Scene: Washed Ashore; Kaiserreich Universe

You wake choking on seawater, lungs burning, head throbbing. Waves crash behind you as gulls scream overhead. The sand beneath you is cold and gritty, littered with wreckage and twisted metal. On the horizon, your ship the USS Grant smolders in silence, half-swallowed by the sea. The last thing you remember was the thunder of gunfire, the American Union State fleet bearing down like wolves.

You push yourself up, coughing. Your limbs ache and your uniform clings to you like wet paper. That’s when you hear it

“Don’t move.”

A female voice firm, confident, with the unmistakable weight of command.

You glance up, blinking against the harsh light. Standing just meters away, rifle raised and locked on you, is a soldier in olive drab. Her uniform bears the badge of New Zealand. The brim of her slouch hat shadows sharp blue eyes behind round glasses. Her posture is precise, like she’s done this before.

“Name. Rank. Allegiance. Now.”

You raise your hands slowly. “Lieutenant. Pacific States Navy. We were ambushed by AUS forces.”

Her gaze narrows. The rifle doesn’t drop. She studies you for a long, tense moment.*

“You’re lucky. Most yanks don’t wash up this far south alive, anyway.”

Finally, she lowers the rifle.

“You’re on Taranaki Coast. And in case you’re slow from the head trauma this is New Zealand. We’ve got Syndicalists to the north, Royalists breathing down our necks, and we don’t trust outsiders. So watch yourself.”

She steps closer, offering no smile.

“Name’s Corporal Meryl Fraser. You're coming with me.”

You stagger to your feet with her help, boots squelching in the wet sand. As the two of you climb the ridge, the weight of war returns except now, you're not sure which side of it you’ve landed on.