Timelines: What if Spain Failed to Control the World?

Kurt_Steiner said:

That's not the bad thing.

320 pages and we are still waiting for a shower scene worthy of that name.

Or a Pizza.

That is. Or a ... Peti!

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Haha , update is almost finished so we'll begin the summer session no later than tomorrow XD

Grubnessul said:

you're done already?

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Yep done with undergrad

4th Dimension said:

Just to notify, that you have another reader. and also to blame you if I fail my exams because I've been spending my study time plastered to the monitor reading this monstrosity (read it in a week or so).

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Huzzah very glad to have you ! Please do tell us what you think

Update will be up tonight

TRP said:

Good god, this AAR is massive . I'm digging the past/present game you have going on, along with nicely written characters. Good work!

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Thank you ! I'm very glad to have new readers especially during this summer season it'll make it very fun to keep writing over the summer !

Grubnessul said:

And it's only May yet

Oh well, then you finally have time to read our MP AAR.

*cracks the bullwhip*

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correct

Elidioemperor said:

That's a good idea. I might re-read it in July or August.

canonized, please make a printable pdf out of this, or at least let me do so, it would be pretty kool to be able to take it to Portugal and read it in the beach xD

Also, if you do it yourself, please do it before the end of June, so I can print it at my school, cause I don't have enough Ink for it

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Go ahead ! Make sure you get all the pictures and what not in between Send me the file when you're done and I'll post it somewhere .

Jhovozhymeh said:

I read the first season last year (after which I forgot about this ), and have just finished up to the Season 2 finale. THAT was certainly suspenseful. Great work canonized. I certainly have been enjoying Timelines so far. I'll probably have to leave the rest of it (the Inter-Season Showcase and Season 3) until after the end of semester exams, unfortunately.

As an aside: The Protestant Anglophile that I am felt extremely dirty after putting 'Rule Espana' to Arne's music. :shudder: Just thinking about it now has me listening to a recording of 'Land of Hope and Glory' at full blast.

Ah, that's better.

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Thank you haha , that was so fun to create (the Rule Espana bit) ! I'm glad you enjoyed Season II and I hope you'll also enjoy Season III Take your time with exams , and thank you so much for commenting ! It really warms my heart to see commentators coming forward ! I hope you get together with our readers and commentators here for some more chatting since I love the community we've built up

And now here's the update !

13 April 1643

Giles inspected the fire in the Farriner bakery with some trepidation. The gorging inferno locked within the confines of the brick enclosure faded in and out of his sight as the superheated air twisted the image ahead of him into a dance of destruction. Was this what his London would look like soon enough?

The quiet movement of his agents behind him loading the barrels into the basement interrupted his thoughts and he snapped his head to one side to make sure that they were being cautious with their precious cargo of gunpowder and pig grease. In that moment, his concentration returned to the task at hand.

General Wiers had been emphatic with him about the course of action. “Balaguer is a fool,” that general's words still echoed in Giles' mind. “It's the same static thinking that has gotten the Empire to its present debacle. Your authority is beyond that of the Don. You have the backing of the Room,” Wiers continued to explain. “You have the latitude to start this operation yourself. Do it.”

There was barely any other explanation for the initiative other than Wiers' simple words. The efficiency of Wiers disturbed Giles at times, but he also quite understood what the General was talking about. Here was an opportunity and a plan which he knew would work. The bakery was empty today except for the baker who now had no choice but to watch, with dread, the machinations of these agents with a gag in his mouth in the corner of his store.

The doorway was barred and the gunpowder and oil were purchased domestically under the guise of forged army requisites from separate places at different times: they did not want any suspicion about who they were or what they were doing. Giles had ordered his men to bury the barrels deep underneath the basement: it was a double precaution so that even if someone were to stumble upon the celler, finding those barrels would be impossible.

One of the young men working on the endeavor had his leather collar still buffed up against his mouth as if to filter the dirty atmosphere of the bakery from entering his nostrils. He came up behind the contemplative spy veteran. “They're loaded, sir, and the triggering device hasn't been a problem. We should leave--”

A rapping on the door froze the young man and Giles shot his eyes to the wooden portal. “Open up, Farriner, it's me, Woodhouse. The whole platoon is out here and we're starved. We need those rations.”


Íñigo held out his hand right into the traffic between the hive and the flowers. The little insects veered to avoid his palm while some of them collided with his skin, hung on for an instant, and—realizing they had been obstructed—began to fly around the five fingered wall. The entire train seemed to halt for a moment before it corrected itself. The little insects paid no mind to the living branch and continued on their circuit across the air.

The sun hanging half past noon forced Íñigo to keep his eyes at a squint. The grass along his boots fanned against the leather hide as the wind animated them wildly. For a moment, the line of bees as well shifted closer to Íñigo, but then the busy workers returned to their original line of transit. Íñigo pushed his palm forward further, once again halting some of the insects.

“You're going to get stung if you keep doing that.”

Íñigo did not respond to the other man behind him who was somewhere near the tree that provided some shade in the warm Spring day. Instead, his fingers moved up and down as if he were plucking invisible strings in the air while each finger tapped a bee arriving and departing. Their small wings fluttered against his fingertips.

“Would you let a spider walk on you, Mr. Belmont?” Íñigo asked the person but as if he was talking only to himself.

“That's a strange thing to ask, boy,” the Swiss man said in return. Íñigo could not see it, but Belmont looked at him strangely from his sitting position near the roots of the tree. The fresh leaves sprouted energetically from each branch providing a crosshatch shade all along the man's features. Belmont, as always in his loose clothing, pushed some of his bangs away from his eyes indifferently. His lips were clasped together in subsequent silence like the stony precipice of an impossibly high cliff.

“You'd be scared?” Íñigo asked while his face collapsed together and concentrating as much as he could.

“I've seen many kinds of spiders in my travels,” Belmont replied breathlessly. “Some are deadly.”

“I was bit once as a boy,” Íñigo told him as he retracted his hand and ended his harassment of the insects, “by a spider nearly as big as my hand at the time. The monks told me that I might die.”

Belmont shifted his eyes curiously towards Íñigo before staring back at the rolling Austrian hills. “I see,” the man quickly added.

“I was in pain for days as my hand swelled,” Íñigo tagged on immediately. “The monks would bleed my hand as best they could to let the poison out. I hear bee stings are more painful than those needles they used on my hand.”

“Why are you telling me this, boy?” Belmont asked. His face turned to the other direction and closed his eyes as if he was avoiding the sun from reaching his visage.

“I don't know,” Íñigo replied earnestly. “It was something I didn't want to remember, but now I have to remember it again.”

“Did a spider bite you recently?” Belmont asked almost bemused.

“No,” Íñigo replied with some desperation in his voice. “But I think I'm going to die just like before.”

Belmont could hear the sound of Íñigo's voice weaken under the confession. “And you're scared?” Belmont could not help but ask as his eyes opened up and found the stern statue of the boy rigidly staring out into the Spring day. Íñigo stood his ground as if he was the only man in a company of absent soldiers.

“It's not that,” Íñigo replied with some frustration through his teeth. “It's just... I feel... like I can never rest. There's always something... there's always something trying to... kill me?” the explanation was more of a question than anything. “I thought my life with the monks was going to last forever. Then I thought my mercenary training with Lope would be how the rest of my life would be, but then someone is trying to take me away from him. I just want to live... I don't want this happening to me.”

Belmont remained pensive for a moment before eying the young man intensely. “You could have stayed in Madrid,” Belmont stated mechanically, “there's no use complaining about your life now.” Íñigo was about to say something, but Belmont kept going. “Though I do understand,” the Swiss said, “what's only left now is a choice between working through to whatever destiny you have or death. Though maybe both are one and the same.”

A heavy thud broke through the speech. Belmont quickly rose to his feet and spied the quick rise of black smoke curl upward from one of the other hills. “There's our signal,” Íñigo announced. Even as he spoke another explosion rocked the countryside and another fireball reached upward to heaven.

As Belmont and Íñigo mounted their nearby horses, the crack of further explosions rumbled across the countryside. “Stay close,” Belmont yelled as they mounted, “even though we're just acting as backup, I don't want any of them to escape.”

The explosives, as Íñigo remembered, was to be a necessary distraction. The movement of the Persians through the Austrian countryside approaching Vienna would have made investigations by mercenaries, no matter how embedded, difficult. The invaders ought to have something to worry about in the fire that was now raging through their barracks and Lope, Diego and Amatallah could finally confront those Three without any distractions...


Matthijs watched the man's eyes as he plunged his sword deeper into his abdomen. It was a strange expression that he saw in that person's face. Swirling liquid welled along the sides of the man's eyeballs as he twisted the weapon deeper into the flesh. Matthijs watched those eyes: they were bulging out as if reaching to a heaven it could not touch. The fire in those eyes was freezing into a murky vapour that escaped through the man's mouth in a bloody cough.

There was a hiss and a sputter before the man finally collapsed under the weight of Matthijs' weapon. “It's done!” Matthijs suddenly yelled out with sudden horror as he stepped back from the corpse. There was blood on his cheek: a cut was still fresh there and it poured down his chin hotly. “It's done!” he repeated as he looked forward. “I've done everything you've asked now you must fulfill your end of the bargain!”

The man who had watched the spectacle from the comfort of a shadowy corner in the dark earthen room narrowed his eyes at the demand discerningly. “There is one more--”

“You said this would be the last!” Matthijs yelled out as he yanked the weapon out of the recently dead. The blood of the man unexpectedly flew into his right eye and caused him to wince and drag his tunic's sleeve against his face.

“Someone else will come,” was the plain answer from the shaded man.

Matthijs heaved his shoulders up and down as he gasped air into his lungs. The grip on his sword tightened despite the lubrication of the blood. His eye stung with the iron rich liquid dripping form his eye. As the man he was facing went to turn away from him, he cried out: “Sid! I want this to end-- I--” he nearly stepped forward.

“Matthijs...” a voice came from behind with a hiss that sounded like ice cracking. Arms slid from underneath Matthijs' shoulders and clasped around him like vines warping around a tree.

“Let me go, Katja...” Matthijs grunted as he attempted to take another step forward.

Katja's grip on him tightened and it was as if he could feel the lace of her white dress through his leather outfit like the criss-cross of a spider's web. “You cannot... You know this...” she whispered into his ear softly.

“It's been months, Sid!” Matthijs yelled out, ignoring her. “I should have just killed you when I had the chance...” Matthijs muttered angrily. His hand was shaking and the blade dripped blood onto the dirty, stone floor.

“Kill me?” El Sid asked the question as if he was genuinely curious. It wasn't a mocking tone, it was an intense interest that made El Sid's noses flare. Suddenly, the man flashed his teeth at Matthijs impressively—there was even a hint of gold in that smile. “Boy! I taught you how to kill! You couldn't have hurt me when we first met even if you tried!”

Matthijs' voice exploded out of his chest as he pushed forward violently, but his hand lost its grip on the sword he was carrying. He could feel the rest of his body loosen after the first step and after a few seconds, it was only Katja's impressive embrace that kept him upright. Even his knees began to bend under his sagging weight. “You promised...” was the only whimper that escaped Matthijs' lips as he deflated.

Matthijs could feel Katja's lips dabble along the furthest orbit of his ear. “He did...” Katja whispered to him. “But he needs you,” she soothed as she kept him standing. “He will fulfill his promise or lose what you can give him... You hold the promise yourself.”

The young man looked up at the shaded figure who now receded away and out of the room through the dark portal of a nearby window. The rest of his anger subsided and his body fell sideways away from the corpse. Even Katja could not hold him up and she sat down on the floor next to him. “But why, Katja?” was Matthijs' troubled question. “Why does he want me to work like this? This was the fourth one... I... I have never killed anyone before...before...”

“Shh...” Katja soothed. Her fingers tightened around his shoulders. “We talked about this...” she reminded him coyly. “You and I both agreed that this needed to be done... Only you could have killed them... only you knew how...”

Matthijs looked upward towards Katja's oceanic eyes. They glowed in the darkness of the room like a reflection of the moon in the waters of a bay. Her soothing coldness was such a contrast to the fiery deserted stare of El Sid. He reached upward almost involuntarily and placed two fingers along the young lady's cheek who instantly blushed at the caress. It was then that Matthijs realised he had stained the young woman's face with the dead man's blood. His eyes contracted at the sight and his hand quickly recoiled. Katja's eyes searched his expression as if she could freeze his panic if she stared fast enough.

“Katja... I--” it was as if that very word “I” had choked his throat into silence. He didn't understand anymore and even then the very point of reference that had provided so much comfort for him as he had risen in the ranks of the Dutch bureaucracy had now eroded into something indistinguishable from the anarchy going on around Oslo... from the rebellion of the mercenary troops... from the siege of the Russians... from the oncoming rush of Spanish reinforcements. It was not the fear of some kind of loss, no, it was the fear of reversion. It was the fear of returning to that nameless beginning that still haunted him from the darkest portions in the back of his mind.

Do you think wearing that would make you any more part of that family? the Sid had asked him mercilessly all those months ago at their first encounter. I know who you really are, boy: the voice still rang in Matthijs' mind. An orphan that the good family took pity upon.

But it was more than these words that had stayed Matthijs' interrogation. “I know who you are, Tiësto,” El Sid had proclaimed to him with an arrogant smirk. It was as if the mercenary held Matthijs' soul in his hand. No one had called him that as far as he could remember. It was only the monks: the monks at the orphanage that had coined the nickname for him. “But what's better for you,” Matthijs recalled El Sid saying while he shuddered a surrender in Katja's arms, “is that I know your real name, and I know your real purpose. You're here to kill them... That is why they made you.”


1984

The breeze brought a salty smell to Nia's nostrils, but she could already sense the obvious difference between the California beaches and those of either Brazil or East Asia. Nothing here would ever match her beautiful Ipanema or serene Boracay. Nonetheless, she looked out through these “sunglasses” that she began to get used to towards the oceanic scene. The sun accented the white froth of the beach and the wind that sliced against her jet black hair also wafted the palms in the background.


Leather had always been her attire and she found it appropriate to find clothing of this century that matched her choice. Even this new leather, however, was different from her old attire. It had an artificial sense to it and it felt too clean: too sterile. There was a restriction of movement to it. Nonetheless, despite the inaccuracy of this “modern” time, she did not feel comfortable in any other kind of clothing.

It had already been a week or so since the meeting with the bishop. After the explanation was given and the hierarchy contacted, the advice that the men of the Silence of this time gave to the travelers was to find a comfortable life in California and let them take care of the rest and the intruders. Nia chuckled to herself at the memory. Comfortable was a word she held a bit of disdain for. Comfort was a luxury for certain... people. She wouldn't complain, though.

She stood up from her sitting position and grabbed the helmet that was laying on the small stone seating next to her. After she had told the others that she was “fully intent” on living out this “comfortable” life, they had no idea that she would disappear a few days later with the money and information the bishop allotted for her. It was a new age and a new time: it was her chance to make a new beginning: to move on. What she felt had tied her to the man she cared for had changed now: those memories were centuries old. This was a new world and Antonia Obidos would find her own path.


Trey wandered the hall absently, tapping one foot over the next and he let his arms hang loosely around his frame. He had checked out his materials and was ready to head “back.” Back to where he was not quite sure. Dr. Braun was already notifying the school of the incident and conceivably he might even be sent home. Home... whenever he tried to think of that place, there was nothing but a fuzziness to his thoughts. The shock still must be robbing him of focus, he thought. Natasha, on the other hand... Trey looked back to the desk that he had just walked away from.

Natasha was speaking with the officer and clearing out forms. Trey still had questions that, in the brief moments of their conversations, she would not answer. She was too busy “protecting” him. Protecting him from what? As he turned back around, he could see the figure of Randall approaching him from the other end of the hall.


“Doing alright?” the young man asked him as they intersected.

“I will be once I know what's been happening.” The tone in Trey's voice had attained a kind of bitterness. In the past few weeks nothing had allowed him to rest: there always seemed to be something happening... someone after him...

“I don't know too much myself,” Randall admitted with a silly grin.

Trey looked up at his roommate and couldn't help but release a short laugh. There was something about Randall's innocence that comforted him. It was something that told him that Randall was the most genuine person he's met so far. A kind of intuition, he guessed. “I probably wouldn't have believed Natasha if you weren't driving that car,” Trey mused almost giddily. He rubbed his forehead and sighed a chuckle away.

Randall shrugged amiably. “I figured that I couldn't take the chance... Natasha said some crazy things, but crazy things have been happening lately.”

Trey smiled, “Thanks, Randall.”

The sliding door in front of them slid open and a woman holding a pistol entered the police department. Her fiery red hair was blown backward a little by the rush of the air conditioning before she held up a badge and her pistol. “Public Security Section Nine,” the woman yelled down the hall, “arrest that girl at the desk!”

Chapter CXXXVII: Arrest (coming soon)

robou said:

So they are with the Persian Army? Or is the Persian army merely in the way. Anyhow, I'm sure whatever Lope has planned it is helping Spain in some way and hindering the Persians in another. And Wiers taking independent action, dangerous but I feel necessary. He is proving to be quite a 'modern' commander. And poor old Matthijs, nothing ever seems to go right for him... though this chapter seems to suggest there is a lot more to the Dutchman than we had otherwise thought.

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they perhaps concerning the others that we've been talking about , although it's starting to get convoluted : what could El Sid mean and isn't Katja one of the others herself ?

Avernite said:

Hmm, but who is Matthijs killing? Revolting mercenaries, or Spanish troops?

He will likely need to kill again, though, and plenty of times, but I fear he's being manipulated by the enemy...

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Good question What if -- oh wait I'll leave that for the next update XD

Elidioemperor said:

Will do

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Excellent !