The Free Market

Inside a warehouse were one hundred stout, oak tables. Inside this warehouse, there were approximately 200 AK-47s, each hidden behind a veneer of wood, and careful, methodical procedure.

Igen moved to a table. His paws trailed the underside, moving along its outer edge, feeling for the correct press, the correct force, before—tchk. A thing clicked into place. With a turn of his furry wrist, Igen pulled free a wooden peg, then slid the tabletop clean off its frame.

There was an unfathomable amount of space inside the table. There was the glint of steel catching the glow of a nearby LED, red and all too bright. An AK-47 was inside the table. Disassembled into stock, receiver and barrel, and wrapped in a bright, Igen-patented cloth (with a thumbs-up and a ‘It’s beary good’ catchphrase).

Piece by piece, Igen took them out. Piece by piece, he laid them on a regular table, empty of guns and all those assortments.

“This is what’s known as an AK-47, Grand Marshal,” he said, voice honeyed with his usual, nonchalant glee. “They can fire in the sun, rain and mud. Always happy. Always ready to sing at a moment’s notice!”

Grand Marshal Plaiga stepped into the limelight. Her face was hard, sculpted cheekbones, and thin, scratch-like scars across its breadth. She was not entirely human, but of a province someplace north, with blue skin, and the shimmer of faint scales alongside her collarbone and nape.

In any other condition, she would have been fitted in Indarian Uniform. White mail over a coat of blue, with the proper shoulder straps, and a bridge of medals across the chest.

Not anymore, though. Not since the better part of a month. These days, she dressed like a haggard old beggar. With a patched-up cloak, and all the fatigue of someone on the poverty line.

She leaned forward, calloused hands feeling the parts. Piece by piece, the Grand Marshal assembled the weapon.

Receiver. Barrel. Bolt. Stock. Magazine.

Each part clicked into place with its own beat. Some with a slight fumble. The barrel with the mismatched groove. The magazine clinking awkwardly into place.

Then, she disassembled it. Going through the process all over again. Repeating half a dozen times before finally coming to a mild satisfaction. Again, and again.

Igen smiled. “Well?”

“It feels good,” replied the Grand Marshal. “I like the grip. Very… how you put it? Thick?”

“Thick. Thin. Whatever you call it, as long as you’re satisfied, I’m willing to change definitions around. Wanna feel the rest? I’ve got Kevlar vests. Walkie-talkies. PKMs. You name it!”

“How many boo-lets?”

Igen puffed his chest. “12,000 rounds. Should last you the entirety of a revolution. I’ve got more, if needed. But I’ll need to run a few more runs across the World Portal for that.”

Plagia ran a thumb down the gun’s length. Tough skin tracing even tougher steel. “I can’t promise it’ll work, you know.”

“Oh, don’t worry!” replied Igen. “I know stuff that is too fancy don’t tend to work across worlds, but—these things function on real-life logic. Real! Gunpowder! So don’t worry about a thing! I’ve had ‘em run across more worlds than you think!

“I mean the revolution, you devil bear. Weapons are one thing. But taking the capital and all that—who knows.”

“Mama bear always said, ‘no pain no gain’. And you know—I’ve always trusted her. In my beary subjective opinion, the best things are a bit of a gamble. The spice of life! An uncertain confession. An uncertain menu order in a foreign land. A lotta things are uncertain, Grand Marshal, and a lot of these uncertain things are things that pay off way more than you think!”

Her smile was cruel, with the barest hint of respect. “You ready to die for the market, bear?”

“Of course,” explained Igen, spinning on his heel like a ballerina. “And are you Grand Marshal?”

Her eyes flared to life. Determination clear in her big, blue eyes. “I am the King’s right hand. When he leads, I follow. When he bleeds, I cry. When he shits, I wipe.” She crossed her arms, face drawn in a shit-eating smirk. “And this… Lord Regent? He is the biggest shit I’ve seen.”

Igen’s smile was good-humoured, making it all the more unsettling. “Alrighty, then! So when’s the big day?”

“Tomorrow,” answered the Grand Marshal. “Ah—but Igen… one more thing, yes?”

“Sure thing!”

“Can you head to this… World Portal for me?” She picked up the AK-47, hugging it tight in her arms. “Some of my soldiers are trapped there. If you can, I know it is difficult—but if you can! Try to do this. Try to tell Elmond Hecksworth, his Grand Marshal is waiting.”

The number of White Hat guards amounted to 9,301.

The soldiers in the Indarian Army amounted to 100,000, and of those 100,000, a quarter stood at the gates to the capital, ready to march at a moment's notice.