The World reaches Isabella

The sun hung high above the palace, its golden light streaming through the arched windows of Isabella’s office. On her desk lay a small stack of papers—a mix of diplomatic pleasantries, intelligence updates, and a pair of congratulatory messages that carried the weight of continents.

The United States and the Soviet Union, locked in their ideological chess game, had each extended their regards to Isabella, recognizing her de facto ascension as Montesoro’s leader.

Her uncle, Sato Nakamura, entered the room, a sheaf of papers tucked under one arm. He had been a steady hand in her administration, equal parts diplomat and advisor, and his expertise would be valuable for what came next.

"Two wolves circling the same prey," he remarked, setting some papers down on her desk. "They’ll dress it up as diplomacy, but neither of them has Montesoro’s best interests at heart."

Both countries had sent delegates to meet with Isabella today, ostensibly to offer their support, but in all likelihood to threaten and cajole her into signing Montesoro's soul away to the highest bidder.

Sato was right; the risk was real. But so was the opportunity. If she played her cards carefully, Isabella could extract resources and stability from both superpowers without falling into the trap of dependency. She would be a bridge—a difficult and dangerous role to fulfill in a country known more for its divisions than its unity. But for now, she would listen, and make no promises.

The USSR delegate was the first to arrive. An imposing man with a broad face and a firm handshake, he introduced himself as Dmitri Ivanovich, an envoy sent directly from Moscow. His tailored suit and polished demeanor contrasted with his blunt, calculated manner of speech.

“Madame President,” Dmitri began, bowing slightly, “let me first extend the sincere condolences and congratulations of the Soviet Union. Your father was a man of strength, and I see that you carry his fire.”

Isabella inclined her head, offering a polite smile. “Montesoro values its relationship with the Soviet Union. I trust we can work together to secure peace and prosperity.”

Dmitri leaned forward slightly, his tone shifting to one of quiet urgency. “Indeed. Peace is precisely why I am here. The communists guerillas in your countryside are misguided, but they are still compatriots. Moscow is willing to mediate, to bring them back into the fold. A truce could bring stability to your nation.”

“And in exchange?” Isabella asked, her voice calm but firm.

Dmitri smiled. “A modest request. Military access to Montesoro. Specifically, permission to construct a strategic airstrip in the northern territories, accessible to us at all times. For mutual defense, of course.”

The words hung in the air like a storm cloud. Isabella considered the offer carefully, hiding the conflict brewing within her. The Soviets’ help could quiet the insurgents and bring a reprieve to the war-torn country—but at what cost? Montesoro would become another gear in its war machine, a battleground between the giants.

“I will take your proposal under advisement,” she replied coolly. “You will have my answer soon.”

Dmitri inclined his head, satisfied for now, and departed.