability for our interests. And... interests are always a serious matter."

  "Don't forget, it was the instability in the U.S. that caused global food prices to spike by 28% in just the third quarter of last year. And that has worsened crises in Africa, the Middle East, and East Asia," Ikar added, his voice as steady as if he were reading a report, while his eyes scrutinized the reactions of the American Cabinet.

  A Cabinet member, likely the new Secretary of State, cleared his throat to regain the initiative:

  "We do not deny that the situation was once grave. But currently, the Freedom Alliance has begun returning to the negotiating table. And that is undeniably thanks to the internal reconciliation policies of President Derral’s administration."

  Ikar’s smile turned sarcastic:

  "And also thanks to the crates of Russian aid distributed for free in Houston, Dallas, and Tampa, I should think?"

  Derral frowned.

  The blow landed squarely.

  Kazimir seized the moment to press further:

  "Mr. President, we are not here to seize control. We are here to prevent America from falling into a state of strategic passivity. Believe me, Beijing will not be as patient as we are."

  A shadow flickered in Derral’s eyes at the mention of "Beijing." He knew Kazimir was referring to the situation along the West Coast, where a series of Chinese companies had seized control of logistic supply chains after Oregon declared "special cooperation" with Asian partners.

  And once supply chains are controlled by foreign powers, so-called sovereignty is nothing but a hollow slogan.

  This could go no further.

  "Very well." Derral uncrossed his arms, his tone changing. "We will discuss this plan further. But there are conditions."

  Kazimir and Ikar exchanged a glance.

  "We are listening."

  "I want the UN, including Russia, to commit to not establishing any military bases in states that once declared independence."

  The room went silent.

  Everything seemed to pause for a beat.

  This condition was nothing less than a slap to Russia’s policy of soft-power expansion. But it was the inevitable price if Russia wanted to maintain its role as a mediator.

  Kazimir replied slowly:

  "We have no intention of establishing permanent bases. However... we need to maintain an observation and peacekeeping force, at least for the duration of the conference."

  "Then let other nations participate. Perhaps India, or Brazil. Not just Russia."

  "No problem." Ikar nodded. "Multilateralism is something we always welcome, Mr. President."

  Derral raised an eyebrow. In his heart, he knew: the Russians had won this round. But they had only won a small skirmish. The rest of the game lay ahead.

  He nodded, confirming a narrow path for negotiations to open.

  Kazimir stood up, bowing slightly:

  "Then, President Derral, I shall convey your request to Moskva. As for the conference..."

  "...start scheduling it," Derral replied, his eyes sharp but no longer as guarded.

  The cameras flashed one last time as the two Russians stepped out of the Oval Office.

  Outside, it was still raining.

  And the game, having just begun, had also already ended... for the Russians.

  Footnotes:

  (1) The Tatars: One of Russia's largest ethnic minorities, distinguished by a unique cultural heritage. In literature, the Tatar visage is often characterized by a resilient, square jawline, deep-set eyes, and a stoic, robust gait—the very embodiment of calm combined with an unyielding, ascetic spirit.

  (2) Belomorkanal: A legendary Soviet-era brand of papirosy (unfiltered cigarettes), notorious for its harsh, potent tobacco and iconic cardboard mouthpiece. While largely shunned by the modern youth, it remains a pungent symbol of nostalgia for those clinging to the vestiges of the old world.

  (3) The American Crisis (In-Universe): A speculative collapse born from the post-2008 economic decay, deep-seated racial schisms, and ideological warfare. The failure of central administrative reforms triggered the rise of extremist regional factions, fracturing the Union.

  (4) American Freedom Alliance (AFA): A powerful secessionist bloc comprising Texas, Arizona, Florida, Oklahoma, Louisiana, Alabama, Georgia, Tennessee, Mississippi, and South Carolina. By controlling vital oil reserves and strategic military installations, the AFA remains a dominant—and dangerous—player in the fragmented North American landscape.