We were the colossus, the last power truly standing. The only powers that could hold a candle to the Durendal Khanate were those with nuclear weapons, which were now limited to one: our frenemy, Styrkuria.
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My (virtual) people were dying by the thousands, lives cut short by a vile, supernatural plague. It was a divine punishment; a plague of biblical proportions sent from on high.
Mission accomplished. The Durendal Khanate had brought enduring freedom to the socialistic masses of DACT. All it took was a small expeditionary force of tens of thousands of battle-hardened troops, coupled with close-air support from attack helicopters, and, of course, the careful application of a hundred-odd cruise missiles.
Invasion was imminent. The good news was it wasn’t against us. The bad news was it wasn’t by us. All that mattered was that war was coming.
Fresh off forging a binding, pacifying and above all, successful alliance, I did what any aspiring megalomaniac would do: profit ruthlessly from my new and improved position. Inciting a little Cuban Missile Crisis would fit that bill nicely.
We had nukes. But the more important question was: did anybody else? And did anyone else know we had them? And for that matter who gave them to us?
The Durendal Khanate was off to a bit of a rough start. Our bid for justice and equality for our oppressed brethren disintegrated in front of our eyes. We were dumbfounded the next day, when we received an innocuous email. The heading seemed innocuous: “Respected colleagues,” it began. This heading soon became the bane of my existence, the calling card of my arch nemesis and leader of the oppressive nation of Styrkuria.