07-13-2026, 09:45 PM
Yürekhtokh, Karakhtan
"Alright everyone, let’s get your pitches in before I start assigning you all to cover the local sewage treatment plant remodeling.”
Janis Kambarov, the Eirian-born desk editor and chief of the Caxcanan Daily Ledger’s Yüretokh bureau, sat at the head of the small meeting table, twirling a pen between his stubby fingers. Reporting notebooks and writing implements were strewn across the hardwood table, ensuring that no journalist could justify not taking notes in every meeting.
Ulan, a senior reporter who mainly covered the mountainous and rural areas outside of the capital, spoke up first in his deep baritone voice.
“I would like to work on a few pieces on the Temida train line shutdown and its effects. Commuting workers and students getting screwed, businesses losing customers, what caused the track to give out, that sort of thing,” He said, passing his notebook to Kambarov. “It could make for a good few articles and a broader feature on rural infrastructure.”
“Alright, sounds good. Good luck on getting the Minister of Transportation to speak with you, though. He’s notoriously flighty,” Kambarov quipped, returning the notebook back to its owner. “Yusup, you’re next. How’s the story on that hospital in the west suburbs coming along?”
“It’s mostly done, save for the testimony of a doctor that has been really bad at returning my calls. I should have it in before deadline, though,” the tall and lanky social services reporter said, adjusting his tie. “I would like to do a follow-up story soon on local hospitals having underqualified nurses, however.”
Kambarov nodded. “Interesting. See me after you have some of the details and I’ll weigh in. I worry that we may have problems with privacy laws on that one.” He turned to the next journalist down the line. “Alright, Arzu. How’s the press corps?”
Arzu, a shorter woman in her thirties with neatly bobbed black hair, looked up from her notes. “Uneventful. Seytbedin may try to come across as honest and actually answer questions, but his aides are remarkably shifty.” She flipped through a few pages until she found the one that she needed. “I did notice that they glossed over a train station renovation announcement yesterday during the briefing, and after a little digging, I found that it’s a brand new company without many public documents. I think it’s probably a handout to someone’s kid.”
Kambarov raised an eyebrow. “Keep pulling on that thread, and bring it up the next time they take questions. If you need help, Sezim can do some digging.”
The young investigative journalist looked up as her name was mentioned, zoning back into the conversation. “Of course. I can help with whatever you need.”
“Oh! That reminds me…” Her boss said, rifling around in his suitcase before pulling out a folder and sliding it over to her. “We got an anonymous tip that there are a couple of brand-new companies hiring a lot of former police officers and security guards. I don’t know if it’ll lead to anything newsworthy, but if there’s a story there, I know you’ll find it. You’re our best person for deep dives, so why don't you poke around a bit and see what you find. Otherwise, all we'd have for you is more profiles on Olympiad medalists, and those aren't urgent or very investigative.”
Sezim flipped through the folder, examining page after page of faint corporate records that appeared to have been hastily faxed to the Daily Ledger’s small office. “Interesting… I'll take a look and let you know what I find.”
Kambarov nodded, standing and adjusting his suit. “Alright then. You have your marching orders, now let's get out there. Not a moment to waste!”
—
Sezim rested her head on the back of her seat, the rocking of the city bus on the bumpy road threatening to make anyone who isn't from Yürektokh nauseous. Row after row of green-gray apartment complexes passed outside the window, homes for the capital’s large working-class population. The light rain pattering on the ground outside brought a relieving wave of coolness to the stuffy and crowded bus.
As the bus lurched to a stop outside a dilapidated electronics shop, Sezim maneuvered her way to the front of the bus, squeezing past a few commuters with obnoxiously large briefcases to hop off of the bus. Being careful to not step in the large puddles created by Yürektokh’s outdated storm drain systems, she made her way into a nondescript apartment building and up three flights of stairs. Ugh, why did I wear these boots?
Upon reaching apartment 42D, she paused, steeling her nerves before giving the door a few knocks. The seconds ticked by as she waited in the hall, looking down at her feet until her friend and former colleague Aibek opened the door.
“Sez! How sweet of you to come by. Come in, come in.” He waved her inside, closing the door with one hand as his other held tightly onto his crutch.
“Hey, Aibek. How have you been?” Sezim followed him slowly into the small apartment, hesitantly taking a seat on the couch.
“I've been alright. The restaurant has been constantly busy with students grabbing meals between their courses, but they keep us in business, so I can't complain.” Aibek moved toward the kitchen, balancing a plate of fresh zamzas and dipping sauce with his free hand and moving toward the living room.
Sezim lept up right away, taking the plate from his hand. “Oh no, let me help with that.”
“I'm not going to fall over and die at the first gust of wind, Sez. I can move a plate of snacks without assistance,” he grumbled lightheartedly. “You better eat those. My father would have my hide if he found out I let you go unfed while in my apartment.”
“No problem at all,” she replied, picking up one of the meat-stuffed triangular pastries and dipped it in the spiced yogurt sauce. “Mm… did your father make these?” She asked, practically melting into the chair in adoration of the snack.
“I did, under his watchful guidance. He needs to retire, but he also feels deeply guilty at any perception of idleness.” Aibek watched her eat with an expression of subtle pride as he lamented his life at the family restaurant. “If it wouldn't require a bribe or a pilgrimage to different fortune tellers, I'd see if he could join some priesthood somewhere to give him something to do.”
“Thinking about your father performing any sort of rite is terrifying. Temples are intimidating enough without a two-meter tall baker lecturing you on your piety,” Sezim quipped.
Aibek chuckled dryly. “True enough. So, how's the old crew?”
“They’re doing well. Busy, not much to report. Ulan's getting married again, so you'll probably get an invite soon.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Really, again? Who's the lucky woman this time around?”
“A lovely girl named Reyhan. She's a nurse at Jumayev Memorial. Not sure if she knows what she's getting into, but hey, the Majiliz passed divorce legislation for a reason.” The tone of Sezim’s voice shifted from joking to something softer, more cautious. “...Have you considered coming back to the Ledger?”
Aibek sighed, running a hand through his black hair and trying not to make eye contact. “I have.”
“And?”
He was silent for a few moments. “I'm sorry, Sez. I can't. With Mom being sick and Dad trying to retire, I'm needed at the restaurant more and more. And… well, look at me.” He gestured toward his leg braces and crutch.
Sezim pursed her lips. “I understand, but… you're the best investigative reporter I've ever known. One of the best journalists our country has seen in a while. And I can't imagine the restaurant is good for your legs either!”
“I have chairs there, plus my braces. It's all stationary work, and my sister takes care of the lifting.” Aibek’s eyes grew a bit teary, and he looked away. “I can't do the same kind of running around, wading through protests, and fleeing security guards that I did before. I also think there are officials that are having me watched every few days at the restaurant, and I can't put anyone at risk. All that would be left for me to do at the Ledger is copy editing, and I'd rather burn myself on a tandyr everyday than have to get weird looks from everyone on the desk for ‘messing with their style.’” He sighed, grabbing a zamza for himself and picking away at the crust. “I'm sorry, but I just can't.”
Sezim cracked a smile, though her eyes were full of emotion and understanding. “That’s okay. I just figured… I just figured I'd ask. We all miss you, y’know.”
Aibek smiled. “Can't do anything without me, can you now?”
“I guess not,” she said with a grin. “Oh, also, that reminds me, do you still have that friend who works at the Interior Ministry?”
“Meryem? Yeah, I still keep in touch with her.” He leaned forward in his chair. “What's up?”
“Oh, nothing in particular. I am just chasing down rumors of security and police officers being hired privately and I was wondering if she would know anything about it.”
Aibek pondered the thought for a moment. “Well, if anything’s going on over there, she’ll know about it. I'll invite her over for tea and see what I can get out of her.” He grabbed another zamza. “So, is Kambarov still a gruff but respectful pain in the ass?”
“Oh, you have no idea…”
"Alright everyone, let’s get your pitches in before I start assigning you all to cover the local sewage treatment plant remodeling.”
Janis Kambarov, the Eirian-born desk editor and chief of the Caxcanan Daily Ledger’s Yüretokh bureau, sat at the head of the small meeting table, twirling a pen between his stubby fingers. Reporting notebooks and writing implements were strewn across the hardwood table, ensuring that no journalist could justify not taking notes in every meeting.
Ulan, a senior reporter who mainly covered the mountainous and rural areas outside of the capital, spoke up first in his deep baritone voice.
“I would like to work on a few pieces on the Temida train line shutdown and its effects. Commuting workers and students getting screwed, businesses losing customers, what caused the track to give out, that sort of thing,” He said, passing his notebook to Kambarov. “It could make for a good few articles and a broader feature on rural infrastructure.”
“Alright, sounds good. Good luck on getting the Minister of Transportation to speak with you, though. He’s notoriously flighty,” Kambarov quipped, returning the notebook back to its owner. “Yusup, you’re next. How’s the story on that hospital in the west suburbs coming along?”
“It’s mostly done, save for the testimony of a doctor that has been really bad at returning my calls. I should have it in before deadline, though,” the tall and lanky social services reporter said, adjusting his tie. “I would like to do a follow-up story soon on local hospitals having underqualified nurses, however.”
Kambarov nodded. “Interesting. See me after you have some of the details and I’ll weigh in. I worry that we may have problems with privacy laws on that one.” He turned to the next journalist down the line. “Alright, Arzu. How’s the press corps?”
Arzu, a shorter woman in her thirties with neatly bobbed black hair, looked up from her notes. “Uneventful. Seytbedin may try to come across as honest and actually answer questions, but his aides are remarkably shifty.” She flipped through a few pages until she found the one that she needed. “I did notice that they glossed over a train station renovation announcement yesterday during the briefing, and after a little digging, I found that it’s a brand new company without many public documents. I think it’s probably a handout to someone’s kid.”
Kambarov raised an eyebrow. “Keep pulling on that thread, and bring it up the next time they take questions. If you need help, Sezim can do some digging.”
The young investigative journalist looked up as her name was mentioned, zoning back into the conversation. “Of course. I can help with whatever you need.”
“Oh! That reminds me…” Her boss said, rifling around in his suitcase before pulling out a folder and sliding it over to her. “We got an anonymous tip that there are a couple of brand-new companies hiring a lot of former police officers and security guards. I don’t know if it’ll lead to anything newsworthy, but if there’s a story there, I know you’ll find it. You’re our best person for deep dives, so why don't you poke around a bit and see what you find. Otherwise, all we'd have for you is more profiles on Olympiad medalists, and those aren't urgent or very investigative.”
Sezim flipped through the folder, examining page after page of faint corporate records that appeared to have been hastily faxed to the Daily Ledger’s small office. “Interesting… I'll take a look and let you know what I find.”
Kambarov nodded, standing and adjusting his suit. “Alright then. You have your marching orders, now let's get out there. Not a moment to waste!”
—
Sezim rested her head on the back of her seat, the rocking of the city bus on the bumpy road threatening to make anyone who isn't from Yürektokh nauseous. Row after row of green-gray apartment complexes passed outside the window, homes for the capital’s large working-class population. The light rain pattering on the ground outside brought a relieving wave of coolness to the stuffy and crowded bus.
As the bus lurched to a stop outside a dilapidated electronics shop, Sezim maneuvered her way to the front of the bus, squeezing past a few commuters with obnoxiously large briefcases to hop off of the bus. Being careful to not step in the large puddles created by Yürektokh’s outdated storm drain systems, she made her way into a nondescript apartment building and up three flights of stairs. Ugh, why did I wear these boots?
Upon reaching apartment 42D, she paused, steeling her nerves before giving the door a few knocks. The seconds ticked by as she waited in the hall, looking down at her feet until her friend and former colleague Aibek opened the door.
“Sez! How sweet of you to come by. Come in, come in.” He waved her inside, closing the door with one hand as his other held tightly onto his crutch.
“Hey, Aibek. How have you been?” Sezim followed him slowly into the small apartment, hesitantly taking a seat on the couch.
“I've been alright. The restaurant has been constantly busy with students grabbing meals between their courses, but they keep us in business, so I can't complain.” Aibek moved toward the kitchen, balancing a plate of fresh zamzas and dipping sauce with his free hand and moving toward the living room.
Sezim lept up right away, taking the plate from his hand. “Oh no, let me help with that.”
“I'm not going to fall over and die at the first gust of wind, Sez. I can move a plate of snacks without assistance,” he grumbled lightheartedly. “You better eat those. My father would have my hide if he found out I let you go unfed while in my apartment.”
“No problem at all,” she replied, picking up one of the meat-stuffed triangular pastries and dipped it in the spiced yogurt sauce. “Mm… did your father make these?” She asked, practically melting into the chair in adoration of the snack.
“I did, under his watchful guidance. He needs to retire, but he also feels deeply guilty at any perception of idleness.” Aibek watched her eat with an expression of subtle pride as he lamented his life at the family restaurant. “If it wouldn't require a bribe or a pilgrimage to different fortune tellers, I'd see if he could join some priesthood somewhere to give him something to do.”
“Thinking about your father performing any sort of rite is terrifying. Temples are intimidating enough without a two-meter tall baker lecturing you on your piety,” Sezim quipped.
Aibek chuckled dryly. “True enough. So, how's the old crew?”
“They’re doing well. Busy, not much to report. Ulan's getting married again, so you'll probably get an invite soon.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Really, again? Who's the lucky woman this time around?”
“A lovely girl named Reyhan. She's a nurse at Jumayev Memorial. Not sure if she knows what she's getting into, but hey, the Majiliz passed divorce legislation for a reason.” The tone of Sezim’s voice shifted from joking to something softer, more cautious. “...Have you considered coming back to the Ledger?”
Aibek sighed, running a hand through his black hair and trying not to make eye contact. “I have.”
“And?”
He was silent for a few moments. “I'm sorry, Sez. I can't. With Mom being sick and Dad trying to retire, I'm needed at the restaurant more and more. And… well, look at me.” He gestured toward his leg braces and crutch.
Sezim pursed her lips. “I understand, but… you're the best investigative reporter I've ever known. One of the best journalists our country has seen in a while. And I can't imagine the restaurant is good for your legs either!”
“I have chairs there, plus my braces. It's all stationary work, and my sister takes care of the lifting.” Aibek’s eyes grew a bit teary, and he looked away. “I can't do the same kind of running around, wading through protests, and fleeing security guards that I did before. I also think there are officials that are having me watched every few days at the restaurant, and I can't put anyone at risk. All that would be left for me to do at the Ledger is copy editing, and I'd rather burn myself on a tandyr everyday than have to get weird looks from everyone on the desk for ‘messing with their style.’” He sighed, grabbing a zamza for himself and picking away at the crust. “I'm sorry, but I just can't.”
Sezim cracked a smile, though her eyes were full of emotion and understanding. “That’s okay. I just figured… I just figured I'd ask. We all miss you, y’know.”
Aibek smiled. “Can't do anything without me, can you now?”
“I guess not,” she said with a grin. “Oh, also, that reminds me, do you still have that friend who works at the Interior Ministry?”
“Meryem? Yeah, I still keep in touch with her.” He leaned forward in his chair. “What's up?”
“Oh, nothing in particular. I am just chasing down rumors of security and police officers being hired privately and I was wondering if she would know anything about it.”
Aibek pondered the thought for a moment. “Well, if anything’s going on over there, she’ll know about it. I'll invite her over for tea and see what I can get out of her.” He grabbed another zamza. “So, is Kambarov still a gruff but respectful pain in the ass?”
“Oh, you have no idea…”
<t></t>