Summoning America

January 16, 1641

Washington, D.C.

United States

Crown Prince Gra Cabal eyed the city below, the hum of the airplane keeping him company. It felt strange, being back here, amidst the heart of what they once considered their greatest adversary. The view from the aircraft window painted a different picture of Washington, D.C., than the one etched in his memory. In the early morning darkness, it seemed almost empty – nothing compared to the skyline of Ragna, or even compared to the Americans’ own cities.

 

His father, former Emperor Gra Lux, leaned forward and squinted slightly as he took in the sight. He reacted the same way he did when first laying eyes upon their capital. Unlike the towering skyscrapers of a modern metropolis he probably would’ve imagined, the city sprawled out with a dignified modesty. The city mostly consisted of low-rise buildings and the occasional spire of a monument or dome of a historic building. The Washington Monument stood tall, a slender needle amidst a city devoid of the crowded verticality expected of such a powerful nation.

 

“So this is the capital of our enemy,” he mused. “I expected… more, somehow. More opulence, perhaps.”

 

Cabal turned to his father. He still had a flicker of the old fires in his eyes, but they had long since dimmed, reduced to mere shadows during their long journey from Ragna. “It’s different during the day,” he replied. “The simplicity is an opulence in itself: the expanse of its spaces, the monuments, the open skies.”

 

Gra Lux hummed, a noncommittal sound that spoke volumes of his internal turmoil. “Monuments to what? Their victories?” There was a bitterness in his question, a king displaced, grappling with the reality of his fall.

 

“Perhaps to their ideals, Father,” Cabal ventured, treading lightly. “Democracy, freedom… the very things we’re hoping will grant us asylum now.”

 

Asylum. The word felt… degrading, like it was a reminder of their precipitous descent from rulers to refugees. The plane banked gently, the Potomac River glinting below like a silver ribbon winding through the city.

 

Gra Lux settled back into his seat. “Ideals,” he echoed, “Let us hope their ideals are as grand as their monuments.”

 

The plane began to descend, circling around an airstrip illuminated by rows of lights: Joint Base Andrews, as the Americans had called it. The faint outlines of the jets escorting them peeled off, their mission complete. The aircraft’s wheels touched the ground, the turbulent vibration like an assertive reminder of the new environment.

 

Beside him, his father sat in contemplation, eyes reflecting the runways’ lights as they drew closer. His gaze looked hollow, truly the look of a man who had lost everything. The rest of their party, including his mother and sister, seemed enveloped in their own thoughts. Chief of the Military Xand Pastall and Secretary Varden Kurtz from the Office of the Sovereign were the only two people who weren’t silent, though their hushed whispers carried the same weight as everyone else’s silence. This was it.

As the plane rolled to a stop, a tall middle-aged woman seated close to the cockpit stood up. Protocol Officer Elaine Mercer, whom they had met upon their initial departure from Joint Base Maihark, approached them. “There will be a brief hold on the tarmac. Security protocols,” she stated bluntly. “I’ll guide you through the next steps once we’ve disembarked.”

 

Her briefing back in Qua Toyne had been thorough, covering everything from the security measures that would surround them to the expectations of their conduct on American soil. She emphasized protocols quite a bit; it was the one thing about her that stuck. It was the one thing about the United States that he found tiring – overbearing rules and regulations.

 

Mercer moved toward the cabin door, opening it. The early morning chill of Maryland rushed in, the smell of damp earth mingling with the faint scent of fuel and other industrial byproducts. His father led the way, following closely behind the protocol officer as they stepped out into the rising sun.

 

After everyone disembarked, Mercer led them directly to a secure processing area specially set up within Joint Base Andrews. The area, clearly temporary but still meticulously organized, was cordoned off to ensure privacy and security for the high-profile arrivals.

 

As they approached the first checkpoint, an American soldier gestured for them to present the documents they’d been given prior to their departure. Cabal handed over the papers, watching as they were placed against a glass surface within a machine. A soft whirring noise filled the air as the devices scanned their documents, the lights beneath the glass flickering with each pass. 

 

He raised an eyebrow at the extensive, impersonal procedure. It’s not like they became different people since they were provided these documents in Maihark. Was this process even necessary? They didn’t have to do this when they arrived in the US as guests, but he supposed it had something to do with their stay being under drastically different conditions. 

 

After processing everyone’s papers, the soldier nodded to Mercer, who directed them to the next station. The area looked clinical, with harsh fluorescent lights bathing sterile surfaces in a stark white glow. Medical personnel, clad in light blue scrubs, awaited them with an array of equipment that seemed both advanced and intimidating.

 

One of the nurses gestured for him to sit, explaining the process. “We’ll start with a basic assessment,” she said. She wrapped something around his arm. “This’ll tighten up a bit so we can check your pulse and other vitals. Just relax your arm and try not to move.”

 

It was a similar practice to what he was used to, though replaced by the lifelessness of a machine. Where a doctor would gauge the pressure by feel and determine the rhythm of the pulse felt under their fingertips, instead a machine spat out numbers with cold precision. It was a facet of American society he hadn’t realized in his initial visit: they were overwhelmingly reliant on machines and devices. It made things impersonal, but he had to admit: they were much more efficient.

 

After a satisfied nod, she unhooked him and pulled out a report. She briefly looked through it before explaining, “These are the results from the blood samples tested in Maihark. Looks like there aren’t really any issues, but your blood sugar levels are on the higher end of the normal range. It’s nothing alarming, but it’s something to keep an eye on. I’d recommend a diet lower in simple sugars and more complex carbohydrates.”

 

Cabal was familiar with the terms from his university lessons on biology, but he didn’t understand the significance. He raised an eyebrow, more out of confusion than curiosity.

 

“Whole grains, vegetables, and lean proteins would be beneficial for you,” she said simply before handing him a printed summary. 

 

“Thank you,” Cabal said as he received the papers and moved on to the waiting area. Tabulated numbers and terms like ‘hemoglobin’ leapt off the page, as foreign and alien as the technology that produced them. He thought of blood tests as limited to simple types and counts, nothing quite like the comprehensive panels he found himself staring at. The thought that a few drops of blood could yield such an abundance of information was almost unfathomable. It was scary to think that the Americans could characterize him – or any individual, for that matter – with such precision.

 

As the last member of their group completed the medical procedures, he folded his report and stuffed it away in his coat pocket.

 

“Everyone’s cleared,” Mercer announced. “If you’ll follow me, we have transportation arranged to take you to your temporary accommodations.”

 

The group filed outside, squinting against the brightness of the early morning sun the sky shifted hues from purple to a lively blue. A convoy of black SUVs with tinted windows waited for them, an emblem on each door. It was a shield of sorts, adorned with what appeared to be an eagle with a set of scales below it. He recognized it from his first time here.

 

Mercer led them to this convoy, explaining along the way, “These vehicles are part of the Diplomatic Security Service’s protective motorcade. They’ll ensure your safe transport to the accommodation. Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

 

Cabal settled into the plush interior of one of the SUVs alongside his father and Protocol Officer Mercer while everyone else split into their own vehicles. He couldn’t explain it, but getting into the vehicle was a significant separation from the processing he just went through. Now, as the convoy pulled away from Joint Base Andrews, it felt even more surreal. He knew they were no longer a sovereign of his own land, but dependents of a foreign power, their fate intertwined with the strategic interests of the United States.

 

He tried to take his mind off such thoughts, focusing on the scenery outside. He could only imagine that his father, gazing out the window, felt the same.

 

Mercer’s tone became more like a tour guide as she pointed out the sights for them. They approached a particularly scenic stretch along the Potomac River, the sight of the Capital Wheel offering a momentary respite from their thoughts. “We’re passing by the National Harbor now.” 

 

As they neared the heart of the city, the iconic silhouettes of the Washington Monument and Capitol dome came into view. “Those are some of our most significant landmarks,” Mercer explained, tone imbued with healthy pride. 

 

She briefly talked about the history, but it wasn’t anything he hadn’t already heard from his first time here. His father simply nodded along, asking basic questions about the United States as if to confirm what he was presented with when the Americans’ ambassador first made contact with their foreign affairs department. And now here they were, in the heart of what was once enemy territory, gawking at tourist attractions in this foreign capital.

 

She continued her running commentary, “To your right is the Jefferson Memorial, and beyond that, you can just catch a glimpse of the Lincoln Memorial.

 

Winding through the streets of Washington D.C., they eventually passed by Embassy Row, a stretch known for housing the diplomatic missions of various nations, including those from EDI member countries. Most of the buildings were simply renovated, former embassies of Earth nations given new purpose. However, some looked newer, as if recently constructed. Among these, Cabal recognized a few from the most prominent EDI member states, their designs familiar from briefings and intelligence reports. He spotted one immediately – the Mirishial flag, with its intricate gold and blue patterns, hoisted high above an opulent building that incorporated spires of elven artistry. Elves and other humanoids dressed in elegant suit-robe hybrids walked along the base of the building, chatting with one another. 

 

A group of men and women in suits and trench coats from decades past walked out of one of the former embassies. He looked up at the flag and sure enough, it belonged to Mu. An increasingly diverse array of pedestrians glanced at their convoy as they drove past: beastmen, dragonfolk from Eimor, dwarves, all wearing a mix of clothing traditional to their home countries or the sleek suits that he often saw Americans wearing.

 

Gra Lux, observing the same, turned to Mercer. “Are we to be housed amidst our adversaries?” he inquired.

 

Mercer, anticipating the question, shook her head subtly. “No, we’ve arranged accommodations away from Embassy Row. Your stay will be at the Franklin Guest House,” she reassured. “Given the sensitivities of our current situation, we thought it best to ensure a level of discretion and security that this area might not afford.”

 

Cabal appreciated the thoughtfulness behind the decision. The proximity to EDI embassies could have complicated their already precarious position, inviting unwanted scrutiny or even hostility. The choice to house them elsewhere spoke volumes of the Americans’ mindfulness, but it was a hurdle they’d have to tackle eventually.

 

They arrived at their destination, away from the diplomatic and administrative bustle of Embassy Row. The Franklin Guest House was surrounded by a high perimeter wall and situated in a cul-de-sac. It reminded him of the stately countryside manors back home, though the details were uniquely foreign.

 

As the SUVs came to a gentle stop outside the main entrance, Cabal observed the surroundings. The compound was expansive, with manicured gardens and pathways leading to the main building. Mercer opened the door for them, ushering them inside where they were greeted by a team of staff ready to assist with their transition.

 

“This will be your home for the foreseeable future,” she informed them, voice echoing slightly in the grand foyer. “Each of you has been assigned. While we understand you’re traveling light, our staff is here to ensure you have everything you need.”

 

Cabal, carrying only a small bag that he had packed in haste, followed Mercer and the staff through the corridors. The interior was tastefully decorated, blending comfort with a sense of formality befitting their status. 

 

Cabal’s suite was spacious, with large windows offering views of the gardens. The furnishings were elegant yet inviting, a balance that spoke of thoughtful consideration. He recognized elements of American technology – devices that he had used briefly during his initial stay, like a television and microwave. He settled down, immediately heading to the bathroom to take a shower. He would certainly miss his life in Ragna, but having these amenities wouldn’t be such a bad thing.