There’s this characteristic of the Brazilian way of being that takes a lot of heat, not without reason, but that is much more than only its negative sides. It’s referred to as “jeitinho brasileiro” - the Brazilian way. While it means committing a traffic infraction and trying to talk it out with the police officers, be it by offering outright bribes or by invoking the name of someone you know in the force or politics, it also means being resourceful, smart, and crafty when facing problems or difficult situations of all kinds. In a very unequal society, the lower stratum in particular has to learn to have what we call “jogo de cintura”, an expression that came to be from samba, and the skill and flexibility one needs to have in the waist to dance it.

Watch those concepts being put into action.

“These fucking Pigs,” mutters Major Delavega as he leaves his tent very early in the morning, shaved and with a trimmed uniform. He knows that pesky, annoying quartermaster — not the sleazy Captain Castanho — Lieutenant Barro, that’s it! He must have hidden the supplies before he could get to them; the man’s Mapinguari assistant’s flimsy excuses that they must have forgotten to pack it back on the main base hadn’t fooled him at all.

Delavega is a stickler for rules and protocols and doesn’t like the 2nd Regiment’s easygoing attitude at all - one might say he doesn't have much of a "jogo de cintura". His opinion of the brother regiment to the Snakes has not been improved at all for their successful defense of FOB Pantera — he’s sure that the Smoking Snakes could have done it better, with half the time and casualties. Not that they would have been surprised to begin with. The training the Snakes had to gone through… This war front was an utter joke in comparison. Twenty percent of the Pigs were casualties? The Snakes never lost less than 50% of their own, though admittedly they had a lot less dead-dead. The magical creatures they matched themselves against in Alavir III (System D05-ALV) were not wont to consume or target brains.

First things first, Delavega decides to have breakfast before dealing with the unruly Pigs and their antics. It was a luxury having a cook — in the missions the Snakes were deployed, rarely there was an opportunity to set up a proper canteen. He’d heard the Chibamba head cook was talented, a Sergeant Heleno Kaio, and he looked forward to the meal. The Chibambas he had in his units were a pain in the ass though, fucking jokers and hippies, too much into parties and dancing, and far too legalize, that is, fond of narcotics. He’d been unsurprised to learn the Chibamba community had regular meetings in Sana, both an ecological sanctuary and a known hippie meeting point in the state of Rio de Janeiro (don’t mix it with the city of Rio de Janeiro, its capital).

Delavega himself was a man from the state of Paraná, and though he had a really hard time accepting the mythics, he made his best effort. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t get to join the Unity Army — or he would if he was a complete asshole and got himself collared. The three southern states already had a reputation for being the most racist part of the country before the Breaking of the Veil; and maybe it was not undeserved — they were heavily colonized by white European settlers, having a lot less diversity than the other states and correspondingly less tolerance. With the mythics the racism went in overdrive. Of course, you could and can find racist assholes throughout the country. In such a misciginated country, somehow geniuses created neonazi groups, widely scorned by their European counterparts for obvious reasons — mixed blood. The morenazis are a joke, the word comes from the junction of "moreno" (dark-skinned) and nazis.

The point was that Delavega was bad with diversity and acceptance, but not as big as an asshole as he could be considering people in similar circumstances. So he sucks up and puts a strained smile on his face as he enters Kaio’s domain, knowing the essential rule — don’t mess with the people who prepare your food. There is virtually no line, so he took his tray and was free to head for the food-counters. The people serving are all very polite and trade meaningless pleasantries with their new boss, serving him as much as he desires — some even offer him the serving spoon to help himself. A corpulent Trasgo, full of energy-hungry muscle, Major Delavega is happy to comply, making a small mountain on his plate.

Eggs, sausages, different kinds of breads, cheese, pão-de-queijo, biscuits, ham… A veritable southern colonial breakfast. He helps himself to a hot coffee on the machine with way too much sugar, and then he heads for the last counter, and the one he’s been looking forward to the most. He stops cold when he notices the Chibamba’s behavior. What the hell? The mythic doesn’t move agitatedly on the spot, doesn’t smile or laugh to himself. He doesn’t even care to hail his new chief, only looking at him intensely through half-lidded eyes. The counter full of candies his sweet-tooth craves so much is guarded by an irritable, moody master.

“Sergeant Kaio,” he lets out as pleasantly as he can, making for the serving apparatus, eyeing the different cakes and the chocolate chips, never mind the goiabada (guava paste), the pessegada (peach paste)…

“Major,” the cook snaps out, steel in his voice. “You’ll please refrain from serving yourself while on my canteen. And you’re only entitled to one serving of sweets like the rest of the base.”

“Wha-” Delavega opens his mouth to protest.

“And,” the sergeant cuts him off again, “This will be the last colonial breakfast we’ll have for a long time. I need to manage my supplies — I heard the quartermasters are hesitant to bring me extra supplies because of you. That’s a shame. We’ll have to ration more than the sweets from tomorrow on.

The Major’s face starts to get red halfway through the reprimand, and he’s working himself up to berate the lowly sergeant mythic who dared talk with a superior officer like this, he opens his mouth to begin— but he looks into the Chibamba’s eyes. There he sees iron, unbending and uncaring about his imminent outburst. Delavega is many things, but a fool is not one of these. So he takes a moment— many of them, and masters himself as much as he can.

His voice is clipped still, but he says, “And what do you mean by these limits, sergeant?”

“I mean I’m now officially adhering to Unity protocol, according to Regulation Book C-03. Mandatory dietary limits and luxury products rationing. And I’m the one in charge to make my supplies last. Would you be willing to take over that responsibility, sir?”

“Very well, sergeant. I can’t say that I’ll review your performance well. We all expect better,” Delavega concedes defeat, but not without a last barbed comment.

“Don’t we all, sir? Have a lovely breakfast.” The sarcasm is cutting, but dressing down the mythic after being denied sweets would look bad as hell — there aren’t many people inside, but they’re all watching the heated exchange, and rumors spread like wildfire. So, Major Delavega grunts irritably - and lets it go.

Fuck, he might be impertinent as hell, but the bastard has a hell of a backbone, thinks the major grudgingly as he savors his last decent breakfast in a while. He looks around, frowning, as Sergeant Kano doesn’t join him as usual. Where is that reprobate? he wonders, thinking of his relaxed but handy right-hand man. As Kano doesn’t show up, his mood gets even worse as he finishes his food. A scowl lies on his face as he leaves the canteen, his routine disturbed.

“Major Delavega!” a soldier shouts before he can walk five steps away from the canteen, pointing to someone rushing towards him like a mad woman, shouting hes lungs out. Well, trying to shout — no voice comes out of her mouth despite her attempts. Troopers passing by giving surprised looks to the unusual scene.

“Captain Roca! Use your chat, I can’t hear a word you’re saying,” the frustrated major orders his spellcaster leader, having to hold the brunette’s slender arms to calm her down. She stops and concentrates on it.

Major! That fucking hyena-Pig cast a mute spell on me!

“What? Lieutenant Bumba? He did that after I expressly put you on charge of the camp’s spellcasters?” he asks, his head starting to throb and veins to bulge as his usual cocky companion keeps up her tantrum.

“Enough, Lieutenant!” he shouts, cutting her mid silent tirade. “Lead me to the hy-, I mean, the Kishi lieutenant,” he corrects himself at time, mindful of the Racial Equality Committee — the hawk-eyed bastards were always ready to jump out of nowhere and write you a violation.

They walk with purpose to the spellcasters’ barracks, and the major slams the door open. One young, black-furred lieutenant is startled by their entrance and jumps away from her seat in her fright, catching the major’s eye. He can’t help but feel guilty for her fear-stricken expression.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant Bumba. I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh, that’s quite alright, major,” the culprit for his violent entrance interrupts him, sitting calmly on the barrack’s common table with a cane pointed to his chest. “It’s good for the youngsters to learn how to react. Don’t panic next time, my niece, just start casting a hex,” Lieutenant Bumba Senior lectures Lieutenant Bumba Junior or Bumbinha in the way Brazilians give nicknames, using the somewhat endearing diminutive.

“Sorry, uncle! And sorry too, major! It won’t happen again,” Bumbinha – Marta Bumba replies when she masters herself, standing to attention.

“No problems,” replies the major dismissively, already focusing his glare on the elder who keeps eating unperturbed. Roca nudges him to clear the way and then marches towards Bumba to demand with emphatic gestures that he remove the silent debuff. The man is wholly unmoved by the dark, overbearing gaze he’s receiving or the gestures.

“I’m afraid I can’t hear you,” he turns from his food to say to Roca, shrugs and goes back to eating.

Status Ailment: Silent (Hex) (Supercharged)

Effect: Consumes voice, affecting communications and spell-casting.

Estimated Time of Recovery: N/A

Medical Nanites are unable to counteract magical effects.

C.H.I.P. unable to dispel status ailment.

Please contact a specialized magical healer for treatment.

“Lieutenant Bumba — Bumba Senior. If you don’t provide me with a incredibly good reason why you cast a debuff on your commanding officer, I’m afraid I’ll have to take you into custody for assaulting a superior,” says Delavega with a grim expression, accessing his subordinate’s status report.

“Uncle, what is the major talking about?” asked Marta, looking from one to the other. “Is he accusing you of assaulting lieutenant Roca?”

“Oh, dear, I believe there’s been a misunderstanding,” he says, conversational and not raising an eyebrow at the prospect of incarceration or a military trial. Or at Roca’s rude gestures that the major pretends not to see.

“Spit it out, Lieutenant, my time and my patience are running short,” warns Delavega and Roca nods, vindictive.

“Yes, sir, of course. Well, you see, as you Snak— 1rst Regiment people like to remind us so often, we’re directly on the front line. We were attacked just the other day after all. So, following your guidance, I decided to improve my readiness. Hearing rumors about the Barkers’ spies lit a fire under me, naturally. We never know when a Digger kill-mage team might attack, so I laid down special hex traps through my bedroom - and my nieces’ with her permission. My enhancement allows me to, you see?”

Spirit Trapper Ritual (2 slot)

Traditional Ritual of the Zmirisk Spirit Hunters, bane of the evil magical spirits of planet Zmir.

Allows initiated spellcaster to cast three supercharged mana-based traps a day with improved mana efficiency.

Supercharged traps last longer and are far harder to dispel.

“Go on,” Delavega indicated, taking a quick look to confirm the spellcaster’s information. He grimaced, having an inkling where this was going. “Did you warn Captain Roca of your plans?” he prodded, trying to hurry it up.

“Oh, yes,” he agreed with a shit-eating grin.

Roca shook her head frantically in denial, gesturing a ‘no’ gesture with her finger.

“Let me guess, you can prove it?” Delavega asked, resigned.

“Oh, I believe my recorder was on by chance, yes. I warned Captain Roca yesterday when she was practicing yoga in the middle of the common area. It was right after I asked her to stop going through my personal items. I’ll send you the video.”

Delavega’s internal computer plays the video while the N.O.O.B. Chip transmits it to his overlay. He sees everything happened just like Lieutenant Bumba narrated, groaning at Roca’s dismissive attitude towards the vindictive Kishi. Roca facepalms, red with embarrassment.

“I see you’ve taught her a lesson while avoiding the consequences, Bumba. Find a better way next time, you hear?” Delavega says, looming over the spellcaster.

“Of course, sir. It would be my pleasure,” the snarky Kishi responds, making the Trasgo mage want to punch the smug smile out of his face.

“And remove the debuff from Captain Roca right now. You’re affecting the base’s readiness, and I’m not ready to forgive it.

“I’m afraid I can’t, Major. The regular ones I’d be able to, but not these. That was why I tried to warn her,” he replies, snorting at the evil eye Roca casts towards him. “She’ll have to talk to Lieutenant Friedsch or go to the Main Base if Fridy can’t dispel it.”

“I’ll not forget this, Bumba,” warns Delavega as he turns, coaxing the livid Roca out of the barracks.

“Yes, a most dire lapse of hearing your subordinates’ warnings,” the old Kish shoots back with a straight face as the major follows Roca out of the building. “I’m sure she won’t either.”

“Filho de uma égua…” curses the major.

Sorry, Major. He’s a lot more sneakier than I gave him credit for.

“That’s okay, Roca. Just don’t fall for the same trick twice. Go see their doctor and report to me. Ah, before you go: have you seen Eduardo?” he asks about Kano, whose actual name is Edward for some reason. Go figure, maybe his parents thought that the English-version of the name was cooler? Everyone just calls him Eduardo and damn it.

I think I saw him yesterday. He was with that assault sergeant that looks like a bodybuilder, you know?

Delavega thanks his subordinate and scratches his chin, thinking if he should ping Kano. Messaging unless strictly needed was frowned upon by the Unity’s first among equals — the AIs that forged the Alliance. The AIs try to limit the amount of digital immersion the fleshies expose themselves to; whole civilizations have been known to crumble because of unlimited and unregulated network access. However, when he begins composing a message, he hears his name called. Again.

“Captain, captain!” one Snaker soldier changes the direction he’s running to her commander when she sees him, calling loudly.

“Breathe, Private. Why are you running throughout the base in search of me?”

“The Pigs— I mean the pig-riders are rioting, they want to drown the base’s AI in the lake, sir!” the panting soldier says, eyes wide and terrified.

“AIs can’t drown, Private. That would be a really stupid weakness for intelligences that reached space-civilization millennia before us.”

“Oh, really? Well, I was guarding the lake and then I heard the AI was shouting for help like it was going to die,” replies the sheepish soldier. “The Corporal there sent me to find you to deal with the Caiporas — we know they can get violent.”

Sighing, Delavega gestures to the man, “Lead me there, I should probably get a handle on what our glorious space cavalry thinks it is doing.”