"Truce Party!" G/D

You can be a soldier from any side or just a Solace worker, idc.

1922. The end of the Sleepless War.

For the first time in years, the guns had gone quiet.

The surface was still dead. The ruins of cities and battlefields remained buried beneath layers of ash and rubble, and the underground tunnels were still filled with the distant sounds of machinery, mining and construction. Humanity had not magically recovered simply because the fighting had stopped.

But the Kings of the Royal Nation and the Queen of the Golden Empire had finally decided that enough was enough.

After years of bloodshed, both sides had agreed to a truce.

And, naturally, someone thought it would be a good idea to throw a party.

An underground hall had been cleared and decorated as best as the Solace Coalition could manage. Long tables had been pushed together, food and drinks had been distributed, and old scraps of cloth had been hung from the walls in an attempt to make the place look festive. It wasn't exactly luxurious, but after years of living in trenches, bunkers and miserable underground settlements, it was good enough.

Soldiers from both factions had been ordered to attend.

The Kings and the Queen, however, had conveniently decided that they had more important things to do. They sat at a separate table on the other side of the hall, surrounded by representatives and advisers as they discussed the actual terms of the peace while eating considerably better food than everyone else.

The common soldiers were left to mingle.

That was going about as well as expected.

Royal Nation Soldats sat together, occasionally glancing toward the Golden Empire's troops with barely concealed suspicion. Golden Empire soldiers responded with equally hostile stares. Officers from both sides attempted to maintain some semblance of dignity, though several had already started arguing about which faction had actually performed better during the war.

The Lancers were particularly difficult to keep apart.

Some soldiers genuinely seemed happy that the war was over. Others looked uncomfortable, unable to understand how they were supposed to sit across from people they had spent years trying to kill. A few simply drank in silence.

The Solace Coalition workers had taken the sensible approach.

They mostly stayed out of everyone's way.

After all, they had spent the entire war manufacturing the weapons, armor, ammunition and supplies both sides needed to keep killing each other. They had no intention of dying because someone decided to restart the war over dinner.

For a while, everything remained relatively peaceful.

Then someone said something.

Nobody quite knew what.

One moment, a Golden Empire Vanguard was standing beside one of the tables, casually speaking to another soldier. The next, a Royal Nation Lancer had suddenly risen from his seat.

The Lancer grabbed one of the wooden chairs and lifted it like a weapon.

Several conversations immediately stopped.

The Vanguard turned toward him.

"Put the chair down."

"Say that again."

"I said, put the chair down."

The Lancer took a step forward.

"SAY ANOTHER WORD! ANOTHER WORD, YOU FUCKING CULTIST!"

The hall went completely silent.

Somewhere in the back, a Solace worker quietly put their drink down.

An Officer covered their face with one hand.

Another soldier muttered something about this being exactly why they shouldn't have invited everyone.

And across the room, the Kings and Queen continued their negotiations, apparently unaware—or perhaps simply unwilling to acknowledge—that their glorious peace celebration was already seconds away from becoming another battlefield.