Part 14: Epilogue: After The War
Epilogue: After The War
Why yes, now that you mention it I AM a Poli-Sci major!
For the curious about the fates of the various commanders, this is what we know so far:
"General Googington" posted:
From the journal of General G.D. Googington, recovered next to a set of bones nearly a century after the end of the Last Great Global Conflict...
This is the end. I know it. Damn those Jargonians...if not for their assault on the prison, I never would have left the comforting embrace of Neo-Rome. Ironicus never would have betrayed me. I realize this now, but in the heat of the moment I allowed myself to believe the terrible things he was rumored to be capable of. And then, when those yellow bastards marched in and demanded that we run...I should have fought them. I should have stayed. I could have built that prison back up myself, damn it!
Well, what's done is done. Now, I know that Ironicus will never accept me back into his legions. Jargonia has been crushed, Maudania will never rise, and Neo-Rome's dominance is unquestioned. It is here, in this Godforsaken wilderness, that I will take my life. I was not built for life on the run, and with no help of rebellion there are no alternatives left but suicide. I can only hope that history will look upon me as a man who was too easily manipulated.
Signed, Gregory Dunderhead Googington
"Chief of Operations Medibot" posted:
[i]When I heard reports that the prisoners I freed had failed to gather a meaningful amount of support, I knew that it was time to prepare for the end. In the chambers of our Supreme Dictator, I left my personal communicator that granted me direct access to our Supreme Dictator. Partly out of tradition, but mostly out of hope, I sang the Jargonian anthem to be input into the Chief of Operations selection program.
Once I arrived at my command post in Ural, I could only wait patiently as reports came in of massive casualties and an endless enemy. Ironicus surely knew I was here. And so, with a somewhat heavy heart, I took one last drink from the official Chief of Operations drink-holding coconut shell.
This was a drink I had mixed myself. Although several bartenders were on site to mix it for me, I did not feel that anyone but myself should bear the burden of this drink. For it is often that a Jargonian will drink to celebrate, to laugh, to smile, to relax. But it is a tragic thing indeed when a Jargonian must drink to forget.
I held the small, silver rod near my head, and I affixed my eyes on the blinking red light on the tip. I cleared my mind of all thoughts but one: the secret underground location of our Supreme Dictator's fortified chambers. I exhaled, and in a blinding flash, I had forgotten. The location, the passcodes, the paths to take to avoid the deathtraps, all erased from my memory.
As the sounds of gunfire and steel grew louder, I mused to myself:
Perhaps it is not such a bad thing, to fight and die for a friend.
General Ironicus posted:
After the Earth finally found peace through total subjugation Ironicus looked once more into the stars for new avenues of conquest. Of course, he had done this all before; in his home galaxy and countless other Milky Ways. The hunger for war that was intrinsic to his very existence drove him, but even he began to grow weary of the monotony of unfettered success. His trusted lieutenant Morris began taking on more responsibility in the operation of the Iron Legions, after being nearly completely converted to robotic parts. Instead of relishing his victories Ironicus gradually closed himself off from the unlimited empire he had built.
He thought back to his time spent discussing current events with Googington while Roomforthetuna offered his services as a footrest. As a mere human, Googington would be long dead by now, but Ironicus still yearned for a simpler time; a time when rivals could be trusted to surrender quickly and socialize instead of pointlessly struggling against the waves of steel. Magog, chief of the alien benefactors the legions worshiped as gods, saw the ennui that had struck his perfect commander. In the year 4827 in the region of Scorpio in some other Earth's sky, Ironicus' campaign finally ended. The Malevilus required a commander with the will to continue. His atoms float adrift in space, forgotten as soon as his replacement was built.
Somewhere, a fleck of dust landed on the remains of a battlefield. Part of him will always be at home.
From what we know, it seems H.R.M Balthor III died of yellow fever somewhere in the jungles of Cambodia.
Not that he was killed BY the yellow fever, mind you, but rather an unfortunate incident in which, in his delirium, he mistook for his might war horse what turned out to be a rather surly water buffalo.
He will be missed.
This game of Risk is officially OVER! Seeing as I have a backlog of schoolwork from the last 2 weeks, including a lengthy paper, I'm taking a sabbatical for a few days.
A lot of people have been talking about a second game. While I wouldn't mind hosting another, the format of the posts as it stands is simply too time consuming for me to continue doing as I have done in the past. I have some ideas of how to crop my workload to a more manageable size, as well as some rule tweaks and additions I think might improve the experience, so I'll be throwing those up in the thread over the next few days for everyone to discuss and express their support/disdain for them.
Until then, I'm curious to know if anyone would like to share any competing theories for why the game turned out the way it did.