Ch 4 - Welcome to Imperial Norway Male

A black train—or perhaps a rolling fortress—thundered into Gothenburg Central Station with the weight of an advancing war machine.

While the local Swedish trains were designed to blend seamlessly into the background—smooth, sleek, and painted in colors with names like Midsummer Sunrise and Soft Nordic Whisper—the Imperial Norwegian train had chosen a vastly different approach. This approach involved armor plating, blinking red lights that screamed “MILITARY” in Morse code, and a general demeanor that suggested it would very much like to crush the train station into submission.

As it pulled in, the station trembled. The air buzzed with static electricity, a side effect of the train’s high-voltage capacitors dumping their charge to bring the absurdly heavy machine to a halt. Then, with a sharp, mechanical hiss, the pneumatic doors exhaled, like a giant metal creature sighing at the futility of existence.

Vieregg swallowed. He had an overwhelming sense that this was a bad idea, which, in his experience, meant that this was definitely a bad idea.

Then the passengers emerged.

The men and women who stepped onto the platform did not walk so much as march efficiently in synchronized formation, their platinum-blonde hair and perfectly tailored uniforms of red, black, and white making them look less like commuters and more like an invading force that had somehow managed to buy tickets in advance.

"Jesus Christ," Vieregg muttered. "It’s like a Leni Riefenstahl film had a baby with a Goth nightclub."

Idun, standing beside him, simply watched—not with pride, not with discomfort, but with the resigned expression of someone watching a distant relative make a scene at a family gathering.

Vieregg, on the other hand, felt his skin crawl.

Because while they were still in Sweden, standing in the safe, comfortable confines of a perfectly ordinary Nordic train station, this train—and the people exiting it—felt like a foreign country arriving one compartment at a time.

This wasn’t Imperial Norway, not yet. But it was the first crack in the illusion that he was still home.

The pneumatic doors exhaled again, urging them forward. Idun stepped inside without hesitation. Vieregg followed with considerably more hesitation but far fewer options.

Inside, the train was precisely as severe as expected, but also not quite what Vieregg had imagined.

It wasn’t cheap or utilitarian—this was no Soviet-era relic, slapped together out of concrete and regret. No, this was modern, expensive, and undeniably advanced, but with the aesthetic sensibilities of a weapons manufacturer who had accidentally been asked to design public transport.

The walls were brushed steel, reinforced with titanium alloy struts that suggested the train had been built to withstand small explosions, in case that was ever necessary. The seats were firm, ergonomic, and engineered with cold efficiency—comfortable, but not in a way that encouraged relaxation. The lighting was precisely calibrated, illuminating everything equally, unemotionally, as though warmth was considered an unnecessary luxury.

Above, a faint pulse of energy vibrated through the air as the capacitors recharged, preparing to hurl the massive machine toward Oslo at speeds that, given its weight, were probably at the upper limits of what physics found reasonable.

Vieregg exhaled. “This isn’t a train, Idun. It’s a factory floor with seating.”

Idun gave a small chuckle as she settled into her seat. “Yeah. That’s fair.”

Vieregg shot her a look. “Why does it have to look like this?”

"Psychology matters in war, Vieregg," Idun said, her voice level, as if explaining something obvious to a particularly stubborn child. "When I walk on the street today, guys whistle at me. But when I donned the black matriarchal armor serving in occupied territories, I became a different person. People instantly fear you.”

Vieregg swallowed.

He thought back to the first time they met, when she casually caught a falling cylinder from his Stirling engine model like it was nothing. He had still been registering that it had slipped from his fingers, and she had already snatched it out of the air without breaking stride.

He glanced around at the train’s militarized interior, trying to focus on something else. Cold, brushed steel walls. Reinforced paneling. A precision-engineered environment that did not believe in comfort, but was willing to tolerate it.

"This still looks totally ridiculous," he muttered, running a hand across the smooth, gunmetal surface of the armrest. "It’s like something out of a dystopian movie, the kind where the train is a metaphor for oppression and the people inside it start disappearing one by one."

Idun tilted her head, considering. Then, after a moment, she said, "And yet, here you are, willingly sitting in it."

Vieregg narrowed his eyes.

She smiled—not mocking, just pleased with herself.

A brief silence stretched between them, the kind that comes when both parties believe they have won the argument.

Then, instead of answering his earlier question, Idun went straight for the heart of things.

"Well, you didn’t experience the brutal Novi Soviet invasion and occupation," she said, her voice calm but steady. "Nor the rebellion against their allies, the New Confederates. You guys just yielded and made peace with those bastards."

Vieregg sat up straighter. "We didn’t ‘yield.’ We—”

"We never want to experience that again," Idun continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. "You keep the peace by preparing for war."

Vieregg exhaled sharply through his nose.

Before he could decide whether to lecture her about Sweden’s strategic pragmatism, the train doors clanked shut, sealing them inside with a heavy, mechanical finality.

A high-pitched whine filled the air as the high-voltage capacitors discharged, surging enough current into the motors to make the massive steel beast lurch forward. The countryside outside the window blurred, Sweden slowly slipping away.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, Idun glanced at him, and—without prelude or ceremony—addressed the assumption hanging in the air between them.

"Why would I not have served in the army, Vieregg?" she said, as if she truly wanted to know how he had come to this conclusion.

Vieregg blinked, caught off guard.

Idun tilted her head slightly, watching him try to figure out a way to backpedal. "I am a woman. All women serve in Imperial Norway."

Vieregg opened his mouth—then closed it.

Idun gave him a small smile, one he couldn’t quite read. “I’m not the big-boobed bimbo you think I am," she added, her voice teasing, but not unkind.

Vieregg scoffed, shifting in his seat. "I never said that."

Idun arched an eyebrow, amused. "No, but you thought it."

Vieregg sighed, rubbing his temple. "I just—didn’t assume, that’s all."

She let him suffer in silence for a moment before saying, "And I don't think we should sit across from each other if you’re going to stare at my chest the entire trip."

Vieregg, to his credit, attempted to lie convincingly.

"I'm not looking," he said.

Idun smiled, shaking her head.

"Yeah, you were," she said, teasingly. "You aren’t very good at lying, Vieregg."

Vieregg crossed his arms, trying to look indifferent. "I wasn’t looking."

Idun leaned back in her seat, watching him with quiet amusement. "Then tell me what color my eyes are."

Vieregg immediately regretted everything.

Vieregg exhaled sharply, his patience wearing thin. "Okay, whatever, so I look at your chest. Maybe you shouldn’t wear such tight clothing showing so much cleavage, then."

Idun’s expression barely changed, but the shift in her tone was unmistakable.

"Slut-shaming, now, are we?"

The train hummed steadily, picking up speed as the Swedish countryside blurred past the window.

Vieregg looked away, jaw tightening. "Whatever." Then, after a pause, he added, "About the military, I just thought you had a professional army like us Swedes. Like normal countries."

He knew exactly what he was doing.

He liked getting a rise out of Idun—there was something about the way her eyes flashed when she was annoyed, something that made her look even hotter, though he’d rather die than admit that out loud.

Idun let out a slow breath, then turned to him. "You just like annoying me, don’t you?"

Vieregg didn’t deny it. He just gave a small shrug. "Passes the time."

Idun shook her head slightly, then spoke with measured irritation. "You know, I tried dressing differently, Vieregg. I tried dressing ‘properly.’ You know what happened?"

Vieregg glanced at her, waiting.

"It didn’t work." Her voice was calm but firm. "It isn’t my clothes that are the problem, it’s my body."

She didn’t sound defensive—just tired.

"You guys will never not comment on it. And I’m not going to let a bunch of chauvinist engineers in the office shame me into dressing like a nun."

She looked at him, expression firm but not angry, just resolute. "I am not ashamed of my body, Vieregg."

Now Vieregg was the one getting annoyed. He turned toward the window, watching the little red houses by the lake pass by. They were getting close to the Norwegian border.

The whole conversation was starting to remind him of arguments he had with his sister, Petra. He missed her. They had fought a lot, especially toward the end, but he still loved her. Where was she now?

And why could women never take responsibility for their actions?

"You think you can look like that and men aren't going to notice? Aren't going to find you attractive?" Vieregg said, his voice sharper now. He felt the need to stand up for men, always getting belittled by Idun.

Idun turned toward him, eyes light with mischief now. "Do you find me attractive, Vieregg?"

Vieregg stiffened slightly, caught off guard.

"Do you find me sexy?" she asked, teasing, but watching him closely.

Vieregg felt heat creep into his face. He thought about her tight dress in the office, how unprofessional it had been. He was her boss, he had to be better than this.

But she had seduced him. How was he supposed to withstand someone who looked like her?

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to sound detached. "I think we already established that."

Idun smirked, enjoying his discomfort. "Do you have sexual fantasies about me?"

Vieregg turned to her sharply. "I think you’re asking inappropriate questions. Do I need to remind you I am your boss?"

His voice came out more agitated than authoritative, and he knew it.

Idun simply smiled.

Looking out the window, Vieregg saw that they were approaching Halden.

It was a town that belonged on postcards—a quaint little cluster of colorful wooden houses by the Oslofjord, the kind of place that would make an excellent setting for a crime novel where nothing bad ever happened until suddenly, everything did.

But Halden’s picturesque charm had a permanent guest looming over it.

A black Imperial Tower stood above the city, watching everything beneath it with the kind of presence that suggested it wasn’t just there for decoration.

Vieregg had heard his father talk about them. Massive, fortified structures, part military stronghold, part airship docking station, part ominous statement of intent.

They were impossible to miss.

Norway was a country with two faces.

One was the breathtaking landscapes—fjords, mountains, forests, and small towns that looked like they belonged on chocolate tins.

The other was steel, concrete, and militarized authority, standing silent and absolute over it all.

His thoughts were interrupted by Idun’s voice, casual but sharp enough to cut through his brooding.

"There's the hypocrisy, Vieregg," she said. "You guys can sexualize me, make crude comments, sexist remarks—but when I do it, suddenly it's inappropriate?"

She smirked. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that you're quite handsome?"

Vieregg hesitated.

He wasn’t sure if she was toying with him.

Girls had said it before, but he never understood girls.

If he was handsome, why had he never had much luck with them?

"Yeah…" he answered, letting the word hang there like an abandoned thought.

Idun studied him for a second, tilting her head like she was trying to solve a puzzle that shouldn’t be difficult but somehow was.

"You don’t seem to believe it," she noted.

Vieregg shifted in his seat, staring out the window. "I think you’re getting too personal," he said, mildly bothered.

Idun scoffed.

"Oh sure, let’s talk about Idun’s big, juicy tits and fat ass instead, then." Her voice was coated in sarcasm so thick it could have been spread on toast.

Vieregg didn’t answer.

The train picked up speed, and Halden disappeared from view.

Even without signs or announcements, he could tell he was no longer in Sweden.

The landscape wasn’t as flat anymore, and the houses weren’t huddled together in neatly organized clusters like they were on the Swedish side.

Norwegians liked their space.

Swedes preferred their civilized little towns, compact and well-ordered. Norwegians preferred to spread themselves out, like people who didn’t entirely trust their neighbors but were still polite enough to wave from a distance.

And despite the destruction of war, one thing was obvious: Norway was the wealthier country.

The houses were bigger, fancier, well-maintained—even out here, near the border, where scars of invasion still lingered.

It wasn’t without reason he was setting up manufacturing in Oslo.

The regime had deep pockets.

Oil had ceased to matter, but the money it built still existed—a fortune accumulated over decades.

And Imperial Norway knew how to spend it.

The conductor walked past again, checking tickets.

Vieregg heard her before he saw her—the thud of armored boots against the steel floor, each step landing with the weight of absolute authority and possibly reinforced plating.

The woman was built like a security checkpoint.

A large blonde, hair cropped short, dressed in full black armor that looked better suited for a military operation than for making sure people hadn’t boarded the train without paying.

And she was armed.

A Krag 20 gauss pistol rested on her hip, the kind of weapon that could turn an unruly passenger into a cautionary tale in under a second.

Vieregg recognized the model immediately. Kongsberg Defense was already working on the Krag 22, a next-gen gauss pistol that, if all went according to plan, would be even more precise, lethal, and wildly inappropriate for public transport.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Armed conductors in Imperial Norway is utterly ridiculous."

Idun turned toward him, unimpressed.

"Oh, so I’m a slut, and my home country is ridiculous?" she said, folding her arms.

Vieregg opened his mouth, then closed it.

Idun’s voice was steady, but there was a clear edge to it now. "Easy for you to say. You don’t have Red Pill insurgents terrorizing Sweden."

She had mentioned them before, always with disdain.

They were the leftovers from the old patriarchal puppet regime, the remnants of Henrik Nyborg’s rule, calling themselves ‘male rights activists’ or, more commonly, ‘red-pilled men.’

They were also, according to Idun, one of the key reasons martial law and heavy security were still in place.

Vieregg scoffed. "The Red Pillers are so dangerous you need armed conductors?"

Idun didn’t so much as blink. "Yeah, Vieregg. They actually attack trains."

Vieregg made a small, skeptical noise.

"Two years ago, a conductor got into a firefight with three male insurgents trying to hijack a train to Bergen," Idun said, her voice matter-of-fact.

Vieregg paused, processing that. "Really?"

"Yes, really," she said, giving him the kind of look reserved for particularly slow learners.

Vieregg was still trying to picture it—a ticket-checking firefight—when Idun let out a huff of frustration.

"You Swedes are so judgmental. A country of no patriotism. No pride. You judge us for loving our motherland."

She crossed her arms, the way someone does when they are already prepared for an argument but deeply tired of having to make it.

And, annoyingly, she wasn’t entirely wrong.

Norwegians had always been more patriotic than Swedes.

Vieregg remembered his mother, how she would proudly wave Norwegian flags on the 17th of May, how she had tried to instill some sense of national identity in him, but it had never quite stuck.

His memories of Norway were faint, almost dreamlike.

Sweden had taught him that nationalism was dangerous, that patriotism led to problems.

Now, sitting here, watching Idun’s obvious national pride, he found himself uncomfortably between two worlds.

"You know I’m actually Norwegian, Idun," he said finally, keeping his tone even. "I was born there. My mother is Norwegian."

Idun tilted her head slightly, studying him as if just now remembering that fact.

"You Swedes are such stuck-ups. I think you need to loosen up a bit," Idun said casually.

Then, without warning, she lifted her foot and placed her high-heeled platform shoe between his legs, pressing gently against his crotch.

Vieregg went completely still.

"Idun, stop! That is inappropriate." His voice was somewhere between scandalized and barely restrained panic. "I am your boss."

Idun smirked. "So is hanging up posters of me half-naked in the office."

Vieregg winced.

"'Boys just having a bit of fun,' you said," she continued, her tone mocking his own past words back at him.

She pressed a little more, just enough to make him exhale sharply.

"Well, this is Idun having a bit of fun," she teased, gently massaging his crotch with the front of her shoe.

Vieregg was now facing the single greatest crisis of his professional career.

Because he was getting aroused.

A normal man, in a normal situation, might have had a clear response to this. Push her away. Stop this immediately. Make a firm statement about professionalism.

Vieregg, however, was incapable of deciding whether he should stop her or not.

There was no denying he was deeply attracted to Idun.

He liked how shamelessly naughty she was, how she never acted like she had anything to apologize for.

He grabbed her leg, intending to push her away.

Instead, he hesitated, his hand resting on her calf.

Idun bit her lip, tilting her head in mock innocence.

"Oh, Vieregg," she purred, deliberately amping up the bimbo persona, her voice airy, teasing. "I love how you touch me."

Vieregg gritted his teeth.

This will end badly if I don't control myself, he thought.

Then Idun pouted, tapping a finger against her lower lip. "You know I’m a sex addict, Vieregg. Don’t you?"

Vieregg swallowed hard. "Yes…"

"You know what that means?"

Vieregg had no idea. "No. Not really."

Idun sighed, as if he was being purposefully dense.

"It means I need regular, deep penetration," she said in a sultry voice, drawing out the last two words with deliberate, agonizing slowness.

Vieregg’s brain had officially left the building.

"Are you ready to give me that deep penetration, Mr. Vieregg?"

That snapped him back.

"Stop, Idun. Just stop! This can’t go on," he protested, but his willpower was actively betraying him.

A large and increasingly persuasive part of him just wanted to give in.

Idun tilted her head, looking delightfully pleased with herself.

"'Boys will be boys,'" she said sweetly. "Didn’t you say that when your engineers sexually humiliated me?"

Vieregg winced again.

"Well," Idun continued, pressing just a little harder, her tone mock-thoughtful, "slutty girls will be slutty girls. I can’t help myself. I need some of that nice, fat cock you’ve got hidden in those pants."

Vieregg made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

He still couldn’t decide what he wanted.

And Idun?

Idun just kept rubbing.

"I think," she mused, her grin wicked, "we should go to the fuck room, Vieregg."

"Fuck room?" Vieregg repeated, blinking.

Idun grinned. "Hehe, you don’t have those in Sweden. But in Imperial Norway, they’re everywhere."

She gestured toward the hallway. "There’s a room next to the bathroom in this car."

Vieregg was still processing this information when somehow, through a sequence of decisions he wasn’t entirely sure he made, he suddenly found himself inside a fuck room on board an armored Norwegian train.

One moment, they had been talking.

The next, Idun was undressing him, and he was undressing her, and there was absolutely no going back.

She pressed against him, and his hands found her hips, her thighs, the curve of her ass. He could feel her breasts against his chest, could feel her warmth, could hear the sharp intake of breath as his fingers moved lower.

And then they were kissing, deep and hungry, her tongue pushing into his mouth, their hands moving as if all logic had officially left the train car and only instinct remained.

Idun’s fingers wrapped around his cock.

His hand slipped between her legs.

It was about to happen.

It was happening.

And then—

His inner voice of reason ruined everything.

It wasn’t just any voice.

It was the voice of his father, Carl Vieregg.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a flashback played—his father, scolding Petra, saying something annoyingly self-righteous, something about restraint and dignity and not making a complete fool of yourself for a beautiful woman just because she’s naked and aggressively offering it to you.

Vieregg froze.

The whole situation crashed into him at once—the train, the militarized surroundings, the fact that he was about to have sex with his employee in a designated train fuck room.

His entire body screamed to keep going.

His brain, now fully hijacked by the ghost of his father’s moralizing lectures, screamed to stop.

"I can’t do this, I can’t do this," he muttered, grabbing for his underwear.

Idun, still naked, stared at him in complete puzzlement. "Okay?"

Vieregg didn’t answer.

He was already pulling on his pants, already stumbling for the door, already escaping whatever massive mistake he had almost committed.

As he stepped out into the hallway, he heard Idun’s voice behind him, full of irritation and disappointment.

"You are a boring, stuck-up Swedish prude!"

Vieregg let out a short, exasperated laugh, turning back toward the door.

"I thought I was a sexist asshole?"

"That too!" Idun snapped.

Then something flew past his head.

A high-heeled shoe clattered against the wall behind him.

It missed.

He strongly suspected the miss was intentional.

Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be.

Vieregg took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair, trying to regain some level of composure as the train exited a tunnel—

And suddenly, Oslo came into view.

The train glided into Oslo, slowing as the city opened up before them.

At first glance, it looked like any other modern Scandinavian capital—the Oslofjord stretching out beyond the skyline, the green hills rolling in the distance, clusters of colorful 19th-century buildings lining the waterfront.

But you didn’t have to look too closely before realizing this was not just Oslo anymore.

This was the capital of the Empire.

The Imperial Towers shattered any illusion of normalcy.

They rose like monoliths, their matte black exteriors absorbing the light, broken only by lines of red LEDs pulsing rhythmically, guiding the enormous airships that maneuvered to dock at their summits. The largest of them all loomed over the city center, its surface draped with enormous red-and-black banners bearing the MNP insignia—a bold, geometric triangle bisected by a vertical line.

The symbol of the Matriarchy Nationalist Party.

There were no Norwegian flags.

At street level, the city was thick with security. Armored female soldiers patrolled in formation, their black uniforms polished to a stark shine, the MNP emblem sewn onto their sleeves. Large digital billboards flashed state propaganda, showing women in crisp uniforms saluting, Imperial airships cutting through the sky, and—most frequently—Supreme Leader Svanhild Hvidsten staring down at her people with calculated severity.

Beneath her face, the slogan read:

"Honor. Strength. Loyalty."

Vieregg let out a slow breath, his fingers tapping absently against the armrest.

"What do you think?" Idun asked beside him.

He stared out the window, taking in the cold, authoritarian beauty of it all.

"Looks like a dystopian fever dream," he muttered.

Idun exhaled sharply, pressing her forehead against the glass. "You are such an asshole, Vieregg. You just cannot say anything nice, ever, can you?"

Vieregg turned slightly, noticing that when she leaned forward, her impossibly large chest squished against the window.

It was extremely difficult to be in Idun’s presence without being constantly reminded of sex.

Letting go of her naked body against his had required a heroic level of willpower.

He smirked. "It’s my superpower."

Idun scoffed. "Hahaha, you’re so funny, Vieregg."

But he caught the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of her lips.

The train slowed further, then lurched to a halt. The doors hissed open, and Vieregg stepped onto the platform.

The air hit him first—crisp, cold, and heavy with surveillance.

Oslo was alive with sound—the deep rumble of armored vehicles, the distant wail of sirens, the ever-present murmur of voices, hushed and measured, as if the city itself was careful not to speak too loudly.

Cameras were everywhere.

Security was impossible to ignore.

Armored women stood at every checkpoint, their black rifles slung across their chests, their eyes scanning the crowd with practiced efficiency.

Vieregg had seen these uniforms before.

In Hollywood movies, they were always the bad guys.

Idun nudged him sharply. "Keep your fucking gaze down, Vieregg."

He blinked, caught off guard.

He had been watching a group of blonde officers near a station checkpoint, their armor sleeker, more elaborate than the others.

They noticed him.

And they started walking toward him.

Vieregg immediately didn’t like this.

Beside him, Idun inhaled sharply.

"You are a man. Keep your head down." Her voice was low, urgent. "You just stared at Inquisition officers. That is a very bad idea."

Vieregg frowned. "And you didn’t think to tell me this before?"

Idun hissed through her teeth. "I thought you did a minimal amount of research before coming here. Like knowing not to stare at the fucking Inquisition."

The women were getting closer.

One of them signaled for him to halt.

Vieregg felt his pulse tick up. "What the fuck does being handsome have to do with anything?" he muttered.

Idun shot him a side glance, still keeping her voice low.

"Did you forget we’re all sex addicts here?" she whispered. "And the Inquisition attracts the worst deviants. They will use any excuse to interrogate an attractive-looking man like you."

Vieregg’s stomach dropped slightly.

"I am the CEO of a major industrial conglomerate. They can’t do this."

"True," Idun admitted. "Just don’t push your luck. Don’t act like your usual sexist, annoying self. Show some humility. No smartass responses. Make sure they know how important you are."

Two broad-shouldered blondes in black armor loomed over him, their expressions unreadable.

One word.

"Papers."

Vieregg pulled out his ID and entry visa, trying to steady himself.

He straightened his posture, keeping his voice firm.

"I am Povel Vieregg, CEO of Vieregg Industries, conducting business in Oslo."

In the corner of his eye, he saw Idun roll her eyes dramatically.

One of the officers glanced at his papers, then looked back at him.

"Did we tell you to speak, male?"

Vieregg forced himself not to react.

Idun stepped forward quickly, her tone calm and composed.

"Honored officers, this man is in my care. He is unfamiliar with our ways. He is here on important business for the regime."

The officer barely glanced at her.

"Step aside, miss. There was a Red Pill attack on the Inquisition HQ today. We are performing a broad sweep for suspects. Your male fits our profile."

Vieregg sighed heavily.

His old homeland was giving him such a warm welcome.

Before he could react, rough hands grabbed him, and he was being escorted away.

"Vieregg!" Idun’s voice rang out behind him. "Hang in there! I’m going to get you out!"

He was stuffed into an armored truck, the doors slamming shut behind him.

Welcome to Imperial Norway.