A spitting sound was heard from inside the Archon's office, followed by a choking sound.
“Get the medical teams on the line!”
“Archon, are you alright!?”
“Break down the door in three, two, one!”
A splitting sound was heard from outside the Archon's office, followed by a crashing sound.
“AAHAHAHAHA--” The Archon stopped mid-laugh. “Er, hi. What's going on, and why do I hear medical sirens?” She blinked and stared at the guardsmen who had just ruined a perfectly beautiful mahogany door.
“Madam, we thought-”
“What did I say about calling me 'Madam,' Jones?” She sighed and put her tea cup back on the saucer, which really didn't do much, considering the desk was covered entirely in spit coffee, three dollops of cream, seven spoons of sugar, a bit of whiskey equivalent.
“Er. I apologise... Ms. Hawke. Anywa-”
“Miri! Goddammit, call me Miri!” She sighed and stood up, picking up the tea cup and slamming it onto the saucer. “Hearing 'Ms. Hawke' and 'Madam' and 'Your Excellency' so much makes me feel like I'm eighty years old! Can't you cut me a break for once? Sheesh!” She sighed and facepalmed, then looked up at the gathered guards again. “Anyways.”
“Sorry... Miri.” Jones looked highly exasperated. “We thought you had encountered some sort of... pastry-related... culinary issue?”
Miri shot daggers at Jones. “...come on, haven't you read this press release?” She waved a hand at the generic future tech hovering display on her screen, which promptly took her hand movement the wrong way and decided to throw itself across the floor, jumbling holographic letters and lines all over the room. “Dammit!” The guards blanched. “Who the hell designed this technology?!” She groaned highly audibly, causing the guards to turn the colour of sour milk, then righted the screen and pointed it at them, showing the MRA statement. “You'd laugh too, if you had read this!”
Matter-of-factly, Jones replied simply. “We read it already, yes. And none of us laughed.”
“Your sense of humor sucks.” A slow shift from white to light, light green for the guardsmen's faces. “Anyways. Thanks for caring! But I gotta draft a reply to this. Can't go around ignoring something that threatens to wipe this star nation off the face of the galactic map! So, uh.” She waved a hand at the door. Er, I meant door fragments. “Shoo!”
Instant dispersal.
It's good to be king. Well, er, queen. Sorta.
Miri sat down, and sighed, before rapidly machinegun-tapping the keyboard to stretch her fingers, and began to write a message by moving the computer's mouse through a slop of dead coffee. ...er, I should clean that.
After a few more clumsy hijinks that, gratefully, will go unnoticed by the press, she managed to drunkenly eke out a reply.
Marie-- Miri, whatever-- pressed a button on a telephone near her.
FROM THE DESK OF ARCHON MARIE P. HAWKE
THE NONAGON, SARIS CITY, ARALONIA, JUALELO SYSTEM
Let's keep it short, aye? There's no reason to dilly-dally more with words. Let's face it – we're all members of species and beings in this entire galaxy. And as a result, the Royal Sovereignty of Aralonia declares its aid to nations within the Commonwealth and allied to said Commonwealth, whether it means via financial or military means. Also, we didn't do anything to them, but hey, if it means a free shot at wiping idiots like them and the people they represent off the map, then so be it.
Their mistake for sacrificing the lives of billions with such idiotic talk.
[signed with a flourish]
Marie P. Hawke
Archon of the Royal Sovereignty of Aralonia
[and all associated titles thereof]
"Generals! Scramble the bombers and launch the ships. We're goin' to war!"
.