Star Soldier Zackarack SIDE TRACK: [I-XI-I-III]

Oswald Verse 1: "Curiouser"

"Late night, Oswald?"

Dawkins smugly says to me on the other side of his desk. Sitting in his usual arrogant posture as I try to rub the dust from my glasses.

There is some truth to what he says. Given my occupation, I tend to stay up to analyze whatever evidence that the Bureau could allow me to gather. Hours upon hours of glaring at static images and audio, trying to piece together a greater narrative that we could follow to understand another precarious piece of the world.

And then they'd force me to haul out from said office back here. The office in London, forcing me to toss on my suit jacket and to validate my findings.

I, Oswald Jarkov, need a god-damned drink.

"Yeah... A little bit of a late night gawking over the evidence. Filing reports to the Bureau. That sort of ordeal." I mumble out. Glancing around inside this cramped office that reeks of well-polished mahogany and the gas-powered light that hangs high above our heads. All with a window pointing out towards the rustic streets below this building. The rotund pub-dweller in front of me would chortle yet again before picking up that pen of his. Twisting it around his fingers as he leans back while retaining said audacious position.

"Ah, then why bother asking? Us Englishmen only focus on two things, do we not? We either watch The Gunners or the Sky Blues, or we're partaking in Her Majesty's Secret Service. What else can anyone ask for, really?"

Well other than me not giving a single toss about football, I suppose he does have a point.

"Well no use beading around the bush, Jarkov. You've probably been wondering about what we have next in store for you, yes?" He speaks, now finally gaining my attention as I look away from the wall and right onto a series of coordinates jotted down on paper and a few photographs of some quite intriguing vehicles. Vehicles that are quite similar to our own, yet oddly modified with weapons that you wouldn't necessarily expect to be draped over the trunk of an automobile.

Would anyone expect a turret on their hood? And how would you manage to drive a single kilometer with something so cumbersome in front of your line of sight? Truly, whomever came up with this concept should be labeled either a dumbass or a rather unique individual.

"...I take it that we're investigating another wannabe mad scientist who's been trying to play World's Fair, Dawkins?"

"Oh how mature." He scoffs. "These vehicles have caught the attention of our Bureau, and the Spymaster has been looking for people to investigate said vehicles that have been spotted near the German/Poland border. Considering your part Russian background, we thought that there could be a chance that you could know about what was used to modify those vehicles and to figure out the sources."

A little bit presumptuous to assume that just because my father came from a Russian background that implies that I would know a thing about steelwork and how it's distributed, but at least they know that I do have a few steel-related hobbies that I like to muddle about in my spare time. But the German/Poland border? Where the Empire is in a current struggle with the residents?

Truly, this could mean one thing.

"Now, Dawkins." I state as I formulate my observation. "You also want me on this case because of those vehicles potentially being related to the actions of Terror Gear, correct?"

I've got him now. Our man would be smirking giddily as he smacks his pen on his desk. An obvious sign that he found out that I've understood the assignment and that we're quite on the same page. I've worked with this man for five years, and his behaviors have etched themselves onto my mind like a nail being chiseled on granite.

"Damned right! The whole 'Resistance' group lingering around the border, independent from any government aid, and fully aided by a few members of the lower-class. There could be a high chance that those vehicles could be theirs, but the question is how they've acquired the materials to tamper with said vehicles and who are the people who've been helping them."

"And you're sure that we're not finding a way to hinder their performance when they've been helping on the sidelines?" I replied. Terror Gear was a small group of independent mercenaries, but it's not like they'll be a major threat to any smaller countries. They're acting purely out of self-defense, right? There can't be any ulterior motives. Or at least, with what I've researched about them.

"Oh, we're not intending to impede their progress in the slightest!" Dawkins chortles. "The rest of Europe is currently fighting off the German Regime, and our combined might doesn't need to be concerned about the efforts of a smaller organization that is doing glorified civil defense! Smaller defense forces--as long as they don't do anything heinous to our allies--are perfectly acceptable, but the vehicles that they could potentially have seem to be something that could be... Quite interesting to study."

"Besides, Poland has held up surprisingly thanks to their aid with their makeshift toys! Truly, that sounds like something that would be quite up your forte."

Dawkins would then reach forward before patting me on the shoulder. The sausage links that he would call his fingers would plop themselves onto my jacket as I began to process my thoughts on what he just said.

"Oswald, you're a good man. A strange fellow who I wouldn't consider... Social, but someone who is REALLY damned good at what they do. The world's changing, Diesel is fueling a majority of everything we have, and governments are finding ways to keep up with the times while others want to use said times to make others bend to their whims. We need people like you. People who can use the times to help people for a greater purpose."

He would then flick his wrist before me to give me a ticket to ride the rails right into the capital of Poland. Warsaw, I believe. Haven't been there often, but I found it to be quite a quaint settlement when I would go there once in a blue moon.

"You'll be leaving tomorrow at ten in the morning. Be sure to go home to gather your things, and be sure to use the station's delivery service to send us confirmation that you've made it. Other than that, happy trails!"

And with that, the man would permit me to leave by waving and forming his mustached face into a grin that rivals a Cheshire cat. Usually, he'd never let me go this early. But I'd probably assume that for once, he leaves me with something that I would want to get to right away.

And so I do. Waving my thanks towards him before opening the door and walking out into the hallway beyond.

Oswald Jarkov. The White Rabbit of the London Bureau. Now back into investigating the affairs of a makeshift army between borders.

What better headspace to be in?